The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught Read Free Page B

the Fourth up big, too, with a parade and everything.Might be more fun for Andy.”
    â€œNah. That ain’t gonna happen. Stu said she’s goin’ to some family reunion or somethin’ tomorrow. Leavin’ first thing in the morning. I’d take Andy if I could.” Becky looked at the monitor on her ankle and shrugged. “But if it’s too much trouble . . .”
    I stared. Stu going to a family reunion ? In the entire year-plus I’d known Stu, she’d only mentioned her parents once and had never visited them as far as I knew. I wasn’t even sure they lived in the Chicago area any more. In fact, Stu acted as if she and her parents weren’t exactly on speaking terms, though who rejected whom wasn’t clear either.
    â€œUh, well . . .” I felt caught between Andy’s big eyes, peering at me hopefully from behind his mother’s leg, and my husband’s expectations. Taking Andy could be kind of fun—except for the extra trips to the Porta-Potties. “Tell you what. Let me talk it over with Denny.Give me ten minutes, OK? ”
    WE TOOK ANDY.
    When I told him my dilemma, Denny rolled his eyes and muttered something that would probably earn an R-rating from Pastor Clark. But we both finally agreed that Becky didn’t have many options when it came to doing things with Andy. House arrest was house arrest. And we still had two more days until our kids came home from the Cornerstone Music Festival to get some one-on-one time together. A holiday weekend at that.
    I threw in some antibacterial handwipes for those trips to the Porta-Potties and packed raisins and granola bars in case “curry goat” and “jerk chicken” weren’t on Andy’s list of What ThreeYear-Olds Eat. And once Denny shifted gears from twosome to threesome, he took Andy under his wing as we hustled to catch the Red Line.
    â€œHey, hey, we gotta run, Little Guy, and catch that train! ”
    â€œMy name ain’t Little Guy. It’s Andy .”
    â€œWhat? Candy? Whoever heard of a boy named Candy? ”
    Squeals of laughter. “Not Candy. Andy !”
    â€œWhatever you say, Little Guy.”
    On the el train, Andy crawled up on Denny’s lap and the two of them pressed their noses to the window as the train snaked upclose and personal along the backsides of brick apartment buildings. They made quite a pair. Denny, short brown hair with sexy flecks of gray running through it, looking every inch the athletic coach he was at West Rogers High School. And Little Andy, his skin a milky brown, highlighting his mixed parentage. Definitely “hot chocolate with whipped cream,” as Becky Wallace liked to say.
    â€œHey, Little Guy. See the flower boxes on those windows? That building is so close! Look, here they come! Should I pick some for Miss Jodi? Huh? Huh? . . . Oh, too late. We were going too fast.”
    â€œAw. You can’t pick dose flowers, Big Guy. The window ain’t open!” Curly Top dissolved into giggles.
    We transferred to the Brown Line at Belmont, which took us around Chicago’s Loop—the heart of downtown—and got off at State and Van Buren, at which point it was only a three-block walk to Grant Park and the lake front. I trailed along with the backpack as Andy pulled Denny forward, excited to get to “the Paste.” OK, if Denny was going to ride herd on Andy, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
    We bought a roll of food tickets at one of the ticket booths and wandered down the long line of eateries lining Columbus Drive, which was blocked off to traffic.’s Pizza . . . Vee-Vee’s African Cuisine . . . Sweet Baby Ray’s . . .Taqueria Los Comales . . . Jamaica Jerk . . . “Oh, babe,” Denny said, licking his lips. “This is almost better than . . .” He waggled his eyebrows at me, knowingly.
    I punched his arm. “Ow,” he complained. “I said almost .”
    Andy