Lydia Lane. Judith Bowen
good housekeeping skills can affect your health even today.”
“They can?” Candace was all attention.
“Yes. For instance, did you know that a properly made bed will contribute to a good night’s sleep? And wouldn’t a good night’s rest make a stressed-out day a little easier? Science proves—”
“You mean you don’t just toss a duvet over the sheets, grab a coffee and race out the door? That’s what I call making the bed!”
Sam was sure Candace thought she was speaking for the entire civilized world. He was intrigued. A well-made bed…
“Yes. A properly made, properly aired bed is comfortable, clean and allergen-free, all of which adds up to a more restful sleep. Our grandmothers knew about the benefits of fresh air in the bedroom. The pillow should have a zippered microfibre cover to prevent dust mites, a source of allergies, from passing through. Over that, a pillow cover and a nicely ironed pillowslip, preferably pure cotton or linen—”
“Ironed?” Candace squealed. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
Her guest smiled but did not reply and Candace leaned forward in a phony confidential way that Sam had seen many times before. “Okay, besides ironing tips, what else does your company offer us? Can you teach kids anything? And dads? I mean, if you can, lots of moms out there would be thrilled to hear about it.”
“Certainly.” There was that calm, assertive look again, a look Sam found incredibly appealing. The woman oozed sensuality and icy cool competence at the same time. “I’ve taught Boy Scout troops how to iron their own shirts, pack their own tasty, well-balanced school lunches and polish their own shoes. I’ve conducted executive retreat weekend workshops on cooking—”
“Cooking, too?”
Candace’s guest nodded. “Yes, cooking. In fact, Domestica offers a personal chef service as an addition to our homemaking workshops. You’d be surprised how many people want me to organize their kitchens, shop for their groceries and prepare a week’s worth of nutritious meals they—”
“Lydia Lane!”
“What, Daddy?”
“Lydia Lane,” Sam repeated, feeling a little rush of blood to his knees, a sensation he hadn’t felt for quite a while. It was the well-made bed that had done it. He’d pictured this tawny goddess sprawled out on that well-made bed…. “Daddy knows that lady, Amber. Remember my friend, Steve Lane? We went fishing with him and Uncle Avie last summer and Uncle Avie accidentally caught that mud turtle?”
“Oh, yeah. Yuck.” She turned to her friend. “We let him go back in the water.”
“Yeah, well, that’s Steve’s little sister Mommy’s talking to.” That was it.
“Oh. Isn’t Mommy pretty today?”
“Sure is, baby,” Sam muttered. Was she? Of course she was. Not that Candace Downing did anything for Sam anymore. Their four-year marriage had been friendly but not passionate. Their divorce was cordial and they were on good terms, always keeping Amber’s interests foremost. In fact, he’d been relieved when Candace had decided that if he was cutting down his corporate law practice—where he had a chance to make something of himself, in her opinion—so he could expand what she described as his “street people” practice, she was calling it quits. She’d always regretted leaving her barely hatched TV career so she could marry him and have his baby a year later, and she decided to give it her best effort again before her looks and energy were gone. Candace liked society and parties and grown-ups, she informed him. She found full-time care of a three-year-old just too…too trying. Sam always thought it ironic that the pinnacle of her renewed career so far was this snoozer of a talk show.
Their daughter, Candace had reasoned, would do just fine with him. Lots of kids had day care and nannies and were brought up perfectly well by single dads. Sam could afford help. Candace would take Amber on weekends whenever she was in town, and on holidays and shopping trips to New York and Montreal when she got a little older. That would be fun—a real mother-daughter experience. Sam working out of a home office; Candace pursuing her media career. It couldn’t be more perfect, she declared.
Perfect. Sam glanced around. The room was a disaster. The carpet and upholstery needed cleaning. Amber’s jeans had holes in the knee. Why didn’t she put on a new pair or tell him when she needed to buy some? The fridge was empty—again. The Christmas tree had turned brown; Sam had forgotten to put water in the receptacle. There was still some balled-up Christmas paper behind the tree, jammed into a corner along with a whole lot of dust. The last housekeeper had left before the holidays and Sam hadn’t had the heart to look for another one yet. How many did this make this year? Three? Four? Five?
Several glass ornaments had fallen onto the carpet, bowling balls for Punch, the cat, who belonged to Tania but spent as much time at their house as he did at home. Only one string of lights worked. And now—Sam groaned—someone would have to take down the damn tree and get rid of it and store all the little decorating doodads—
Someone meant him.
He ran his hands through his hair and picked up the empty pizza box to carry through to the kitchen, which was another kind of disaster. Why hadn’t he listened to his mother’s advice and just gone to one of his sisters’ houses for Christmas? Let his brother-in-law worry about Christmas trees. But, no, putting up a tree every year for his kid was something he figured he should do.
His daughter deserved some family traditions and it was up to him to provide them. No mom around, and a dad who wasn’t doing the world’s greatest job of running a household on his own. But this was his family, even if it was just him and Amber. If that meant dead Christmas trees, and Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at the Royal York Hotel, so be it. For Easter they usually went to his parents’ place, along with his sisters and their families. He couldn’t have managed without his mother’s help and while he appreciated her tremendously, she could be…well, quite ornery about doing things her way. Candace would have said pushy.
Now his parents had gone to Portugal for six weeks, visiting relatives, and look at this place! Straight downhill. It was exactly what Lydia Lane had said, he didn’t have the faintest idea where to start. Or how to do anything. Taking care of a house was a hell of a bigger job than he’d thought and he had renewed respect for his mother and other women like her, who always seemed to know exactly what needed to be done and when.
Sam had been doing his best for the past four years but this single dad business wasn’t working out the way he’d planned.
Perfect? If only!
THE TOWNTV BUILDING, a redbrick, three-story converted warehouse, was on a quiet street on the edge of the Danforth-Pape neighborhood, not far from Lydia’s loft.
In the second-floor Studio A, “What’s New with Candy Lou?” was just finishing up. The program was taped in the morning for broadcast at five that afternoon. Lydia’s appearance had been followed by a puppeteer who specialized in pet birthday parties—he did mostly animated bones and mice—and a playwright whose first play, “A Time to Laugh, a Time to Cry” was opening New Year’s Day in a tiny local theater.
Aptly titled, no doubt, Lydia thought skeptically as she dug through her change purse for a subway token. That wasn’t fair, she reprimanded herself; she’d try to see the play for the sake of the starry-eyed author. Her aging minivan had been making weird noises and she’d left it at the garage to be checked out. Fingers crossed—her budget was extremely tight right now. There was no room for repairs on top of the mortgage payments, not unless business picked up and that was highly unlikely at this time of year. People would be getting their Christmas credit-card bills soon and paying someone to reorganize their households was not a top priority.
She had no idea how the show had gone but she hoped it brought in some new business. Every little bit of publicity helped. She’d watch the interview at home later, when the show aired. She and who else? Who watched afternoon television between Christmas and New Year’s Eve? Anyone with any kind of