Baby Makes a Match. Arlene James
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running toward her. Just before he got there, she turned to hold out a hand, yelling to Chandler, “Wait! Just wait!”
Garrett Whatever-His-Last-Name-Was threw his arms around Bethany, lifting her off her feet. The pair embraced tightly for several moments, so wrapped up in each other that they didn’t have eyes for anyone or anything else, their dark heads bent close. Chandler put the truck in Park, set the brake and got out. Still the two clung together.
Not quite able to look away from what he knew to be a very emotionally charged moment, Chandler pulled Bethany’s luggage from the backseat of the truck and set it on the brick walkway before ambling toward the house. He’d reached the steps up to the porch before Garrett the gardener set Bethany back on her feet, his hands going to her distended belly. Chandler saw Bethany duck her head and had the distinct impression that Garrett hadn’t known about the child. He did not look displeased, however, just the opposite. In fact, he and Bethany seemed to care deeply for each other.
Shaking his head wryly, Chandler stepped up into the shadows of the deep veranda. Looked like the aunties’ new gardener had a family in the making. Chandler was more than a little envious. One day he would like to have a beautiful wife like her and a couple kids. But first, he had to get his financial house in order.
If he and Kreger continued to finish in the money for the rest of the year, Chandler could finally pay off his share of the ranch and think about building his own house on the place. That would leave Pat in full possession of his childhood home and allow both of them to start new phases in their lives. Right now, though, that gardener out there was in a better position to support a wife and child than Chandler was.
Not bothering to knock or ring the bell, he did what most of the family would do; he opened the door and walked in, knowing well that the house was rarely locked until the last person retired for the night. He’d been in that marble-floored foyer a thousand times, but still he measured with his eyes the sweep of the magnificent staircase that curved up to the second floor and lifted his gaze past the sparkling chandelier to the ceiling, where some unknown artist had painted blue sky, gauzy clouds and wafting white feathers. He’d never understand how that person had managed to give the impression of sunshine and magnificence. It left the viewer with the feeling that God looked down from Heaven upon the Chatam household. Chandler had always found that a particularly comforting thought, almost as comforting as the aunties themselves, whom he was suddenly anxious to see.
“Hello!” he called. “Where is everyone?”
A frothy white head appeared around the edge of the library door on his right. It was topped by a big, floppy bow of pale pink and anchored by big, butterfly-shaped earrings colored in variegated shades of pink, purple, yellow and blue. A bright pink smile broke across a rounded, drooping face with the Chatam cleft chin. Amber eyes twinkling, Odelia stepped into the foyer in a swirl of multicolored gossamer layers.
“Chandler, dear! There you are!”
The ubiquitous lace hanky appeared, beckoning him to follow. Smiling broadly, he strolled into what was one of his very favorite rooms in the big old house, but he didn’t get far, his way blocked by a head-high stack of cardboard boxes.
Hypatia came from behind the stack to kiss his cheek, her silver hair twisted into a smooth figure eight at the nape of her slender neck, pearls in place. She wore a crisp, collarless, linen suit of khaki tan with elbow-length sleeves and a pleated skirt.
“We’ve been expecting you,” she said in indulgent tones.
“Expecting me?” He remembered suddenly that Bethany had called ahead. No, that couldn’t be right. Bethany hadn’t known who he was, so she wouldn’t have told Garrett to expect him, Chandler Chatam, to be with her, and even if she had, it wasn’t as if he and the gardener had ever officially met. He’d only glimpsed the man from a distance and heard him mentioned. Chandler shifted his weight, one booted foot placed forward, his hands at his belt. “What do you mean, you were expecting me?”
“Well, when that nice Mr. Kreger dropped off your things for you,” Odelia trilled, “he said you’d be along.” She waved her hanky at the stack of boxes.
Shock rolled over Chandler in waves. “Kreger, P-Pat Kreger, brought this stuff over here?”
“Just a little while ago,” Hypatia confirmed.
Chandler thumped himself in the chest, asking stupidly, “For me?”
“Of course, dear,” Hypatia said. “We hung your clothing in the cloakroom until you decide which suite you want.”
Chandler turned around and walked out into the foyer again. He stalked past the staircase and partway down what was referred to as the “east” hall to the first door on the left. Chandler opened the door and stepped inside the cluttered space. There, along one wall, hung a dozen pairs of neatly pressed jeans and almost twice that many shirts, all his.
Shock morphed into a confused, unwieldy amalgamation of emotions, the only one he could identify being anger. Whirling, he stepped back into the hall. And nearly bowled over Mags. She shoved her thick, iron-gray braid off her shoulder and folded her arms, making the short sleeves of her dark plaid, shirtwaist dress cut into her surprisingly pronounced biceps. She looked up at him, a frown on her wrinkled, work-hewn face, her cleft chin thrust forward mulishly.
“What’s going on, Chandler?” she demanded.
“I don’t…I…”
Her expression softened, and she clamped a spotted, surprisingly strong hand onto his forearm. “You can tell us, dear,” she said. “Obviously, since you had Kreger bring your things here, you know we’ll help in any way we can, though hopefully it won’t mean choosing sides between you and your father.”
His father. Chandler pushed away any consideration of that situation and focused on the part that had to do with his supposed partner.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Mags, but I have to find Kreger.” He looked past her toward the foyer, determination hardening his jaw. “Right now.”
He sidestepped around her and strode to the front door, which he went through without a word of farewell. Whatever Kreger was up to, Chandler told himself, the explanation had better be a good one. He saw nothing of Bethany and the gardener, but at the moment his thoughts were centered on his own problems. Bethany Willows and Garrett could take care of themselves.
The rumble of the engine preceded the sound of tires on gravel by less than two seconds. Bethany rose from her seat on the brick steps at the side of the house beneath the carport, or porte cochere, as Garrett called it, and hurried toward the front drive. She arrived just in time to see Chandler’s rig completing the loop as it headed for the street. She glanced to the side and saw that her luggage waited for her on the front walk. The truck turned right onto the street and accelerated. Unaccountably deflated, Bethany sighed.
“Guess he got tired of waiting.” She turned back and retraced her steps, dragging her toes in the gravel.
“Is that a problem?” Garrett asked. “You said he’s not your husband.”
“I said I don’t have a husband,” Bethany corrected softly.
“Actually,” Garrett pointed out, his gaze skimming over her distended belly, “I think you said that you’ve never had a husband.”
Bethany stepped up next to him, turned and sat on the rough edge of the brick. “That’s right.” She repositioned her handbag on the step, keeping her gaze averted.
“So when you wrote me to say you’d eloped to Las Vegas…” Garrett prodded.
“Wasn’t true,” she admitted tersely, propping her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in the cradle of her upturned palms. She’d only thought it true at the time, but Garrett didn’t need to know that. No one did.
“And this Jay Carter?”
“Never existed.” True again, as far as it went.
“Then why,”