Tanya Michaels - A Dad for Her Twins

Would it be best if he stopped contacting the kids altogether? Given the way Drew was looking at her now, his heart visible in his sapphire eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to ask Mick to do that.

“He could visit,” she finally conceded. “I think it’s unlikely we’ll see him soon, but you never know.”

Kenzie had never found time for another man in her life—not that there’d been a huge selection of age-appropriate bachelors in Raindrop. If she ever dated again, it would be a steady, predictable man with no creative aspirations. Someone she could depend on.

In the meantime, she’d just keep depending on herself.

Though JT routinely lost track of time, his stomach always growled right on schedule at six on Friday. Enchilada night, or possibly taco casserole. His doorbell buzzed at exactly the expected hour—you could set a clock by Mrs. Sanchez—and he crumpled the drawing he’d been working on, tossing it in the general vicinity of an overflowing wastebasket. I should empty that. Mrs. Sanchez would bust his chops about the mess.

He opened the door of the apartment. Roberta Sanchez, who’d raised four children and was approaching double that in grandkids, lived below him with her husband, a MARTA bus driver. When she’d first heard that a widower had moved into Peachy Acres, she’d shown up with a covered pot of chicken tortilla soup. Food had followed every Friday since, with flan on his birthday.

“Buenas noches, Jonathan.” She marched toward his kitchen with a foil-wrapped glass pan.

“Nobody calls me that,” he reminded her.

Over her shoulder, she hitched a dark eyebrow. “Are you calling me a nobody?”

“Of course not.”

“Then shut up. Now be a good boy and find me a clean spoon, if such a thing exists here. No wonder you are uninspired to create beauty, living in such disorganization! Have you painted at all this week?”

He rummaged through a drawer. “You sound like Sean.”

“I sound nothing like that degenerate!” She sniffed. “You should have heard him flirting with my daughter Rosa in the elevator. It’s inappropriate, the things he says to a married woman.”

JT grinned inwardly, knowing full well that Mrs. Sanchez adored Sean, a feeling that was mutual even though Sean called her the Battle Ax.

She paused. “You’re not expecting him, are you? Maybe I should have brought more.”

He eyed the pan. “That would feed an entire dinner party. Is Enrique working the night shift? You could join me.”

“If you want me to join you, you should clean up this pit first.” Despite her words, she pulled two plates down from the cabinet. “I’ll stay. The good Lord knows my company is as close as you’ll get to a dinner party. You don’t want to be a hermit, Jonathan.”

“I’m doing my part to uphold the reclusive artist stereotype.”

“To qualify as an artist, shouldn’t you produce art of some kind?”

Touché. “Nag, nag, nag. It’s a wonder your children haven’t moved farther away.”

She sniffed again, not dignifying his jibe with a response.

The Sanchez family was the kind of close-knit group neither JT nor Holly had ever possessed. Holly would have loved Mrs. Sanchez; initially, that had been why he’d put up with the older woman’s intrusions. But she’d won him over with her drill-sergeant tone and twinkling dark eyes. She seemed to understand his loss without ever expressing the cloying pity that made him want to withdraw more. Plus her cooking was a little piece of pepper-laced heaven.

JT didn’t have a kitchen table, merely three padded, high-backed stools pushed up to the counter. He cleared away a pile of junk mail and an empty pizza box to make room for them to eat. Mrs. Sanchez pulled a carton of milk out of the refrigerator, opened it and immediately grimaced.

“Jonathan, this milk is older than some of my grandchildren.”

“An unfair comparison. You have grandkids born every ten minutes!” He said it lightly, but it was the Sanchez babies that had made him leave the rooftop Fourth of July picnic last month.

Roberta had browbeaten him into attending, but he hadn’t been able to bear it for long. Just as he hadn’t been able to bear the empty nursery in the house he’d shared with Holly. After all the work she’d put into it, wanting it to be perfect for their child, he couldn’t bring himself to paint over a single duck or bunny. The crib he’d assembled sat obscenely empty, and a month after he’d lost his cherished wife and the daughter he’d never had a chance to know, he’d bent over the railing and finally cried, ugly hoarse sobs that felt as if they were splitting him in half. From the moment the doctors had given him the news at the hospital, throughout the memorial service, he’d been too shocked and disbelieving to truly cry. Once he had, instead of feeling better for having poured out some of the pain, he’d been pissed off at the senseless loss.

He’d locked himself in his studio, barely eating or sleeping, trying to purge his enraged grief with painting. When he’d finished the series, he’d been like a man coming out of a coma, disoriented and unsure of how much time had passed. He’d wandered through his own house like a ghost, stopping in the nursery—that bright, cheerful room where he’d wept until he wished he’d died with them. Then he’d walked straight to the phone and arranged to put the house on the market, not caring where he lived as long as it was elsewhere.

“Jonathan.” Suddenly Mrs. Sanchez was there, touching his shoulder. “Sit down. Eat. You need sustenance.” She blessed the food, with a little pause before saying amen and making the sign of the cross. Had she added an extra silent prayer on his behalf?

It was odd. The only child of a wealthy couple, JT hadn’t felt guilty that he was “disappointing” his parents by not going to law school and following in his father’s footsteps. The elder Trelauney stubbornly spoke of a father-son practice even though JT had no interest in becoming an attorney. Instead of wasting his time arguing, JT had simply continued painting, ignoring his father’s scorn over the “pointless scribblings.” You’re on the cusp of manhood, son. Act like it! You’re not some finger-painting toddler. Yet JT had refused to feel ashamed. Now, by not painting, he felt he was disappointing Sean and Mrs. Sanchez—people who were better to him than he deserved—and that bothered him far more than his family’s disapproval ever had.

Though he wasn’t particularly hungry, he forced himself to take a bite of the enchiladas and was immediately rewarded with a spicy blend of rich flavors. “This is really good.”

“I believe you meant great.”

“I believe I did.”

She reached for her glass of water. “You are a good boy, Jonathan. Even if you are a slob.”

He surprised them both with a genuine chuckle.

Mrs. Sanchez looked pleased by this progress. “Mr. C. tells me that someone has moved in across from you. I’m glad. It’s too quiet up here, with 3A unoccupied and that flight attendant in 3B gone half the time.”

JT thought of that moment yesterday when he’d heard a baby shrieking, and had flung open his door. He still didn’t know exactly why he’d reacted that way or what he’d expected to find. Though there had been only a handful of people on a floor that was often deserted except for him, it had sounded as if a deafening mob had descended. He’d heard plaintive shouts of “Mom” clearly directed at Kenzie. Was the baby hers, too? He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t stuck around long enough to inquire.

He winced at the memory and turned to his dinner guest. “It looks like my quiet days are over. The new neighbor lady has kids. Two, maybe three.”