Their Instant Baby. Cathy Thacker Gillen
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her the truth. She pressed her lips together. “Why do you care so much?”
Nick shrugged, the answer simple. “Because I’m in the business of producing television shows for syndication. And I want your mother to have the kind of recognition and opportunity she’s due.”
Amy sighed in exasperation and shook her head. She turned her glance away from Nick as the washer abruptly stopped running. “I thought my days of dealing with this were over.” Amy went out to the washer, which was located against the wall on the screened-in back porch, and lifted the lid.
Nick followed her. “What do you mean?”
Amy hooked a foot around a wicker basket on the floor and tugged it closer to the machine. She reached into the tub and began pulling out damp bed linens, pausing to grimace as the sheet got hopelessly wrapped around the agitator in the center, before asking rhetorically, “Do you have any idea what it was like for me growing up? I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without someone asking me for a favor related to my mother!” New color—whether from anger or exertion, Nick couldn’t tell—flooded Amy’s cheeks as she flung the first handful of wet laundry into the basket on the floor. As she went back up on tiptoe and reached deep into the tub of the machine, Amy’s shorts rode higher, giving him a glimpse of her smooth, silky thighs.
Still unaware of the effect she was having on him, Amy drew a deep aggravated breath and continued enlightening Nick. “My Girl Scout leader wanted to know if our troop could get on the network news show to promote our annual cookie sale. The private high school I attended wanted to do a fund-raiser for a new gymnasium with my mother as the main draw. Even my first clients in the redecorating business called me only because they thought they might somehow get an in with my mother.”
Nick sympathized with Amy as he reached over to help her extract the wet tangled laundry. “I expect it is hard, having a famous parent.” Especially for someone who seemed to feel things as deeply as Amy did. Amy would not have simply been able to blow off being taken advantage of. No, she would have felt it deeply, and continued hurting over it, for years.
“But a lot of people would have given anything to be in your shoes,” Nick continued.
“The feeling was mutual, believe me,” Amy said as she plucked a mesh bag full of wooden clothespins from the shelf above the drier.
They regarded each other in tense silence. Then Amy picked up the basket and carried it toward the door that led to the backyard. His innate gallantry coming to the fore, Nick took the basket, leaving her with just the mesh bag of pins, and moved ahead to hold the door for her. “I don’t suppose your parents were famous,” Amy said.
Nick shook his head as he set the basket down on the grass and picked a pillowcase off the laundry pile. He shook it out, then handed it to Amy and watched as she pinned it to the clothesline. “They were—are—Gypsy souls who had no interest in settling down or sticking with anything for very long,” Nick said.
Amy accepted a second pillowcase from Nick. “Where are they now?”
Nick shrugged, his face becoming closed, unreadable. “Neither Lola nor I know,” he replied, trying not to feel embarrassed about that as he put the best spin he could on the untenable situation. “The last Lola and I heard, which was about two years ago, our folks were traveling around Europe, working whenever, wherever the spirit moved them.”
Amy’s eyes widened as Nick handed her one end of a damp bottom sheet. “They don’t keep in touch?”
Nick shook his head as he and Amy shook out the wrinkles in the sheet and then hung it neatly on the clothesline. “They don’t even know Lola had a baby.” Which was, Nick ruminated, something that had hurt his younger sister tremendously. But he also knew that had he and Lola managed to track down their parents and tell them the news, and then the nomadic pair decided not to come to see the baby, just as they had earlier refused to return to the States and meet Lola’s husband-to-be or attend her wedding, his sister would have been hurt even more. So he and Lola had mutually agreed to leave well enough alone this time and just see their parents when—and if—their parents wanted to see them. You can’t get blood from a stone…and you couldn’t get familial love from parents who had none to give.
“But you and Lola are close,” Amy said as Nick handed her the final sheet.
Nick nodded, very glad about that. “We’ve always taken care of each other,” he said. It was through his relationship with his sister that he had learned how to love and nurture, and be loved and nurtured in return.
“She’s lucky she has you.”
“And I her,” Nick said. And he meant it.
“But back to your mother…” And that introduction he wanted.
“The answer is still no,” Amy said.
Nick shrugged, not really surprised, given Amy’s feelings about people using her familial connections as an in—to anyone. He smiled, not the least deterred. “Then I guess I’ll have to find another way to achieve what I want, won’t I?” he said.
Chapter Three
While Dexter napped and Nick worked out of his sister’s cottage, Amy headed for her afternoon appointment. As usual, her aunt’s handsome British butler, Harry Bowles, answered the door. Harry had been with Winnifred since shortly after Winnifred’s husband had been killed. He and Winnifred were so close they could read each other’s mind. In Amy’s estimation, only two things kept them apart. Harry’s age—he was five years younger than Winnifred—and Harry’s station in life. He had spent his entire adult life working for the wealthy. She was one of those to-the-manor-born. If the two did decide to run off together someday, as Amy suspected both Harry and her aunt Winnifred had at one time or another been tempted to do, the repercussions would continue for years. Because if there was one thing the residents of Charleston, South Carolina, loved, it was a good love story—or a scandal. As had been evidenced by the retelling of her long-lost great-aunt Eleanor’s romantic debacle, that had been fodder for the gossips for years. And thanks to the sudden reemergence of the long-presumed-dead Eleanor Deveraux just the week before, it still was.
Amy breezed through the portal of the historic mansion in time to see her beloved aunt emerge from the front parlor. Pretty and elegantly dressed as always, the social doyenne of Charleston glided toward Amy, her arms outstretched, as Harry excused himself wordlessly and disappeared.
Amy paused to hug the dark-haired woman. “Hi, Aunt Winnifred,” Amy said, aware that, as always, just being with her aunt made her happy.
“Amy, darling—” Winnifred squeezed her back affectionately “—I’m so glad you could fit us in this quickly.”
“Where’s Great-Aunt Eleanor?” Amy asked as she shifted her oversize canvas briefcase from her shoulder to her hands. Eleanor Deveraux was the reason for Amy’s visit. The elegant eighty-year-old woman had been found in the historic district, with a sprained ankle, delirium related confusion, brought on by her fever and illness, and the beginnings of pneumonia, and admitted to Charleston Hospital by Amy’s brother, Gabe, a critical-care doctor there. At the time, no one in the Deveraux family had any inkling that the genteel elderly Jane Doe was related to them. Nor had they known, until Eleanor’s identity was revealed by Charleston private investigator Harlan Decker, that Eleanor Deveraux was still alive—since everyone had been told Eleanor had died of a broken heart many years before. As Eleanor had recovered and begun to trust them, the mental confusion that they had first mistaken for amnesia had lifted, and Eleanor finally acknowledged her true identity, shocking everyone.
“Has she stopped resisting the idea of letting us take care of her permanently?” Amy asked. Although she had few choices, Eleanor had been adamant about not being a burden to her relatives.
Winnifred shook her head, looking distressed. “I’m hoping if Eleanor stays here long enough, she’ll let me take care of her from here on out. But right now,” Winnifred confessed sadly, “she’s only agreed to stay until her ankle heals