as widely as she’d been in the snapshot.
Jazz thumbed through the yearbook pages until she reached the senior-photo section, noticing there were no signatures or messages written in the margins with one exception. Something was written in a bold hand under the photo of William Smith.
Thanks for the good times, M. It was signed Bill.
The caption underneath his photo read: A Man of Many Talents. Then came a listing of extracurricular activities that included drama, track, honors’ society, debate club and jazz band.
Jazz band.
Her heart pounded so hard she could feel the blood pumping in her ears. Jazz stared down at the photo of the dark-haired, dark-eyed Bill Smith, telling herself that what she was thinking was crazy. Jazz saw nothing of herself in him. Why, she looked more like the girl in the photo next to him.
The girl’s name jumped out at Jazz: Belinda Smith. Jazz’s eyes dipped to the caption under Belinda’s name: The Better Half of the Smith Twins.
The page in front of her blurred as Jazz tried to think. She was pretty sure twins ran in families. Jazz didn’t know if it was true but she’d even heard it was common for twins to skip a generation.
It no longer seemed like a wild coincidence that her mother had kept an old newspaper clipping and photo of a boy who’d played in a jazz band.
The irony was that in the same month Jazz had stumbled across twins who could be her biological children, she may have identified the man who fathered her.
CHAPTER THREE
JAZZ MIGHT HAVE TO find another form of exercise.
Running had always helped her think more clearly, but in the week and a half since she’d looked through her mother’s yearbook she still hadn’t decided what to do about Bill Smith.
And now trouble she didn’t need was on her heels, because she was nearly convinced that the man behind her on the park’s running trail was Matt Caminetti.
She stole another glance over her shoulder. Maybe she was wrong. The man was within thirty or forty yards, far enough away that his features were indistinct but close enough to tell he had a lean build and golden-brown hair.
She’d seen dozens of men over the years while running in Ashley Greens Park who were brown-haired and in shape. Her glimpses of the mystery man had been so fleeting he could be anybody.
Besides, Matt had specified that he came to the park with the twins on Sunday mornings. It was Monday morning, a month after she’d met him and two weeks since he’d stopped by the restaurant. Fearing that she’d bump into him every time she went jogging was crazy.
Except it was Labor Day, when people didn’t necessarily stick to their schedules. Jazz would usually be at work on a Monday morning herself, but Pancake Palace was closed for the holiday.
To be on the safe side, she ran faster.
The path left the straightaway to snake through a copse of trees. With her eyes straight ahead, Jazz concentrated on pulling ahead of the man. At the quicker pace, her legs protested, her lungs burned and her breath grew short.
It didn’t make a difference. She soon heard the crunching of footsteps gaining on her.
“Hey, Jazz.” A familiar voice that didn’t even sound winded called from behind her. “I thought that might be you.”
Matt was suddenly running abreast of her, matching his pace to hers. Jazz had a notion to speed up and try to lose him but that was extreme, not to mention impossible. She slowed. He did, too.
“I didn’t…know…you were…a runner.” She could barely catch her breath to form the words.
“I’m not,” he said. “But if I’m going to scrimmage with my kids, I need to stay in shape.”
“Your kids?” She was sure the twins had said he wasn’t married. Was he divorced?
“I coach a youth soccer team of thirteen-and fourteen-year-olds pretty much year-round,” Matt said. “They love to try to get the best of me.”
In running shorts and a T-shirt that left his legs and arms bare, Matt looked like an athlete, with impressive musculature minus the bulk.
“You must really be into soccer.” A rivulet of sweat trickled down the side of her face, but now that she wasn’t running as fast it was easier to talk.
“I’ve played the game almost my whole life.” He had a smooth, even stride, and she got the impression he ran the same way he did everything else—effortlessly. Not only wasn’t he breathing hard, but he was also barely sweating.
Don’t ask about the twins, she told herself.
“Are you trying to turn your niece and nephew into soccer lifers, too?” she heard herself ask.
He laughed. “Robbie’s already got the bug. He begged me to help him, not that he had to try too hard.”
Change the subject.
“How about Brooke?” She tried not to sound too curious. “Is she into soccer, too?”
“Not like her brother but she’s a natural athlete,” Matt said. “Once she understands how good she can be, the love will follow.”
“What if it doesn’t?” Jazz asked.
“It will,” Matt said. “That’s the way it works.”
She took a sidelong glance at him to try to gauge if he found her questions about his niece and nephew suspicious. He wore a pleasant, neutral expression. He’d tell her the date of the twins’ birthday if she asked. She could forget the whole thing if it wasn’t July twenty-fourth.
But what if it was? Would her resolve be strong enough to stay away from the twins if she knew for certain they were her biological children?
“How about you?” he asked.
She’d forgotten what they were talking about. “Excuse me?”
“You ever play soccer? It’s usually the first sport parents sign up their kids for.”
Jazz’s mother hadn’t stuck around long enough to get Jazz involved in anything. The only game Jazz’s grandmother had taught her was how to beat the welfare system.
“I’m not very athletic,” she said.
“I don’t believe that.” His eyes swept over her. “You look like you’re in great shape.”
She’d never exercised regularly until prison, where she’d done legions of sit-ups and push-ups in her cell. During the hour inmates were let outside twice a day, she’d trampled the grass walking laps around the prison yard. Running had only been allowed on the basketball court.
Jazz didn’t need a psychologist to tell her that was why she’d taken up jogging. She often hit the trails even after standing on her feet all day. It struck her that Bill Smith’s
