His Baby Dilemma

He straightened. “I remember you.”

“Oh, really?” Grace went behind the counter and took out another dish.

“You’re Louise’s niece. I didn’t recognize you without the rhinestone crown.”

Grace gripped the sundae dish to prevent herself from bouncing it off his thick skull. “And you’re Mica Barzonni.”

“Yeah. Well, tell Louise she can mail the check...for the pumpkins.”

“I will.”

He started to head for the door.

“Oh, Mica. Why don’t you stop off at the grocery store. Pick up some soap on your way out of town. Looks like you’ve run out.” She tapped her forehead.

He reached up to his forehead, rubbed it, then studied his greasy fingertips. He glared back at her.

Grace ground her jaw, picked up the ice-cream scoop and pitched it from hand to hand defiantly. One word. Try me, and I’ll really let you have it.

He spun on his heel and stomped out of the shop, leaving a clod of mud and grass on the floor.

“Ooooh!” Grace fumed, wishing she felt some relief from having had the last word.

Sarah rushed to her side. “Was that Mica? I wanted to say hi.”

“It was.” Every smug, judgmental inch of him.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Grace frowned. “You look surprised. Why?”

“Mica doesn’t come to town much. Especially since the accident.”

“What accident?”

Sarah paused. “You didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“He was in an accident a few months ago that nearly killed him. He was working on his mother’s car and it dropped on him. He’s lost the use of his left arm. He keeps his hand in his jeans pocket so people don’t notice. If he seemed—”

“Arrogant as all get out?” Grace interrupted.

Sarah smiled. “Well, yeah. He’s always had that about him.”

“I would have thought he’d have grown up by now. Learned some manners. Do you remember when he used to call me silly because I was upset about losing Miss Teen Illinois? He didn’t get it. Those pageants were important to me and a huge part of my life back then. I thought I wanted to be a model, but then I realized my real talent was in fashion design. I was heartbroken that I didn’t win for a lot of reasons. That win would have given me a substantial scholarship to college. My mother didn’t have much money but my winnings all went in a back account for my education.”

“Did you ever tell him this?” Sarah countered.

“No...” Grace’s shoulders slumped. “I guess I was pretty harsh earlier. Aunt Louise owes him money for the pumpkins. I think I’ll deliver it in person.”

* * *

AFTER LOUISE RETURNED from rehab, Grace got a signed check from her and asked to borrow her car. Then she drove south to the Barzonni farm. It was one route she didn’t need a GPS to follow.

She rang the bell when she got to the house, but no one answered. She rang it four more times, but there was still no answer.

Remembering that the family often used the kitchen door, she walked around to the back and knocked. Still no answer. She looked down at the check Louise had written.

It was a flimsy excuse for her to be here, but Grace was ashamed of her remarks about Mica’s dirty boots and the grease on his face, and she wanted to apologize. She didn’t know why he rattled her cage the way he did, but he did.

She banged on the door. “Hello? Anybody home?”

“What do you want?” Mica asked, startling her as he came out of the apartment over the garage. He stood on the balcony, his right hand on the railing as he glared at her.

“I, uh, brought the check we owe you.”

“You could have mailed it,” he said, starting down the steps.

He came toward her, and Grace was certain that no male model, no Hollywood star, no European prince, was as drop-dead handsome as Mica Barzonni. His blue eyes seemed to be taking inventory of her every eyelash.

I didn’t even check my makeup before I left Louise’s! This jet lag is going to be the end of me.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the check at him as if it would singe her fingertips.

“Thanks.”

“Mica...” She cleared her throat. “I came out here because I owe you an apology.”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “No, you didn’t.”

“What?”

“You came out here because you found out about my acci— My arm. Who told you?”

“Sarah.”

“Good old Sarah. Well, you would have found out sooner or later. Everybody knows.”

“And they shouldn’t? Is it a secret?”

“I guess not. Still...”

“Still...what?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Why?”