A Father for Her Triplets. SUSAN MEIER
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No buts about it. It was weird. And made it appear as if he was afraid to talk to her…or maybe becoming an introvert because one woman robbed him blind in a divorce settlement. He wasn’t afraid of Missy. And he might not ever marry again, but he wasn’t going to be an emotional cripple because of a divorce.
Reaching down, he took Owen’s hand. “Come on.” He walked him to the hedge, held it back so Owen could step through, then followed him into the next yard.
Little shirts and shorts billowed in the breeze, but the laundry basket and Missy were gone.
He could just leave the kid in the yard, explaining to Owen that he shouldn’t come to his house anymore. But the little boy blinked up at him, with long black lashes over sad, puppy-dog eyes.
Wyatt’s heart melted. “Okay. I’ll take you inside.”
Happy, Owen dropped his hand and raced ahead. Climbing up the stairs, he yelled, “Hey, Mom! That man is here again.”
Wyatt winced. Was it just him or did that make him sound like a stalker?
Missy opened the door. Owen scooted inside. Wyatt strolled over. He stopped at the bottom of the steps.
“Sorry about this.” He looked up at her. His gaze cruised from her long legs, past her jeans shorts, to her short pink T-shirt and full breasts to her smiling face. Attraction rumbled through him. Though he would have liked to take a few minutes to enjoy the pure, unadulterated swell of desire, he squelched it. Not only was she a mom, but he was still in the confusing postdivorce stage. He didn’t want a relationship, he wanted sex. He wasn’t someone who should be trifling with a nice woman.
“Owen just sort of appeared at the bottom of my steps so I figured I’d better bring him home.”
She frowned. “That’s weird. He’s never been a runner before.”
“A runner?”
“A kid who just trots off. Usually he clings to my legs. But we’ve never had a man next door either.” She smiled and nodded at his coffee cup. “Why don’t you come up and I’ll refill that.”
The offer was sweet and polite. Plus, she wasn’t looking at him as if he was intruding or crazy. Maybe it was smart to get back to having normal conversations with someone of the opposite sex. Even if it was just a friendly chat over a cup of coffee.
He walked up the steps. “Thanks. I could use a refill.”
She led him into her kitchen. Her two little girls sat at the table coloring. The crowded countertop held bowls and spoons and ingredients he didn’t recognize, as if Missy was cooking something. And Owen stood in the center of the kitchen, the lone male, looking totally out of place.
Missy motioned toward the table. “Have a seat.”
Wyatt pulled a chair away from the table. The two little girls peeked up from their coloring books and grinned, but went back to their work without saying anything. Missy walked over with the coffeepot and filled his cup.
“So what are you cooking?”
“Gum paste.”
That didn’t sound very appetizing. “Gum paste?”
Taking the coffeepot back to the counter, she said, “To make flowers to decorate a cake.”
“That’s right. You used to bake cakes for the diner.”
“That’s how I could afford my clothes.”
He sniffed. “Oh, come on. Your dad owns the diner. Everybody knew you guys were rolling in money.”
She turned away. Her voice chilled as she said, “My dad still made me work for what I wanted.” But when she faced him again, she was smiling.
Confused, but not about to get into something that might ruin their nice conversation, Wyatt motioned to the counter. “So who is this cake for?”
“It’s a wedding cake. Bride’s from Frederick. It’s a big fancy, splashy wedding, so the cake has to be exactly what she wants. Simple. Elegant.”
Suddenly the pieces fell into place. “And that’s your business?”
“Brides are willing to pay a lot to get the exact cake that suits their wedding. Which means a job a month supports us.” She glanced around. “Of course, I inherited this house and our expenses are small, so selling one cake a month is enough.”
“What do you do in the winter?”
“The winter?”
“When fewer people get married?”
“Oh. Well, that’s why I have to do more than one cake a month in wedding season. I have a cake the last two weeks of April, every weekend in May, June and July, and two in August, so I can put some money back for the months when I don’t have orders.”
“Makes sense.” He drank his coffee. “I guess I better get going.”
She smiled slightly. “You never said what brings you home.”
Not sure if she was trying to keep him here with mindless conversation or genuinely curious, he shrugged. “The family jewels.”
Missy laughed.
“Apparently my grandmother had some necklaces or brooches or something that her grandmother brought over from Scotland.”
“Oh. I’ll bet they’re beautiful.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve yet to find them.”
“Didn’t she have a jewelry box?”
“Yes, and last night I sent my mom pictures of everything in it and none of the pieces are the Scotland things.”
“So you’re here until you find them?”
“I’m here till I find them. Or four weeks. I can get away when I want, but I can’t stay away indefinitely.”
“Maybe one of these nights I could grill chicken or something for supper and you could come over and we could catch up.”
He remembered the afternoons sitting on the bench seat of her grandmother’s picnic table, trying to get her to understand equations. He remembered spring breezes and autumn winds, but most of all he remembered how nice it was just to be with her. For a man working to get beyond a protracted divorce, it might not be a bad idea to spend some time with a woman who reminded him of good things. Happy times.
He smiled. “That would be nice.”
He made his way back to his house and headed to his grandmother’s bedroom again. Because she’d lived eight months of the year in Florida and four months in Maryland, her house was still furnished as it always had been. An outdated floral bedspread matched floral drapes. Lacy lamps sat on tables by the bed. And the whole place smelled of potpourri.
With a grimace, he walked to the mirrored dresser. He’d looked in the jewelry box the night before. He could check the drawers today, but he had a feeling these lockets and necklaces were something his grandmother had squirreled away. He toed the oval braided rug beneath her bed.
Could she have had a secret compartment under there? Floorboards that he could lift, and find a metal box?
Looking for that was better than flipping through his grandmother’s underwear drawer.
He pushed the bed to the side, off the rug, then knelt and began rolling the carpet, hoping to find a sign of a loose floorboard. With the rug out of the way, he felt along the hardwood, looking for a catch or a spring or something that would indicate a secret compartment. He smoothed his hand along a scarred board, watching the movement of his fingers as he sought a catch, and suddenly his hand hit something solid and stopped.
His gaze shot over and there knelt Owen.
“Hey.”
He