She came over and set the flowers on the floor by J.J., the camera in her hand. There were bright yellow smears of lily pollen all over her red blouse, but she didn’t seem to notice. She crouched down beside Murphy. “We’ve got to get a picture of you, J.J., with Daddy’s pretty flowers.” She snapped the photo and J.J. obliged her with another wet smile; she smiled back, using her thumb to wipe the drool away. Then she glanced at the clock. “Oh, God. Look at the time.” She was on her feet, dragging the towel off her head and looking all frazzled again as she rushed toward the hallway.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Murphy shook his son’s hand again. “Women are very strange creatures, kid. Just remember your old man told you that.”
He heard the hair dryer, then about five minutes after it shut off, Jordan reappeared in the kitchen, wearing a totally different outfit. She gave him a frantic, beseeching look. “Is this more appropriate?”
Murphy knew that most of his family would be in either jeans or hacked-off shorts. But he also knew that Jordan didn’t own either. Trying to keep his tone noncommittal, he nodded. “That’s fine.”
But Jordan didn’t hear him. She got that startled look on her face—the one he’d come to recognize as the milk alarm—and she leaned over and grabbed her breasts. She swore, using language he had never heard her use the whole time he’d known her. Before he could peel his son’s teeny fingers from around his, she rushed out of the room. He tapped his son’s nose, then rose. “James Jeffery, I think it’s time for a little damage control.” He found her in her bedroom, raking hangers across the bar in her closet, openly weeping. For a woman who never, ever cried, she had certainly generated a lot of tears over the past six weeks. He tried to think of something to do to turn off the tap.
Catching her by the shoulder, he turned her around and wrapped her up in a comforting embrace. “Hey, it’s not a big deal,” he said softly. “One wet top is not the end of the world.” Except it was for her, and right then she needed help—which meant he had to come up with a solution. Maybe there really were laundry fairies, because suddenly there was a clear recollection hanging on his mental clothesline. Nearly dizzy with relief, he gave her a little squeeze. “Remember that white gauzy outfit you wore last summer—you know, with the long skirt and the jacket thing that went with it? The top had big gold buttons, and you wore a long gold belt with the skirt.” Hell, he couldn’t remember exactly what the outfit was like, except that she looked like something out of The Great Gatsby in it. He glanced around the room. It was obvious by the multicolored piles heaped on the bed that the clothes dilemma had been going on for quite a while. If it was anyone other than Jordan, it would have been funny. He still wanted to smile but he didn’t dare. Instead, he gave her another encouraging squeeze. “You know which one I’m talking about?”
She sniffled and nodded. Bolstered by her response, he continued. “I really like that outfit, and it would be perfect. Nice and cool, and if you, urn, leak, no one will know because of the jacket.” Loosening his hold, he leaned back so he could see her face. “Okay? Would that work?”
She nodded again, tears spiking her long lashes, and Murphy wanted to kiss her in the worst way—but he didn’t. That would be a little too underhanded when she was barely hanging on by a thread. Taking her face between his hands, he smiled into her eyes. “Okay?” She gave her head a little jerk, and he let his hands slide to her shoulders. “Okay,” he repeated, confirming her answer.
Except it wasn’t okay. The little demon in his mind said it wasn’t okay. He didn’t want her putting clothes on. He wanted her taking her clothes all off.
Disgusted with himself, he turned and headed out the door. Man, there was something about being in a room with her where there was an unmade bed that just about drove him crazy.
Chapter 7
By the time Murphy finished loading everything into the Explorer, he was sure they had enough baby stuff to go on a six-month trek. If he’d thought the trip to the doctor was bad, it had nothing on this expedition. Just how could a kid who would fit in a large shoe box require so much for a day’s outing? He didn’t get it.
But the packing was the least of it. Jordan was a mental wreck. At the very last minute, she got in a panic because she hadn’t prepared anything to take in the way of food. He told her no one expected them to bring anything to eat—they were bringing the star attraction. That got a tiny smile out of her, except she was so pale, he half expected her to pass out,
But she did look beautiful. She’d pulled her glossy blond hair back from her face and secured it with a white ruffly thing. And the white outfit, with a pale yellow camisole underneath the jacket, was even more gauzy and light than he remembered. She had on gold sandals, the long gold belt and gold loops in her ears. She looked as if she’d just floated off the cover of a fashion magazine, and he told her so. She went from pale to pink, which he thought was darned cute, as well as being a very good sign.
By the time they got to his parents’, she’d gone all pale again, and from the pulse in her neck, Murphy figured her heart rate must be running about 150 beats a minute. She hadn’t said more than ten words since they left her place, and she looked as if she was ready to either bolt or throw up. He pretended not to notice.
He parked on the street, but when he opened the door to get out, she grasped his wrist, looking at him with panicky eyes. “I don’t remember all their names. Or what they do.”
Figuring the family chronology might take her mind off it, he settled back in his seat. “Okay. Baba is my paternal grandmother, and everybody calls her Baba. She was a twenty-something war bride, and spoke barely any English when she and my grandfather—and my father—immigrated to Canada right after the war Grandfather had been married before, but his first wife died when Dad was born. So my dad is one hundred percent Irish. But Baba is the only mother he’s ever known—and Dad thinks the sun rises and sets on her—but so did my grandfather.
“My parents are Ellen and Patrick. Dad is semiretired and they spend a lot of time on the golf course these days.” He rested his wrist on top of the steering wheel as he watched her. “Got that?”
She nodded, concentrating so hard she had creases in her forehead.
He shifted in his seat and continued. “Kids, from the top. Mitchell, divorced for fifteen years, owns and operates a big garden center with greenhouses and a nursery. He’s fifteen months older than me. I’m next. Then there’s Jessica. She’s exactly nine months younger than I am—which has been the source of some serious ribbing as far as my parents are concerned. So she’s thirty-five, a psychologist with the Calgary Public School Board, married to Marco, my crew foreman. They have three kids. Mark is eight, Molly’s six and Sarah, two. The next in line is Cameron, thirty-two. He’s a civil engineer and is working on a big dam project in Bolivia. The last in line are the twins, Caroline and Cora. They’re almost thirty. Caroline is married to Jake, and they have two kids. Cassie, five, and Kevin, three. She was a computer programmer but quit when Kevin was born. And she and Jake have their own business, setting up computer networks. Cora is married to Martin. No kids, both of them lawyers.”
Jordan had her eyes shut, and he could tell by the way her lips were moving that she was reciting names. Figuring that was going to keep her distracted, he got out and unloaded baby stuff, including the Baba Blankie. There was such a pile on the ground that he figured it was going to take a whole mule train to get everything moved to the backyard. He also unloaded the car seat with his son still in it, who was frowning at the world, as if trying to figure out what in heck was going on. Murphy set him in the shade of the truck, then opened the passenger’s door. Jordan was sitting there with her head pressed back against the headrest, her eyes shut tight, her hand pressed against her middle as if she was going to be sick.
Because she was so fair, he’d suggested she bring a sun hat, and the white straw confection with a rolled brim was sitting on her knees. He picked it up, laid it on top of the diaper bag, th
en leaned back in the truck and undid her seat belt. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get this over with.”
He grasped her hand, which was like ice, and urged her out, then slammed the door. She was looking up at him with those wide gray eyes, anxiety making her whole body rigid.
Murphy knew the anxiety was more about J.J. than about her. And he knew that because of her history, the one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world was for her son to be accepted into the Munroe clan. To have the family she never had.
But somehow he had to get her from here to there. Wanting to erase that awful panicky expression in her eyes, he decided to give her something else to think about.
Grasping her face in his hands, he tipped her head back and covered her mouth with a soft, slow kiss. For an instant, he figured maybe he had blown it big time, but then she made a low sound and grasped his wrists, her mouth going slack beneath his. The moist warmth of that kiss sent a jolt of heat right through him, and he tightened his grip on her face, his heart starting to lumber like crazy in his chest. Getting far more than he bargained for, and a whole hell of a lot less than he wanted, Murphy put everything he had into that kiss—need, want, passion—but mostly it was all his pure, unadulterated feelings for her. He wanted to widen his stance and crush her against him, to feel her heat against his hardness, but he clamped down hard on that fevered urge, and simply held her face as he drank from her mouth.
Knowing he had to put the brakes on before this got entirely out of hand, he clasped her face tighter and slowly withdrew. His breathing was labored and his heart was pounding; his knees were so weak that he was surprised he was still standing. Lord, he was pumped. Right down to his toes. Taking a very deep, uneven breath, he brushed her mouth with one last kiss, aware that her pulse and respiration were just as ragged as his. Lifting his head, he gazed down at her, giving her an intimate smile. “Nice, Kennedy. Very, very nice.”
She looked absolutely stunned. Taking a certain amount of male satisfaction from the glazed, staggered expression in her eyes, Murphy wiped her mouth with his thumb, then abruptly let her go. He picked up her hat, jammed it on her head, then grabbed the car seat with J.J. in it in one hand, her wrist in the other and headed to the side gate. Now all he had to do was get her into the yard before she recovered.
The whole family was going to be there, except Cameron. Even Mitch, who weaseled out of family get-togethers if at all possible, said he’d come. But Murphy didn’t blame her for being apprehensive. With his brother, his three sisters, along with their spouses, plus nieces and nephews, his parents and of course Baba, it was quite a crowd. Usually, there would have been an additional swarm of aunts and uncles and assorted cousins, but there was no way he wanted to dump all that on Jordan—at least not the very first time. It was his father who had suggested they keep it just immediate family, for Jordan’s sake. Which said a whole lot for his old man.
Urging her through the gate ahead of him, Murphy pressed his palm against the small of her back, then once through, grasped her hand and forced his fingers through hers. Her skin was still as cold as ice, and she gripped him, her whole body taut.
Ellen Munroe was the first to spot them, and dropped a beach ball and started toward them. “Well, finally. Here they are.”
It was sort of like being attacked by a flock of hungry sea gulls, with everyone flapping around them and squawking over the baby. Murphy made all the introductions and handed over J.J., but he hung on to Jordan. He drew her closer when he realized she was trembling. It was his big brother, Mitch, who came to their rescue. He was as tall as Murphy—six foot two on the nose, and their wide-shouldered builds were identical. They looked enough alike that some people had trouble telling them apart. Except Mitch’s hair was a darker shade of blond. But it was in disposition that they differed. Murphy had always been more of a hothead and hell-raiser, at least until he started his own business. Mitch had been more serious, more reserved and, as a kid, more responsible. His mother claimed it was because he was the eldest of six. The rest of the family said it was because he didn’t get a drop of Irish blood in him.
Mitch didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to the baby. And other than a slap on the shoulder, he pretty much ignored Murphy. Instead, he gave Jordan that slow, lopsided smile of his that made his hazel eyes crease—the exact same smile that he used to make all the girls collapse at his feet. Holding her gaze, he stretched out his hand. “Jordan—wel—come. Just so you know—my brothers and sisters are sort of like mosquitoes. You have to keep slapping them away to get them to leave you alone. So until you get the hang of it, I’ll give you a hand.”
Murphy could actually feel some of the tension leave her, and her smile, although a little strained, was real enough. She took his brother’s hand. “I think I can handle mosquitoes.”
Mitch continued to hold Jordan’s hand, and Murphy cocked an eyebrow at him. Mitch gave her a bad-boy grin and kissed her knuckles. Baba appeared beside him and slapped his hand away. “Mosquitoes with hands. Enough.” She gave him a scolding look, then fixed her gaze on Jordan. Baba was maybe five foot three and a little on the roly-poly side, but she had almond-shaped hazel eyes and the high cheekbones of her Slavic ancestors. She had been beautiful as a young woman, but the beauty had aged and softened into gentle wrinkles.
But in spite of her small stature, Baba was a force to be reckoned with. And every one of her grandkids would have walked over hot coals for her.
She sized up Jordan, unabashedly assessing her, then she smiled that smile that made her eyes twinkle. Taking Jordan’s face between her hands, she pulled her down and planted a kiss on either cheek. Then she patted Jordan’s face, and announced, “This one we keep.” Smacking Murphy’s hand so he’d let go of Jordan’s, Baba caught her arm and led her away. “Come. We talk.”
Jordan shot Murphy a bemused look, as if to say, What do I do now? He grinned and winked at her, letting her know she was on her own.
Ellen Munroe had J.J. out of his car seat and was holding him down for his little cousins to see. Jessica, the sister who was married to Marco, had three kids of her own, and she’d always been sappy over babies. Moving in from the side, she tried to snitch J.J. His mother turned away, not about to give up her newest grandson. “Not a chance, Jess. If we start passing him around, this poor little man will be mauled to death inside an hour.”
The “poor little man” made baby sounds, blew bubbles and actually chortled, totally charming Grandma by waving his fists at her. Grandma got that mushy look in her eye. Murphy figured Jessica would have to wrestle his mother to the ground if she was ever going to get to hold the baby.
Mitch watched the goings-on between his sister and mother, then grinned and slapped his brother on the back. “Now you’ve done it, bro. Thrown the chicken in with the foxes, so to speak.”
“Yeah. Well.” Murphy could see that Baba had taken Jordan over to sit under the sprawling ornamental cherry tree, where the lawn furniture was arranged—four bent-willow chairs, an old willow rocker and a park bench situated in a vine-covered arbor. They were sitting side by side on the bench, and Baba was holding Jordan’s hand, focused completely on whatever Jordan was saying.
Mitch headed toward the huge cooler. “Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”
Within an hour, it was clear that Jordan was going to be just fine. And Murphy was damned proud of how his family handled the whole situation. It was if they all sensed Jordan’s apprehension, and everyone gave her time to settle in. His sisters didn’t all gather around her as they normally would have done, but they sought her out, one at a time. But once it was obvious that Jordan had settled into a comfort zone, they’d gathered around, and now all the women were clustered together under the shade of the cherry tree. Baba was in the rocking chair holding J.J., and Jordan was sitting on the grass beside her, her legs stretched out in front of her, her arms braced, her white hat on the grass by her thigh. Off to the side, in full sunshine, Murphy’s dad had set up th
e huge paddle pool and the sprinkler, and the kids were tearing through them both, shrieking and shouting, their wet bathing suits glistening in the sun.
But Jordan sat framed within the circle of shade from the cherry tree, her white filmy skirt dappled with shadows. Directly behind her, the wide, three-tier flower gardens provided a backdrop of vivid splashes—reds and purples, pinks and yellows, clumps of white. Hundreds of shades of colors and textures, superimposed against the clear blue sky, the lush green grass. With the bright red-and-blue-and-yellow beach balls and wet-skinned children, and with the women sitting in the shade around her, it was as if Jordan had been framed in a Renoir painting. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
His three brothers-in-law and his father had gone inside for a game of pool, but Mitch was stretched out on the grass beside him, a beer resting on his chest. He spoke, interrupting their silence. “So,” his brother asked, “are you going to marry her?”
Murphy was sitting with his back braced against the trunk of the willow tree that had once held their tree house. Stalling for time, he took a long swig from his bottle, then wedged it between his thighs. His expression sober, he picked up a leaf from the ground and began stripping out the vein. “I don’t know.”
Mitch turned his head and gave him a sharp look. “Why not?”
Murphy met his gaze and shrugged. “I would have married her five days after I met her, but she’s got some baggage. And she’s running scared.”
“Divorced?”
Murphy picked up his bottle and raised it to his lips. “Nope.”
Mitch let a couple of beats go by, then commented in a good-old-boy tone. “How about them Cannons?”
He may as well have whacked Murphy on the back while he was trying to drink. Coughing and choking, he felt as if he’d inhaled the entire contents of the bottle. Damn, what was it about this place? First his mother nearly strangled him, now Mitch.
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