of silver links riding low on her slender hips. As if sensing his presence, she suddenly turned. On some level he registered the baby snuggled in the bend of her left arm, but a far larger part of his consciousness reeled in shock at the sheer perfection of her face. From the delicate roundness of her chin and the dusky rose of her lips to the straight line of her nose, the piercing blackness of her exotic eyes and the gentle slashes of her brows beneath the sweep of thick hair that framed all that loveliness from a loose, haphazard center part.
“Hello,” she said, but he was too dumbfounded to return the greeting. She tilted her head, studying him as if he were a bug pinned in a display case. He wanted to feel his jaw to see if he needed a shave, but of course he needed a shave; he’d last taken care of the chore before daylight and despite his medium brown hair, he had an unusually heavy beard. By the end of most workdays, he looked like a vagrant.
A movement to his right pulled his attention toward the breakfast nook, where a tall, painfully thin woman slid around the corner to lean against the wall. Her dark blond hair, streaked liberally with gray, had been pulled back from her face in an apparent attempt to disguise its thinness. She looked familiar, but she had so many lines in her face that he didn’t immediately recognize her. Then she gave him that saucy grin, showing off the false teeth that he remembered her husband, Harry, had bought her to help hide the ravages of her meth addiction, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt what he had been trying not to see. Jackie. The very last person he wanted to find in his house. Grandpa Crane’s will had made it very clear that she had no claim to ownership.
“I really like what you’ve done with the place,” she said in a husky voice, glancing around the room.
Dixon sighed and got right to the heart of the matter.
“What are you doing here, Mother?”
* * *
“Well, that’s a nice greeting,” Jackie said, managing to toss her head.
“You expected a parade?” he asked.
“Some welcome would be nice.”
“Some notice would’ve been nice.”
Listening to this exchange, Fawn bounced the baby gently and reached for the bottle she’d been preparing. Dixon Lyons was not what she’d expected. He was more man than boy, though Jackie constantly referred to him as “my boy.” Also, he was amazingly attractive. She didn’t know why she’d never considered that possibility, but her concern for Jackie and the baby was so great that she hadn’t stopped to think about anything other than Dixon’s willingness to accept them into his home, and a lovely home it was. Jackie hadn’t stopped talking about all the improvements he’d made or what good taste he had—until he’d arrived. Now the woman had suddenly become defensive and snide, not at all like the brave, stoic Jackie whom Fawn knew.
“Uh, you did say that Dixon was unaware of Harry’s passing,” Fawn reminded her older friend. At that, Jackie bowed her head.
“Something happened to Harry?” Dixon asked, sounding both concerned and shocked.
Jackie nodded, wobbling slightly. “Highway accident.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. When did it happen?”
“Almost eight months ago.”
“Eight...” He lifted his hat and ran a hand over his short, thick hair. “And you’re just now letting me know because...?”
“It’s been a difficult time,” Jackie muttered, swaying on her feet.
Fawn hurried over and pulled out a chair at the round table with her right hand. “Sit down before you fall down.” Like most of the furniture in the house, the dinette was older but of good quality.
Jackie sank down onto the chair just as Dixon glanced at Fawn. “Maybe my mother and I should speak in private.”
“No,” Jackie insisted. “Fawn has a stake in this conversation.” She smiled wanly. “If not for her, I wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m Fawn Ambor, by the way,” Fawn introduced herself, holding out her right hand. Dixon merely glanced at her then at the baby before turning back to his mother. As if realizing she had been snubbed, the baby started to fuss.
“Give her to me,” Jackie said, holding out her thin arms. Not even the long sleeves of her cotton blouse could disguise her frailness.
“No, no. You rest a few more minutes,” Fawn said. “I’ll take care of her.”
Jackie nodded and pushed up from her chair. “Maybe you’re right. I do feel weak.”
Fawn went to get the bottle and give it to the whimpering baby.
“So what happened?” Dixon asked, coming to lean against the rust-and-gold granite countertop. “Harry throw her out before the accident?”
Fawn turned to find Jackie standing, stiff-backed, in the wide, cased doorway. “No! Why would you think that?”
Dixon didn’t so much as glance in his mother’s direction. “She’s back here, isn’t she?”
Lifting her chin, Jackie slowly made her way into the other room. Fawn leaned closer, holding the baby to the side, and demanded softly, “Are you always so disrespectful of your mother?”
“She’s never given me any reason not to be,” he answered bluntly.
“She gave birth to you,” Fawn told him. “That should be reason enough.”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t here when she was the talk of the town, running off to anywhere and everywhere she could find a party and her drug of choice.”
“No, I wasn’t here then,” Fawn conceded softly, “but did you ever ask yourself why your mother did those things?”
He lifted a rather heavy eyebrow, his clear gray eyes coldly impassive. “Little boys don’t ask why their mothers are zonked-out druggies. Instead, they blame themselves. Until they grow up and figure out personal responsibility.”
Slapping his hat onto his head, he walked out through the same door from which he’d entered. Shaken, Fawn turned and followed Jackie from the room. She found her friend snuggled into an oversize armchair in front of the cold fireplace, a fuzzy blanket over her legs.
“Think you can hold her while she nurses?” Fawn asked, handing the baby and bottle down to Jackie.
Jackie’s face lit with delight. “Of course.” She smiled down at Bella Jo. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“I want to make a phone call before I start supper.”
Jackie nodded, cooing to baby Bella. Fawn paused to watch Bella grin around the milky nipple of the bottle. This was a new trick for the four-month-old, one she employed often with great success.
Slipping down the central hall to the bedroom that Jackie had pointed out to her, Fawn pulled her cell phone from the hip pocket of her jeans. Little remodeling had been done in here. The yellowed walls hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years, and the hardwood floor badly needed polishing, not to mention a throw rug. At least the twin-size bed, which boasted
