Finn's Twins!

by Anne McAllister

  "Did you see me row?" Tansy asked him, her bright eyes shining.

  "You did good."

  Tansy agreed. "For my first time," she said matter-of-factly. "I'd rather swim, but it was fun. What'll we do now?" she asked Izzy.

  Izzy said, "I think it's about time to go back to the apartment and start fixing supper."

  Finn fell in alongside her. "When did you learn to row?"

  Izzy hadn't said too much about her grandfather or her background. Now she found herself telling him about life with the loving and completely unconventional man who had raised her.

  "He'd had one son who, because he'd been in the Navy and then in the merchant marine, was mostly raised by his wife. He didn't know anything about raising children—especially little girls—but he just dug in and made up his mind to do it." Her eyes got a faraway look in them as she remembered so many of the things they'd done. "I learned a lot of things most little girls never do." She looked up at Finn and smiled. "We learned together."

  "Is this a pep talk?" he asked suspiciously.

  "Let's just say that my grandfather did a very good job and I wouldn't have missed a minute of it. I think you can, too."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FINN suspected that Izzy's grandfather, notwithstanding his many years at sea, had had a lot more experience being a part of a loving, responsible family than Finn did.

  All Finn had were a few memories that were so early and so fleeting that sometimes he wondered if he hadn't simply imagined them, and nine years of being jerked from one foster home to another—some better, some worse—but always someone else's home. Never his.

  He couldn't remember ever feeling like he belonged somewhere. He didn't know how to relax, let down his guard, open his heart. Hell, sometimes he thought he didn't have a heart. And he wasn't entirely sorry. Hearts got broken. His had been so many years ago that whatever he had left only beat. It didn't love. He didn't know how.

  Izzy did. It didn't take him long to discover that.

  He watched her when she was with the girls, smiling, teasing, playing, reading them a book, showing them how to slice carrots, teaching them how to row. He watched when she smoothed their curls away from their faces, when she gave their hands an extra squeeze, when she bowed her head and said their prayers with them, when she bent to kiss them good-night.

  Sometimes his throat hurt when he watched. He won­dered if he was coming down with a cold, but it was a damned selective virus. It only flared up around Izzy. He took refuge behind his camera lens. It beat tissue, and he got all the kisses, all the smiles, all the gentle touches down on film.

  He didn't dare try them himself.

  Tansy spoke to him now and then—but only if she was so caught up in the moment that she forgot who he was. When she remembered, she retreated. He remem­bered having done that, remembered thinking, what if he started to like someone, to trust someone—and they left? What if he was wrong to trust? What if they weren't trustworthy at all?

  A part of him wanted to warn them against trusting Izzy. She was going to leave them, after all. She was only waiting until her beloved Sam returned.

  He was due back in the middle of the following week. Finn had found that out by calling his office. Then Izzy called and left a message, telling him she was in town and leaving the number at Finn's place. So really it was only a matter of time.

  And knowing that annoyed him. But when he chal­lenged her about it one night after she'd got the girls tucked up in bed and had come back downstairs, she had looked totally surprised.

  "What do you mean, won't I be betraying them?"

  "You're going to leave!" he pointed out. "Hell, you'd be gone now if your boyfriend had been there to take you in!"

  "I would have come and visited. I would have had them over to see me. I wasn't going to walk out of their lives."

  "Yeah?" he said doubtfully.

  "Yeah," Izzy replied in exactly the same truculent tone. Then she smiled at him, a sweet smile. An angel's smile. "I would never abandon a friend, Finn."

  And, God help him, he believed her.

  But just the same, he intended to make damn sure that she stayed around for the girls as long as they needed her. So during the next week—a week in which Isobel took his list and dutifully lined up half a dozen inter­views for prospective nannies—he prepared to find something wrong with all of them. As it happened, one by one they all got shot down.

  And the true beauty of it was that Finn didn't have to do any of the shooting. Tansy and Pansy and, once, even Isobel herself, took care of that.

  One was "too grouchy," one was "too neat." One "didn't have any sense of humor," another "didn't seem very clean." One was "too slow," and the last "had a pierced nose and some rather risqué tattoos."

  "Wish I'd seen her," Finn said, grinning when Izzy told him.

  It was Thursday night. They'd—no, she'd—got the girls to bed and now they were sitting in the living area, he at one end of the black leather sofa, Isobel and all her interviewing notes at the other. She had her legs curled under her, and he still thought she looked like a bird in a nest, sort of fluffy and appealing. Her new haircut seemed a part of her now, highlighting her bright, expressive face, making her extremely appealing. It was shaggy and seemed to move and bounce when she did. His fingers itched to touch it, to ruffle her feathers. He knew he was supposed to be commiserating with her ef­forts, but he didn't much feel like it. He felt more like shoving her notes and scribblings on the floor and spending the time in a more interesting way.

  He shoved the thought away. She was engaged to Sam Fletcher, for God's sake!

  Isobel, completely unaware of the direction of his thoughts, laughed. "She was a classic, that girl. I'm used to a far-out types. San Francisco has its share. But this one—" she shook her head "—she'd have given the girls an education."

  Finn didn't think they needed an education. He was out of his league dealing with his nieces just the way they were. Not that he spent much time trying. They still intimidated him. And they hadn't exactly been eager for his company, either.

  "—don't know where we're going to come up with any more candidates," lsobel was saying.

  "What's the hurry?"

  "I've been here a week!"

  "Sam's still gone. And we haven't finished making you over yet."

  Izzy touched her hair self-consciously. "I'm…all right," she said. "Feeling braver."

  "Good. But if you think Amelia Fletcher is going to ooh and aah over those wretched plaid shorts you're wearing…"

  Izzy flushed and squirmed in her corner of the sofa. "They're comfortable. Maybe you're right. Maybe I should get some better clothes."

  "Different clothes. I have a friend who will help you."

  "But—"

  "It's part of the deal," he said firmly. "So's the manicure you're getting tomorrow morning." He reached over and picked up one of her hands. Her nails were a far cry from the clean smooth ovals of the women he saw every day.

  "Picture framer's nails," she said now and tugged her hand away from his, hiding the torn cuticles and rough-edged nails beneath the hem of her shirt. "It's an oc­cupational hazard."

  "Think Sam will allow it?" He saw her fingers tighten into fists and felt guilty for preying on her insecurities. "Don't worry about it. Just show up. Carlota is doing me a special favor."

  Izzy folded her arms across her chest. "I don't need special favors."

  "Stubborn, are we?" he mocked her. "That's im­pressive. And so mature. She's coming all the way in from Bayside."

  Izzy pressed her lips together, then sagged slightly. "Oh, all right."

  Finn gave a satisfied nod. Izzy sighed and stretched her arms over her head. On one of his models Finn would have been able to catch a glimpse of an inch or two of bare midriff. On Izzy all he got was a voluminous amount of chartreuse T-shirt.

  Still he found himself watching her more than he liked. She might not have the grace of his models, but she moved easily, artlessly.
Used as he was to women who did everything with such calculation, it was a pleasure to watch Izzy simply move with enthusiasm, with joy.

  He didn't only watch her move. He watched the way she acted. He liked seeing her by herself. He liked seeing her with the girls.

  When he was a kid, he remembered having fantasies about what a mother ought to be like. He didn't much remember his own, and what he did remember wasn't the stuff of which fantasies were made. But the feelings he got watching Izzy with the girls recalled those fantasies.

  Next thing you know you'll want her in there tucking you in at night, too, he thought wryly. Only if she gets in, too, was the thought immediately following.

  As if she'd read his mind, Izzy bounced up off the sofa. "Well," she said briskly, "it's getting late. And I have a big day tomorrow—a manicure!" She waggled her fingers at him. "I'd better go on up to bed."

  I'll come with you. The words formed in his mind before he even realized it. Thank God he didn't say them.

  "Good night." She gave him a bright smile, then van­ished up the stairs.

  Finn raked a hand through his hair. "Good grief, MacCauley," he muttered. "Get a life."

  "Damn it, Tracy. Stop scratching." Finn jerked his head out from behind the camera and glowered at super­model Tracy Holborn. "They aren't paying you a thousand dollars an hour to scratch your belly."

  "They aren't paying me a thousand dollars an hour, period." Tracy pouted at him. "I can't help it if there are mosquitoes." It was one of the joys of shooting on location—putting up with all that nature had to offer.

  "There are no mosquitoes in New York," Finn told her firmly, ducking behind the camera again.

  "That's bull," Tracy retorted, wrinkling her nose and swatting again.

  "Mind over matter, sweetheart." Finn said unsympathetically. "Give me a sultry look. Not quite so much pout." He scowled into the camera again, trying to find the mood. He was shooting a specialty catalogue of clothes for professional women. It was called Urban Jungle, but without megabucks, Central Park was as close to jungle as they were going to get. Still, it was his job to make it seem jungly—dangerous and hot and very, very green. It was Tracy's job to look like dynamite in the clothes. She was squirming again.

  "Okay, okay. Stop and scratch." He waited until she was ready, then drew a deep breath. "Now give me more shoulder. Dip it down. Drop your chin a little. That's it. Perfect!"

  "Her hair's mussed," the stylist protested, moving into camera range to fuss with it.

  "Leave it!" Finn barked. "It's supposed to be mussed, damn it. This is a jungle. Her hair's fine. She's fine." He shot, moved, then shot again. And again. The stylist grumbled. Finn clicked the shutter, adjusted, clicked again. More.

  "I don't want to!" He heard a childish protest some­where behind him, breaking the mood.

  He ignored it, continuing to shoot. "That's right. More lip. Let me see the tip of your tongue. That's it. Yeah." He ran his tongue over his own lips.

  "Why can't we go with you?" the same childish voice demanded.

  "Yeah. Why can't we? He doesn't want us. He yells at us."

  "He doesn't yell at you," a soft feminine voice coun­tered. "Not very often, anyway."

  "He hates us. Please, Izzy. Pu-leeze?"

  Izzy?

  The childish voices took on sudden meaning.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  Finn spun around, disbelieving. Sure enough, there she was with Pansy and Tansy clutching either hand.

  "Mrs. Strong is ill," Izzy said. "So I brought them to you."

  "What?" He thought he'd misheard her.

  "I went to the studio for the manicure as you com­manded—" she made a face at him "—and I found out Mrs. Strong isn't there today. So if you want me to get this manicure, you'll have to watch the girls."

  "I'm in the middle of a shoot."

  "So I see. Fine. Then I won't go. It's okay with me. You can call your friend and tell her so."

  And Carlota would have his head on a plate. She was making a special trip into the city today to do Izzy's hands. She had fussed and fumed, then agreed when Finn reminded her of favors owed. She wouldn't like coming in again. She wouldn't come in again! And as temperamental she was, she wouldn't be thrilled about having to deal with two little girls while she was doing Izzy's hands.

  Finn scowled, trapped. One look at his nieces and he could tell they felt the same way. He glared at them. One took a step back. The other—Tansy, no doubt—stuck her tongue out at him. He felt like sticking his out in return. He sighed. "All right. Leave them."

  Izzy tried to free her hands from the girls' grasp. They clung like limpets. "Go on now. He's waiting," she said.

  "Is not!" said the tongue sticker stoutly.

  "I wanna go with you!" wailed the other one, clinging fast.

  "What the hell's going on?" the catalog rep de­manded, bustling up, poking a pencil in Finn's face. "We aren't shooting little girls, are we?"

  The twins' eyes widened worriedly.

  "Not yet," Finn said grimly.

  Izzy gave him a steely disapproving look.

  "Ooh, aren't they darling?" the hairstylist cooed. "Look at that hair. Did you ever see such a color. And the curl! I could do such wonderful things with that curl."

  "Sierra cut it for us," Tansy said.

  "I can do a better job than Sierra," the stylist sniffed.

  "Great." Finn would take professional rivalry if he couldn't find a baby-sitter. "You do that. And watch them at the same time."

  The stylist looked astonished. "Watch them? But who are they?"

  "My nieces." He looked at Izzy and jerked his head in the stylist's direction. " Give 'em to her."

  Izzy looked doubtfully at the frizzy-haired woman in skintight fuchsia spandex shorts and lime green smock. But Midge, the stylist, apparently accepted the challenge for she met Izzy halfway. The girls, shooting Finn wary glances all the while, put their hands in hers.

  "Do you ever get purple fingers?" he heard Tansy ask.

  "Sierra gots purple fingers," Pansy confided.

  Finn could see the wheels turning in Midge's head. Izzy, looking like a mother abandoning her charges to a kindergarten class run by Attila the Hun, shot him one last speaking glance, then wrung her hands, turned and bolted away.

  The catalog rep protested. "We can't have this. These children can't be here."

  Finn fixed her with a baleful look. "No?"

  The rep took a step backward. "The dis­traction … surely you can't work with distractions?"

  "What the hell do you think you are?" He was gratified when her cheeks turned red. She huffed ner­vously and snapped her pencil in two.

  "Sit down and stop jumping around," Finn said to her. "The sooner you get out of the way, the faster we can get this wrapped up.''

  "But—"

  "You're bothering me again," he said silkily. "They're not bothering me." He glanced at the twins who now clung to Midge's hands and watched in rapt fascination. "Are you?" he asked them pointedly.

  Two heads shook in solemn denial.

  "See?" he said to the ad exec. "If you'd follow their example…"

  She got the point.

  Everyone got the point. No one did anything to slow things down—least of all the twins. They sat as still a church mice on the rock where Midge had put them, watching every move he made in complete silence and total absorption.

  Knowing they were there, staring at him, waiting in morbid anticipation for him to take a bite out of someone for breakfast, kept him totally focused on Tracy. Having Midge fuss with the girls' hair was a stroke of genius, though. It prevented her from rushing to rearrange Tracy's hair after every clothing change. And the cata­log rep, who apparently shared the twins' notion that Finn might at any moment revert to cannibalism, was so cowed that she didn't move until Finn shot the last roll and said, "That's it."

  He straightened and flexed his shoulders, and became suddenly aware that he'd been working flat out for
over two hours. The twins, with upswept spiky hairdos, were right where he left them. He did a double take, gave them a curt nod of approval, then went to pack up.

  He was almost finished—would have been, if he could only find the damn lens cap—when he sensed someone standing next to his elbow. He glanced around.

  Solemn green eyes, elbow height, stared into his. A small hand was thrust out toward him. "You dropped this." It was the lens cap.

  He took it from her, half expecting her to flinch away. She didn't. Undoubtedly it was Tansy. He fitted the cap over the lens. "Thank you."

  She nodded gravely. "You're welcome." Even then she didn't move away, but stood watching every move he made.

  When he'd shut the lid to the camera case, he looked over at her. "You're not scared anymore?"

  "Never was," she said stoutly.

  No, from what he'd seen of Tansy, she probably wasn't. She reminded him of himself as a child—ob­stinate, determined, with more courage than brains. He gave her a faint smile.

  "Pansy is, though," she confided after a moment. "She doesn't like it when you yell. She's not really a fraidy-cat. Most of the time, anyway. Mama says she's… artistic."

  Finn's tongue traced a circle inside his cheek. "Artistic?"

  "She imagines things."

  "I'll bet," Finn said dryly.

  "She does. An' she draws 'em. And paints. She's a better painter than I am."

  "You don't like to paint?"

  Tansy shrugged. "I'm not good at it."

  "What are you good at?"

  "Swimming. And climbing."

  "And framing ogres?" Finn said with a small smile.

  A hint of a smile flickered across her face, too, then disappeared as if she wasn't sure whether to trust him with it. "Yes," she said firmly. "An' Uncle Hewey says I can really throw a baseball."

  Uncle Hewey? Was he the man in Meg's life before Roger? Or was he one of Izzy's sailors? He couldn't re­member and didn't think Tansy was the right person to ask.

  He'd never had a conversation like this with a child. He couldn't remember ever having a conversation of any kind with a child. Not since he was one—and he'd done his best to get over childhood as quickly as possible.