The Trouble With Twins. Jo Leigh
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where are you? Jem!”
Shelby opened her mouth to call to the father, but a howl stunned her into silence. Another child. This one seriously unhappy about something.
The crying got louder as a man holding a second child came around the steps to the foyer. As soon as the little one saw Shelby, she stopped crying. The man, Mr. Jackson presumably, appeared to be in over his head, He also looked to be in his early thirties, which didn’t bode well for her purposes.
Shelby had the feeling she’d just discovered the answer to her quest, but she didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Maybe he wasn’t Mr. Jackson at all. Maybe he wasn’t one of the triplets.
He put the child down—a girl, Shelby saw, dressed almost identically to her brother—but before he could say a word, the towheaded child raced toward the stairs, her little legs pumping like pistons. The boy shouted in delight, his dislike for Shelby forgotten, and took off after the girl. The man threw his hands in the air and headed after them. “It’s about time you got here,” he said over his shoulder. Then he was gone.
Maybe she should come back another time. Say when his kids were in college. But then again, he looked about at the end of his rope. He obviously thought she was someone else. Someone, she assumed, who could handle children. If she lent a hand, he might be more inclined to talk about his family. Even though her hope had dimmed, she had come all this way. It seemed prudent to find out what she could. That decided it for her. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
As soon as she walked around the base of the stairs she was assailed by chaos. Toys were strewn everywhere, with a preponderance of stuffed dinosaurs and broken crayons. Clothes from long pants to pjs were on the floor, on the tables, and one sneaker perched precariously on top of the wide-screen television blaring Disney’s Pinocchio. It was a disaster, and from the crying in the other room, she doubted things were going to settle down anytime soon.
“Excuse me?” She walked toward the sound of wailing. “Mr. Jackson?”
He was in the dining room struggling with the little boy. Mr. Jackson, if he was indeed Mr. Jackson, wanted the child to sit down. The child had other plans.
“Mr. Jackson?”
He spun toward her. The little one picked up a spoonful of something white and yucky and threw it on Mr. Jackson’s head. “You were supposed to be here two hours ago,” the man said, his voice determinedly calm.
“I don’t believe I’m the person you think I am.”
“You’re not from Child Minders?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry to barge in on such a busy day. But I’m here on something of a genealogical quest. Would you—” The screaming went up two decibels. “Would you have a few moments to spare?”
He opened his mouth. Blinked. Closed his mouth. Then burst out laughing. Hard. The little boy stopped crying. The little girl’s eyes widened with surprise. Mr. Jackson continued to laugh as he sank down on the seat, unmindful that there was no telling what he was going to sit on.
“Yeah, well, I can see that you don’t.” She took a step back. “I’m sorry.”
He took a deep breath and wiped his eye with his knuckles. “No, hey. My fault. My fault. No problem…”
“Your wife isn’t here?”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Oh.”
He pointed to the boy. “Jem Jackson.” Then to the girl. “Scout Jackson.”
“As in…?”
He nodded.
“And you are?”
“Their uncle Gray.”
“Ah, I see.” Being boy and girl, the children were fraternal twins, but their hair was identical in color and texture. Scout’s was shaped in what used to be called a Buster Brown, capitalizing on the straight locks. Jem’s hair was much shorter, fashionably buzz cut on the sides. Their little faces, dirty and unhappy, were strikingly similar, too. Big blue eyes, pink-tinged cheeks and upturned noses. She’d bet a bundle that when they weren’t throwing tantrums, they were downright adorable.
“I know you probably won’t believe this,” Uncle Gray said, “but I don’t have a great deal of experience with children.”
“No,” she said, feigning disbelief, liking him for his ability to laugh at himself.
“Yes. It’s true. I can speak three languages. I won the Long Beach Five Hundred. I’ve danced a tango with Hillary Clinton. But this—” His hands went up in a gesture of helpless despair. “They’ve won. I accept my defeat.”
“How noble.” She stepped over a rocking horse. “But have they eaten lunch yet?”
He shook his head.
She peered at the goop inside the little blue bowl on the Winnie-the-Pooh place mat. “No wonder. That looks awful.”
“I know. It tastes worse.”
“That’s it, then. You need to give them something tasty. Of course, you can’t forgo nutrition. But there are lots of things that taste good and are good for them.”
His gaze landed on hers, and he studied her for several seconds, reminding her that she was in a strange home, with a man she didn’t know. A devastatingly gorgeous man, now that she looked at him, but potentially dangerous nonetheless.
His right brow rose. “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to make them lunch.”
It was her turn to laugh. “That’s a hefty fee.”
“You do know how to cook, don’t you?”
“It so happens that cooking is my business. I own a diner in Austin.”
His eyes rolled back in sheer gratitude. “Oh, thank God.”
“But,” she said, picking up the blue bowl, “it’s not a thousand dollars that I want in return for my services.”
“What? Anything. My car? This house?”
“Nothing quite that expensive. I need time with you. To ask about your family.”
“My family?”
She nodded. “I—”
Scout wasn’t interested. She was hungry. And her piercing cry brooked no quarter. “I want pizza!”
“I’ll make food now and talk later.”
He nodded before he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
She felt sorry for him. Tackling one child this age was an exercise in stamina, but two? She gathered a few other plastic dishes then went through the swinging doors into the kitchen. It was neater in here. The oatmeal box was out, the milk carton, too, and the can of coffee was open next to the pot. Nothing a little spit and polish wouldn’t take care of. But first, lunch.
In the refrigerator, she found eggs, milk and butter. Along with the bread on the counter, it was all she needed. Oddly, there was a large assortment of sauces and condiments on two racks, but then, this was Texas. She didn’t see many fresh fruits or vegetables, though. With two youngsters, that wasn’t good. She took out the ingredients she required.
The battle continued outside. She heard Gray Jackson’s calm, reasoned voice as he tried to inform the children that lunch was coming soon. Shelby was no expert on child care, but she did know that when hunger struck, reason had no foothold.
She got to work. Instead of scrambled eggs or French toast, she decided to be a tad more creative and make them something she’d liked as a child.
As she cooked, her thoughts shifted from the children to Uncle Gray. Interesting eyes. They were like his name. More gray than green or blue. But they weren’t dull. On the