Patchwork Family. Judy Christenberry
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reached the second floor and she led the way to a staircase almost hidden in the back of the house behind a closed door.
“Isn’t it a pain, living on the third floor?”
“No, it keeps us in good shape.”
He couldn’t disagree with that statement.
“And it’s like living in a tree house. We feel safe, tucked up here.”
They reached the top of the stairs and she led him down a short hall, opening the first door on the right. He followed her, seeing only the bed. She pulled back the covers and turned around to take Sara from his arms.
He let the warm little bundle go, reluctantly. It was only because he felt responsible for her, he quickly assured himself. As he stepped back, he took in his surroundings. Not a large room, but it was the perfect child’s room. A window seat, partially hidden by pink curtains, graced one wall. There was a mural on the wall next to the hall.
The bed had a pink ruffle around the bottom, beneath a pink and green quilt. Stuffed animals sat on several shelves, as well as storybooks. In one corner at the edge of the matching green rug sat a big brown bear.
A room full of loving touches. He had no doubt about who was responsible for the perfect child’s room. Molly Blake was the best mother he’d ever met.
Not that he’d met many mothers. There had been a few society women, a couple of whom had even tried to seduce him when he was dating their daughters. Their selfish attitudes only reinforced his own experience. His mother apparently had been more interested in her own happiness than any problems he or his brothers might have at having been abandoned by her.
Molly was different.
He began backing out of the room. “Um, I’ll leave you to make Sara comfortable.”
She whirled around. “I can’t thank you enough. Oh! The Pedialyte! It’s still in the car.”
“I’ll go get it.” He was glad for a real excuse to escape the nest Molly had created.
He hurried down the two flights of stairs and went out to the car. When he’d gotten the large sack, he turned back to the house. As he stepped inside, he drew a deep breath and took in his surroundings for the first time.
The first floor reflected as much love and care as Sara’s room. The wood on the banister gleamed with polish. The walls had been recently painted a soft cream. Flowers were tastefully arranged on the desk beside the stairway. A glimpse into the other rooms that opened off the main hall, the living room on the right and a large dining room on the left, were filled with antiques as polished as the banister.
Had she done all the work herself?
It reminded him of the idea he’d intended to explain to Molly. From his own memories of the house, he knew he had the right idea.
But the sudden need to escape, to get out of Molly’s personal space—and even the entryway was a reflection of Molly—seized him. He looked around for a place to set the bag.
“Thanks for getting it out of the car for me,” Molly called as she came down the stairs.
He jerked around and stared up at her.
“Sara’s gone to sleep. She’s resting much better and she’s not as hot.” She reached the bottom of the stairs. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? It’s not much after all you’ve done for us but—”
“No! No, thank you. I’ve got appointments,” he said, thrusting the bag in her arms. “It was nothing, actually. I hope Sara gets better soon.”
And he ran out of the house.
Molly stood there, the bag in her arms, staring at the door through which Quinn had fled.
What was wrong with him? She’d offered a cup of coffee. That was all. You’d think she’d tried to seduce him.
LYDIA PERRY RUSHED OUT of the cold into the warmth of Worthington House early the next morning, knowing she’d already find her friends hard at work on another quilt. They’d finished the Bachelor’s Puzzle for Molly Blake yesterday afternoon.
“Have you heard?” she said as soon as she entered the room.
“Heard what?” Martha asked, barely looking up from her stitching.
“About poor little Sara Blake.”
Those words got everyone’s attention.
“What wrong with Sara?” Merry asked anxiously. The child was a favorite with all the ladies, but Merry especially delighted in her visits.
“She’s got the flu.”
“Oh, the poor baby,” Tillie crooned.
“She had a very high fever. If it hadn’t been for Quinn, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”
Emma looked up sharply. “Quinn? What does he have to do with Sara being sick?”
All the stitching stopped as the ladies stared at Lydia.
“He called Brady and then took Sara and Molly to the hospital. Sara was dehydrated. He gave her an IV and fixed her up. This nurse I know told me how concerned Quinn was. He stayed with Molly the entire time Sara was with the doctor, holding her hand.”
Martha and Tillie stared at Lydia, then at each other, a light dawning in their eyes.
“Do you think—” Tilly began.
“It’s possible,” Martha agreed, nodding vigorously.
“I can’t believe it,” Emma protested. “Why, he steers clear of women like Molly. You know that.”
“Molly’s so pretty,” Bea said timidly.
“Did I miss something?” Lydia asked, puzzled by the conversation flowing around her.
“Not really,” Martha said, taking up her needle again.
“Now wait just a minute. I brought you the news. You should tell me what you’re talking about.”
“She’s right,” Tillie agreed. “It’s just that—Well, there’s not really anything to tell. More like a hope, don’t you know.”
“A hope for what?” Lydia asked in frustration.
Martha took up the explanation. “Quinn is a lovely man. Most people think he’s a flirt, a playboy, but he’s just afraid of being abandoned. That mother of his left him and his brothers afraid of commitment.”
“You sound like one of those ladies’ magazines, like—like Cosmo.”
“I know what I’m talking about,” Martha said sturdily, determination in her voice. “We want him to be happy.”
“He seems happy to me,” Lydia said.
“But he’s not. The boy hurts. He hides it, but I know,” Martha assured her.
“But how does that have anything to do with little Sara?”
“Woman, think with your heart, eh?” Emma suggested.
“You mean you think he and Molly— But if he avoids women like her, I don’t see—”
“He didn’t avoid her yesterday, according to you,” Merry reminded her. “He has such a soft heart.”
“He was kind, but that doesn’t mean he’ll see her again,” Lydia pointed out.
“And so? Whose side are you on?” Martha demanded.
Lydia stared at her friend. “Why, yours, of course. And Molly’s. I want Molly to be happy. Those Spencer boys, I don’t care what you say, they’re heartbreakers. Like their pa.”
“What do you know about Elias Spencer?” Emma demanded.
Lydia’s