Who's The Daddy?. Judy Christenberry

responses ran through Caroline’s head, the foremost of which was to kick her father in the shins and grab Max’s hand and run. Definitely too immature. And if she challenged his decision and insisted on being served on the patio, it would cause Mrs. Lamb a great deal of trouble. And her father would probably just move his guests to the patio, also.

      Leaving her no choice but to grin and bear it.

      “I see. My apologies, Max. I’m afraid my plans have gone awry.” At least she wanted Max to know she hadn’t included her other—whatever they were—in the invitation.

      “No problem,” he murmured, but he was glaring at Adrian and Prescott, not even looking at her.

      Determined to draw his attention, she slipped her hand into his. When he looked down at her, she leaned against him ever so slightly. “I’m glad you came.”

      His indrawn breath as his gaze fell to her neckline gave her some satisfaction. She grinned when his eyes met hers. At least he wasn’t ignoring her now.

      “Let’s all go to the sun room and have a drink while Mrs. Lamb finishes preparing dinner,” James suggested, acting the genial host.

      In the sun room, Amelia was sitting in a pool of light from a nearby lamp, industriously stitching.

      “Good evening, Mother,” Caroline said, wondering if she should offer her a kiss on the cheek. She concluded it probably wasn’t a habit. This family, her family, seemed as disconnected as any she’d ever seen.

      “Good evening, dear. How are you?”

      It gave Caroline a warm feeling to know that her mother hadn’t forgotten her physical problems, at least. Perhaps she was wrong to think her family was uninvolved.

      “Much better. My headache is almost gone.”

      “You had a headache? That’s unusual, Caroline. You should ask Mrs. Lamb for some aspirin.”

      So much for the warm fuzzies.

      “Caroline is still suffering from her concussion, Amelia,” James explained.

      “Oh, yes. You were in the hospital. Nasty places, hospitals.”

      James seemed to suddenly realize everyone but Amelia was still standing. “Please, be seated. I’ll serve drinks. Adrian, Prescott, your usual?”

      Caroline resented her father’s effort to make it clear that the other two were frequent guests. She turned to Max even as she tugged at his hand to lead him to the sofa where her mother sat. “What will you have, Max?”

      “What are you having?” he asked.

      “My usual,” she assured him with a grin, “a club soda.”

      Her mother continued her stitching, but the men in the room stared at her as if she’d just revealed a national secret. “What’s wrong?”

      “How did you know what you usually have?” James demanded, taking several steps toward her.

      Realization of what she’d said set in, and she shook her head slowly. “I…I don’t know.”

      Her father slapped his palm down on the bar. “Damn it, Caroline, why can’t you remember the important things?”

      “You think I’m doing it on purpose?” she retorted, irritated by his words. She was just as frustrated as her father at her inability to recall her life.

      “Really, James, your behavior is inappropriate,” Amelia said, still calmly stitching.

      “Sorry.”

      “Is a club soda what I usually have?” Caroline asked in the silence that followed.

      “Yes,” Prescott said, speaking for the first time. “You always say alcohol gives you a headache.”

      Even Max nodded in agreement. “And I’ll have the same.”

      “Mr. Daniels, are you sure you want a club soda? The rest of us are having Scotch,” James said.

      Max withdrew his hand from Caroline’s and rose to walk over to the bar. “A club soda is fine.” He picked up the two her father poured and brought them back to Caroline.

      “Maybe I’ll have a club soda, too,” Prescott suddenly said, smiling at Caroline.

      She couldn’t resist sharing a smile with Max. Poor Prescott was so predictable. And Max’s smile was heavenly. Just as she was searching for a reason to take his hand again, the doorbell rang.

      “Who could that be?” she asked, looking at her father.

      He shrugged his shoulders.

      “I would imagine it’s your sister,” Amelia stated as she continued to stitch. “She doesn’t feel like cooking and they haven’t found a housekeeper yet.”

      “How can they afford a housekeeper?” James snapped. “Roddy isn’t the most successful stockbroker I’ve ever seen.”

      “I told them you would pay for her,” Amelia said.

      Caroline had to hand it to her mother. In her placid way, she had more effectively matched James than anyone Caroline had ever seen. Her father was gaping like a landed trout.

      Chelsea and her husband entered the sun room, pausing at the entrance. “Hello, everybody.”

      When greetings were offered, Roddy moved forward but Chelsea grabbed his arm to hold him back. “Well? Aren’t you going to say something?”

      “What would you like to drink?” James asked, turning back to the bar.

      “Not that, Daddy!” Chelsea said, pouting. “I’m wearing a maternity dress, my first.”

      “It’s lovely,” Caroline murmured, hoping her low-key compliment would satisfy her sister.

      “Thank you. When you need maternity clothes, Caro, you’ll have to ask me where to shop. I found some of the best places.” Chelsea’s superior air, while annoying, at least signaled she’d found a way to compensate for Caroline’s pregnancy.

      Apparently satisfied with the response to her new dress, Chelsea allowed Roddy to lead her to a chair. “Get me some white wine, sweetums,” she cooed as she sat down.

      “No,” Amelia said calmly, but her word had the effect of an explosion. Everyone stared at her.

      Even Caroline was taken aback. In the little she had discovered about her mother, she assumed Amelia had nothing to say about anyone’s life in her house.

      “What? I always have white wine, Mother. And I should be pampered. After all, I’m pregnant.” Chelsea pouted again.

      “I’m sure your doctor told you to have no alcohol. It’s not good for the baby.”

      “But surely one little glass of wine—” Chelsea began, but her mother cut her off.

      “No. Have club soda like your sister.”

      “Oh, of course! Caroline is always right!” Chelsea huffed, sliding down in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest.

      “Your mother’s right, darling,” Roddy began with such tentative tones that Caroline fought the urge to chime in with encouragement. It wasn’t hard to decide who wore the pants in that family, even if they were maternity pants.

      “I’m sure Mother heard that rule at the home for unwed mothers. And, of course, they shouldn’t indulge because they have no self-control, but I—”

      “Also have no self-control,” James finished. “You’ll do as your mother says and have club soda.”

      Caroline leaned toward Max. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’d planned on a private dinner. Then you wouldn’t have had to endure this argument.”

      “No problem.”

      She