Three Boys and a Baby. Laura Marie Altom

and Dillon raised their hands.

      “Okay,” Oliver said, “now raise your hand if you want to take it to our mom.”

      Owen and Dillon raised their hands.

      “You can’t vote twice, Dillon.” Honestly, at the moment, Oliver was kind of mad with his best friend. “Which do you want?”

      “I want my dad, but I didn’t want Owen to feel bad. Plus, your mom is a good cook.”

      Oliver sighed. Geez Louise, it was hard work being around such lamebrains. “Okay, let’s vote again. Who wants Dillon’s dad?”

      Oliver and Dillon raised their hands.

      “Our mom?”

      Owen and the baby raised their hands.

      “Oh, come on,” Oliver said. “Owen, get away from the baby. You’re gonna break its arm.”

      “Am not.”

      “Are, too.”

      “That’s it,” Oliver said. “I’m the boss of both of you, and I say we’re takin’ it to Dillon’s dad.”

      Owen stuck out his tongue.

      IT WAS DONE.

      Her baby would be all right. From watching all three boys at one time or another at the neighborhood day care, she knew they came from wonderful, loving homes. The kind of home she’d never be able to provide for her precious baby girl.

      Giving her up had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. Harder than running away for seven months, then living in that group home for pregnant teens so that her grandma and father would never feel the shame.

      Giving away her baby had been even harder than taking her from the group home’s nursery, then hitching her way back to her miniscule hometown of Brown, Kansas—renamed during the 1930s when there’d been a drought. Before that, the town had been called Garden Glade. Her Sunday-school teacher had said that every so often some outraged garden-club member circulated a petition to change the name back to the original, but so far, Brown had stuck.

      Hearing her baby cry, and not being able to go to her, she figured the name suited this place just fine.

      Brown.

      Not really black, but its depressing neighbor.

      JACKSON TATE had had a bad day, and judging by the squalling coming from inside his house, it was about to get worse.

      Feet leaden as he crossed the wood-planked front porch, he yanked open the screen door, growling when it fell off the top hinge. Great. Just one more thing needing to be fixed.

      Back before his ex had left, he’d taken pride in keeping up the old place. Julie had been the one who’d wanted to sink their meager savings into the nineteenth-century money pit. She’d said the Victorian home and the neighborhood that was as old as the State would not only be a good investment, but with its proximity to schools and the oak-lined park it would be the perfect place to raise a family.

      Right. Only, what family, seeing as how she’d deemed her law career more interesting than either her husband or son.

      After kicking off his regulation shoes, he unbuttoned his blue uniform shirt.

      Dammit. Why couldn’t he get through a single, freakin’ day without letting her leaving get to him? He didn’t still have a thing for her. Best as he could tell, he just missed the way things used to be. The way the house had felt more like a home.

      “Dad, Dad!” His son, Dillon, raced into the room. “Come quick and look what we found.”

      “Not now, little man,” Jackson said, trying to use a soft tone. One of his biggest regrets since Julie had taken off was not being a better dad. He tried. Lord knew he tried, but lately, it seemed as if he and the boy spoke a different language. One Jackson was incapable of translating. “I had a rough shift. Where’s your grandmother?”

      “She had a lady meeting. She said to tell you supper’s in the fridge. All you have to do is heat it up.”

      “Thanks, little man.” With a deep sigh, Jackson collapsed onto the couch. “Now, turn down the TV and let me grab some shut-eye. We’ll nuke dinner, then play catch when I get up.”

      “But, Dad, the TV’s not on.”

      “Then turn down whatever it is that’s making that noise.”

      Jackson shut his eyes, putting a throw pillow over his head. It smelled like maple syrup. He had to stop letting Dillon eat breakfast in the living room.

      “But, Dad, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

      “Son, please. Give me an hour and then we’ll eat. Play catch. Whatever you want.”

      “Okay…”

      Chin tucked against his chest, Dillon tried hard not to cry on his way to the kitchen.

      He’d give anything to get his mom back home, because if she came back, his dad would be back, too. It hurt knowing his dad didn’t love him anymore. Sometimes, late at night, when he heard his dad watching TV, he wondered if his father thought it was Dillon’s fault Mom now lived in Kansas City? Was that why Dad was always grumpy? Because he blamed Dillon for all the bad stuff that’d been happening in their lives?

      “Well?” Oliver asked out on the back porch. “Is your dad coming?”

      Dillon shook his head. Tears were real close to squeezing out, so he didn’t want to talk.

      “What’s wrong?” Owen asked. “You crying?”

      Dillon shook his head.

      “Then what’s the matter?” Oliver put his hands on his hips.

      “Where’s your dad?”

      “He’s sleeping, okay?” Snatching up the baby’s basket, Dillon walked to the screened porch’s door, bumping it open with his butt. “Let’s just take the baby to your mom.”

      PEDIATRICIAN Ella Garvey climbed out of her minivan, marched up onto the frumpy Queen Anne house’s front porch, threw open the screen door and walked directly to the freezer without passing Go. It’d been a chocolate-chip-fudge-mocha-swirl kind of day. Meaning, instead of using a teaspoon, she’d gone straight to the serving-spoon drawer after opening the ice cream tub’s lid.

      The first bite went down silky smooth.

      Closing her eyes, she savored the cool, sweet goodness, letting the calories and fat seep into her weary bones. She’d get a fresh start on her diet tomorrow. Tonight would be about taking care of herself in a far more important way than the mere physical upkeep of her body.

      After the day she’d had, actually having to be civil to her ex-husband’s new bride—the same bride who’d once been her trusted best friend and office manager—well, she deserved not only ice cream, but pizza and bologna and chips and dip and Skittles and—

      “Mooo-om!” The front door creaked open, then slammed shut.

      As if that wasn’t enough noise, the twins must’ve already turned on the TV, because along with boyish stomping came infant wailing.

      Damn.

      “I’m in here, guys!” She took another fortifying bite, scolding herself for wishing her darlings back at summer camp. She loved her twins dearly, but good grief, they could be a handful.

      “Mom, Mom!”

      “Slow down,” she said, not wanting their haste to make a mess, which would in turn interfere with her medicinal feasting. “And for heaven’s sake, turn down the—”

      “Yeah, but look!” Oliver presented her with a sight that threatened to bring her ice cream gurgling up. “Can we keep it?”

      “Oliver