The Marriage Agenda: The Marriage Conspiracy / The Billionaire's Baby Plan

They shared a long look, one full of words they didn’t really need to say out loud.

Three years ago, Dekker’s wife, Stacey, had died. His mama, Lorraine, had passed away not long after. Dekker had done quite a bit of drinking himself in the months following those two sad events.

Dekker said, “Maybe you ought to start whipping up a few casseroles.”

It was a joke between them now, how Joleen had kept after him, dropping in at his place several times a week, pouring his booze down the drain and urging him to “talk out his pain.”

He wouldn’t talk. But she wouldn’t give up on him, either. She brought him casseroles to make sure he ate right and kept dragging him out to go bowling and to the movies. Good, nourishing food and a few social activities had made a difference.

It had also brought them closer. She was, after all, five years younger than Dekker. Five years, while they were growing up, had seemed like a lifetime. Almost as if they were of different generations.

But it didn’t seem that way anymore. Now they were equals.

They were best friends.

She said, “You still have not bothered to tell me why you thought you had to fly off to Los Angeles out of nowhere like that.”

“Later,” he said. “There’s a lot to tell and now is not the time.”

“Were you…in danger?”

“No.”

“Was it something for a client?”

“Jo. Please. Not now.”

On the couch, Hubert stiffened, snorted and then went on snoring even louder than before.

Dekker said, “I think we’ve done all we can for him at the moment.”

“Guess so. Might as well get back to the party. We’re probably out of frilly toothpicks again.”

Dekker grinned. “DeDe grabbed me a few minutes ago. Something about cutting the cake?”

“No. It’s too early. They’re still attacking the buffet table. But it is a little cooler now. Safe to get everything set up.”

“Safe?”

“That’s right. We can chance taking the cake back outside.”

“This sounds ominous.”

“A wedding can be a scary time.”

“Tell me about it.”

She took his big, blunt-fingered hand. “Come on.”

They left Uncle Hubert snoring on the couch and went out to the kitchen, where they enlisted Burly to help Dekker carry the cake back out to the patio.

* * *

Once the cake was in position for cutting, Joleen went looking for Niki and Sam. She found them on the front porch, building a castle out of Duplo blocks.

“Mama. Look.” Sam beamed her his biggest, proudest smile.

“Wonderful job, baby.” She asked Niki, “Did he eat anything yet?”

Niki nodded. “He had some corn. And that fruit dish—the one with the coconut? Oh, and he ate about five of those little meatballs.”

“Milk?”

“Yeah—and what’s with those Atwood people?”

What do you mean? Joleen wanted to demand. What did they do?

She held the questions back. Sam might be only eighteen months old, but you could never be sure of how much he understood. And she didn’t want Niki stirred up, either. She gestured with a toss of her head. Niki got up and followed her down to the other end of the long porch.

“What do you mean about the Atwoods?” Joleen kept her voice low and her tone even.

Niki shrugged. “I don’t know. They sure stare a lot.”

“Have they…bothered you?”

“I don’t know, Joly. Like I said, they just stare.”

“They haven’t spoken to you at all?”

“Well, yeah. Twice. They tried to talk to Sam, but you know how he is sometimes. He got shy, buried his head against my shoulder. Both times they gave up and walked away.”

So. They had tried to get to know their grandson a little and gotten nowhere. Joleen found herself feeling sorry for them again.

“No real problems, though?”

“Uh-uh. Just general creepiness.”

Joleen reached out, brushed a palm along her sister’s arm. “You’ve been great, taking care of Sam all day.”

“Yeah. Call me Wonder Girl.” Niki was good with Sam. She took her babysitting duties seriously. In fact, Niki was doing a lot better lately all the way around. She’d given them a real scare last year. But Joleen had begun to believe those problems were behind her now.

“Want a little break?”

“Sure—Can I get out of this dress?”

Joleen hid a smile. Rose-colored satin was hardly her little sister’s style. Niki liked black. Black hip-riding skinny jeans, equally skinny little black T-shirts, black Doc Martens. Sometimes, for variety, she’d wear navy blue or deep purple, but never anything bright. Certainly nothing rosy red.

“Go ahead and change,” said Joleen.