The Baby Twins

by Laura Marie Altom

Could he have been wrong?

  Pacing, he refused to credit Stephanie with more recognition than she'd deserved. Her observations were brought on by exhaustion and tequila. She didn't see his entire picture. The way Clarissa's cheating had messed with his head. He'd thought about returning to Seattle to be closer to Lola. He'd even run the idea by his supervisor, as well as scoping out potential places to live. So what stopped him from taking the plunge?

  With a flight in the morning, Brady should've long since been asleep. Too bad fury still had him wired. Knowing he'd no doubt be up for a while, he made a call to his scheduling center.

  * * *

  "WHAT are you doing here?" Stephanie asked Brady at the door of Austin's house. Just past ten in the morning, she wore cut-off jean shorts and one of Michael's ratty old T-shirts. She'd crammed her curls into a scrunchie on top of her head. The PB and J she'd just downed had dribbled purple on the gray fabric between her breasts. "I thought you had a flight?"

  "Ever heard of calling in sick?"

  Hands on her hips, she cocked her head. "If you love to fly anywhere near as much as Michael, it'd take two broken arms to ground you."

  "Busted." Hands jammed in his jean pockets, he said, "Truth? Last night's conversation got to me."

  "Which part?" she asked, stepping back while holding open the door to let him in. The day was bright and sunny, meaning it took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darker interior. With Austin in Moscow, the curtains were drawn on the usually light-filled space. The kitchen clock's tick seemed unbearably loud. Even though he'd only been gone a few days, the home smelled musty. The peace lily gracing the center of the kitchen table drooped. She made a mental note to water it.

  "Everything concerning Lola. Last night, I couldn't rest. I was seriously ticked at you for insinuating that I've abandoned my daughter. But after sleeping on it, I've gotta say you're right. It's somehow easier to avoid the issue than facing it head-on. She's a kid. Of course, she's going to enjoy being around her friends more than me. So I've been choosing the path of least resistance in letting her have her way." Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, now cradling his forehead, he added, "I do feel guilty. Like I'm letting another man raise my kid. I hate it. But no more. Thanks for giving me the kick I needed to make a few tough decisions."

  "Like what?" Sitting cross-legged on a tropical-themed sofa, she gestured for him to join her.

  He did. "Like, I bitch an awful lot about what I'd like my relationship with Lola to be like, but I haven't done enough to change it. Drumroll, please…" Rolling a beat on his thighs, he announced, "It'll be rough at first, but I'm moving to Seattle."

  "Just like that?"

  Nodding, he said, "It's actually been a long time coming. I've checked out apartments and everything. I just—" He grinned her way. "I needed an old friend to remind me about what's important. And my kid—she's el numero uno."

  "I'm happy for you." Stephanie leaned over for a quick, heartfelt hug, then asked, "When are you taking the plunge?"

  "Overall, I'm probably looking at a month or two for everything to be finalized—you know, with my flight routes changed. I asked for the week off, and tomorrow I'll get the ball rolling."

  "And today?" she asked, her pulse curiously racing in anticipation of his answer.

  "Today, I hope you'll let me repay you."

  "For what? If anything, I owe you for what happened yesterday."

  "Assuming we can agree to disagree—" his grin managed to be lopsided, yet adorable "—let's ditch this boring old house and go to the beach."

  Chapter Three

  "Better?" Brady asked Stephanie from the white chaise longue alongside her. They shared a beachfront umbrella on the glistening turquoise shore. One of the perks of being a pilot was having friends in great places. Like Pete Danvers, whose sixteenth-floor condo included access to this pristine stretch of shore. Like Austin, Pete flew international routes and was rarely home to enjoy the fruits of his labor. A breeze helped with the humidity, carrying with it the sound of seagulls and the scent of someone's grilled lunch.

  "You have no idea how much better…" Covering a yawn, she said, "I didn't know how awful packing up Michael's things was going to be."

  "Have much more to go?"

  "Unfortunately, yeah. My hubby was a horrible pack rat. Sentimental to a fault, he kept everything from ticket stubs to museum brochures."

  Rolling to face her, Brady asked, "Tossing it all?"

  "No." Her lone word carried extra oomph. Implying he was an ass for even suggesting such a thing. "I plan to make scrapbooks commemorating his life. Dozens if that's what it takes to keep all of the things he held dear."

  Animated, Stephanie's abundance of corkscrew curls rode the wind, resembling a seriously cute mane. Her pink one-piece with a ruffled bust managed being both sexy and demure. "Ever consider the fact that by spending so much time in the past, you're doing the exact opposite of what Michael specifically told you to do?" Sitting up, he planted one foot in the warm sand. "Don't get me wrong, Michael was a great guy, but think about it. He told you to get a life, but here you are, planning out a task that's going to take years to complete."

  Scrunching her pretty features, she argued, "It won't take anywhere near that long. And, anyway, what do you care?"

  Good question. Maybe because all of this heat and sun-shot water were making him want to stop talking about Stephanie's dead husband, and start getting on with the more fun portions of their day.

  Jumping to his feet, he shouted, "Last one in the water has to clean Austin's nasty grout!"

  "You noticed that, too?" Steph took the time to ask. Precious time, since he was already halfway to the waves.

  "Cheat!" Chasing after him, she was definitely last. "How did you even see Austin's grout?"

  "Lucky guess," he admitted. "Last time I was at his house—like over a year ago, it needed work then."

  "You know what this means, don't you?"

  Eyebrows raised, he asked, "You'll need to pick up bleach and rubber gloves on the way home?"

  With a grin and wicked sparkle to her eyes, Steph landed a well-aimed shove to his chest. Too bad for her, he wasn't going down without taking her with him.

  Laughing and sputtering water, she crashed against his chest while his back hit the sandy bottom. A rogue wave body-slammed both of them.

  "You're horrible!" she said, still laughing and clinging to him for balance. She felt amazing against him. Curvy. Wet. Hot.

  On autopilot, he did what any sane guy would and kissed her. Hands loose on her hips, warm water swirling at his feet, he tilted his head to get better access, which she granted. She tasted sweet—forbidden. Her breathy moans only made him want her more.

  Drawing back, expression dazed, she put her hands to her lips. "Oh, no…" Awareness of what they'd just done brightened her eyes and she looked almost as panicked as she had on the plane.

  He struggled to remain calm. "Sorry. I don't know what came over me. It won't happen again."

  She shook her head, took a deep breath, then nodded. "I'm sorry, too."

  For an awkward few moments, they stood in foaming surf. A few dozen yards down the beach, little kids fought over a Frisbee. Their voices were jarring, reminding him where he was. Who he was with. A good friend's wife.

  Hooking her thumb toward their belongings, she said, "I should probably get back to Austin's."

  "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "With the move and all, I've got stuff to do, too."

  Given different circumstances, he might've offered to help her. Now, he felt as if in kissing her, he'd abused the privilege of being her friend.

  The dripping return trip to their gear wasn't near as much fun as their running into the surf. Instead of feeling soft on the soles of his feet, the sand now itched. The once healing sun was bringing on a burn. Once salty air suddenly stank like dead fish.

  "I am sorry." He drew his white T-shirt over his head.

  "It wasn't a big deal," she s
aid with an obviously forced smile. Having crammed her towel, paperback and lotion into her jumbo beach bag, she put on a pink cover-up and grabbed white flip-flops. "Ready?"

  And then some.

  On a scale of one to ten on the Brady Screwup Meter, kissing Stephanie had spiked him off the chart.

  * * *

  BACK AT AUSTIN'S, WHERE BRADY had left his rental car, awkward didn't do their mutual silence justice. He'd never been big on knowing the right thing to say, and this time was no exception. "Guess I should get going, huh?"

  She nodded too vigorously for his already decimated ego. "That'd probably be best."

  "Why do I get the feeling you're ticked off?" Moreover, why couldn't he leave well enough alone and simply get behind the wheel and drive?

  Sighing, she said, "I'm not angry, Brady, just hurt and confused—not only by your actions, but my own. What happened? I don't kiss random strangers, and—"

  "Stop. The thing is we're hardly strangers. We used to hang out all the time. What happened at the beach is the result of two lonely people losing themselves in a moment." Hand beneath her chin, he asked, "How long has it been since you've had fun like that? Laughing and playing like when you were a kid?"

  "A while. But that doesn't make it better. Clarissa's my friend. I still can't get used to the idea that you don't belong to her."

  "Just like you still belong to Michael?"

  "This conversation is stupid. Going in circles. It was wonderful seeing you again, but let's leave it at that."

  His chest tight, he said, "Agreed."

  She extended her hand for him to shake. "Thanks again for your help on the plane. You were a godsend."

  Wishing he could've done more, he enfolded her hand in his. "It was my pleasure. But speaking of airplanes, you okay for your trip home? Need me to arrange for you to have an escort?"

  "I appreciate the thought, but not necessary." Releasing his hand, she folded her arms. Standing beneath a shady patch provided by trellised bougainvillea, she said, "I'm a big girl, Brady. A capable businesswoman and mom. The last thing I need is a sitter."

  Clearing his throat, he said, "That may well be, and I hate pointing out the obvious, but if you pull another stunt like that last one on an airline, you're not likely to get off so easy."

  "You think the hell those men put me through was easy? They asked everything from whether or not I was suicidal to if I had a mental illness. I'm a widowed mother of two infants. A five-foot-nothing pastry chef from Valley View, Arkansas. Why in the world would they think me capable of taking hostages?"

  Standing behind her, trying to be as gentle as possible, he cupped his hands to her shoulders. "Maybe because in your, ah, panicked condition, I had to zip tie your hands to keep from you hurting yourself or others."

  "You told me there was no way I could've opened that cabin door."

  "True." He kneaded the knots between her shoulder blades. "But what if you'd gone nuts in the galley, and smashed all of the pretzels? And the stout gentleman who'd been sitting beside you would've not only lost his gin and tonic, but his snack? Now that might've caused a complete meltdown of our airline society." Turning her to face him, he said, "God's honest truth, Steph, you have no business flying alone. Even with medication, you need help."

  "I'll be fine."

  "Then I guess I should get going."

  "Probably." Did she have to be so agreeable? As though his leaving was the best news she'd heard all day? "Oh—" She headed for the house's front door, inserting Michael's key into the lock. "Before I forget, I've got something for you." She'd already gone inside without inviting him to follow.

  He rammed his hands in the pockets of his swim trunks, waiting, waiting, feeling like an idiot just standing in the hot sun.

  A few minutes later, the door creaked open, and Stephanie handed him a plastic baggie filled with photos. "I found these, and thought you might like to have them."

  "Thanks," he said, already flipping through the pile. There were a few of him and Michael playing B-ball on a layover in Chicago. It'd taken an hour's walk from their hotel to find a court. Another pilot had come along for the exercise, snapping the shot. Others featured Michael, Brady and mutual friends in various not-so-professional poses in bars all over the world. Until now, slammed with reminders of just how close he and Michael had once been, Brady hadn't truly faced the finality of his friend being gone.

  "Okay, then…" Putting the photos back in the bag, he struggled for something to say. Throat tight, he finally settled on "Do we want to exchange phone numbers?"

  "I don't think so. What would be the point?"

  Damn, but she knew how to use words as a weapon.

  Her refusal to give him her number sliced through him.

  "Agreed," he said, more to save face than because he thought she'd made the slightest bit of sense. "So this is it? We say our goodbyes and that'll be that?"

  "You expected more?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

  Had he? And if so, what? Another kiss? Crazy. As was the unease stemming from the thought of never seeing her again.

  "Need anything for your trek back to your hotel? Austin has sodas in his fridge."

  "I'm good," he said.

  "All right, then…" She enveloped him in a hug. She felt so small and fragile in his arms that he wanted to scoop her up and carry her away. He wanted to make everything better and guarantee her every day had plenty of smiles. "Thank you. I'll never forget your kindness."

  "Ditto." After kissing the top of her head, he stepped back, drinking in one long, last look. Memorizing the freckles dotting her nose. Her big, blue eyes and crazy hair that she never quite tamed. "Promise to take your medicine before flying?"

  She grinned despite looking on the verge of more tears and made an exaggerated X across her chest.

  * * *

  "THIS IS BORING."

  A few days later, in the living area of what would hopefully be his new Seattle home, Brady frowned at his daughter. To the condo's rental agent, he asked, "Is there a furnished, all-utilities-included option?"

  "Of course." The squinty-eyed woman shoved a folder in his face. "We offer gas, electric, water and cable. For furniture and accessories, we have three styles to choose from. Contemporary, French Provincial or country. You'll need to decide a week before your anticipated arrival."

  "I like the French stuff," Lola said. "Get that, Dad."

  "French it is." Brady couldn't care less what his sofa and tables looked like, but if Lola did, then he'd do whatever it took to make her happy.

  The agent made a note on the paperwork he'd already started filling out. "As for your cable, would you like basic or expanded with premium channels?"

  "HBO! HBO!"

  "Basic will be fine," Brady said, knowing Clarissa would have his hide if he let Lola watch more than her allotted hour a day.

  "You never let me have what I want," Lola said. "Why do you have to always side with Mom?"

  "She's precious." The agent's thin-lipped smile told a different story. She'd placed a pile of forms on the granite kitchen counter. "Now, if you'd initial here and here, and then sign the lines I've flagged, all that's left is a check."

  Jaw clenched, Brady signed the document promising to reside in the condo for the next year.

  "Dad-dy," his precious child whined. "This is soooo boring. You promised this wouldn't take long, and then we'd do something fun."

  "Oh, we're going to have a great time," he assured her, handing the agent her forms. "You'll have the unit ready by the first of next week?"

  Nodding, the woman's sleek black bob was as motionless as her expression. "When you get into town, just drop by the clubhouse for your keys."

  Behind the wheel of his silver rental sedan, Brady asked his daughter, "What's wrong with you? Acting like such a brat when I'm moving here for you."

  "No, you're not," she said, lifting her chin. "You're moving to Seattle because you feel guilty about not spending enough time with me. Mom told me so
."

  Brady counted to five in his head—he couldn't have held his words for a full count of ten. "First, I'm sorry for what I just said. It came out wrong. I'm not back in Seattle for you, but for us both. Somewhere along the line, you seem to have forgotten that I'm your dad."

  She rolled her eyes.

  "It's stunts like that I'm talking about, Lola. Whether you like me, or not, you will respect me. My meeting with the rental agent was important to me. How would you feel if the next time you have a gymnastics game, I mouthed off in front of your coach and friends?"

  "That's different. And, anyway, you don't even go to half of my meets." With a put-upon huff, she crossed her arms.

  "Now that I'm back in town, plan on seeing a whole lot more of me."

  "Great. Like having Uncle Vince around all the time isn't embarrassing enough? Now, I have to have two dads?"

  "I was the only father in the delivery room when you were born. I was the guy changing your diapers and wiping your nose for the first four years of your life. That gives you only one dad—me."

  Pouting, she said, "Geez, Mr. McGuire, take a pill."

  * * *

  "YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO COME all this way to babysit," Stephanie complained. She sat on the foot of Michael's bed, surrounded by his things, which she still hadn't finished sorting despite having been in Miami for almost a week.

  Her identical twin sister picked up one of Michael's memorabilia boxes, flipping through snapshots of happier times. "I prefer to think of myself more as a seriously high-paid nanny."

  "I'm not paying you a dime," Stephanie said. "Like I told you over the phone, I'm perfectly capable of getting back to Arkansas all on my own."

  "Just like you thought getting to Miami was going to be no biggie?" Setting down the box, Lisa slipped her arm around Stephanie's shoulders. "For heaven's sake, your panic attack was so epic you ended up on CNN. Doesn't that kind of scream 'I need help' to you?"

  Up from the bed, Stephanie took one of Michael's sweatshirts, burying her face in it, desperate for a trace of his smell. How had a simple trip to pack a few boxes gotten so out of control? Her emotions were chaotic at best. Mostly just catastrophic. "I've got bigger problems than flying," Stephanie confessed.