The Real MacAw by Donna Andrews Page A

that Michael was not only capable of taking care of small children but absolutely matter-of-fact about doing it.
    And we’d made it to another Saturday morning. Our usual weekend routine was for Michael to spend lots of time with the boys so I could have a little of what he liked to call “me time.” I didn’t always tell Michael what I did with my me time. He seemed to enjoy imagining me having massages, manicures, and facials before settling in the sunroom to eat bonbons and read a mystery cover to cover. And maybe one of these days I’d do a few of those things. To date, I’d spent my me time doing errands, catching up on neglected household chores, and napping. It was heavenly.
    “Great,” I said. “Call me if you need me.”
    I headed for my office in the barn. I had a few phone calls to make and e-mails to send before I started my errands.
    Sending the e-mails took twice as long as it should, due to the distractions of a litter of puppies playing at my feet while a trio of kittens attempted to attack my fingers whenever I typed. I decided that unless I wanted people to think I was calling from the animal shelter—which come to think of it, I was—it would be easier to make the phone calls somewhere else. Anywhere else.
    I left the barn, declining half a dozen requests for assistance as tactfully as possible, and strode outside.
    I was just in time to wave good-bye as Michael finished stashing all three boys in the Twinmobile and drove off to Timmy’s T-Ball game. I felt a brief pang of guilt that I’d left him to do it all by himself. But Michael made it look so easy that I sometimes forgot to volunteer help.
    I’d pitch in later. Right now, I was running on too little sleep, and too many people were demanding things from me. I was beyond cranky and ready to take it out on someone. Not the boys, who were, as Rob was fond of saying, functioning as designed. But everyone else—
    A walk. That was what I needed. It was a beautiful, mild day, perfect for a nice, calming walk. Once I felt better, I could stop somewhere out of sight and hearing of the barn and make my calls with the cell phone before starting my errands.
    I set off at a brisk pace.
    Ever since Michael and I had moved into our house, I realized that the surrounding countryside was an incredible source of stress relief.
    Not our yard. That was part of the stress. Our several acres were pocked with tiny, ramshackle sheds and outbuildings that would eventually have to be removed at great expense or repaired at even greater expense. Seeing Randall’s workmen beginning to prepare the roof of the future macaw shed for reshingling didn’t improve my mood, especially after one of them stared at the shed, shook his head and muttered, “Lipstick on a pig.”
    And the landscaping consisted mostly of overgrown shrubbery that had been there when we bought the house, plus a few bare, weedy areas where we’d succeeded in hacking away moribund bushes but hadn’t yet filled the space with anything better. Rose Noire had started off with great plans for beautiful, maintenance-free plantings of deer-resistant native plants—which was why we’d hacked out the old bushes in the first place. But by the time we’d finished our first round of machete work, she was too immersed in her organic herb business to carry through with her plans.
    Why couldn’t Mother turn her attention to the exterior of the house instead of nagging us to redecorate inside? Even the pool, which had been such a delight last summer, was a source of stress at the moment—when I looked at it, I didn’t see a relaxing haven or a convenient source of the exercise I needed to finish regaining my old shape. All I could think of was the need to fence it in before the twins began crawling.
    But long-distance walks calmed me. Through Seth Early’s pasture across the road, to the top of the hill where, surrounded by his placid, friendly sheep I could sit on a familiar rock outcropping and gaze