The Marine's Babies - Laura Marie Altom Men Made in America

Скачать книгу

I’m sorry, but since you’re their father, you’ll have to take over.”

      “E-excuse me?” Blood rushed to Jace’s head.

      “They’re yours now.” She looked away, her lips quivering.

      It might not be manly, but Jace was seriously on the verge of passing out. “Wait a minute. How do I even know they’re mine?”

      “Look at them. See anything familiar?”

      The baby nearest him gummed her fist and cooed.

      Kneeling in front of her carrier, Jace braced his hands on either side, staring into the infant’s striking green eyes.

      His green eyes.

      Vicki said, “Your gorgeous eyes were one of the first things that attracted me to you, Jace. I’d never seen such a brilliant shade on anyone—ever. That being the case, do you honestly think I slept with your long-lost twin the same weekend as you?”

      “It could happen,” Jace mumbled.

      Standing, he stared off into the pines, losing himself, if only for a moment, in the sight. The whoosh of wind through the boughs. Somewhere amongst the trees a woodpecker did his thing. The relatively normal sound struck him as being out of sync with his runaway pulse.

      A few minutes earlier, he’d searched those woods for a video crew.

      It felt like another lifetime ago.

      “I’ve got to go,” Vicki said, aiming her key bob at her blue sedan’s trunk. It popped open, and she dragged out a case each of diapers and canned formula, dumping them on the blacktop parking area. Two cardboard boxes were next, followed by a yellow plastic tub heaped with toys, stuffed animals and rattles and rubber squeaky things that looked like the toys Granola bought for his golden retriever. “I’m sorry to take off like this but you’ll catch on soon enough.”

      “You’re not really going to leave them with me? These are your kids.”

      “Funny you should mention that,” she said with a wistful smile. “But seeing how they’re your kids, too, I thought it was high time you had a turn at raising them.”

      Silent tears streaking her cheeks, she opened the vehicle’s driver’s-side door.

      “You’re not seriously leaving them with me,” he repeated, more out of incredulity than not knowing what to say. She was their mother for God’s sake. Even if the kids were his—if—she’d carried them inside herself for nine long months. “What about maternal instinct?” he shouted when she’d shut and locked her door.

      Revving the engine to life, she ignored his banging on the window. He tried opening the door latch, but it didn’t give.

      “Vicki! Open the damned door!”

      One baby began crying, then the other.

      “Vicki!”

      Sobbing now, she put the car in Reverse, shooting out of her parking space, narrowly avoiding the diapers.

      “Stop!” he hollered above the racket of two wailing kids and her gunning the car’s engine. “Don’t do this! I don’t even know their names!”

      Ignoring him, she bolted out of the lot and his life.

      EMMA STEWART knelt to pluck a sand dollar from the foamy surf.

      Cool Gulf water swirled around her toes, tickling, but not making her smile as it once had on long-ago vacations.

      In the month since she’d rented the beach-front cabin, she’d collected one hundred and thirty-eight sand dollars. Some the size of half dollars, some dimes. One, with a tiny chip off the top, was as big around as a saucer.

      Expression grim, she tucked her latest find among the shells, beach glass and driftwood already piled in the pink plastic sand bucket she’d found at Olive’s dollar store. As a fast-tracked foreign currency trader in the heart of Chicago, her legal tender had once been the Swedish kroner. Chinese yuan. Swiss francs. Now? Her days weren’t measured by financial successes, but she claimed a small victory if she managed to think about something—anything—other than the full life she’d once led.

      Veering from the shore, she took the sandy path leading through sea oats, ground cherry and bluestem. The powdery, sunwarmed sand soothed her cold feet.

      For June, the sea air was unusually crisp, layered with scents of salt and drying seaweed and the occasional whiff of coconut suntan oil from the bustling resort hotel a half mile up the beach. Speaking of which, it must be Reggae Tuesday, as, even at nine in the morning, the chirpy sound of steel drums rode the breeze.

      She snatched the newspaper from the packed-sand driveway, and then mounted the fourteen steps leading to the deck. Mechanically, she set the kettle to boil, then popped a raisin bagel in the toaster.

      While she waited for her breakfast, she turned off the central A/C and opened all of the windows, welcoming the fresh air. Having lived her whole life in Illinois, it’d been tough adjusting to the sometimes oppressive Alabama humidity and heat.

      Bagel topped with cream cheese, orange spice tea loaded with honey, she sat at the breakfast-nook table, cracked open the paper, and then jumped upon hearing the phone’s shrill ring.

      Swell.

      Only one person aside from the kindly old couple she’d rented the home from even had the number. Emma frowned. Might as well go ahead and pick up. Once her mother started calling, she was relentless.

      “Hi, Mom,” Emma said into the handset of the ancient rotary-dial phone, catching it on the fourth ring.

      “Don’t you dare ‘hi, Mom,’ me. Do you know how long it’s been since Dad and I have heard from you? Would it kill you to at least get an answering machine? Angel, we know you’re still sad, but—”

      “Sad?” Emma interjected. “Sad is when your college football team loses or your favorite sweater shrinks. I lost my son, Mom, then my husband. Sorry, but I think I’ve earned the right to spend a little quality time figuring out how to live the rest of my life.”

      On the other end of the line, Emma’s mother didn’t even attempt to hide her sigh. “We know that what you went through with Henry was devastating, but at this point you only have a few options.”

      “Oh?” Leaning against the kitchen counter, Emma tightly folded her arms.

      “You either find a new man and start over…”

      “Out of the question.”

      “Borrow a baby. You know, sit for a neighbor.”

      Drumming her fingers on the counter, Emma said, “That’ll make me feel just swell for a few hours.”

      “Okay, then you adopt another child, then—”

      “Please, stop. I lost my son. Henry wasn’t just a puppy, Mom. He’s not that easily replaced.”

      “Don’t you think I know that? I lost a grandson. But you can’t spend the rest of your life walking the beach. After a while, your money will dry up, and you’ll have to—”

      “I know,” Emma practically growled. “I get all of that. I just need time.”

      “For what? We think there’s a part of you scared Rick might’ve been right. That you did have something to do with poor Henry dying, but sweetie, nothing could be further from the truth. Your father and I have discussed this at length, and truly feel the best way to help you through this is by helping you to find a way to prove not to the world, but to yourself, that you were—and still can be—an amazing mother.”

      Drumming her fingers on the table, gazing past the tears in her eyes to the churning surf, through a throat nearly closed from grief, Emma said, “Mom, I have to go. I can’t do this.”

      “Emma, I didn’t mean to upset you. But you’ve always

Скачать книгу