"Um, hey. It's me, Stephanie Olmstead. I got these strange messages, claiming they were from you, only—"
Groaning, he asked, "Did the caller happen to sound like an eight-year-old girl going on thirty pretending to be a fortysomething man?"
Stephanie laughed. "As a matter of fact…"
"I'm so sorry. But this explains Lola's behavior." After relaying an embarrassing exchange he and his daughter had over her old photo, he asked, "I'm not sure whether to be proud of her detective skills, or mortified by her penchant for impersonation."
"No harm done," Steph said, relieved he hadn't been the caller, yet in the same breath saddened by the bigger issue—that Brady sounded as if he hadn't wanted to be the caller. Her sister's voice in her head, urging her along, Stephanie fussed with a stray curl. "I guess I kind of regretted how we left things in Miami."
He laughed. "Likewise. I've found myself thinking of you. Wondering how you're getting along."
Remembered white-hot Miami sun warmed her through and through. "I'm good. You?"
"A month and a half later, I'm finally living in Seattle. The logistics were a nightmare, but now I've found a routine."
"That's wonderful. What does Lola think of this development?"
"Verdict's still out." His chuckle was akin to winning a prize. "We have a love/hate thing going, but I can't tell you how good it feels being back in her daily life."
"I'm proud of you," she said, hoping her admission didn't come off as condescending. "I can't imagine how hard it must be seeing Clarissa and her new husband again, but I'll bet you and Lola will be closer in no time."
"Let's just hope that in the process, she doesn't get any more bright ideas about appointing herself my social director."
"Really," she assured, "this sort of thing happens all the time."
"Uh-huh."
His laugh calmed her nerves. "Okay, truth? Last thing I expected was hearing from your daughter, but now that we've talked…I'm glad."
"Me, too."
After a few minutes of catching up, him describing his new apartment, her delivering a play-by-play of her twins' commando crawling techniques, there was a longish pause.
And then Brady said, "This is probably going to sound out there, but I'm taking Lola and four of her friends to some teen heartthrob's concert at Key Arena this weekend. Want to help me chaperone? Assuming you could land a babysitter."
"In Seattle?" Was he out of his ever-loving mind?
"Yeah, but I have my own plane. I'll pick you up. Talking you through the flight process might make it easier. Michael loved flying. I know he'd hate for you to now be afraid."
"He would be upset with me over the way I freaked out…" Erratic thoughts, fluctuating between terror, her responsibilities to her babies and finally school-girl excitement, Stephanie gushed, "Oh, what the heck? I'll make arrangements for the twins to stay with my friends. I can't believe I'm agreeing to this!" She put a hand to her flushed cheek.
Brady had his own plane, and would travel all that way? Just for her? Pulse supersonic, she tried to focus more on the prospect of conquering her fear of flying, rather than the vision of their surf-flavored kiss. She didn't want something like that to happen again. Michael might've been all for her starting over, but if her reaction to Brady's impromptu advances had taught her anything, it's that she wasn't anywhere near ready to put her heart out on the line again.
* * *
The next morning, Stephanie pressed a copper turkey cookie cutter into fragrant sugar-cookie dough. Repeating the action a dozen times, she placed the birds on a sheet pan, pleased with the result.
The bell jingled over the front door, signaling she had a customer. Marching out of the back, Stephanie was happy to see one of her favorite customers, Paula Fletcher.
"Hear you're off on a big date." The woman's red wig resembled a poorly trimmed shrub and her glasses had enough bling to blind were she to stand in the sun.
"I hardly call it a date. More like an outing." Stephanie retrieved the woman's special-order cornucopia cookies she'd wanted for her grandkids, and then rang her up. "Where'd you hear about it?"
"Ran into your sister at the bank." Paula removed a bedazzled pink wallet from her purse. "She told me you and Michael used to be couple friends with Brady and his ex. I like that. Makes me feel better about you flying off with him. Although all of us down at the beauty shop are worried you might not have properly checked his credentials."
Cringing inside, Stephanie became highly concerned about the state of her untidy napkins.
"Lucky for you," Paula rambled on, "a client of mine has a plane down at the municipal airport, and she said, her husband did a little checking, and your Brady has a plane that costs more than half the houses in this town. In fact—"
"Paula." Stephanie struggled for just the right way to tell her valued customer to mind her own business! "Brady's hardly mine, and while I appreciate you looking out for me, really, I've got this whole thing covered."
Looking unconvinced, Paula harrumphed. "If you say so. Just be sure to take your medicine. We don't want another Miami incident on our hands."
Swell. Was there any part of her life off-limits from the whole town?
Thankfully, another customer came to the rescue by needing her amaretto éclair order stat. Usually, her friend and employee, Helen, ran the front of the shop, but she'd taken an early lunch, so that when Brady arrived, Stephanie would be free to leave.
An hour passed, during which Stephanie helped more customers while every so often popping into the kitchen to check on cookies and the batch of cherry turnovers she'd just started. Brady had said he'd be in around eleven. Meaning, he was due in just under twenty minutes.
Butterflies didn't do justice to the riot in her stomach. More like attacking locusts!
Even though she should've been rolling out turnovers, she made a hasty call to check up on her girls. Michaela had been extra fussy. They attended the same Montessori day care as Olivia's son. Some months, it was a struggle to afford, but while working, she needed to know her girls were receiving expert care. Olivia had offered to pick up all three infants, keeping them with her over the weekend.
The bell over the door jingled six more times before she looked up from the front counter to see Brady.
Hand to her runaway heart, it took a moment to find her composure. Though his eyes were hidden behind dark Oakley sunglasses and his cheeks ruddy from November wind and sun, when he aimed his strong white smile at her, his rakish charm drew her in anew.
Chapter Six
"Hey…" He slipped off his glasses, tucking them in an interior pocket of a weathered leather coat.
Not thinking, just doing, she ran out from behind the counter to crush him in a hug. He made her feel closer to Michael. Like in reuniting with one of his friends, a piece of her husband was still with her. "I missed you."
Laughing, he returned her hug full-force and said, "I missed you, too. You look beautiful."
Stepping back, putting her hand to her no doubt flour-smudged hair, she turned away to hide flaming cheeks. "You need corrective lenses. But thanks."
"You're welcome." Looking at his surroundings, he whistled. "Impressive. You did all of this?"
Humbled by his praise, she said, "Michael and my sister helped. The three-story building had been condemned, and we bought it for owed taxes. It took six months and more cash than I like to remember to get it to this state." The redbrick, former general store had been built in 1903. After thirty years of its intended use, the corner building sat vacant during the Great Depression. Since then, it'd been used as everything from a day care to a law firm. Water damage decimated the upper floors. Downstairs, all that remained of the original finishes were the high, pressed-tin ceiling and lovingly restored maple floors.
From there, they'd painted the walls a sunny yellow and varnished the maple trim. At an auction, they'd found an antique, marble-topped counter. On top of it sat an old brass cash register. Behind the cou
nter were the custom glass cases where her pastries were stored. Since the industrial kitchen had taken up most of the first floor, there had only been room for three tables, but they were also antique—round oak glowing with lemon oil. Wing chairs were upholstered in a rich burgundy-and-honey floral brocade. French country plaid curtains framed tall, paned windows. Finishing out the decor was Stephanie's rooster collection and vases filled year-round with fresh flowers.
"Hungry?" she asked from behind the counter, gesturing toward an assortment of fresh-baked treats.
"You know it. I'll have a cinnamon roll and black coffee."
"Excellent choice." Glad for the diversion of filling his order, she took his roll from the case, setting it on a saucer before filling a mug from a brass and copper coffee urn that was from the 1800s.
"How much do I owe you?"
She waved off his offer. "How was your flight?"
"Uneventful. You weren't on it." He winked.
"Ha-ha." It was nice to laugh over the incident.
Lisa, Gabby and Olivia whispered about it. As though Stephanie's panic attacks wouldn't happen if they didn't mention them. Gesturing toward the nearest table, she said, "Have a seat. My coworker, Helen, should be here any minute. I've got my stuff in the back, so we can head out then."
"No worries. We've got severe clear all the way to Seattle."
"You lost me." Shaking her head, she asked, "Severe clear?"
"Sorry. Pilot slang for it's a gorgeous day."
"That," she said with a smile, "I understand."
He chose a sunny corner table, and after delivering his order, she made a coffee for herself—only with a huge dollop of cream and plenty of sugar.
Eyeing her mug, he said, "I should've known you were a lightweight."
She stuck out her tongue, and then sat in the comfy seat across from him. "I can't believe you're here."
"It does feel strange being together outside of Miami. I mean, not together, but—" Reddening, he turned his attention toward his cinnamon roll.
"I get it," she said, ducking behind her mug for a sip of coffee. She also got his message—that when it came to a repeat performance of their kiss, it wasn't going to happen.
The bell over the door jingled.
Helen bustled in, both hands filled with shopping bags. She was a stout middle-aged woman with short-cropped black hair and a perpetual smile. "Sorry I'm late getting back. You wouldn't believe the sale at Merrimack's."
"Good, huh?" Stephanie grinned at her pack rat friend.
"Halloween was on clearance, and I got a whole set of ghost china and pumpkin napkin rings to match for practically nothing." With the bags hefted onto the counter, she turned to their guest. "Brady, I presume?"
Rising, he nodded, extending his hand for her shake. "Yes, ma'am. And you must be the infamous Helen?"
Helen flushed. "Has my supposed friend been telling stories on me?"
"Not at all. Just explaining that you're her relief."
"In that case—" she gripped his fingers as if they were candy bars marked down seventy-five percent "—nice to meet you."
Looking from Stephanie to Helen with a mischievous grin, he said, "Why do I get the feeling I'm missing good gossip?"
"With this one?" Hooking her thumb toward Stephanie, Helen snorted. "Boring as they come. Me, on the other hand, I could tell you stories that—"
"Okay," Stephanie said, already on her way to the back room to grab her purse and small satchel, "I'm thinking that's our cue to leave."
"Now?" Feigning disappointment, Brady teased Helen, "This was just getting good."
"She always has been a party pooper," Helen said in regard to her boss.
Ignoring her, Stephanie asked Brady, "Ready?"
He nodded. "Helen, it's been a pleasure."
"Likewise," she noted, ambushing him with a hug. "Mmm. You are a tall drink of water. Been a while since I've had my hands on anything as delicious as you."
"Helen!" Mortified, Stephanie hustled Brady toward the door. "I'll have my cell on if you need anything. And if it gets slow, just close up. Now that it's getting dark so early, I don't like you driving at night."
"Yes, Mom," Helen said with a snappy salute. On their way out the door, Helen added, "Don't do anything I wouldn't!"
"I'm guessing that pretty much leaves the door wide-open?" Brady asked with a wry smile.
"I refuse to discuss it in polite company." Hand on the small of her back, he led her to the airport courtesy vehicle, an old white station wagon parked at the curb. It had more dents than paint.
"I'm thinking that may be my cue to dump you and take Helen?"
She elbowed him.
Grinning, he took her bags, setting them in the back-seat. Opening the passenger side door, he gestured for her to climb in, but when she misjudged the space between the curb and car, she tripped.
"Whoa. I've gotcha." His hands around her waist felt strong and secure. The antithesis of her suddenly haywire pulse. "You okay?"
She nodded. "Lisa talked me into taking my anti-anxiety meds. Guess I'm a little woozy."
"Then I guess it's a good thing I'm the one flying." After getting her safely into the car, he climbed behind the wheel. Stephanie laughed when he turned the ignition and the engine sounded as if it belonged on a tugboat rather than a car.
"You making fun of my ride?"
Enough black smoke belched out of the exhaust to block the rear-window view.
"Maybe."
"Once you see our next ride," he said, pulling away from the curb, "you'll eat your words."
* * *
AFTER EASING THE COURTESY vehicle back into its appointed spot at the airfield, Brady turned to Stephanie. Her breathing had deepened and judging by the frequency of her blinks, she was having a tough time staying awake.
"Hey…" He nudged her fully conscious. "Am I that boring that I've already put you to sleep?"
She answered with a politely covered yawn. "Maybe I shouldn't have taken my medicine so soon?"
"You're fine." Out of the car, he walked around to open her door and help her to an upright position before grabbing her bags. "Sleepy beats the hell out of zip ties."
"Heh, heh, heh."
"Sorry. Couldn't resist."
"Try."
Holding open the FBO's door, Brady ushered Steph into the business office where the fueler stood behind a tall counter.
"Afternoon." He tipped his red Razorbacks cap. Though his face had been leathered by age and sun, his welcoming smile didn't look a day over eighteen. "Great day for flyin'."
"That it is," Brady said, setting the car's keys on the counter. "Thanks for the ride."
"Our pleasure." After hanging the keys on the end of a row of wall-mounted hooks, he asked, "Want me to top you off?"
"Please." Brady handed over his Visa.
"Help yourself to the amenities." The man gestured toward an island of modern equipment—computer, phone, fax, copier—in what was otherwise an outdated shed.
"Hang tight over here for a few minutes," Brady said, guiding Steph to a seating area featuring a commercial coffeemaker spitting out heavenly smelling brew. Dark paneled walls provided the perfect background for sagging black sofas and a magazine rack filled with an array of aviation magazines guaranteed to send his companion into a nice, deep slumber. "I'm going to check weather and file a flight plan."
"Okeydoke." Her smile was off. Like she wasn't only sleepy, but a smidge pharmacologically toasted.
He found a Good Housekeeping and put it in her hands. "Need anything? Something to drink?"
"No, thanks."
He poured black coffee into a china mug, dropped a quarter into the Honor Jar, and then sat at the computer desk to fill out an online flight plan and check the weather.
Finished, he asked Steph, "You going to be all right if I head outside to help with the tie-downs?"
Eyes closed with her chin drooping, she nodded.
If this had been a date, he'd take her napp
ing to be a bad sign, but knowing her history and the struggle she faced with flying, he knew she needed the calming medication.
The sun lied. Even though it was a bright day, cold had settled into the bowl-shaped valley Stephanie called her home. Ramming icy fingers into his coat pockets, he spent a few minutes chatting with the fueler, finalized his gas purchase, and then grabbed his fuel strainer before starting his preflight check. Looking over his inherited Beechcraft Baron 58 never got old. High-gloss white with royal-blue, gold and red accents, she was a sight to behold. Brady missed his uncle Fred but every time he flew, he hoped the old guy was upstairs loving the ride every bit as much as him.
Checking the engine and the nose, Brady wished Steph were with him. It might be useful to her to understand that with proper precautions, flying was as safe—hell, in many ways safer—than climbing in her family car.
Finished, he headed back inside for his passenger.
"Ready?" he asked, giving her shoulder a gentle nudge.
"Mmm…" Her yawn and sleepy stretch was topped off by a drowsy smile. "How long was I out?"
"Only long enough to miss out on all of the work."
"Cool."
"Lucky thing I'm not charging you for this trip or that attitude would have you paying double."
"Sorry. Maybe on the return trip, I'll have more energy."
"Don't sweat it. Although…" He pulled a TransGlobal ball cap he'd picked up at his last training review from his coat pocket. "I was planning on giving you this as a party favor, but now—"
"Ooh!" Suddenly awake, she snatched it from him. "Michael always tried winning me one of those but he was much better at piloting than raffling. Thanks." Loosening the Velcro at the back of the cap, she fit it to her head, and pulled her ponytail out of the back. "I'm good to go."
She sure was. With the exception of his beautiful little girl, his plane had never had a better-looking fare.
* * *
"IS THAT NORMAL?" STEPHANIE asked about three minutes into their flight. She'd made it through crawling into the cockpit alongside him, survived the terror of leaving the ground, having headphones clamp her head like a vise, and seriously having to pee, only to now grip the arms of her seat tight enough that she was pretty sure she'd leave finger imprints in the fancy leather seats.
The Baby Twins Page 5