Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve. Janice Maynard

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СКАЧАТЬ And how Delilah would react to the altered relationship between her son and Grace.

      Her two sides came into direct conflict the bright, sunny morning they drove to the open-air market in a small town some twenty miles away. L’Isle sur la Sorgue’s market was much larger than Saint-Rémy’s and jam-packed with tourists in addition to serious shoppers laying in the day’s provisions, but the exuberant atmosphere and lovely old town bisected by the Sorgue River made browsing the colorful stalls a delight.

      For a late breakfast they shared a cup of cappuccino and a waffle cone of succulent strawberries capped with real whipped cream. They followed that with samples of countless varieties of cheese and sausage and fresh-baked pastries. So many that when Blake suggested lunch at one of the little bistros lining the town’s main street, Grace shook her head and held up the paper bag containing the wrapped leek-and-goat-cheese tarts they’d just purchased.

      “One of these is enough for me. All I need is something to wash it down with.”

      He pointed her to the benches set amid the weeping willows gracing the riverbank. The trees’ leafy ribbons trailed in the gently flowing water and threw a welcome blanket of shade over the grassy bank.

      “Sit tight,” Blake instructed. “We passed a fresh-fruit stand a few stalls back. They mix up smoothies like you wouldn’t believe. Any flavor favorites?”

      “I’m good for anything except kiwi. I can’t stand the hairy little things.”

      “No kiwi in yours. Got it. One more item to add to our future reference list.”

      The list was getting longer, Grace thought with a smile as she sat on the grass and stretched out her legs. Other people were scattered along the bank. Mothers and fathers and grandparents lounged at ease, with each generation keeping a vigilant eye on the youngsters tempting fate at the river’s edge. A little farther away one young couple had gone horizontal, so caught up in the throes of youthful passion that they appeared in imminent danger of locking nose rings. Their moves started slow but soon gathered enough steam to earn a gentle rebuke from two nuns walking by on the sidewalk above and a not-so-gentle admonition from a father entertaining two lively daughters while his wife nursed a third. His words were low and in French, but Grace caught the drift. So did the lovers. Shrugging, they rolled onto their stomachs and confined their erotic exchange to whispers and Eskimo nose rubs.

      Grace’s glance drifted from them to the mother nursing her child. As serene as a Madonna in a painting by a grand master, she held the baby in the crook of her elbow and gently eased the nipple between the gummy lips. She didn’t bother with a drape or cover over her shoulder, but performed the most natural task in the world oblivious to passersby. Men quickly averted their eyes. Some women smiled, some looked as though they were recounting memories of performing this same act, and one or two showed an expression of envy.

      The scene stirred a welter of emotions in Grace she’d thought long buried. She’d prayed during Anne’s troubled marriage that her cousin wouldn’t get pregnant and produce a child to tie her even more to Jack Petrie. So what did Anne do after escaping the nightmare of her marriage and slowly, agonizingly regaining her self-respect? She fell for a high-powered attorney, turned up pregnant, panicked and ran again. Only this time she didn’t run far or fast enough to escape her fear. Anne landed in a hospital in San Diego, and her baby landed in Grace’s arms.

      Grace had done her damndest not to let Molly wrap her soft, chubby arms wrap around her heart. It had been a losing battle right from the start. Almost the first moment she held Anne’s daughter in her arms, she’d started working a contingency plan in her mind. She would keep Molly under wraps while she let it leak to friends that she was pregnant. Once she was sure word had gotten back to Anne’s sadistic husband, she would take a leave of absence from her job and play out a fake pregnancy somewhere where no one knew her. Then she’d raise Molly as her own.

      Instead, her dying cousin had begged Grace to deliver the baby to her father. Grace had conceded. Reluctantly. She understood the rationale, accepted that the child belonged with her father. The weeks Grace had spent with the Daltons as Molly’s temporary nanny had only reinforced that inescapable fact. But the bond between her and Molly had become a chain around her heart. She’d dreaded with every ounce of her soul breaking that chain and walking away from both the child and the dynamic, charismatic Daltons. Now the chain remained intact.

      Drawing up her legs, Grace rested her chin on her knees. She still needed to put a contingency plan into operation. She couldn’t take the chance that Anne’s sadistic husband might discover Grace had married a man with a young baby. Petrie would check Blake out, discover he wasn’t a widower, wonder how he’d acquired an infant daughter just about the same time Grace came into his life.

      She would contact a few of her friends in San Antonio, she decided grimly. Imply she’d met someone late last year, maybe during the Christmas break, and had spent the spring semester and summer vacation adjusting to the unexpected result. Then Blake Dalton had swooped in and convinced her to marry him.

      Those deliberately vague seeds would sprout and spread to other coworkers. Eventually some version of the story might reach Jack Petrie. It should be enough to throw him off Molly’s scent. It had to be!

      Lost in her contingency planning, she didn’t hear Blake’s return until he came up beside her.

      “One strawberry-peach-mango combo for you. One blueberry-banana for me.”

      She moved the sack with the tarts to make room for him on the patch of grass. Legs folded, he sank down with a loose-limbed athletic grace and passed her a plastic cup heaped with whipped cream and a dark red cherry. They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the scene.

      The Sorgue River flowed smooth and green just yards away. The young lovers were still stretched out nose-to-nose. The father was hunkered down at the river’s bank within arm’s reach of his two laughing, wading daughters. His wife held the baby against her shoulder now and was patting up a burp.

      Grace let a spoonful of her smoothie slide down a throat that suddenly felt raw and tight. This baby looked nothing like Molly. Her eyes were nowhere near as bright a blue, and instead of Mol’s golden curls, she had feathery, flyaway black hair her mother had obviously tried to tame with a jaunty pink bow. Yet when she waved tiny, dimpled fists and gummed a smile, Grace laughed and returned it.

      Blake caught the sound and followed her line of sight. Hooking an elbow on his knee, he watched the baby’s antics until she let loose with a burp that carried clearly across the grass. After another, quieter encore, her mother slid her down into nursing position.

      When Grace gave a small sigh, Blake studied her profile. He wasn’t surprised by what he saw there, or by the plea in her eyes when she turned to him.

      “I’ve had an incredible time in Provence,” she said slowly. “Every day, every night with you has been a fantasy come true.”

      She threw another look at the baby, and he read her thoughts.

      “I miss Molly, too,” he admitted with a wry grin. “Let’s go home.”

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