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the same.”
    Before I could respond, the counterpoint of two doors sounded—Emilie's bedroom door closing softly and the front door banging open. Alex was home.
    I went downstairs to hug my grandson, who was full of news about his day. He spotted the uneaten Oreos, poured some milk, and sat at the table. I sat opposite, picked up an Oreo, and twisted it apart. I leaned over and dunked my cookie into his milk before licking the sweet icing and crunching the cookie. Alex chattered about what went on in school before asking about his mother. I gave him an even more sanitized version of what I told Emilie. When I was done, he smiled a chocolaty smile.
    “You look like a pirate.” Alex bit into his third Oreo.
    “Avast, matey.” I winked my good eye.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Before I left the hospital, I asked Whip about the kids' routines, but he didn't know. After all, he'd been on the road most of their lives. Even when he was home, Merry made the everyday decisions. Well, I needed doctors appointments, key school dates, after-school activities, clubs, sports, and private lessons. I sighed.
    I was so out of practice. It'd been more than two decades since I thought about any of this stuff. I was good at it then, even if Merry disagreed.
    I stared at the calendar on the refrigerator. A couple of doctor and dentist appointments, but nothing about daily and weekly routines. Merry must have kept all this in her head. Well, I couldn't do that. If I didn't write it down, I'd miss something. I had my own hectic schedule in New York where I balanced charitable events with board meetings and social outings with Raney, Eleanor, and my other friends, the rest of the Great Dames.
    I went right to the source. Or sources. The kids. After dinner on my first day in charge, I kept them in the kitchen. Whip was at the hospital.
    “So, how long are you going to be babysitting us, Mad Max?” Alex carried a large bowl of chocolate ice cream to the table.
    “Is that what I'm doing? Babysitting?” Where did Alex get such ideas?
    “I didn't mean it like that, but I'm almost eleven. I don't need a babysitter.” Alex stumbled over his tongue.
    “I know you don't, but can you drive yourself around?”
    “No…”
    “He means, how long can you stay?” Emilie glared at her brother.
    “I promised your dad I'd help for a while.”
    I kept my commitment vague. I didn't want the kids to think I'd returned to Richmond permanently. I leaned over and ruffled Alex's hair, even though I broke the gel he put on it to make it stand up straight. I knew full well he hated it. Tough. I liked doing it.
    “A while is going to be a long time, like I said.” Emilie grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter.
    “Perhaps. Tell me everything you do. Don't want to miss anything.”
    Emilie refocused on the task at hand.
    I laid the calendar on the table, and together we began filling in activities, times, and dates. Emilie had swim league on Saturdays and soccer three afternoons after school. She also took tennis lessons once a week.
    “I'm in a creative writing group after school twice a month. My English teacher leads it. We have lots of fun. We meet on the second and fourth Tuesdays after school. I need a ride, ‘cause I miss the last bus.”
    Creative writing? We didn't have courses like that when I was in junior high or middle school or whatever they called it today. Then again, what some students turned in for homework must look like creative writing.
    “Okay, Alex. You're next.” I turned to my ice cream-smeared grandson.
    “Ice hockey on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. We finish at the end of March. I'm in the computer club. We meet twice a month on Wednesdays after school. I miss the last bus too.”
    “First and third Wednesdays?” Life as a soccer mom equaled chauffeur. I was going to need a car. Merry's was totaled. I'd have to rent one.
    “Yup.”
    Alex started to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. He looked up, probably to see if I was watching.