His Baby, Her Heart. Sue Swift
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sure that neither of the kids had gone swimming. His mind refused to entertain the possibility that one had drowned.
Water chuckled over the rocks lining the pond Dena had created. A turtle raised its head, then ducked as Goldie approached. The retriever nudged Alex’s hand, then dropped a wet ball into it.
“Yuck!” Alex restrained himself from wiping his palm on his gabardine trousers. Holding the ball with only his fingertips, he tossed it for the dog.
Goldie chased it to the front of the house. Alex followed. On the way, he checked the foliage for twins.
Nothing.
He broke into a sweat despite the cool evening air. Where could they be? He checked the trees. Though Jack enjoyed climbing, they were clear. Then he spotted the twins’ tree house, a makeshift shack that a previous homeowner must have built years before the Randolphs moved in. He could see someone had improved it—Dena?—because fresh slats secured it to the big old valley oak in which it was anchored. The rope ladder that dropped from it to the lawn looked new.
Alex eyed the ladder, then his wing tips. He frowned. He didn’t want to climb up to the tree house. Although Dena had fortified it, he didn’t know if the flimsy structure could bear an adult’s weight.
“Jack? Miri!”
Silence.
But the little scamps could be hiding. He’d bet money that, on some days, their favorite sport was eluding Uncle Alex.
With a resigned sigh, Alex set his right foot into one of the lower rungs of the ladder, then skipped two as he climbed. After a few steps, he could peek into the twins’ lair.
Empty.
He turned to descend as a voice came from the screened porch. “Alex?”
His foot slipped.
“Alex, what on earth—”
His other foot tangled in the ropes, and he fell to the soft, cold grass at the bottom of the tree. Embarrassed but unhurt, he took a moment to mourn his charcoal-gray suit. He feared it had taken too much abuse to survive. No doubt it was a goner.
He raised his head. Light from inside the house streamed through the stained glass inserts in the front door, illuminating the March evening.
Dena, freshly bathed and clad in a pink chenille bathrobe, stood on the porch. He could see her wet hair in a twist at the crown of her head, with a damp curl sticking to her cheek.
The twins, in a similar clean condition, stared at him. Dena carried Miri, who wore a red robe. Jack, clad in green sweats, had climbed onto a table, presumably to get a better view of Uncle Alex making a fool of himself.
He didn’t want to admit that he’d been searching high and low for the twins. They’d obviously gone inside for their baths while he’d been lost in an erotic fantasy about their mother.
Goldie ambled over to Alex, stuck her nose into his face and chuffed in a friendly way. He caught the odor of kibble. She licked him.
Alex knelt, then stood. The seat and knees of his trousers felt damp. Probably grass-stained, as well. The elbows of his jacket were trashed. The dog had left golden hairs and saliva on his clothing.
Dena’s home, glowing in the night, beckoned him to its warmth.
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