“Will you send pictures when the triplets are born?” Barbara asked wistfully.
“Yes, Mommy,” Dawn said. “I’ll take them myself.”
“You’re a natural photographer.” A few minutes later, as Barbara hugged them farewell, her eyes glittered with unshed tears. She faced a hard road ahead, Edmond reflected, but she wouldn’t walk it alone.
He told her that, quietly, before he left, and his sister smiled.
* * *
“CAN’T I CHOOSE one, please?” Dawn wheedled, sitting between Melissa and Edmond on the patio lounger. It was a late afternoon toward the end of September. “Not Bambi or Bunny, I promise!”
“Not Belinda either,” Melissa replied gently, with what struck Edmond as admirable patience. She must be very uncomfortable these days, with the triplets growing rapidly. After a few weeks of riding to work with Karen, even that had become a strain, and she’d begun telecommuting on a reduced schedule.
The little girl released a melodramatic sigh. “Okay. But we’ve been through all the books. We have to call them something!”
In Edmond’s lap, the international-themed book fell open to a page filled with O’s—Omorose, Ophelia, Orma. Moments before, they’d been staring at F’s—Fayola, Fritzie and Fulvia. Gently rocking the lounger with one leg, he stifled a yawn. It was the third such volume they’d flipped through this afternoon.
“We could draw names from a hat,” he joked.
“No, Uncle Eddie!” Dawn scolded.
“I was kidding.”
“Let’s rest for a minute and enjoy the sunshine,” Melissa said. “Maybe the names will sort themselves out in our brains.”
Dawn bounced in her seat. “Flowers!”
“They are beautiful.” Melissa beamed at Edmond as she regarded the planter overflowing with petunias. “I’m glad you had them planted.”
“So am I.” He’d hired a gardener as well as a cleaning service.
Dawn waved her hands impatiently. “I mean how about flower names, like Daisy?”
“Maybe not that particular one, but it’s a good idea,” Melissa responded.
They ran through floral names, including some that Edmond found on his phone. Most he considered too old-fashioned. Blossom. Chrysanthemum. Poppy. “Alyssa is nice.”
“My favorite is Lily,” Dawn announced.
“That’s pretty,” Edmond mused. “It reminds me of Tiger Lily in Peter Pan.”
“Lily of the valley was my mother’s favorite scent.” Melissa clapped her hands. “We’ve picked a name!”
“Lily,” Dawn said happily. Edmond was glad she’d been able to propose one of the names.
“One down, two to go,” he said. “How about other names starting with L?”
“I’d rather not.” Melissa half closed her eyes as he continued rocking the lounger. “The girls will have a hard enough time establishing unique identities without that.”
On the lawn, a bird alighted and began pecking industriously. “How about bird names?” Dawn asked. “Like Robin or Jay.”
“Pelican?” Edmond joked.
“Flamingo,” said Melissa.
“You guys, cut it out.” The little girl folded her arms.
Melissa took a deep breath. “Now that I think about it, a name caught my attention in one of the books, but I’m not sure it’s right. It isn’t a bird name, either.”
“Out with it,” Edmond commanded.
“Simone,” she said.
His jaw tightened. Did she really want to call a baby after Dawn’s dad? “Why Simone?”
“I had a high school friend named Simone, an exchange student from France,” Melissa explained. “Unfortunately, we lost touch over the years.”
“Sih-mone,” Dawn pronounced. “It sounds sophisticated.” That was one of her favorite new words from a story she’d read.
“It’s a variation on Simon...” Edmond pointed out.
Melissa stretched her neck. “That’s why I was reluctant.”
Dawn drooped. “Never mind.”
Her disappointment touched him. Of course she had positive feelings about her dad, too. “It’s okay that you loved Simon. He loved you, too.”
“I don’t want Simone to grow up to be a robber,” the little girl said.
Melissa stroked her niece’s hair. “She doesn’t have to be like him in the bad ways.”
“Just the good ones.” Dawn studied them hopefully. “Okay?”
Melissa quirked an eyebrow at Edmond. “Do we all agree on Simone?”
He did, actually. “Let’s go for it. Naming kids after family is a wonderful tradition.”
“Excellent idea,” Melissa said. “But we tried that, remember?”
None of their female relatives’ names had quite hit the mark. Then Edmond came up with one they hadn’t considered. “What about your brother?”
“Jamie.” Melissa spoke the name gingerly.
“The little boy who died?” Dawn had heard the story. “It can be a girl’s name, too, can’t it?”
“You bet.” Melissa ran a finger across Edmond’s cheek. “It’s a wonderful suggestion.”
“We each picked a name,” their niece observed.
“So we did. Lily, Simone and Jamie,” Melissa said. “They’re lovely.”
The lowering sun and his rumbling stomach reminded Edmond that the dinner hour was approaching. “Who’s hungry?”
“Me!” said Dawn.
“Me, too,” Melissa chimed in.
“It’s lucky I know how to cook.” He’d learned a lot these past few months, he reflected as he assisted his wife to her feet. Now he had a heart full of love, a house about to be full of babies, and a box full of recipes.
Hard to say which was more important. Grinning to himself, he slid open the patio door and ushered his family inside.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from COWBOY IN THE MAKING by Julie Benson
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Chapter One
“I heard the bad news about the Philharmonic letting you go. How’re you doing?”
James Westland’s hand tightened around his cell phone as he tried to shove aside his growing irritation at his friend Connor’s comment. What he wouldn’t give for a call from a charity asking for a donation or a wrong number. He’d even be thrilled with an obscene call. Anything but a call from another friend or relative asking how he was holding up.
How the hell did everyone expect him to be when his career was becoming a distant spec in his rearview mirror? Of course he was pissed. At first he’d tried drowning his anger in a bottle of Jameson, but all that did was leave him with a bad hangover. Now he’d reached the not-sure-what-the-hell-to-do stage.
“I’m fine. I’m assessing my options.” He almost laughed. Right. You’ve got so many of those to choose from.
Unlike his siblings, Jamie had never excelled in school. He’d studied twice as hard to earn low B’s and C’s. For their paltry efforts, his sisters had scored straight A’s. One now possessed an MBA and the other a degree in engineering. Education that offered them more
options, while he’d put all his career eggs into the music basket, leaving him little to fall back on now.
“My sister teaches at a private school in Manhattan,” Connor said. “I could see if she knows of anyone who’s looking for a music teacher.”
“Sure,” he said mainly out of ingrained politeness and because he couldn’t afford to rule out any ideas at this point.
How could a simple Sunday morning bike ride have ended up turning his life upside down? He still had trouble letting go of the what-ifs.
What if I’d slept in? What if the guy in the parked car had been as concerned about the world around him as his coffee? Would he have opened the door and knocked me to the ground? What if I hadn’t tried to break my fall? Would I have hurt my hand so bad?
“I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t play the cello anymore,” Connor said, breaking through Jamie’s thoughts.
There it was. The barely veiled invitation to spill his guts and say how angry he was or how he was falling apart. If anyone else hinted he was concerned he’d do something stupid like jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, he might throw his phone off said bridge.
His left hand cramped and he switched his phone to his right, staring at the offending appendage as if it should look different. How many people would be thrilled to have the mobility he possessed, and yet for him, it wasn’t enough. “It’s taking some adjusting to, but I’m managing.”
“Maybe you should get away. Take some time to clear your head.”
Or at least get away before the well-intentioned people in his life drove him insane. He considered visiting his parents in Philadelphia, but tossed the idea aside. While he loved them, they were planners. They analyzed a situation, determined the risks and probability of success for each option and then acted. That’s what they’d want to do with this situation—provide him with a feasibility study. He couldn’t take the in-person seminar right now. The phone version had been bad enough.
A picture of his grandfather’s small ranch in the Rocky Mountains flashed in Jamie’s mind. A simple two-story house straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting with a big old-fashioned porch with rocking chairs perfect for thinking. Going to Colorado was what he needed. There he could clear his head and sort things out.
Mick would understand what he was going through because he’d experienced the same uncertainty when he’d returned from Vietnam after shrapnel from a land mine had torn up his right leg, arm and hand, ending his own musical career. While he’d understand, Mick wouldn’t pry. Nor would anyone else in Estes Park, because very few of the town’s eight thousand residents knew more about him than that he was Mick’s grandson.
Except Emma, but then, last he’d heard she was living in Nashville.
“Jamie, you still there?” Connor asked. “I wish there was something I could do.”
Out of patience now that he had a plan, Jamie thanked his friend for checking about the teaching possibilities, ended the conversation and called Mick. When the old man answered, Jamie said, “Mind if I come for a visit?”
“The door’s always open to you.”
“Great. I’ll be on a plane tomorrow.”
“You know I’m not one to ask a lot of nosy questions, and tell me if I’m outta line doing it now. It won’t hurt my feelings none, but I hear something in your voice so I gotta ask. Is something wrong?”
Unlike when others asked, Mick’s question didn’t irritate Jamie. “When you got hurt and couldn’t perform, did everyone keep asking what you were going to do with your life?”
“Your hand didn’t heal right,” Mick said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“The doctor says everything looks fine, but when I play my hand doesn’t work like it used to. My fingers get knotted up. The dexterity and flexibility just isn’t there.” Jamie explained how music he’d once played without conscious effort now proved difficult. To the untrained ear he might not sound too bad, but unless things changed, he wouldn’t be returning to the Philharmonic anytime soon. “The doctor says there’s a chance my hand will get better. He says strengthening may be all it needs.”
Keep telling yourself that so you can hang on to the hope that your career isn’t over.
“Nothing will do that better than good old-fashioned hard work around the ranch and the restaurant, and I’ve got plenty to do at both places. In fact, I could use a bartender.”
“Making mixed drinks is an art form nowadays. That’s out of my league.”
Mick laughed. “Maybe in New York City, but most folks that come into my place aren’t big on fancy mixed drinks. They order a beer on tap or in a bottle. Other than that it’s pouring whiskey or making margaritas for the ladies. I can show you how to do that.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know when your flight gets in. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
Jamie thought about telling Mick he’d rent a car, but right now he’d rather avoid the expense. He had some money in savings, but only enough to last a couple of months. Considering his uncertain future, best to be frugal.
“For what it’s worth, I know what you’re going through, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy,” Mick said. “It really knocked my feet out from under me for a while.”
That’s right where Jamie was. Flat on his back trying to figure out what to do once he found the energy to stand again.
“People didn’t realize playing and singing were a part of me,” Mick continued. “When I lost that, it was like a part of me died, and I had to grieve. Until I did, I couldn’t move on. Most people didn’t get that. They wanted to help, but their concern most times made it worse.”
“Concern I can take. It’s the pity that’s pissing me off.”
“Don’t let this get you down, son. I know it seems bad now, but an unexpected blessing can find its way into situations like this.”
Jamie shook his head. If there was something good in the midst of this mess, fate was doing a damned good job hiding the fact.
* * *
EMMA DONOVAN STARED at Molly, the fiddle player in her band, Maroon Peak Pass, standing in the doorway of her office at the Estes Park animal shelter.
There’s a woman with bad news to deliver.
“I can’t do this anymore, Em.”
Emma tried not to cringe. This couldn’t be happening again. Every time she thought her musical career would take off and she’d land a record deal, something happened to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory.
“I’m in the middle of preparing for a volunteer orientation today. Can we do this later, Molly?”
As in possibly never, since I don’t think I’m going to like what you have to say. I definitely don’t have the energy to deal with it today.
“This can’t wait,” Molly said. The look in her gaze only confirmed Emma’s suspicions of impending doom.
As she tried to quell the unease churning in her stomach, Emma motioned for Molly to have a seat in the wooden chair on the opposite side of her less-than-impressive desk. Ah, the joys of working for a nonprofit agency. Rickety, cheap furniture.
“It’s Dave, isn’t it?” Emma said. Since Molly’s marriage six months ago, she’d changed, showing up late for rehearsals and wanting to leave early. When she was there, she was distracted and unprepared. “He’s pressuring you to leave the band, isn’t he?”
She knew what that was like. Emma, you need to grow up. Playing in a band is fine for a hobby, but it’s not a real job.
“It’s not him. He’s supportive of my musical career.” Molly picked at the strap of the purse sitting in her lap. “It’s me. I’m tired of putting my life on hold hoping for a career that’s a one-in-a-million shot.”
“What’re you trying to say?”
“I’m leaving the band.”
There was the blow Emma had been expecting, but even though she’d braced herself, it still left her reeling. All she could think was thank goodness she’d been sitting. Otherwise the news would have leveled her. Her mind scrambled to process the chaos Molly’s decision created. No, she couldn’t go there, refused to accept bad news until she knew she couldn’t change it. “You can’t quit. We’re so close. I feel it. Hold off a little longer. At least until the state fair contest.”
This year the Colorado state fair was having a music competition with the winner receiving a consultation with Phillip Brandise, one of the top movers and shakers in country music.
“I want to have kids. My biological clock’s ticking so loud I’m going deaf. I’m afraid if I don’t make some changes now I’ll wake up one day and it’ll be too late. I’ll have given up everything that really matters, and for what? Nights spent on the stage in two-bit restaurants and bars. I’ve taken a job as an orchestra director at a private school in Denver, and Dave’s requested a transfer. We should be able to buy a house in a few months, and hopefully soon we’ll be pregnant. The movers arrive this weekend to pack everything up.”
Emma stared at the other woman, someone she thought she knew fairly well, as if she’d said she was going to take up brain surgery. “How can you give up now?”
“I’ve found something I want more. I’ll still have music in my life. It just won’t be the center of my universe.”
Now that Emma’s shock had subsided, her anger kicked in. How dare Molly bail on the rest of the band? People who had counted on her, who thought they’d shared the same goal. “We’ve got appearances scheduled and the state fair is less than a month away. What’re we supposed to do? Do you know how long it will take to find a replacement?”
“I meant to talk to you when I applied for the teaching position, but the time never seemed right.”
“Really? I seem to remember a lot of opportunities that would’ve been perfect. How about when we talked about signing up for the state fair contest, or when we were planning career strategies for next year to increase our visibility and presence on social media? Those would’ve been pretty good times to mention you were thinking about quitting.”
The Surprise Triplets Page 21
