*
He nicked himself shaving. Adam stared in disbelief at his reflection in the mirror. Sure enough, a drop of blood formed just to the left of his chin. As he watched, it trickled down and dripped onto the bathroom counter. He hadn’t done that in years. Muttering a curse, he tore off a piece of tissue and stuck it on his cut, then finished shaving. He should have gotten out while he had the chance. An old friend had called to invite him to a play in Atlanta. The old friend—a woman—had included dinner and breakfast in her invitation. He’d been tempted for less than a second.
Jane wasn’t the reason he’d said no, he told himself for the hundredth time as he pulled on twill trousers and a polo shirt. He didn’t give a damn if she was coming over for dinner. It was Charlene’s invitation, not his. Just because his aunt entertained all her friends—except for the truckers—in his house didn’t change anything. Hell, he didn’t even have to show up. He could work in his study, or watch the game on TV.
That’s what he’d do, he decided, as he brushed his hair, then straightened the collar on his shirt. He would watch the game. After slipping on his shoes, he started down the stairs. There was a knock.
“I’ll get it,” he called to Charlene who was already hard at work in the kitchen.
Just as he reached the front door, he remembered to brush the piece of tissue from his face.
“We’re here,” Billie said, walking in slowly, a pie balanced precariously in her hands. “Mom made fresh blueberry pie. Yum. I could smell it all morning, but she wouldn’t let me have none.”
“Any.” Jane came in behind her daughter and offered him a shy smile.
“Any,” Billie repeated. “Or none. It’s the same.” She thrust the pie at Adam. “Where’s Charlene? I want to say hello. Then can we watch the game?”
“Billie! I told you this was a visit. No sports.”
“But the Braves are playing San Francisco. That’s my team. I’ll die if I don’t watch.”
He took the pie. “In the kitchen,” he said, jerking his head in that direction. “Then go on into the study. The TV is already on the right channel.”
“Cool.” She dashed away.
He stared after her. “No softball, and she’s wearing a dress. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. She’s wearing shorts under the dress and is convinced you have a hardball somewhere she can play with.” Hazel eyes met and held his. “If you do, please don’t let her get her hands on it. I can’t make any promises about breakables.”
“I’ll keep it hidden. Please, come in.”
She stepped past him, into the foyer. Her perfume followed like a soft floral breeze, teasing his senses and making him wonder what the anger had been all about. Again she offered a tentative smile. This time he returned it.
“You look beautiful.” He spoke without thinking.
She blushed, but didn’t look away. “Thank you.”
A green-and-white dress hugged her curves from shoulder to hips, then flared out around her thighs. The off-the-shoulder sleeves left her neck bare. But it was her hair that captured his attention. For once, she’d left it long. Soft curls cascaded down her back. A small spray of tiny white flowers had been pinned over her right ear. Light makeup made her hazel eyes darken to green and her lips look full and kissable.
The kiss. He couldn’t forget it, wouldn’t repeat it. His gaze centered on her mouth. She’d tasted sweet, willing. Not the shy timid girl he’d remembered. He would have thought he’d miss that, when he’d kissed her. He’d been wrong. There was something to be said for experience, and a woman who wasn’t afraid of what she wanted.
“Adam!” Billie called from the back of the house. “The game’s already started. And my team just scored a run.”
“I’d better go help Charlene,” Jane said, reaching out and taking the pie from his hands. Their fingers brushed.
Funny thing about the past, he thought, resisting the urge to touch her face. What they had shared years before made it so easy to forget the distance they’d traveled. He’d thought he’d have to fight hating her. Perhaps he still did. But he’d never imagined he’d have to fight wanting her.
“And I should check on your daughter before she destroys something valuable.”
Her tongue swept across her lower lip. His body vibrated with need.
“Charlene is waiting,” she said, swaying toward him.
“Adam!” came the call.
“So is Billie.”
“I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, later.”
He stood in the foyer until she walked away, then moved toward the family room.
“Have you broken anything?” he asked as he turned into the room. Large pieces of furniture filled the L-shaped space. One end contained a pool table and wet bar. The other, a huge sectional sofa, large-screen TV and enough audio-visual equipment to stock a small store.
Billie sipped on a can of soda and shook her head. “Not yet. Pretty good, huh?”
“The best.” He sat next to her on the long sofa and pulled on the bill of her cap. “That hat doesn’t go with the dress.”
“I’m wearing shorts.” Billie pulled up her skirt to show him. “Mom can be tough about clothes, especially on Sunday. This is our compress.”
Compress? “Do you mean compromise?”
“Whatever.” She pointed at the screen. “Bottom of the second. Atlanta’s up, but the Giants have already scored.”
“There’s still several innings, peanut. Don’t get your hopes up.”
She stuck out her tongue. He grinned. When the next batter popped a fly into left field, providing the third out, Billie crowed her pleasure.
“Told you, told you.”
With that, she scooted over until she was next to him, then snuggled close to his chest. Adam sat there stiffly, not sure what to do with his arm. Finally he rested it against her slight back. She smiled up at him and sighed with contentment. Such a powerhouse, he thought with amazement, yet still a little girl. Her body felt warm against him. Small and in need of protection, although he could never tell her or her mother that.
“Am I going to talk funny?” Billie asked.
“Funny?”
“You know. ‘I declare, chile, you are simply too charmin’,’” she said in a fair imitation of a Southern drawl.
He chuckled, then stretched out his legs and rested his feet on the coffee table. “Probably.”
“Why?”
“This is Orchard, Billie. You’re going to hear people speak with accents all the time. You can’t help imitating.”
“My mom doesn’t talk too funny, and neither do you.”
“Your mother has been away for nine years. It’ll come back to her. And I’ve never had much of an accent.”
“I’m not going to, either.”
“It’s too late, peanut.” He shook his head when she offered him a drink out of her can of soda. “Accept the fact that you’ll soon be a Southern belle.”
“Well, I’m not going to charm school.”
He didn’t answer. She snuggled closer and they watched the game. At the next commercial break, she pulled away and tucked her feet under her. “Adam?”
She looked serious. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Do you remember at the bank, we talked about maiden names and dads?”
He nodded, sure he wasn’t going to like what was coming. She stared down at her drink, then up at him. Tears pooled in her dark brown eyes. She was close enough that he could hear her shallow breathing and count the freckles across her nose. The pattern reminded him of something but before he could figure out what, she sniffed.
“Billie?” He rested one hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, peanut.”
“I made my mom cry.”
“How?”
“I asked about my dad. I knew I shouldn’t. It always makes her cry. But sometimes, I just want to know. Where is he? Doesn’t he love us anymore?”
As he pulled Billie into
his arms, a soft sound came from the hallway. He looked up and saw Jane standing in the doorway. The expression on her face—pure pain—stabbed at him. Before he could say anything, she turned and fled.
He continued to hold her daughter, murmuring words of comfort, but his mind raced. Obviously Jane had heard what Billie said. Obviously her ex-husband had hurt her very deeply. Obviously she still cared for the man.
Chapter Eight
“Are you all right, child?” Charlene asked as Jane hurried into the kitchen.
“What?” She stared at her friend, then tried to smile. “Oh, I’m fine.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Now don’t go getting any ideas. The Carolina Barringtons have always been too well-bred to allow ghosts in the house.”
Jane moved through the kitchen and picked up the plates for dinner. “I’m a little tired. That’s all.”
“Mmm.” Those shrewd blue eyes saw more than they were supposed to. Still Jane knew that she was safe. Despite the truckers that visited from time to time and her rather flamboyant wardrobe and ways, Charlene was too much of a lady to pry. “I thought you were going to ask Billie to set the table.”
“She’s…ah…Adam, that is, they’re watching the ball game. I didn’t want to disturb them.”
“Well then, you’ll need to get out the good silver. It’s in the middle drawer of the hutch.”
Jane nodded, then escaped from the kitchen to the quiet of the formal dining room. Lace-covered windows let in the soft, afternoon light. Underfoot, an antique Oriental carpet provided the color in the elegant room. The beautiful carved table could seat twenty, with all the leaves. Even at its smallest, it was too big for four, but Charlene liked to use the good pieces on Sunday and that meant eating in the dining room. Jane didn’t mind; the formal setting, remembering which forks went where, would occupy her mind. If she tried hard, maybe she could forget Billie’s conversation with Adam.
It was futile, she admitted, as she smoothed the pressed linen cloth over the table. Her daughter’s pain had ignited her own. “Where is my daddy? Doesn’t he love us anymore?” Her words echoed over and over again.
“I never meant to hurt you, Billie,” she murmured softly, as she folded the napkins. She had hurt her though, and Adam, too. All in all, she’d botched the whole thing. Now what? Should she tell him today? Could she?
“You have to tell him soon. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
She hadn’t heard Charlene enter the room. “Yes,” she said, as she continued to fold the napkins.
“You have to tell him,” Charlene repeated.
“I know.”
“He’s going to guess, and if he doesn’t, people in town will. She has too much of the Barringtons in her.”
“But she doesn’t really look like him,” Jane said, hopefully, as if convincing Charlene would mean putting off the deed for another day.
“You’re right. She looks like Dani.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. All she needs is to be blond. She’s even got the freckles.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Start thinking.” Charlene placed a silver trivet on the table. “Sophia Yarns called me yesterday.”
Jane opened the center door of the hutch and picked up a handful of flatware. “She was at the New Accounts desk at the bank.”
“She wanted to know if I knew you were unmarried and had a child.”
“She’s just an old busybody.”
“She’s an influential member of this town. And no dummy. You think you can keep your secret after she spends an hour or two with Billie and Adam?”
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.” She placed the forks at all four places, then went back to collect the knives.
Charlene stepped next to her and laid a restraining hand on her arm. “You can’t run forever.”
“I know.” Jane wanted to crawl away and hide, but she forced herself to look up at Charlene.
The older woman patted her gently. “He’ll hate you for keeping Billie from him.”
Her throat grew tight. “Yes,” she whispered.
“But he will eventually understand.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Charlene hugged her close. Jane leaned into the embrace. The scent of gardenias, the womanly figure, the clinking of the bracelets brought her comfort with their familiarity.
“I am right,” the older woman said. “He’ll forgive you. What I’m worried about is whether or not you can forgive yourself.”
*
They had dessert on the front porch. The sounds of summer, birds, children playing, a soft breeze rustling through the leaves, lent themselves to another time when everything had been easier. If this had been the 1800s, her life would have been different, Jane thought taking a bite of blueberry pie. Back then, despite her concerns about Adam and their pending marriage, she wouldn’t have run. Society and circumstances would have forced her to stay and fight for her man. Now, with the vision of hindsight, the lack of opportunity sounded heavenly. If she couldn’t risk, she didn’t fail. But even as the simpler time tempted her, she acknowledged that the past nine years had made her a stronger person. However much she regretted the pain she’d caused and was still going to cause, she’d arrived in the present as a mature human being. A difficult price to pay, she thought as she glanced up and met Adam’s gaze.
He offered her a quick, sympathetic smile. He’d been nice ever since he’d seen her in the doorway, listening to Billie talk about her “missing” father. No doubt he had a few theories of his own as to why she’d bolted. At this moment he probably felt badly, maybe even let himself like her. All that would change as soon as she worked up the courage to tell him the truth.
“This is delightful,” Charlene said, picking up her last blueberry in her fingers and popping it into her mouth. “You always did magical things with a crust.”
“It’s my mother’s recipe. I’ll pass along the compliment.”
“Do that. And give her my best. I should probably call her before I leave for Greece. I’ve just been so busy what with my various—”
“Charlene—”
“Don’t say anything—”
Adam and Jane spoke together. His aunt drew herself up straighter in her wicker chair and frowned. “Why do you always assume I’m going to say something inappropriate?”
“Because you usually do,” Adam said wryly.
Billie looked up from her dessert. She’d perched herself on the steps leading up to the porch, while the adults sat around a glass and wicker table. “What’s inappropriate?” she asked.
“It means—” Jane paused. “Something that’s not appropriate.”
“Now that’s a clear definition,” Adam teased.
“You think you’re so clever, you try,” she shot back.
“Yes, Adam,” Charlene said, putting her plate on the table in front of her. “Go ahead.”
“Inappropriate means something that isn’t polite.”
Charlene shook her head. “I was going to be very polite.” She glared pointedly at Jane. “And appropriate.”
“All right.” Adam took another bite of pie and chewed thoughtfully. “Inappropriate.”
“Yes.” Billie waited patiently. “Should I go get the dictionary?”
Jane chuckled.
“Absolutely not,” Adam said. “I won’t be defeated by a word. It means—”
“It means that your mother and Adam think I was about to say something you’re too young to hear.” Charlene rose to her feet. “And they were wrong. But my feelings are already hurt, so I’m leaving.” She held out her hand. “You can come with me, Billie, and help with the dishes.”
“Aw, do I have to?”
“Yes. Because I found out that someone here broke one of my prize roses. And I have a feeling it was you. Not—” She glared at Jane, then at Adam. “I repeat, not that anyone had the good manners to tell me. I had to find out on my ow
n. The poor thing is crushed beyond repair.”
Jane stared intently at her plate and struggled not to laugh. “Charlene, I know how much you care about your roses. I meant to say something earlier. It slipped my mind.”
Billie hung her head. “I’m sorry. I’m always breaking stuff.”
Charlene squeezed her hand. “I forgive you. Children are supposed to break things.”
“I’ll be happy to reimburse you,” Jane offered.
“No, thank you. But this is a good time to remind you that charm school would take care of many of her problems.”
Billie rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to go to charm school. It’s dumb, girl stuff.”
Adam leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Explain that to me, Charlene. You are the least conventional woman I know, yet since you’ve met Billie, you’ve been trying to turn her into the Southern ideal of a lady.”
Charlene shook her head. Tendrils from the upswept style bounced off her cheeks and her long silver earrings jingled. “Power, Adam. It’s all about power.” She gave Billie the plates and urged her toward the door. “First you have to learn the rules, then you can break them. That’s always been our strength. What was that movie? Steel Magnolias. Look at Jane here. Nine years ago she was a child with no direction, confused. Afraid. Now she’s grown into a beautiful woman capable of taking care of herself. We’re strong. We just don’t want everyone to know right off.”
Billie balanced the plates in her arms. “I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Charlene said, patting her head. “Learn to be a lady and control the world.”
“I’d rather learn a curve ball.” Billie thrust out her lower lip. “Do I have to help with the dishes?”
Charlene nodded. “Think of it as repaying me for that rose you killed.” She followed Billie inside, then turned back. “You two just sit here and talk. We’ll take care of everything else.”
“What do you think of Charlene’s theory?” Adam asked.
“I think she’s right about the rules. I tell my students that in my English classes. You have to know how to construct a sentence before you can start switching things around. As for the power—” She shrugged, then laughed. “I’ve never felt especially powerful. Maybe that’s saved for the true Southern belles.”
A Dad for Billie Page 11
