The babysitter

The Call

Three days later, Tim was in the backyard with Emma and Evan, attempting to teach Emma the finer points of throwing a baseball while keeping the baby from eating dirt. It was one of those perfect Saturday mornings where Lucy had finally gotten to sleep in, and he was enjoying the rare peace of domestic life.

"Dad, you're throwing it too high!" Emma complained, missing the ball entirely as it sailed over her head.

"Sorry, kiddo. Let me adjust my technique," Tim said, bending down to retrieve the ball from where it had rolled under the patio table. Evan, meanwhile, had discovered a fascinating stick and was attempting to gnaw on it.

"No, buddy, that's not food," Tim said, gently prying the stick from the baby's determined grip. "Emma, can you grab his teething ring from the—"

His phone rang, interrupting his multitasking dad moment. He glanced at the screen, expecting Lucy's name or maybe Tamara's, but instead saw an unfamiliar number.

"Tim Bradford," he answered, keeping one eye on Evan who was now eyeing a dandelion with suspicious interest.

"Tim! Hi, it's Michelle. From the cooking class?"

Tim paused, his hand automatically moving to block Evan's path to the potentially toxic plant. "Oh. Hi, Chef Michelle. Is there something I can help you with?"

"I was just thinking about our conversation the other day, and I was wondering if you'd like to grab coffee sometime? There's this lovely little café downtown that I think you'd really enjoy."

Tim straightened up, Emma's baseball practice momentarily forgotten. "Michelle, I appreciate the offer, but I'm actually pretty busy these days. I've got my kids, and—"

"Oh, you could bring them along!" Michelle's voice brightened considerably. "I love children. It would be so fun to meet them!"

"That's... nice of you to offer," Tim said carefully, "but like I mentioned at the class, I'm married. Happily married. I don't really do coffee dates."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "It's just coffee, Tim. Between friends. You seem like such an interesting person, and I'd love to get to know you better."

Emma had wandered over, curious about the phone call. "Who's that, Dad?"

"Just someone from the cooking class," Tim said quietly, then spoke back into the phone. "Michelle, I really don't think that's a good idea. I'm not looking to make new friends right now."

"Are you sure? I could teach you some more advanced techniques. Private lessons can be so much more... effective than group classes."

Tim's jaw tightened slightly. There was definitely something in her tone that went beyond friendly cooking instruction. "I'm sure. Thanks for thinking of me, but I'm really not interested."

"Well," Michelle's voice took on a slightly cooler edge, "if you change your mind, you have my number now."

"Actually, I don't know how you got my number," Tim said, his cop instincts finally kicking in. "I didn't give it to you."

"Oh, silly me! I got it from the registration form. We keep all our students' contact information on file for follow-up classes and special offers."

Tim frowned. That didn't sound right, but before he could question it further, Michelle had already hung up.

"Dad, who was that lady?" Emma asked, looking up at him with curious eyes.

"Just someone from the cooking class your mom and I went to," Tim said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Nothing important."

"She sounded weird," Emma observed with the brutal honesty of a seven-year-old.

"Yeah, she kind of did," Tim agreed, picking up Evan who had managed to find another stick. "Come on, let's go inside and get some lunch ready. Maybe we can surprise Mom with sandwiches that don't involve any kitchen explosions."

"Can we make the kind with the crusts cut off?" Emma asked eagerly.

"Absolutely. I think I can handle that level of culinary complexity."

As they headed inside, Tim couldn't shake the feeling that Michelle's call had crossed a line he hadn't even realized existed. Getting his phone number from a registration form felt like a violation of privacy, and her insistence despite his clear rejection was concerning.

He made a mental note to mention it to Lucy later, when she woke up and they had a moment to talk. She'd probably have some choice words about Chef Michelle's persistence, and frankly, Tim was beginning to think his wife's protective instincts about the cooking instructor had been right on target.

For now, though, he had sandwiches to make and children to supervise. The domestic crisis of lunch preparation seemed much more manageable than dealing with overly persistent cooking instructors.

"Dad," Emma said as they reached the kitchen, "next time can we just order pizza for cooking class?"

"You know what, Em? That's starting to sound like a really good idea."