Single With Twins. Joan Elliott Pickart

the other side of the world he belonged somewhere.

      He would know that if he died, Heather and Emma and Melissa would cry.

      Was that too much for a man to ask of life? To know that some people…a family, his family, cared? No, he didn’t think it was unreasonable, but he’d have to earn that caring somehow.

      How was he going to do that when he didn’t have a clue how to carry on a conversation with a mother and her children?

      The pill Mack had taken began to dull the pain in his shoulder and his mind became fuzzy from the medication and lack of sleep.

      He had until three o’clock in the afternoon to figure out how to communicate with Heather and the twins. He’d figure out something…somehow. He was an intelligent man, who just happened…to be…facing a new…challenge, that’s all. He’d get…a handle on this. Sure…he would…and he’d do it…by…three…o’clock. Guaranteed.

      At last Mack slept, unaware that he’d curled his right hand into a loose fist to hold fast to the warmth of Heather’s delicate hand.

      Heather sat across from Melissa and Emma at the small table in the kitchen, watching the twins consume their after-school snack of homemade chocolate-chip cookies and glasses of milk.

      “And that’s the story,” Heather said. “Mack Marshall didn’t know about us and we didn’t know about him. But now he has found us and he’ll be here in a few minutes to meet you.”

      “He doesn’t got no kids?” Melissa said, then dunked her cookie into the milk.

      “Doesn’t have any kids. No,” Heather said. “We’re the only…family he has.”

      “Mmm,” Melissa said, nodding. “Do we have to stay in the house and talk to him for a long bunch of time? Buzzy is coming over so we can play catch.”

      “Buzzy comes over every day to play catch,” Emma said before taking a dainty bite of cookie. “Don’t you get tired of throwing a ball back and forth, back and forth, back and forth? You should think of a new game.”

      “Buzzy an’ I need to pra’tice catching with our baseball mitts,” Melissa said. “How long do I have to talk to this Mack man, Mom?”

      “We’ll see how it goes, okay?” Heather said.

      “You’re not being nice, Melissa,” Emma said. “This Mack person is our daddy’s brother. That’s ’portant.”

      “Why?” Melissa said. “Our daddy is in heaven, so…” She shrugged.

      “Mom,” Emma said, “does Mack Marshall look like our daddy did?”

      Not even close, sweet Emma, Heather thought as a mental image of Mack flashed in her mind.

      “No, not really,” Heather said. “Mack and your daddy were half brothers, remember? They had the same father, but not the same mother. That caused them to look very different, so Mack doesn’t resemble the picture of your daddy that you have in your bedroom.”

      “Are we going to ’dopt Mack or something?” Emma said, then patted her lips with her napkin.

      Heather’s eyes widened. “Adopt him? No, honey, we’re just going to get to know him a bit, that’s all, because we’re related, sort of. He’s family, sort of.” She paused. “I’m not certain that I’m explaining this very well.”

      “Sure you are, Mommy,” Melissa said. “Mack Marshall doesn’t have a family, and found out we’re here, and we’re his family now, and he’s not all alone anymore, and we’ll talk to him ’bout dumb stuff like what we want to be when we grow up, then I’ll go play catch with Buzzy.”

      Heather laughed and shook her head. “That’s fine, Melissa. I guess that about covers it.”

      “Poor Mack,” Emma said, sighing dramatically. “He’s been all alone with no one to talk to for years and years and years. Lots of years, because he’s old, right? Really old. You said he’s even older than you, Mom. All alone. Poor Mack.”

      Again an image of Mack took front row center in Heather’s mind and an unexpected and very annoying frisson of heat slithered down her back.

      “Mack hasn’t been all alone, Emma,” Heather said. Not a chance. He probably had to carry a big stick to beat off the women who flocked around him. Mack Marshall would be alone only when he chose to be. “I’m sure he has a lot of friends in New York City. In fact, he probably knows people all over the world because he travels a great deal to take photographs.”

      “That’s sure an easy job,” Melissa said. “Just take pictures of people. Maybe you should do that, Mom, ’stead of being a ’countant. Then you wouldn’t have to work so hard. Can I have another cookie?”

      “No, ma’am,” Heather said. “That’s enough of a snack for after school. I want you to eat a good dinner.”

      “’Kay,” Melissa said. “Well, I’m done with my milk and cookies. When is Mack going to get here?”

      Heather glanced at the clock on the wall. “Any minute now. I have a feeling he’s going to be right on time.”

      Mack drove slowly down the street, frowning as he swept his gaze over the small houses that were separated by very narrow driveways.

      This neighborhood was even worse than he’d suspected when he’d seen it in the dark last night. Granted, the dozen homes on this dead-end street gave evidence of caring, of making the best of what was available.

      But, cripe, these houses were old and so damn small. The only saving grace was the tall mulberry tree in every front yard. But the ancient trees actually made the houses appear even smaller.

      He’d driven through some very rundown areas to get here, had seen teenagers hanging out on the corners, many wearing what he had a feeling were gang colors. This entire section of Tucson was crime waiting to happen.

      How could Heather sleep at night, knowing she was raising her daughters in such a dangerous location? What kind of a mother would—

      Hold it, Marshall. That had been a lousy thing to mentally insinuate about Heather. He was positive that Heather lived here with her girls because this was the best she could afford.

      That made sense. The records he’d uncovered about Frank listed his half brother’s occupation as a gas station attendant. Not a certified mechanic, just a guy who pumped gas, he guessed. That wouldn’t have left any kind of estate to his pregnant widow.

      He also knew from his hours on the Internet that Frank Marshall had been killed in an automobile accident driving while drunk. His investigative skills had turned up a copy of the police report. Some more delving had provided the information that the twins had been born about six months later.

      Heather Marshall deserved a lot of credit for what she’d done on her own. She’d been young, pregnant, and faced with raising two babies alone. He’d found records of the classes she’d taken for many years, finally obtaining her license as a certified public accountant.

      She worked at home, apparently, to be there for her daughters. That meant she had no group medical insurance, no retirement plan, no benefits at all that came from being employed by a large firm.

      Hand to mouth, Mack thought, parking in front of Heather’s house. That was how this little family was living. He didn’t like that. He sure as hell didn’t.

      Mack retrieved his parcels from the passenger seat, locked the Blazer he’d rented, then started slowly up the front walk leading to the house. The walkway was cracked in places and several chunks of cement were totally missing.

      The minuscule yard was free of weeds, but was more dirt than grass, and a bald tire hung by a rope from a limb on the mulberry tree. The house itself was a rather strange shade of color…not white, not yellow, just dingy gray with no contrasting color on the trim. The roof was a multitude