The Marriage Agenda. Allison Leigh
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to believe such a thing. “I am offering you a future, Joleen. You are a young, healthy woman. You will have other children. My son only had one. Antonia and I want a chance to bring that one child up properly.”
“Meaning I won’t bring Sam up properly.”
“My dear Joleen, you are twisting what I’ve said.”
“I am not twisting anything. I am laying it right on the line. You don’t think I will bring my son up right, so you want to buy him from me.”
“You are overdramatizing.”
Joleen, who, since the loss of her kind and steady father a decade before, had always been the calmest person in her family, found it took all of her will not to start shrieking—not to grab the brass paperweight on her father’s desk and toss it right in Robert Atwood’s smug face.
“My offer is a good one,” Robert Atwood said.
Joleen gaped at him. “I beg your pardon. It is never a good offer when you try to buy someone’s child.”
“Joleen—”
“And what is the matter with you, anyway? Your ‘offer’ is bad enough all by itself. But couldn’t you have waited a day or two? Did you have to come at me on my sister’s wedding day?”
“Please…” croaked Antonia. She looked as if she might cry.
Robert put his arm around her—to steady her or to silence her, Joleen wasn’t sure which. He held his proud white head high. “Once we’d made the decision, the sooner the better was the way it seemed to me. Might as well make our position clear. Might as well get you thinking along the right track.”
A number of furious epithets rose to Joleen’s lips. She did not utter a one of them—but she would, if this man went on saying these awful things much longer.
This conversation can only go downhill, she thought. Better to end it now.
“Mr. Atwood, I’m afraid if you stay very much longer, I will say some things that I’ll be sorry for. I would like you to leave now.”
Antonia made another of those squeaky little noises. Robert squeezed her shoulder and said to Joleen, “I want you to think about what I’ve said.”
I am not going to start yelling at this man, she told herself silently. She said, “I do not have to think about it. The answer is no. You cannot have my child. Not at any price.”
Robert Atwood stood even taller, if that was possible. “My dear, I would advise you not to speak without thinking.”
“Stop calling me that. I am not your dear.”
“Joleen, I am trying to make certain that you understand your position here.”
Joleen blinked. This had to be a nightmare, didn’t it? It could not be real. “My position?”
“Yes. You are an unwed mother.”
Unwed mother. The old-fashioned phrase hurt. It made her sound cheap—and irresponsible, too. Not to mention a little bit stupid. Someone who hadn’t had sense enough to get a ring on her finger before she let a man into her bed.
Maybe, she admitted to herself, it hurt because it was all too true. She had not been smart when it came to Bobby Atwood. Which seemed funny, at that moment. Funny in a sharp and painful way. A tight laugh escaped her.
“Don’t try to make light of this, Joleen.”
The urge to laugh vanished as quickly as it had come. “I promise you, Mr. Atwood. I am not makin’ light. Not in the least.”
“Good. For child care, you rely on your family members, and they are not the kind of people who should be caring for my grandson.”
Joleen thought of that paperweight again—of how good it would feel to grab it and let it fly. “You better watch yourself, insultin’ my family.”
Robert Atwood shrugged. “I am merely stating facts. Your mother, from what I understand, and from what I witnessed today, is sexually promiscuous. Your younger sister has been in serious trouble at school and was arrested last year in a shoplifting incident. Your other sister has had some problems with the law, as well. None of those three—your mother or those sisters of yours, are the kind I would trust around my grandson. If it comes down to it, I will have little trouble convincing a judge that females like that aren’t fit caregivers for Samuel, that he would be much better off with Antonia and me.”
Joleen couldn’t help it. She raised her voice. “‘Females like that’?” she cried. “Just who do you think you are, to call my family females like that?”
“You are shouting,” said Robert Atwood.
“You’re darn right I am. I was warned about you and I should have listened. But I didn’t, and look what has happened.”
“Joleen—”
“That is all. That is it. You won’t get my baby, don’t think that you will. And I want you out of my mother’s house.”
Right then the door to the front hall swung inward. It was Dekker, all six foot three and 220, or so, very muscular pounds of him. “Joleen. Everything okay?”
The sight of her dear friend calmed her—at least a little. She said quietly, “Everything’s fine. The Atwoods were just leaving.”
“You’ll be hearing from my attorney,” Robert Atwood said.
“Fine. Just go. Now.”
Apparently, he’d said all he came to say. At last. With great dignity he guided his wife toward the door.
Which Dekker was blocking. “What’s this about a lawyer?” he demanded.
Robert Atwood spoke to Joleen. “Tell this thug to step out of my way.”
Joleen longed to tell Dekker just the opposite—to ask him if he would please break both of the Atwoods in two. But, no. It wouldn’t be right to kill the Atwoods. Not on DeDe’s wedding day, anyway.
“It’s okay, Dekker. Let them go.”
* * *
Dekker, who had a fair idea of what had been going on in Samuel’s study, stepped aside reluctantly. The Atwoods left the room. He followed them, just to make certain they got the hell out.
Once they went through the front door, he shut it firmly behind them. Then he returned to Joleen.
She was standing by her father’s desk, a pretty woman in a long dress that was not quite pink and not quite red. Her heart-shaped face was flushed, her full mouth tight. A frown had etched itself between those big brown DuFrayne eyes.
Dekker quietly closed the door.
Her mouth loosened enough to quiver a little. “Please don’t say ‘I told you so.’”
Just to make sure he had it figured out, he said, “They want to take Sam away from you.”
He hoped that maybe she would tell him it wasn’t so. But she didn’t. She picked up a brass paperweight of a Yankee soldier on a rearing horse from the edge of Samuel’s desk. “I thought about smashing Robert Atwood in the face with this.”
Dekker shook his head. “Bad idea. And, anyway, violence is not your style.”
“Right now I feel like it could be. I feel like I could do murder and never think twice.”
“You couldn’t.”
She clutched the brass figure against her body and looked at him with fury in her eyes. “He called my mother promiscuous, Dekker. He said Mama and DeDe and Niki weren’t fit to take care of Sam. He raised a shallow, sweet-talkin’ lowlife like Bobby—God forgive me for speakin’ ill of the dead—and he has the nerve to come in my mother’s house and say that my people are not good enough to do right by my