Though Lavinia had loved her twin nephews equally, Beau had always been her favorite. Of course, Beau, with his sunny disposition and his charming manner, had been everyone’s favorite. Jackson had never gone out of his way to charm anyone.
The whole community had mourned Beau’s death, but Lavinia’s loss had been devastating. She had no husband, no children of her own, and she had lavished her stockpile of affection on the darling nephew who teased and flirted with her as no one else had ever done. Now that Beau was gone, Lavinia had only her flowers to spoil.
Molly knew that Lavinia would never speak openly of her heartache. It wasn’t in her vocabulary. But that was all right. This hug was eloquent, and it was enough.
Finally Lavinia broke away, clearing her throat roughly. “Well, then, that’s that. You’ve seen his grave. It stings a little, but you survived it. Now what do you say let’s get out of this gloomy place?”
Molly hesitated. Then, with a deep, steadying breath, she bent down and placed her bouquet of pansies neatly alongside the sweet peas that already lay at the base of the headstone. Her fingers were gratifyingly steady as she smoothed the ribbons that bound the blossoms together.
Straightening quickly, Molly brushed her hands together and met Lavinia’s uncompromising Forrest-green gaze squarely.
With a smile she took Lavinia’s arm and nudged her toward the path that would lead them back into the sunlight.
“You’re right, Aunt Lavinia. We’d better hurry and get that landscaping contract signed. It will be spring before you know it, and I’ve got about a million flowers to plant.”
JACKSON FORREST LEANED against an oak at the edge of the soccer field, watching as Tommy Cheatwood loped his way down the grass, way ahead of all the other boys, using those long, skinny legs to kick the stuffing out of the little black-and-white ball.
Tommy’s blond hair was standing up in wet spikes of perspiration, and his face was a flushed study in complete concentration. Sixty pounds of talent and intensity. As he reached the other side, he gave the ball one last, whopping thrust, sending it into the net, sailing neatly past the awkwardly flopping goalie.
Damn, the kid was good. Jackson whistled his admiration above the cheers of the watching parents. Hearing the familiar notes, Tommy looked back at him, grinning through the sweat, and the two males exchanged a thumbs-up.
But already Coach Riser was striding toward the boy, his clipboard tucked tightly under his arm. His glowering face didn’t seem to promise a congratulatory pat on the back. Tommy stood ramrod straight, awaiting his fate.
“What the heck was that, Cheatwood?”
Ross Riser’s voice was rough, the muscles in his neck rigid. Tommy stared at his coach, mute with misery.
Jackson found himself tensing, ready to jump between coach and player. What do you think it was? It was the go-ahead goal, you moron. But he didn’t say it. He knew better than to interfere, though every instinct was telling him to get in there and shove Ross Riser out of little Tommy’s face.
He tightened his jaw. Good grief. Had he turned into the typical overbearing, overprotective parent? Riser was just a volunteer coach, and he was doing the best he could. Jackson took a deep breath and waited. Tommy was a tough kid. He could handle it.
Coach Riser squatted in front of the boy, and, though he lowered his voice diplomatically, everyone could tell that Tommy was getting a verbal lashing. Jackson reminded himself of the hundreds of times his own track coach had lectured him with that same exasperated look on his face. But Jackson had been in high school, for God’s sake, not in fourth grade. And he’d been a…well, he’d been what was politely known as “a discipline problem.” Tommy wasn’t.
Besides, it was only a game. Ross Riser needed to lighten the hell up.
Annie Cheatwood, Tommy’s mother, had just arrived at the soccer field, peeling off her orange Low Country Hardware Store apron and tossing it into the back of her beat-up green sedan. Glad of the distraction, Jackson watched her pick her way through the crowd of mothers in tennis togs and diamond earrings, fathers in khaki slacks and golf shirts. Most of them spoke courteously to her as she passed, but the reserve in their faces told a different story.
Jackson knew that, if she hadn’t been a special friend of his, none of them would have offered her so much as a nod. A hardware store clerk who had the nerve to possess a large bustline and a small waist, and didn’t bother to hide either one, was ordinarily invisible to this crowd.
As Annie reached his side, Jackson found himself chuckling out loud at the idea of his being anyone’s social sponsor. He was the ultimate black sheep. These same people wouldn’t have spoken to him, either, if he hadn’t inherited his daddy’s plantation.
Annie looked puzzled, studying him as she folded a piece of Juicy Fruit into her mouth. “What’s so funny?”
He held out his hand, asking for a stick of gum. He didn’t chew gum, didn’t even like it, but he knew that the diamond moms and khaki dads thought chewing gum was vulgar, and the idea suddenly appealed to him.
“Life. People. Soccer. Chewing gum.” He shrugged. “Actually, just about everything seems pretty funny right now.”
She handed the gum over with a sideways smile. “Oh,” she said. “You’re in one of those moods. Great.”
As if he’d been pulled by a magnet, Coach Riser came striding over. His scowl had been replaced by a goofy grin, which Jackson realized was every bit as irritating. Riser had begun dating Annie recently, and he was clearly infatuated.
“Hi, there, you two,” the coach said, directing that lovesick smile toward Annie, but sending a perfunctory smile toward Jackson as if the two of them were good friends. Jackson knew better. Ross Riser didn’t quite know what to make of Jackson’s friendship with Annie, but he definitely didn’t like it. And the whole issue of Tommy confused and alarmed him, though he wasn’t close enough yet to Annie to ask her to explain it.
“Hi, Ross,” Jackson broke in before Annie could speak. “Tell me, coach, what’s your problem with Tommy? Didn’t you want him to score? Don’t you want us to win?”
Riser’s pale skin flushed, and his brown eyes tightened. He eyed Jackson narrowly, as if he feared a subtle threat lurked beneath the innocent words. As if Jackson might be referring to Riser’s one shameful secret, which darkened the air between them like a shadow every time they met.
But Jackson kept his expression bland, and Riser relaxed, obviously deciding that, this time at least, no deeper implications had been intended. “Not like that, I didn’t,” he said. “I’ve told Tommy not to go galloping down the field all alone. He’s a team player, and he needs to wait for his team.”
“Even if they’re half an hour behind him?”
Riser’s voice hardened. “That’s right, Forrest. Even then. You have a problem with that?”
Annie groaned and swatted lightly at Jackson’s arm. “Knock it off, you two. If I’d wanted to get caught in a macho slime-fest, I would have stayed at the hardware store.”
Jackson grinned. “Sorry,” he said, recognizing the truth of her comment. He wasn’t going to get into a wrestling match with Ross Riser over how to handle Tommy. Or over Annie, either, for that matter. Frankly,
