And Baby Makes Six Read online

  But Abby folded his underwear.

  And wearing his underwear hadn’t been the same since.

  Who’d ever believed hell could be so damn hot?

  The next afternoon at exactly 12:58 p.m., Abby decided there had to be something wrong with her. She’d caught herself daydreaming again when she should have been perusing the cookbook in front of her and planning dinner for the family. Normally, she was a very focused person. Concentration came easily for her. Yet, lately, her ability to concentrate had been thrown off kilter. Something was shorting out her brain circuits. Or rather, someone.

  Devlin Hamilton.

  It wasn’t natural for a pregnant woman to be obsessed with her husband, was it?

  For the sake of the family, she had to gain control over her erratic—and sometimes erotic—tendencies. Her marriage to Devlin was, in essence, a professional relationship. Nothing more. Nothing less. Devlin was her partner in this venture and deserved her respect and adherence to the agreement between them.

  Looking at the cookbook in front of her, she admitted to herself that he also deserved more than eggs.

  She closed the cookbook and went up to the bedroom. Pulling down her old beat-up suitcase from the closet shelf, she reached into an invisible slit on the side and pulled out a well-worn manila envelope. Then she replaced the suitcase, and headed out the door, tapping the envelope against her hand while reviewing her options and plan of attack.

  There wasn’t much in life she considered herself to be an expert on. Certainly she was no expert when it came to understanding men and to conducting a marriage. Even trying to read Devlin and understand what was going on between them made her stomach twist into knots. She couldn’t begin to make sense of her reaction to him.

  For the well-being of her sanity, she set her mind to what she did know.

  In particular, she knew teenagers because she’d been there. Crazed hormones, making the transition between tomboy clothes to training bras, blocking out the advice of those who deemed themselves older but wiser and tuning in rock-and-roll heroes who had suddenly become gods. She remembered every agonizing, exhilarating year and figured she could use her the-world-is-against-me knowledge to tackle the job ahead of her. Those formative years were the ones most firmly entrenched in her memory.

  By her estimation, the timing was right.

  Ever since her arrival, Jason had maintained a wary distance, living on the fringes. He showed up at mealtime, ate just enough to get by so he didn’t earn a reprimand from his father, and disappeared immediately to the never-never land of his room. He communicated mostly with Paige and Riley. Paige, because she pestered him until he gave in, and Riley so he had someone to argue with. Other than responding to his father’s questions, he didn’t go out of his way to be a part of the family. Abby pretended not to notice. He was a teenager, and teenagers existed in a different world.

  But he was also a member of the family, and he had a skill the family needed.

  From everything she’d learned, Jason could cook. Although she’d never tasted his culinary efforts, others had. Even Rebecca Castner had mentioned to her that Jason was something of a genius when it came to the kitchen domain. She’d found late-night pots and pans in the stainless-steel sink more than once, so she figured Jason wouldn’t mind taking over the cooking. However, he had to want to do it. She didn’t want to take away his enjoyment.

  That called for a strategic presentation of her plan. A smart teenager like Jason would be on the lookout for any sign of manipulation or trickery. He would have to be convinced this was what he wanted.

  Instead of shutting himself in his room before mealtime, she had a feeling he’d prefer to be the cook-in-charge. She was more than willing to bestow that honor, and she’d taken her time setting the stage. He had to be getting itchy to take over. Her egg combinations were going from bad to worse—partly by intention.

  Still, timing and execution were crucial.

  At three thirty-five on the dot, Jason walked into the house. His uncovered ears brutally red from the freezing cold, he wore an old army coat, baggy pants and heavy hiking boots.

  “Hi, Jason,” she greeted him as he walked past her into the kitchen.

  “Hi.” As usual, his tone was guarded.

  “How was school?”

  “Fine,” came his standard response.

  She waited until after he’d grabbed an ice-cream sandwich from the freezer and retreated to his room. His routine never changed. Same tone. Same number of strides to the kitchen and back. Same closing of the bedroom door.

  So far so good. Everything was on schedule.

  She watched the clock, gauging the time it would take for him to finish the treat, crumple the paper, pace the floor to the wastebasket and throw the wrapping into the trash. Then she took her position in front of his room. It was imperative she grab his attention before he donned his headphones and shut out the rest of the world.

  Rapping briskly on his bedroom door, she heard the bed squeak, then silence. That was a good sign. At least he hadn’t turned on his music yet. She raised her knuckles to the wood surface again. This time, before she could perform more than one knock, the door swung open.

  A slightly hostile expression dragged down his eyebrows, producing a shroud of suspicion. “Yeah?”

  She ignored the lack of cordiality and went straight to the heart of the matter. “I want to make a trade.”

  His eyelids descended to half-mast. “A trade?”

  “You know. I give you something and you give me something in return.”

  “What is it?”

  “Can I come in?” She had him, whether he knew it or not. If he’d closed the door in her face, she would have been back to square one. That would have presented a big problem because it would have put him on guard and neither of them would get what they wanted. She didn’t mind begging. But respect could only be gained among equals. It was a rule she’d learned years ago.

  Jason took a moment to decide, but he finally shrugged and moved aside.

  Abby walked into the middle of the room, stepping without comment over an untidy pile of clothes and several pairs of sneakers.

  Turning, she met his gaze head-on.

  The defensive posture of his stance and the slight upward angle of his chin told her he expected her to complain about the state of the room. She didn’t. She wouldn’t. One thing she’d learned during her bumpy travels through the foster-care system was how to go after what she wanted. She was here to bargain in good faith, not to cast judgment.

  She offered him the large manila envelope she’d brought with her.

  He made no move to take the envelope. “What is it?”

  “You’ll never know until you open it.”

  She kept her pose nonchalant as he took the packet from her hand, his motions slow and reluctant.

  Reaching into the well-worn, golden packet, he pulled out a large eight-by-ten photo. For a moment, he didn’t say a word as surprise lifted his expression. Without removing his gaze from the picture in his hand, he cleared his throat. “It’s James Dean. You have an autographed picture of James Dean? Where did you get it? Did you know James Dean?”

  The reverence in his voice told her everything she wanted to know. She’d been right. Ever since she’d put the clean laundry in his room and discovered he had three full-size posters of the fifties rebel hanging in his room, she’d known the old picture would be her bargaining chip.

  Taking her time, she sat down on the chair next to his desk before answering his question.

  She decided there would be nothing gained by pointing out the fact that she wasn’t even born when his hero was killed. In Jason’s eyes, she belonged to the “old” generation. “I wish I had.” She sighed, an echo of her youthful obsession with the star.

  Jason didn’t appear convinced. “How do you know it’s James Dean’s real signature?”

  “My foster father was an extra in one of Dean’s last movies.”

  “Co
ol.”

  “Yeah.”

  He swallowed and touched the corners of the picture almost reverently. “How come you didn’t ever frame it?”

  Questions about her past were not her favorite topic of discussion. Yet, she knew Jason wouldn’t respect anything but the truth. “When you’re a foster child, you don’t always get to keep what is yours. You never know what will be taken or get left behind when you move on.” Or stolen. She chose not to point out that reality, however. “I didn’t want anyone else knowing I had it. No one paid much attention to the envelope. So that’s where I kept it. Then I’d pull the picture out whenever I wanted to see him.”

  Jason finally glanced up. For once, his expression didn’t carry any animosity or hide any secrets. “You didn’t have a real family?”

  “My parents were killed when I was very young.”

  “That’s tough.”

  She gave him a half smile. “For some kids, that’s life.”

  The wariness returned to his face. She could see the doubts flitting through his mind. She didn’t push. Just let him absorb, and reach his own conclusions. Nothing teenagers hated more than to have an adult make decisions for them.

  Finally, the boy asked, “Why are you giving the picture to me?”

  She couldn’t risk sounding too eager. “I understand you’re a pretty decent cook.”

  His face turned a bit red as he shuffled his feet. “It’s no big deal.”

  “It is if the only thing you can cook is eggs,” she said with ample self-deprecation.

  For a sliver of a second, the corners of his mouth tweaked as a smile fought to break free. Then he donned his familiar expression of indifference again. “Eggs are okay.”

  “For chickens,” she drawled.

  His gaze gleamed, reminding her of his father’s. “Snakes are hatched from them, too.”

  She didn’t have to feign her shudder. “How could I forget?”

  He snickered out loud before he brought up a hand and tried to cover his laughter with a cough.

  Abby had to make sure he didn’t see the soft smile she was holding inside. Jason Hamilton was a neat kid. “So how about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “I give you the picture and you give me some guidance in the kitchen?”

  He eyed her skeptically. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you how to cook before?”

  The kid was smart, too. “They tried but I flunked every single course they tried to teach me.”

  “You going to serve eggs again tonight?”

  “Do you like them with sweet-and-sour sauce?”

  He turned a little green. “If you set the table, I’ll cook.”

  "Deal." She made sure to keep her face averted so her stepson wouldn’t catch sight of her satisfaction. “Thanks, Jason.”

  She stood up and started toward the door, when his voice stopped her. “Abby, you don’t have to give me the picture.”

  She turned as he thrust the envelope and picture toward her. “You don’t want it?”

  He shrugged. “I like to cook. It’s not that big of a deal. You don’t need to give up the picture.” His words said one thing, his eyes told her something different.

  One of the hardest things she ever had to do was to stay on her side of the room and to keep from blowing everything she’d gained by wrapping him in her arms.

  She hadn’t dared hope for more than she’d come for, but he’d just given her a gift that was more valuable than ail the gold in Fort Knox. She knew he wanted that picture. The fact that he was willing to give her what she wanted without taking James Dean in return brought tears to her eyes. She looked down at her shoes, allowing her hair to slip forward and conceal her emotion. Blinking back the moisture, she pushed the envelope toward him. “It’s yours if you want. I don’t need it anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  With a steadiness she didn’t feel, she said, “That picture was all I had when I was your age. It brought me happiness. But now I have you, Riley, your dad and Paige. That’s all I ever wanted. A real family. If you’ll do the cooking, then everybody will be happy. And that’s what I want now. My family’s happiness.”

  She didn’t wait for him to answer. She wasn’t about to push her luck.

  ***

  CHAPTER 6

  Abby’s sense of satisfaction didn’t last long. The next day, she had just finished two loads of laundry and was reflecting on the rave reviews that Jason had earned the night before after he served spaghetti, when the sudden shrill of the phone broke into her thoughts.

  She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Hamilton?”

  The use of her married name made her hesitate for a second. She still wasn’t used to hearing her new title. “Yes, this is Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “This is Mrs. Branson from the Humphrey Elementary School. I’m Riley’s teacher. I tried to page your husband an hour ago but he didn’t return my call.”

  Abby’s hand tightened around the receiver. “Is something wrong?”

  The pause told its own story. “Riley and another boy got into a fight at school.” The regret in the teacher’s voice was clear even through the phone lines. “We have a policy that when something like this happens, a parent needs to come to school and take the child home. Since this isn’t Riley’s first infraction, the principal is considering suspending him for two days.”

  Before the teacher had finished, Abby reached for her purse. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  During the entire trip home, Riley sat in the passenger seat and stared silently out the window. Despite his hair rioting in a few more directions than usual, on the surface, he appeared none the worse for wear. Yet, his unnatural stillness was a stark contrast to the energetic, talkative boy who usually had trouble finding enough time to breathe between words.

  He wouldn’t look her straight in the eye when she picked him up; another unusual tactic for Riley.

  As soon as they walked into the house, Abby took a closer look at his face. She noticed the puffiness to the right corner of his face. “That eye is going to be an interesting shade in the morning,” she commented without a hint of judgment. “Why don’t you go clean your face and then we’ll put an ice pack on your eye.”

  His gaze darted to her and then shifted away again. “It doesn’t hurt. Maybe I should go lie down.”

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  He shook his head, his freckles standing out like soldiers at attention.

  “Go get the washcloth and then we’ll talk,” she said softly, giving him a slight push toward the bathroom.

  He shuffled away and took as long as he could to wash his face. Finally, he returned to the living room. “Can we talk in my bedroom?”

  She followed him into his small room.

  He walked over to the bed and she sat down next to him. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  He shrugged. “Bobby and I aren’t friends anymore.”

  Bobby Carmichael was his best buddy. “Why not?”

  Riley didn’t answer.

  “Did you have an argument?” she asked.

  Riley picked up his baseball glove and fidgeted with the ties. “He said something I didn’t like.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  She’d never seen anyone look more miserable in his life than the small boy sitting next to her. She chewed on her lip a bit and considered how to help Riley get the load off his chest. Whatever was bothering him might be part of the quietness she’d noticed the past few days. Ever since he’d learned that he was going to have a new brother or sister, he’d been prone to bouts of silence—a very unRiley-like trait. One minute he’d be almost hysterical with laughter. The next he would be moody.

  Was this fight with Bobby another part of the pattern?

  “I thought Bobby was your friend.”

  “Not anymore.” Riley tossed away the glove and scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor.
>
  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s dumb.”

  Abby saw the hurt behind the bitter denouncement. She reached down and picked up the glove and placed it on the dresser next to the bed. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  A loud sniff gave testimony to the battle being waged inside the boy. For a moment, Abby despaired he’d hold on to the pain.

  Then the dam burst, and a big tear rolled down his face. “He said you weren’t my real mom.” He dashed the back of his hand angrily against his cheek. “He said you were just a pretend mom.”

  As a second tear began its pilgrimage down the other side of his cheek, Abby leaned over and tenderly brushed it away with the pad of her thumb. Lifting his chin, she made him look straight into her eyes. “I don’t think it’s important what Bobby thinks. It’s only important what you think.”

  He didn’t blink. “My real mom didn’t want me.”

  The baldness of his statement couldn’t be backed away from. If only there were a magic cure for heartache. For rejection. For abandonment. Kids shouldn’t have to be hurt by the actions of grown-ups. Yet, that, too, was a reality. She knew Riley was asking questions she didn’t have answers to. His pain couldn’t be soothed or healed. He didn’t need her anger or any glib answers. The only true gift she could give him was the permission to talk about the hurt. Lay it open and tell him it was okay to be angry and hurt.

  She chose her words with care. “Your mother wouldn’t have given birth to you if she didn’t want you.”

  He pulled his chin out of her hand and clenched his fist. “Why doesn’t she ever call or come to see us?”

  How many times had she wondered why all her foster families seemed to forget her so easily after she left?

  She’d vowed that Paige would never feel that sense of isolation or abandonment.

  Riley needed the same commitment. Even though she didn’t know what the future held, she knew she would never abandon this young boy. He needed her.

  Her arms ached with the need to hold him, but she didn’t think he was ready for that yet. “I don’t know why your mother left. Maybe someday you can ask her. But one thing you know is before she left, she made sure you had a good home and a good dad to watch over you. That’s more than some children ever have.”