Ready for Marriage?

by Beverly Barton; Ann Major Anne Marie Winston

  Feigning interest in the house and grounds, they tromped around in the yard and peeked in the windows, all the while keeping an eye out for any action at 1212 Oak Hill Drive.

  Minutes ticked by. The longer they stayed outside, the more wicked the wind and colder the temperature seemed.

  “Why don’t we get back in the car for a few minutes and warm ourselves,” Trent suggested. “I don’t known about you, but I’m freezing.”

  Hugging herself in an effort to get warm, Kate nodded. “Let’s go. I think my feet and hands are frostbitten, and I know my nose is.”

  Just as they reached the Bentley, Trent noticed a late-model Buick pull into the driveway at 1212. “Look, Kate.”

  She halted at his side and looked across the street. Gasping, she grabbed his hand. His heartbeat drummed loudly inside his head. Was it possible that he was on the verge of seeing his daughter?

  A tall, blond woman emerged from the Buick, quickly followed by two children. A boy who looked to be about eight hopped out of the back seat, a book bag hanging loosely off one shoulder. The passenger side door opened and a thin, willowy young girl in jeans and a brown leather jacket emerged.

  Kate squeezed his hand. They moved in unison to the end of the driveway and onto the sidewalk. Trying as best they could to act nonchalantly, they stared at Robin Elliott. She was a beguilingly beautiful child. When she laughed at something her brother said to her as they ran toward the front door, Trent’s heart skipped a beat. Her smile reminded him of Kate’s smile. And with her blond hair and willowy build, she looked a bit like the pictures of Kate when she was a kid. Was it possible that Robin was really Mary Kate?

  “She looks so happy,” Kate said.

  “She is happy. That’s obvious.”

  “Do you think…could you tell if she’s anything like Mary Kate was as an infant?”

  “She’s got blond hair, although it’s a honey blond now. And her smile reminds me of yours. But maybe I’m grasping at straws, wanting her to be ours.”

  “I don’t know if she’s Mary Kate,” Kate admitted. “I want her to be, but I don’t feel it.” She laid her left hand over her heart. “I don’t sense it, in here.”

  They continued staring at Robin until she disappeared inside her house. Then they stood on the sidewalk for quite some time, unable to speak or move. Oddly enough it was Kate who finally put an end to their senseless vigil.

  “Let’s go,” Kate said. “It’s highly unlikely she’ll come back outside in weather like this.”

  “You’re right. There’s no sense waiting around for another glimpse, is there?”

  They hurried to the Bentley. Once inside, Trent started the engine to warm the interior, then turned to Kate. “We can be in Sheffield in a little over an hour. It’s only about fifty or sixty miles from here.”

  Kate checked her watch. “Christa Farrell goes to the public library every day after school. Her grandmother works there. We should be able to make it to Sheffield before the library closes.”

  Trent reached over and ran the back of his gloved hand down Kate’s pink cheek. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “Have you thought ahead?” he asked. “Have you thought about what you’ll do if neither Robin nor Christa turns out to be Mary Kate?”

  “I’ll handle it if it happens.” Her gaze met his. “You have to know that I’ll never give up looking for our child.”

  He sat there quietly for a few minutes. Tell her how you feel, an inner voice advised. Let her know she isn’t alone in her quest. “If it turns out that way—that neither girl is Mary Kate—I want to help you to continue searching. I want us to keep looking for our daughter together.”

  Kate clenched her teeth and turned her head. He sensed that she was struggling with her emotions, making a valiant effort not to cry. Damn! He knew exactly how she felt.

  Kate’s nerves were raw by the time they pulled into the parking place in front of the Sheffield library in the middle of the downtown area. A small town, with many buildings empty, Sheffield looked forlorn, but there was evidence of revitalization here and there. All the way up Highway 72 as they bypassed Iuka, zoomed through Cherokee and hit every red light in Tuscumbia, Kate kept studying Robin Elliott’s photo. Images of the laughing child flashed through Kate’s mind. If Robin was Mary Kate, then why didn’t she feel it in her mother’s heart? Maybe she’s not yours, an inner voice said. Maybe Christa Farrell is Mary Kate. But what if you see her and don’t recognize her as yours?

  “So, do we wait here for the library to close or do we go in?” Trent asked.

  Go inside? Oh, God, could she do that? Could she be that close to Christa and remain at a distance? Wouldn’t she be tempted to speak to the child, to study her like a bug under a microscope?

  “Let’s go inside,” Kate said.

  “Are you sure?”

  Kate nodded.

  “We can’t stare and we can’t talk to her. Understood?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  They exited the Bentley and went inside the library, which was small enough that they could scan the entire interior in one sweeping glance. Kate opened her purse and slid the photos inside, then searched again for any sign of Christa. In her second scan, she saw the little girl sitting alone at a table, a book satchel in the chair beside her, an open notebook in front of her and a pencil in her hand.

  “There she is,” Kate whispered.

  Trent followed her line of vision.

  “I wish she’d look up so we could see her face better.”

  “We’ve got to stop staring at her,” Trent said. “Let’s pick out a few magazines and take them over to the table next to her.”

  Kate followed Trent and after they’d chosen several magazines, they headed for the table nearest Christa. When they sat down across from each other, the child lifted her head and looked right at Kate. Christa smiled, but didn’t speak. Kate returned the smile. Her stomach muscles tightened when she noted what a deep, chocolate brown the little girl’s eyes were. The same color as Trent’s.

  That doesn’t mean she’s Mary Kate.

  What was probably Christa’s homework once again gained her full attention, so Kate and Trent were able to occasionally glance at the child while they pretended interest in the magazines they’d laid out on the table. The more she studied the little girl, the more similarities Kate recognized. She had eyes like Trent. Same color, same intense expression when she worked. And her mouth was generously full—like Trent’s. The shape of her face—like a valentine—and the light dusting of freckles were traits inherited from Kate. She had Kate’s mother’s nose—a tad too big for her little face, but she’d grow into it as her grandmother had.

  Damn, Kate, don’t do this to yourself. She was looking for things that would make this girl hers. What about her hair? It wasn’t blond like Kate’s or dark brown like Trent’s. No, but it was a light brown, which could well be the blending of their two hair colors. And Christa was slightly plump. She and Trent had both been skinny as kids, as Robin Elliott was. But Kate knew for a fact that Mary Belle Winston had been a plump child.

  There you go again, trying to convince yourself that this child is your daughter, Kate told herself. Was she seeing similarities that weren’t there? Or was this little girl really Mary Kate? Something deep inside Kate was drawn to this child, but did that mean the girl belonged to her?

  “You’re staring,” Trent whispered as he reached across the table and clasped Kate’s trembling hands.

  She forced herself to look away from Christa. “Do you see it? Or am I imagining all the similarities?” Kate kept her voice low and soft.

  “My eyes and mouth. Your shape face and freckles.”

  Realizing Trent had recognized the resemblance, too, Kate couldn’t stop herself from glancing toward Christa again. Just in time to see the child chewing on her pencil. Kate’s heart stopped. Her mother had scolded her throughout her childhood and teens for chewing on her pencil.
Sometimes she still caught herself doing it.

  Kate swallowed the lump in her throat. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

  “We’d better get out of here,” Trent said.

  Kate nodded. They gathered up their magazines. Nervously clumsy, she accidentally dropped one on the floor. Before she could get it, Christa jumped out of her seat, bent over, picked up the magazine and handed it to Kate. Their gazes met. Kate looked at the child through the tears misting her eyes. Christa smiled again and it was all Kate could do to stop herself from grabbing the little girl and hugging her for dear life.

  “Thank you.” Kate accepted the magazine.

  Trent slipped his arm around Kate’s waist to give her much-needed support. She felt as if her knees were going to give way at any minute.

  “You’re welcome,” Christa said.

  Before she embarrassed herself by reaching out and touching the child’s angelic little face, Trent urged her into motion and all but forced her to walk away. He took her magazines from her once they were near the magazine rack. Within minutes he escorted her out of the library and straight to the car. He opened the passenger door. Kate turned to him, tears trickling down her cheeks.

  Trent grabbed her and pulled her into his arms. She clung to him, weeping quietly. He stroked her back. “Don’t do this, honey. You’ll make yourself sick.”

  “I know it’s crazy, but I think—I feel—that she’s Mary Kate.”

  “Yeah, I know. I know.”

  “Did you—” Kate gulped down tears. “Did you feel it, too?”

  Trent kissed her. Sweet and comforting. Slightly edged with passion.

  “Yeah, I felt it, too. But it could be nothing more than wishful thinking on our parts.”

  “Maybe, but my heart tells me that that little girl in there—” Kate inclined her head toward the library “—is our Mary Kate.”

  Nine

  The next three days were sheer agony for Kate. And she knew they were for Trent, too, although they didn’t talk about it much. The waiting was unbearable. Both of them were on edge, their nerves frayed. They alternated between clinging to each other and arguing over nothing. Kate often left the hotel alone during the day and walked for an hour or two, despite the frigid temperatures. All the pent-up energy inside her kept her on the verge of either crying or screaming. And she knew that if she didn’t get away from Trent when the tension reached a fever pitch, she’d wind up dragging him off to bed. The sexual tension between them was palpable, pulsating just below the surface twenty-four/seven. Having sex might give them momentary release, but what would the long-term effects be? She couldn’t have a temporary sexual relationship with Trent. Leaving him ten years ago had nearly killed her. She would not put herself through that agony a second time.

  This morning Trent had been the one to leave their suite, telling her she could reach him by cell phone if she needed him. If she needed him? Heaven help her, she needed him now. Needed him every minute of every day. And that was bad news for her. She’d already allowed herself to become too accustomed to leaning on Trent, depending on him.

  This morning had dragged by, as had the previous days, even though she’d done numerous things to keep busy. She’d put a deep-conditioner on her hair, a thirty-minute treatment. She’d tried to watch a TV talk show, had flipped through several magazines and read a couple of chapters in a paperback novel she’d picked up a couple of days ago at a downtown bookstore. She’d even painted her fingernails and toenails. And she’d drunk four cups of Earl Grey!

  What now? It was barely noon and she’d already run out of things to do. As she paced around in the lounge, doing her best not to think about the DNA tests or her gut-level reaction to Christa Farrell at the Sheffield library, Kate mulled over her options. She could take another walk, but the truth of the matter was, she didn’t know where Trent had gone and didn’t want to run into him. The way she felt right now, she might pull him into the nearest dark alley and have her way with him.

  Kate laughed. God, she was losing it.

  She needed someone to talk to, someone other than Trent. Lucie! That’s it, she thought, who better to commiserate with than her best buddy? Kate dialed Lucie’s cell phone. She answered on the third ring.

  “Evans here.”

  “Lucie, it’s me. Are you busy? In the middle of something?”

  “Hey, girl, what’s up? Any news?”

  “Nothing yet. I’m losing my mind waiting. And on the verge of attacking my ex-husband.”

  “Attack as in killing him or jumping his bones?”

  “The latter.”

  “Mmm, hmm. So, why don’t you?”

  Kate wondered how she should reply.

  “Oh, don’t tell me,” Lucie said. “You’ve already done that, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Kate admitted. “And I can’t let it happen again.”

  “Why not? You’re both consenting adults.”

  “Becoming lovers would complicate things too much and the situation is already complicated enough as it is.”

  “Why don’t you just admit that you’re still nuts about the guy? Even if he has a fiancé, I’ll bet if he knew how you felt—”

  “He’s not going to marry her. He’s not going to propose.”

  “Hooray and hallelujah. Grab that man while you can.”

  “Can’t risk it. I may be in love, but I’m not so sure about him. It could be just lust for him. And I’m too emotionally fragile right now to lose both Trent and Mary Kate for a second time.”

  “Ah, hon, what a situation to be in.”

  “Lucie?”

  “Mmm, hmm?”

  “I stole the addresses for the two girls with type O-positive blood and Trent and I went to see them.” When Lucie let out a long, exaggerated ooh, Kate quickly added, “We saw them, but they didn’t know who we were or that we were looking them over. We were very careful. Very discreet.”

  “And?”

  “And we both got similar vibes from the same child. Her name is Christa. I swear, Lucie, I just know she’s Mary Kate.

  “That had to have been rough on you. On both of you. You must have wanted to grab her and squeeze the life out of her.”

  “You have no idea. Dammit, what am I going to do if the DNA test proves me right? How can I not claim her?”

  “Did you see her with her adoptive parents? I mean, did you get a glimpse of how their relationship is?”

  “Christa’s adoptive parents died nearly six years ago,” Kate said. “She lives with her grandmother.”

  “Won’t that simplify matters? Doesn’t that make it easier for you and Trent to get custody of her?”

  “It might, but how do we in good conscience take that child away from the only person who has remained a constant in her young life?”

  Lucie groaned. “Yeah, I see the problem.”

  Kate heard another phone ringing and quickly realized that it was her cell phone, which she’d left in the bedroom. “Lucie, my cell phone is ringing. Hold on, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  Kate laid the phone down on the desk, ran into the bedroom and grabbed her cell phone up off the bedside table. She flipped it open.

  “Kate Malone.”

  “Kate, it’s Dante Moran.”

  Kate gasped, her breath caught in her throat.

  “The DNA test results just arrived.”

  “And?”

  “Christa Farrell is your and Trent’s child.”

  “Oh, my God!” Tears clouded Kate’s vision. Her heart swelled with happiness.

  “Would you like for me to try to set up a meeting for you and Trent to meet with Christa’s grandmother, Brenda Farrell?”

  “Yes, yes. Please. Tell her we’ll do whatever she wants, handle it anyway she wants to, just as long as she’ll meet with us and give us a chance to—” Kate’s voice cracked.

  “Go tell Trent the good news,” Moran said. “I’ll get back in touch with you when I work something out with Mrs. Farrel
l.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Kate?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t expect too much.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll try not to, but…oh, mercy. Mary Kate is alive. And I—I saw her. She’s—damn, Moran, I shouldn’t have admitted that to you.”

  Moran chuckled. “It’s okay. Don’t you think I knew you’d find those addresses?”

  “Yeah, I halfway figured out that you’d left them where I could find them.”

  “I’ve got to run, but I’ll talk to you again very soon.”

  “Bye.”

  Kate closed her cell phone, then flew into the lounge and picked up the telephone receiver from the desk. “Lucie! That was Moran. I was right. The DNA test proved that Christa Farrell is Mary Kate.”

  “Wow! That’s great, hon.”

  “Moran will try to set up a meeting with Christa’s grandmother. Keep your fingers crossed for us.”

  “So how’s Trent taking the news?’

  “Oh, Lord, he doesn’t know. He’s not here. I’ve got to hang up now, Lucie, and call him.”

  “Keep me posted. And good luck.”

  “Thanks. Bye.”

  Hurriedly Kate dialed Trent’s cell phone number. He answered on the fifth ring.

  “Trent, come back to the hotel immediately,” Kate told him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Moran just called. The DNA test results are back.”

  “And?”

  “And Christa Farrell is Mary Kate.”

  Brenda Farrell’s home, situated in an area of Sheffield known as the Village, was a neat cream stucco with rust-red shutters and a red-tile roof. Large old trees graced the lawn and neat shrubbery lined the brick walkway leading from the street to the fancy wood and glass front door.

  Trent pulled the Bentley into the driveway at the side of the house, then got out and hurried to open the passenger door. Kate couldn’t remember ever being so nervous. She’d had to ask Trent to stop twice on the drive from Memphis because she’d been sick to her stomach. Ever since yesterday when Dante Moran had phoned her with the good news, that Mrs. Farrell had reluctantly agreed to meet with them, Kate had been a bundle of nerves.