The Other Woman's Son. Darlene Gardner

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      “Mind your manners,” the blonde scolded, still in the same sweet tone. “What would your mama say if she heard you?”

      The other three erupted into good-natured laughter, ribbing their drunk friend until he was laughing, too.

      “Give Peyton’s Place a try tonight,” she told them. “My brother owns the bar and he brought in a fabulous rhythm-and-blues duo.”

      The sweet little blonde who’d deftly handled the four raucous young men was Clay Dillon’s sister? Able to drum up business for her brother’s bar with the brilliance of her smile?

      “We’ll do that,” the man who’d whistled at her said.

      “You won’t be sorry.” She walked away from the men, straight toward Jenna, not stopping until she reached her. “I just had to come out here and tell you how much I love your singing.”

      “Thank you,” Jenna said. “I’m a fan of yours, too. I saw the way you handled those guys just now.”

      “Oh, that was nothing.” She waved a hand in the general direction of where the men had been. “They were harmless. Just had a little much to drink, is all.”

      A slight southern accent softened her syllables, adding appeal to her voice. No more than five feet four with delicate features and golden-blond hair, she looked fabulous although dressed casually in jeans and a blue V-necked tee. Jenna couldn’t determine the color of her eyes, but she was betting on blue.

      “I heard you say Clay’s your brother.” Jenna didn’t mention that she’d never guess they were related if she hadn’t.

      She brightened. “My big brother. Couldn’t ask for a better one. A smarter one, either. He hired you, didn’t he?”

      Jenna laughed. “We’ll see how that works out for him. Corrine and I aren’t exactly an established act.”

      “But you’re so good,” she enthused, then made a face. “I’m gushing, aren’t I? My excuse is that I was bowled over by your singing. Are you saying you’re just starting out?”

      “Starting over is more like it. Corrine’s the professional musician. I’m an amateur who hasn’t sung in ages.”

      “Why not?” No sooner had she asked the question than the young woman put a hand to her lips. “Listen to me, prying into your private life when I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Darcy.”

      “Darcy Dillon, that’s cute. I’m Jenna.”

      “The name’s actually Darcy Wright. Clay and I have different fathers.”

      All sound—tires swooshing over pavement on a cross street, guitar music from a street-corner musician, the voices of the other people nearby—seemed to cease.

      Darcy Wright.

      Although she hadn’t heard the name spoken in years, Jenna recognized it immediately. It had been branded into her brain on that day her grandmother called to report her father’s new wife Margo had given birth to a baby girl.

      A baby girl named Darcy who had grown into a pretty blonde who looked uncannily like Jenna’s memory of Darcy’s mother. Jenna had only seen Margo Wright once, with Jenna’s father in front of a restaurant when Jenna’s parents were still married, but she’d never forgotten.

      “Jenna. Are you alright?” Darcy cocked her head, her bow-shaped mouth pursed in concern.

      Jenna hadn’t used her surname in the introduction, and her first name obviously hadn’t resonated with Darcy. The limited contact Jenna and her brother had with their father had dwindled in the years after their parents divorced until his visits had stopped. Eventually, so had his phone calls and birthday cards. Jenna didn’t imagine her father had often spoken of her to his second family, if at all.

      “I’m fine.” Jenna gestured to the bar. “It’s just that I’ve got to get back inside.”

      “Oh, yes. Clay will be wondering where you’ve gone, especially when his customers start clamoring for you to start singing again.”

      The shock of finding herself face-to-face with Margo’s daughter wearing off, Jenna belatedly processed the information and realized exactly who Clay Dillon was. Margo’s son. The eight-year-old who’d moved into her father’s grand old house after Jenna, Jeff and their wounded mother had been shunted aside.

      The knowledge that Jeff had been right about Clay Dillon shocked her to her core.

      Clay and his offer really had been too good to be true.

      CLAY SWEPT PAST THE FOUR young guys who came into the bar carrying plastic cups of beer, not bothering to direct them to a table or tell them it was against bar policy to bring in outside alcohol.

      He burst through the exit into the humid night, his frantic gaze searching the immediate vicinity. The streetlight caught the sheen of Darcy’s blond hair, but he was too late.

      His sister stood facing Jenna Wright, who held herself more stiffly than the giant replica of the Statue of Liberty that one of the downtown Memphis churches had erected a few years back.

      He half walked, half jogged toward the two women, intent on damage control.

      “Clay, there you are.” Darcy greeted him with her customary smile. “If you’re here for Jenna, I’m through flattering her. So you two can go on back inside.”

      Darcy hadn’t guessed who Jenna was, he thought, his mind turning over ways to tell her. His gaze moved to Jenna, whose glare could have frosted the Memphis air.

      Jenna had figured it out.

      A car horn sounded from the cross street. He looked up and saw his mother’s Jag idling at the curb.

      “I called Mom to pick me up so I’ve got to run. Jenna, nice meeting you. Maybe next time I’ll be able to keep my eyes open longer so I can hear more of you.” Darcy stood on tiptoes, kissing Clay on the cheek. “Bye, Clay.”

      She headed toward the Jaguar, her steps not as quick as they could have been. Was she leaving because she didn’t feel well? Or had her stamina simply given out? Her next dialysis treatment, Clay knew, was ten the next morning.

      “That’s her in the car, isn’t it?” Jenna’s voice couldn’t have been colder. “That’s Margo.”

      The way she said his mother’s name spoke of unresolved anger, another variable Clay hadn’t anticipated. He thought any residual anger on her part should be directed at her late father.

      Jenna didn’t wait for his reply. “This isn’t a coincidence, is it? You knew who I was all along.”

      “I can explain,” Clay said.

      “I doubt that.” Her eyes flashed with the inner fire she’d displayed in a much more positive light on stage. Her hair seemed fiery, too, the streetlamp highlighting the auburn hue. “There’s no possible way you can justify not telling me who you were the minute you introduced yourself.”

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