exhaled sharply. “Thank goodness, you do remember.”
“Um, yeah,” he said, simultaneously shifting his weight from one leg to the other while running his hands over his buzzed hair. As an AH-1 Cobra pilot, his specialty was multi-tasking. What he wasn’t so great at was dealing with women, which was no doubt why his mouth was dry and his pulse was pounding harder than it had on his last combat run. “We halved an order of spaghetti and meatballs at like 2:00 a.m. I remember because you hogged all the garlic bread. I love garlic bread.”
Her faint smile didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. “Yes, well, I wish all we had to discuss were your food preferences, but at the moment, there’s something more pressing on your proverbial plate.”
She eyeballed the squirming pink bundles at her feet.
He prayed she wasn’t heading where he feared she was.
“One baby, I probably could’ve handled on my own,” she said, “but two?” Sniffling, she shook her head. “I never thought I’d be the type to walk away from my own flesh and blood, but I’ve got college to finish and it takes two jobs to pay the bills. Do you have any idea how expensive babies are? Diapers and formula and clothes and the pediatrician. I can’t keep up, and they deserve better. I’m sorry, but since you’re their father, you’ll have to take over.”
“E-excuse me?” Blood rushed to Jace’s head.
“They’re yours now.” She looked away, her lips quivering.
It might not be manly, but Jace was seriously on the verge of passing out. “Wait a minute. How do I even know they’re mine?”
“Look at them. See anything familiar?”
The baby nearest him gummed her fist and cooed.
Kneeling in front of her carrier, Jace braced his hands on either side, staring into the infant’s striking green eyes.
His green eyes.
Vicki said, “Your gorgeous eyes were one of the first things that attracted me to you, Jace. I’d never seen such a brilliant shade on anyone—ever. That being the case, do you honestly think I slept with your long-lost twin the same weekend as you?”
“It could happen,” Jace mumbled.
Standing, he stared off into the pines, losing himself, if only for a moment, in the sight. The whoosh of wind through the boughs. Somewhere amongst the trees a woodpecker did his thing. The relatively normal sound struck him as being out of sync with his runaway pulse.
A few minutes earlier, he’d searched those woods for a video crew.
It felt like another lifetime ago.
“I’ve got to go,” Vicki said, aiming her key bob at her blue sedan’s trunk. It popped open, and she dragged out a case each of diapers and canned formula, dumping them on the blacktop parking area. Two cardboard boxes were next, followed by a yellow plastic tub heaped with toys, stuffed animals and rattles and rubber squeaky things that looked like the toys Granola bought for his golden retriever. “I’m sorry to take off like this but you’ll catch on soon enough.”
“You’re not really going to leave them with me? These are your kids.”
“Funny you should mention that,” she said with a wistful smile. “But seeing how they’re your kids, too, I thought it was high time you had a turn at raising them.”
Silent tears streaking her cheeks, she opened the vehicle’s driver’s-side door.
“You’re not seriously leaving them with me,” he repeated, more out of incredulity than not knowing what to say. She was their mother for God’s sake. Even if the kids were his—if—she’d carried them inside herself for nine long months. “What about maternal instinct?” he shouted when she’d shut and locked her door.
Revving the engine to life, she ignored his banging on the window. He tried opening the door latch, but it didn’t give.
“Vicki! Open the damned door!”
One baby began crying, then the other.
“Vicki!”
Sobbing now, she put the car in Reverse, shooting out of her parking space, narrowly avoiding the diapers.
“Stop!” he hollered above the racket of two wailing kids and her gunning the car’s engine. “Don’t do this! I don’t even know their names!”
Ignoring him, she bolted out of the lot and his life.
EMMA STEWART knelt to pluck a sand dollar from the foamy surf.
Cool Gulf water swirled around her toes, tickling, but not making her smile as it once had on long-ago vacations.
In the month since she’d rented the beach-front cabin, she’d collected one hundred and thirty-eight sand dollars. Some the size of half dollars, some dimes. One, with a tiny chip off the top, was as big around as a saucer.
Expression grim, she tucked her latest find among the shells, beach glass and driftwood already piled in the pink plastic sand bucket she’d found at Olive’s dollar store. As a fast-tracked foreign currency trader in the heart of Chicago, her legal tender had once been the Swedish kroner. Chinese yuan. Swiss francs. Now? Her days weren’t measured by financial successes, but she claimed a small victory if she managed to think about something—anything—other than the full life she’d once led.
Veering from the shore, she took the sandy path leading through sea oats, ground cherry and bluestem. The powdery, sunwarmed sand soothed her cold feet.
For June, the sea air was unusually crisp, layered with scents of salt and drying seaweed and the occasional whiff of coconut suntan oil from the bustling resort hotel a half mile up the beach. Speaking of which, it must be Reggae Tuesday, as, even at nine in the morning, the chirpy sound of steel drums rode the breeze.
She snatched the newspaper from the packed-sand driveway, and then mounted the fourteen steps leading to the deck. Mechanically, she set the kettle to boil, then popped a raisin bagel in the toaster.
While she waited for her breakfast, she turned off the central A/C and opened all of the windows, welcoming the fresh air. Having lived her whole life in Illinois, it’d been tough adjusting to the sometimes oppressive Alabama humidity and heat.
Bagel topped with cream cheese, orange spice tea loaded with honey, she sat at the breakfast-nook table, cracked open the paper, and then jumped upon hearing the phone’s shrill ring.
Swell.
Only one person aside from the kindly old couple she’d rented the home from even had the number. Emma frowned. Might as well go ahead and pick up. Once her mother started calling, she was relentless.
“Hi, Mom,” Emma said into the handset of the ancient rotary-dial phone, catching it on the fourth ring.
“Don’t you dare ‘hi, Mom,’ me. Do you know how long it’s been since Dad and I have heard from you? Would it kill you to at least get an answering machine? Angel, we know you’re still sad, but—”
“Sad?”
