The Real Father (Twins) (Harlequin Superromance No. 927) (6 page)

Stewball, the thirteen-year-old springer spaniel who had always belonged to the Forrest family, didn't hear her, of course. He was slightly deaf, and he was not interested anyway. He didn't know he was aging, didn't know he was half-blind, didn't know he was driving her crazy. He knew only that he was out in the world for the first time in weeks, and he wanted to lunge and bark and chase everything that moved. Demery Park at noontime gave him plenty of scope.

“You're a crafty soul, I'll give you that,” she added, wondering if Stewball was big enough to actually pull her arm out of its socket. “Doing that sleepy old helpless hound impersonation so that I'd feel sorry for you.”

Stewball darted between her legs to growl at a trash receptacle. At home he looked so harmless. Jackson had been in New York for days—an emergency with one of his building projects, she'd heard from Lavinia—and Stewball had spent the entire time mooning pathetically on Everspring's shady front porch, watching the drive with his long, sad face propped against a huge clay pot of pansies.

In a fit of pity, Molly had invited him to come along to the park, where she was to meet Lavinia at noon. And now she was stuck with the demon dog he had become the minute he bounded out of the car. Maybe, she thought, hoping against hope, when Lavinia got here she could make him behave.

Or maybe not.

Molly tried to unbraid the leash Stewball had di
abolically wound across her legs. But he kept circling, and she only seemed to grow more tangled.

“Need some help with that mutt?”

Stewball knew it was Jackson before Molly, absorbed in extricating herself, could focus on the words. With a loud, welcoming bark, he suddenly raced forward, nearly toppling Molly in his haste to tackle Jackson, who was approaching with Lavinia. Molly had no choice but to follow, her fingers tangled in the leather lead and her feet clumsily weaving their way several inches behind her outstretched torso.

Drat the mangy mutt. She had been dreading seeing Jackson again after the way she had embarrassed herself the other night. She had almost kissed him, for heaven's sake. Jackson, who had been her most loyal friend since her pigtail days—but who had never once looked at her
that
way. And why would he? Everybody knew that Jackson liked his women exotic and sassy and hot. Jackson wouldn't ever have wasted his kisses on a common domesticated house-female like Molly.

What a miserable moment it had been! She had tried to explain. His resemblance to Beau had momentarily confused her. It had been a little like being caught in a dream. It had been—oh, it had been crazy. There weren't any words to explain it, not really.

He'd been nice about it, but she had sensed his discomfort. He had invented an excuse to leave the carriage house almost immediately. And before the sun came up the next morning, he was on his way
to New York, like a starling winging mindlessly away from the sound of gunfire.

So she would have liked to show a little dignity, at least right at first. And now here she was throwing herself at him all over again. With a little help from this damned dog.

“Stewball, down! Down!” Lavinia was laughing and backing away at the same time. Stewball was ignoring her, intent on getting his mouth close enough to Jackson's face to properly welcome him home.

Jackson ruffled the dog's hair playfully, somehow managing to keep clear of that soggy, enthusiastic tongue. He reached for the lead, which Molly surrendered gratefully, and within a few seconds he had shortened Stewball's range so drastically that, after a few abortive lunges that went nowhere, the animal had no choice but to sit at Jackson's feet and pant his adoration quietly.

“Hi, M.” Jackson smiled at Molly, who hoped she didn't look too mussed. “You okay?”

She nodded. “But happy to see reinforcements.” She frowned down at Stewball. “Didn't he once qualify as a good dog?”

Jackson chuckled. “God, no! Don't you remember the Fourth of July picnic the first year we had him? He scarfed down two dozen deviled eggs and a blueberry pie before anyone could stop him.”

Yes, of course she remembered. “And on the way home he threw up all over your car,” she said, grinning at the memory of Jackson's face when he'd
seen the mess. “It was so awful. I thought you were going to strangle him.”

But Jackson hadn't strangled him. Funny—she could suddenly remember the whole thing. Jackson had taken one look at the pitiful puppy, whose head was swaying with dizzy misery, and his anger had evaporated. He had reached over and stroked Stewball's ears, murmuring gently soothing sounds.

Actually, it had been Beau, sitting in the back seat with Molly, who had lost his temper. Beau whose face had reddened with fury at the sight of the soiled upholstery. A shiver passed over her as she remembered his tone as he informed Jackson that
he
was not going to clean up that mess.

Strange. So incredibly strange that she had forgotten all that.

“And then there was the night Beau went skinny-dipping down at the river,” Lavinia said, shaking her head in helpless amusement. “Stewball ran away with his jeans and the poor boy spent an hour trying to find them before he finally came creeping home in his underwear.”

Molly looked at Jackson, confused. “I thought that was you,” she said. “Beau told me—he told me that happened to you.”

Lavinia and Jackson exchanged a swift look. “Maybe it happened to both of us,” he said easily. “Stewball's list of sins is so long no one can keep it straight.”

Molly didn't believe him, but she wasn't sure what to say. Perhaps she was the one who remem
bered wrong. And did it really matter? It had happened more than ten years ago.

But it felt strangely unsettling. Her memories were all she had left of Beau. She didn't like to think they were unreliable.

“So.” Lavinia put one hand on Molly's cheek, the other on Jackson's shoulder. “I'll bet you two are wondering why I called this meeting.”

Molly smiled, nodding. She was curious. She had assumed Lavinia asked her here for purely social reasons. She hadn't realized Jackson had been invited, too.

“I've got a plan. A wonderful plan. But I need your help, both of you.” Lavinia began walking toward the eastern edge of the park. After a few yards she turned and frowned at them. “Are you coming, or do I need to put you on a leash, too?”

As soon as Lavinia was confident that she had them in tow, she picked up her pace, striding along in her chunky white running shoes as if she were trying to beat a time clock. Molly hoped they weren't going far. Her espadrilles weren't made for marathons. Jackson seemed fine, but Stewball obviously hated to abandon his dream of sniffing every tree trunk they passed.

Lavinia talked as she walked, but she didn't bother to turn around, so most of her words were lost on the wind. Once Molly frowned quizzically toward Jackson, but he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled, obviously equally mystified.

As suddenly as she had begun, Lavinia stopped. She turned around, beaming at Molly. “So here it
is. What do you say? Can you get it done by April, do you think?”

Molly looked around. Nothing presented itself as the obvious explanation. In fact, they had reached the extreme eastern boundary of the park, where the brick paths and iron benches gave way to a rather large, empty plot of undeveloped land.

She returned her gaze to Lavinia. “Get what done?”

“The landscaping, of course!” Lavinia looked impatient. “Good heavens, haven't you two been listening to a word I said? I'm donating this land to the city so that they can expand the park. We're going to build a pavilion here. It will be the Beaumont Forrest Pavilion, and I want you to design the landscaping.”

“Oh.” Molly was stunned, but pleased. How lovely to honor Beau's memory this way, with something permanent that the whole city could share. And how gratifying it would be for Molly herself to have a part in creating it. “I think it's a wonderful idea.”

“Good.” Lavinia nodded her satisfaction to Molly, then turned to Jackson. “But remember I said I needed help from both of you.”

“Yes?” Jackson's face was impassive. “What do you want from me?”

“If Molly can get things ready in time, we'll officially open the new park at the bicentennial celebration in April. I know that will be a push, because she's got to get the house ready for the spring tour
that same week. But I'll get her plenty of workers—it should be manageable.”

“Lavinia.” Jackson held her gaze steadily. “What do you want from me?”

“Well, Jackson, you know that no one knew Beau better than you did,” she said. “No one loved him more. I want you to give the dedication speech.”

Of course. How perfect. Molly smiled and touched Jackson's arm, delighted. It would be difficult for him—quite emotional, of course. But it would be so right.

“Well?” Lavinia raised her eyebrows. “Will you do it, Jackson?”

“No,” Jackson answered flatly. “I won't.”

 

M
OLLY ARRIVED HOME FIRST
. She couldn't help being glad that she hadn't needed to ride with Lavinia. The air in that car had probably been glacial. Jackson had been steadfast, categorically refusing to give the speech, and refusing with equal implacability to explain why. Lavinia had finally given up, her bewildered frustration stamped on each of her features.

As Molly got out of her rental car, struggling to make Stewball believe that their outing was truly over, she saw that a strange man was standing at the edge of the drive. He didn't look like a salesman. He had his hands in his pockets, and he was staring down at the brick path as if it were the gateway to another world, and he wasn't sure he should risk setting foot on it.

Well, she could certainly sympathize. She had always thought Everspring was like another world,
coming from her cramped, bitter household into this peaceful expanse of grace and luxury.

As she watched him, she realized that the man looked familiar. Did she know him? She smiled warily, unable to shed her big-city caution just yet, even though she was well aware that in Demery no one ever met a “stranger.”

Stewball finally decided to cooperate. As he climbed reluctantly down out of the car, she snatched hold of the leash before he could escape again.

At the noise, the man looked up, giving her a clearer view of his pleasant, even features. And then it came to her. Coach Riser. Good heavens, it was Beau's old football coach.

“Hi, Molly,” he said, reaching down to pat Stewball, who, back on home turf, was once again masquerading as an obedient dog. “I think I would have recognized you even if I hadn't known you were back in town. You haven't changed a bit since high school.”

She smiled, knowing it for a lie but appreciating the sentiment anyway. She wasn't surprised that Coach Riser remembered her, even though she hadn't been any kind of athlete in high school. She hadn't even been a cheerleader. But she had been the biggest distraction for Coach Riser's prize quarterback, and therefore she had definitely made an impression.

Coach Riser worried about everything Beau Forrest did—whether he ate enough greens and got enough sleep, whether he was slacking off in his
tory, and whether he quarreled with his girlfriend. A tiff with Molly had been known to affect Beau's passing game, and Ross Riser, a young coaching phenom who had a record of thirty-eight wins, two losses and one tie at Radway, wouldn't stand for that.

“Coach,” she said with pleasure. “It's wonderful to see you. I heard you were still at Radway. Are you still winning every game you play?”

To her surprise, he looked uncomfortable. “Not really,” he said. “We do all right, but it's not like before. Not like with Beau.”

Of course not, she thought. Beau had been one of a kind. She made her smile firmer so that it wouldn't turn tearful. She was absolutely not going to start blubbering every time she ran into another old memory.

“Yes.” She tightened her fist around Stewball's leash. “Beau was wonderful, wasn't he?”

Ross Riser's jaw hardened. Molly wondered if he, too, might be fighting back tears. He stared into the middistance, as if he didn't want to catch her eyes. “Beau was—” He broke off, chewing on his lower lip and squinting at something she couldn't see. “Oh, hell, he was a Forrest. What else can I say?”

That didn't sound right. His voice was strangely rough, and he thrust his hands in his pockets harshly. She could see that his fingers had curled, making fists under the fabric. He looked angry, and the sight surprised her. Why on earth would speaking of Beau make Coach Riser angry?

But perhaps he was just angry at his own display
of emotion. He probably prided himself on being tough, a man's man. A coach was supposed to control his players, cheer them on or chew them out as necessary. Not cry over them.

Still, the moment felt awkward. She looked around the front yard, wondering what to talk about next. It was a beautiful afternoon, cool and blue-skied with a hint of spring sweetening the breeze. The bulbs would be pushing up any day now. The crape myrtle bushes over by the fountain were overdue for pruning. But she couldn't imagine saying any of that to the suddenly tense man in front of her. She wished she had listened better while Beau had bragged about his football exploits. Or at all.

“Well, speak of the devil.”

“What?” Molly looked at the coach, confused. Speak of the devil? She frowned, instinctively disliking his tone. “Who?”

She heard voices just a split second before she saw Jackson and Lavinia rounding the corner. Molly had parked in the back drive, nearest to the carriage house, but the family always used the front entrance.

“Hello, Riser,” Jackson said without any particular inflection. “What's up?”

Molly's inner antenna quivered slightly. So she hadn't been imagining the cloaked hostility she'd thought she glimpsed in Ross Riser's face when he saw Jackson approaching. The same thinly veiled antagonism lay beneath Jackson's clipped words just now.