Darlene Gardner - Twice the Chance

“Sounds like something your mom used to make,” Terry said. “Was she a good cook, too?”

“I’m not sure,” Jazz answered. “I was mostly raised by my grandma.”

“So your grandmother used to make vinetta?”

She hadn’t, although in a backhanded way Grandma had spurred Jazz’s interest in cooking. If Jazz hadn’t learned her way around the kitchen, she’d have eaten many more sandwiches for dinner.

“No,” Jazz said. “My foster mother did.”

“Really, you grew up in foster care? That must have sucked.”

“It wasn’t so bad.” Jazz hadn’t realized there were worse things than being a ward of the state until she was housed in a prison cell.

“If everything your foster mother made was as tasty as this dip, that must’ve helped.” Terry licked her lips. “Thank the Lord I can’t cook like this. I already snack enough with the kids as it is. Since I quit work, I’ve gained twenty pounds. But anything would be worth it to stay home with them.”

Spoken like a happy stay-at-home mom who was raising well-adjusted kids. If the twins were Jazz’s biological children, she couldn’t have hoped for a more ideal situation.

Terry finished off the cracker. “Do you have any children, Jazz?”

Two children, Jazz thought. Except they’d never really been hers. How could she answer without being untruthful?

“I’ve never been married,” Jazz said.

“Matt hasn’t, either.” Terry’s comment seemed out of context. Before Jazz could say so, Terry added, “Listen, would you be interested in another catering job? We’re having a party for the twins next Sunday in the park. I thought we’d grill but it would be great to have a special cake and some kid-friendly desserts. You do bake, right?”

“I do.” Jazz was once again having a hard time keeping up with Terry. The other woman didn’t have the leisurely Southern drawl that was so prevalent in the Lowcountry. Terry spoke so quickly, her sentences seemed to run together.

A party, Terry had said without naming the occasion. With the school year having started only a few weeks ago and no more holidays on the September calendar, the most logical reason for a celebration was a birthday.

Disappointment cut through Jazz, as sharp as it was unexpected. Robbie and Brooke weren’t her biological children, after all.

Terry kept talking, naming a time and a place as though Jazz had already agreed. And why shouldn’t she now that she no longer needed to avoid Terry, the twins or Matt?

“How does all that sound?” Terry asked.

“Fine.” Jazz didn’t let on that she’d hardly heard a word. “But it would be better if you wrote it all down.”

“You got it.” Terry found a pad on top of the microwave and a pen in a holder by the stove.

Matt came into the kitchen, his eyes zeroing in on his sister and narrowing. “You’re not bothering Jazz again, are you, Terry?”

“For your information,” Terry said haughtily, “I just hired Jazz for the party I’m throwing for the twins.”

“Great!” Matt said, his approval out of proportion to the occasion.

“How old will Brooke and Robbie be?” Jazz didn’t even tense in preparation for the answer.

Terry glanced up from what she was writing on the pad. “Oh, it’s not their birthday. We’re having an adoption-day party.”

CLEANING UP WAS taking too long.

Jazz was desperate to be alone in order to sort out her jumbled thoughts now that she knew the twins were adopted. The party guests were gone, but she couldn’t leave until Matt’s kitchen was as spotless as it had been when she arrived.

Matt was outside on the deck dumping plastic cups and plates in a trash bag while Jazz wiped down counters and washed serving trays.

She spied her empty Crock-Pot on the kitchen counter. She usually let the dish soak so it would be easier to clean but that would delay her departure even more.

Matt would soon come inside the town house.

He’d smile at her and flirt with her, which would only complicate matters further. She hadn’t even told Terry she couldn’t work the party for the twins. She’d meant to but an influx of guests had arrived soon after Terry confirmed that Brooke and Robbie had been adopted.

Making up her mind to leave, Jazz balanced the dirty Crock-Pot on top of her serving trays. She picked up the entire stack and took a few steps toward escape.

The door to the deck slid open, and Matt walked into the kitchen carrying a white plastic garbage bag. He looked tall and handsome with his tousled hair shot through with gold and his shirt untucked, a man most women wouldn’t dream of fleeing. Most women would run toward him.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” he asked. “I still need to write you a check.”

How had payment slipped her mind when it had been her main reason to take the job?

“I, uh—” she hoped to think up an excuse “—was just going to take these dishes out to my car.”

“Let me pay you first so you don’t have to make two trips.” Matt tied the garbage bag closed, set it down and picked up a checkbook and a pen from a side table.

He sat down at the kitchen table, wrote out the check and handed it to her. She was forced to put her dishes down on the kitchen counter to take it.

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