Everything but the Baby. Kathleen O'Brien

their tangled masses of hair. One of them carried a scruffy backpack patterned with stars.

      The old man, who Mark deduced must be Stephen, kept his hands on Allison’s shoulders, but moved her a few inches out, so that he could feast his eyes on the prodigal granddaughter. Mark couldn’t think of another way to describe the wistful, half-starved expression the old man turned on her.

      “You’re so beautiful, child,” he said, his voice husky. “And so like your mother. You might be our Eileen, come back to us after all these years!”

      “Do I really look like her?” Allison’s voice sounded stiff, an odd contrast to her eyes, which were wide and shining. “I—I would like that.”

      “You’re the spitting image.” He grinned, the movement folding deep, comfortable creases into his cheeks. He probably smiled as much as he cried, which was obviously a great deal. The whole lot of them needed pockets sewn onto their shirtsleeves for holding their hearts.

      “Yes, you’ve got her sweetness,” her grandfather continued. “And not a whit of your father’s arrogance, thank God.”

      “Stephen!” The old woman batted his shoulder.

      “It’s true, Kate, and weren’t we all thinking it?” Stephen was gleefully unrepentant. “I’m sorry for your loss, Allie darling, and I know you loved your father with a good heart. But the man never liked me and I never liked him and there’s no use pretending any different just because he’s dead.”

      “No,” Allison said, no doubt overwhelmed. “I understand. I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner, but—”

      “None of that, now, none of that!” He hugged her again. “Aren’t you here now? And isn’t that all that matters? Let’s get you settled. We’ll have to call your uncle in and Moira, too. They’ll be wanting to hear all about you.”

      “Grampa.” The twin with the backpack tugged at Stephen’s sleeve, pointing at Mark and whispering. “Grampa, what about him?”

      “Who?”

      Mark realized wryly that he might as well have been invisible. “I think she means me,” he said with a smile. “I’m Matt Travis. I have a reservation, as well.”

      The second little girl, apparently the more confident of the two, stared at Mark while chewing the nail of her pinky finger as if it were her afternoon snack. “Are you Allison’s boyfriend?”

      Allison shook her head quickly, flushing again as she had to trot out her rehearsed lie. “No, no! Matt and I…we just happened to be on the same plane. We just shared a cab from the airport.”

      “Well, come on in, son,” Stephen said, waving his hand expansively. “We’ll get your room eventually, but you may have to wait. You’ve stumbled into a family reunion, as you see, and family comes first.”

      “Of course,” Mark agreed.

      “And our poor Allie, she’s like a miracle, showing up here,” Kate O’Hara said as if she owed Mark a better explanation. “She’s lost her dad, you know, so we’re her only family now.”

      The nail-chewing little girl stared up at Allison, frowning. “Your father’s dead? What happened to him?”

      Kate hushed her granddaughter with a soft hand. “You remember, now, don’t you, Fannie? We talked about it. Her father had a heart attack, poor man.”

      The little girl nodded slowly. “That’s right. I do remember, because Grampa said it was ironic, and I asked him what ironic meant, and he said it was when someone who didn’t have a heart in the first place—”

      “Flannery Teresa O’Hara, that is enough!” Stephen’s creased cheeks were pink. “Get your cousin’s suitcases and bring them inside.”

      “I’ll get my own,” Mark said unnecessarily, as once again no one seemed aware of him, except Allison, who looked over her shoulder, her green eyes staring helplessly at him as she was swept into the hotel lobby on a wave of laughter and eager questions.

      She looked terrified—and cute as hell.

      He smiled as he hoisted his garment bag over his shoulder and paid the patient cabbie.

      This might, he thought, be more fun than he’d expected.

      BY THE TIME Allison got a minute alone she was exhausted. She had answered a million questions, received a thousand hugs and kisses, and listened to more stories about her mother than she’d heard in her entire lifetime.

      Her father’s prohibition against public displays of emotion would have made no sense to this family, who seemed to recognize zero distinction between “public” and “private” behavior. They laughed until the sound bounced off the walls. They interrupted each other without apology. They broke spontaneously into song, then stopped when tears choked off the tune. Tempers flared like matches and died as quickly.

      When they finally remembered that she’d been traveling all day and might need to freshen up, en masse they took her to her room, introducing her to other guests they passed in the halls, as if she were the queen.

      The room was large and lovely, done in shades of blue, but Allison didn’t take time to appreciate its elegant details. She didn’t even unpack. As soon as the last kiss was blown, she closed the door, kicked off her pumps, lay down on the bed and promptly fell asleep.

      She woke much later to a dim room and the sound of someone rapping on her door. Her heart pounded, and, lifting up on one elbow, she tried to remember where she was. In the semidarkness, everything looked alien.

      The rapping sounded again. She stared at the door, hoping it wasn’t the twins. Though Fiona was quiet and spent most of her time clutching the straps of her backpack and watching with wide, green eyes, Flannery was a real pistol who possessed an amazing talent for asking the most embarrassing questions. “Why aren’t you married?” “Don’t you think Mom is getting fat?” “Do you think Daniel’s girlfriend broke up with him because he’s gross?”

      On the other hand, if it was the twins at the door they wouldn’t give up, so she might as well answer it. She pressed down on her curls with both hands and, hoping for the best, made her way barefooted to the door.

      “Hi.” It was Mark. He leaned his head into the room, scanning the gloom. “Have you been sleeping this whole time?” He smiled. “Did the lovefest wear you out?”

      She nodded. “It was a bit much for me.” She flicked on the overhead light, squinted and waved him into the room. “Compared to this, I’ve lived a pretty quiet life.”

      That was an understatement, of course. She and her father had never talked much. He’d disapproved of chatter about people, which he deemed vulgar and simpleminded. He’d preferred ideas, he said, and he particularly liked politics. But to a teenage girl, the diplomatic crisis of how boy A was going to break up with girl B was the only political issue that counted. By the time Allison was old enough to have anything to say, the pattern of silence had been set.

      She offered Mark the only chair, then sat on the edge of the bed, glad she hadn’t removed more than her shoes before falling asleep. Her hair was a mess, she knew, and probably she’d rubbed her lipstick off on the pillow, but at least she was marginally presentable.

      “I think I could have slept for a week. I’m not used to being the center of so much attention. And all that hugging and kissing.” She rubbed sleepy dust from the corners of her eyes. “I’m not used to—”

      She broke off, realizing what that sounded like. But it was true. She wasn’t used to being touched that much.

      “I can imagine,” Mark filled in smoothly. “I, on the other hand, am not used to getting so little attention. I bet not a single thing got done in this hotel today. The minute you showed up, it officially became Celebrate Allison Cabot day.”

      She groaned. “I know. It was sweet but so embarrassing. It makes