The Real Father. Kathleen O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ wasn’t until years later—when she heard that Giselle Forrest had died of liver disease—that Molly had finally understood how personal, how unique, grief really is. That compulsive poise had been Giselle’s protection. Her exquisitely cut diamond brooch had been nothing but armor placed over a heart as mangled as Molly’s own.

      Annie shifted to a sitting position, stretching like a cat. “Yes, ma’am, I’ve always said it beats me how a cold-blooded witch like that could have a decent son like Jack.”

      “Or Beau,” Molly added, feeling strangely as if Annie had slighted him.

      “Yeah, sure.” Annie shrugged. “Whatever. Heck, it’s a mystery how she had any children at all, if you know what I mean. Deserves its own segment on ‘Tales of the Unexplained,’ don’t you think?”

      Liza appeared in the doorway once again. “Excuse me,” she said politely, “Mom, where are my suitcases? I want to play with all my dolls together.”

      Molly picked two pieces from the pile of luggage and passed them to her daughter, who eagerly hoisted them both and trotted back toward her own room. Molly envied the little girl her easy ability to adapt wherever she went. A few spangled scarves for costumes, a few hand-drawn pictures for backdrops, a few smiling princess dolls for companionship, and that little bedroom was well on its way to becoming the Planet Cuspian.

      Annie was expertly eyeing the diminished stack of luggage, which, now that Liza’s bright-pink pieces were gone, did look a little skimpy, Molly had to admit.

      “Even allowing for the minimalist approach to wardrobing,” Annie said dryly, “I’d have to guess you haven’t exactly come home intending to put down roots.” She laughed. “No pun intended.”

      “Nope. Just the landscaping kind,” Molly said with a smile, sliding the largest of the suitcases, which held her seed catalogues, garden brochures and drafting supplies, toward the window. She’d probably work over there—the light was perfect, the view of terraced lawns marching down to the river inspirational. “We’ll only be staying a couple of months, just until the renovations are done. Liza and I consider Atlanta home now.”

      Molly felt Annie’s gaze on her as she unzipped the bag and began stacking supplies on the large desk. “Got your own landscaping business in Atlanta, I hear,” Annie said. “Doing pretty well there?”

      Her voice was almost too bland. Molly looked up, wondering what the other woman was getting at. “I can’t complain,” she answered evenly.

      “Yeah, I can see you’re not the complaining type.” Annie sighed. “Still, it would be a heck of a lot easier with a second paycheck in the house, wouldn’t it? What about it, Molly? Ever think you ought to go down to the husband store and pick yourself out a new one?”

      Molly bent over the table, arranging her colored pencils in their holder. She let her hair fall across her face. “I haven’t thought about it,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound so tight. “We really do just fine.”

      “Oh, now. Don’t go all huffy on me.” Annie grinned as she inspected a pink-hued fingernail. She nibbled carefully at a ragged edge. “I’m not trying to pry your tax statement out of you. I’m a single mom myself. I know all about it. Frankly, I’m just wondering why you’ve come back here at all.”

      Molly took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. She leaned against the edge of the desk, pencils in hand, and looked at Annie.

      “Sorry. It’s simple, really. I’ve been doing mostly business landscaping for the past few years. I’d rather be doing houses, but the domestic market in Atlanta is pretty hard to break into. The same companies have been designing those old estates for generations.” She rubbed the soft pencils against her palm, leaving rainbow-colored smudges on her skin.

      “But Everspring could change all that. Scarlett O’Hara herself would be impressed with my résumé after this.”

      Annie was nodding. “Makes sense.” She narrowed her eyes. “So you really came just for the job?”

      “Of course,” Molly said. “What else would I have come for?”

      “Well, I wondered…” Annie seemed unsure how to proceed, and the hesitance sounded unnatural, as if she rarely bothered to plan or polish her utterances. “Oh, hell, I’ll just say it. I wondered if maybe you had come because of Jackson.”

      Finally, Molly understood. Of course—how could she have been so dense? Annie was interested in Jackson, and she didn’t want any competition.

      Molly almost laughed at the thought. If only Annie knew how wrong she was! If only she knew how difficult it was for Molly to even look at Jackson, who wore Beau’s face, inhabited Beau’s body, so casually—as if he didn’t suspect what it did to her. Jackson, who without meaning to awoke a thousand dreams in Molly’s breast, who with one smile, a ghost’s smile, stirred emotions that should have slept forever.

      She shook her head emphatically. “No, Annie,” she assured the other woman. “I didn’t come because of Jackson. I came in spite of him.”

      JACKSON TRIED to concentrate on the cards in his hand. He tried to ignore the small square of light that glowed, like backlit amber, in his peripheral vision. The light from one of the carriage house bedrooms. He especially tried not to see the slim silhouette that occasionally moved across the golden curtains.

      But he hated canasta. He was terrible at canasta. What had possessed him to tell Lavinia he would play canasta with her tonight?

      And for that matter, when had his spicy maiden aunt taken up this monotonous game herself? And why? Hadn’t she always lumped canasta in with bridge as the “pastimes of the half-dead or the half-witted?” Yes, last time he was in town, he distinctly remembered Lavinia and her cronies staying up half the night drinking mint juleps and playing cutthroat poker.

      “So,” he said, laying down all his fours and stifling a yawn. “What’s with the canasta, Vinnie? And where’s the brandy? Did a traveling missionary come through town cleaning things up or what?”

      She didn’t bother to look up from her cards. “I’ve been reading Great-great-aunt Maybelle’s diaries, and apparently this was her favorite game. I thought I’d better find out what the attraction was.”

      Oh. That cleared things up. Lavinia was the family historian, and she took her research very seriously. She could tell you what the Forrest family had served President Zachary Taylor for dinner back in 1850. And she was likely to try out the recipe herself, just to see how it had tasted.

      It made for some interesting dinners, especially since Lavinia was the world’s most terrible cook.

      “So what is the attraction?” Jackson’s gaze flicked toward the carriage house, but he forced it back to the cards. Which were the good threes—the red or the black? God, he hated this game.

      “Don’t you try that sarcastic tone on me, young man,” Lavinia said tartly. “And just because you haven’t got the guts to climb those stairs and talk to her, don’t take your frustration out on me, either.”

      Jackson glared at his aunt over the pile of cards between them. “What baloney,” he said. “Just because I’m bored stiff with this moronic game—”

      “It’s not just that,” she said, snapping her cards shut irritably. СКАЧАТЬ