Twice the Chance

“Smart aleck,” Terry said, but her eyes sparkled with humor.

“I’ll take the tray out there for you, Jazz.” Kevin picked it up, but not before Terry snagged another stuffed mushroom. She winked at Jazz, then followed her husband out of the town house, their two children flanking them.

“Uncle Matt! There you are!” Robbie yelled before disappearing outside.

Jazz sank onto one of the kitchen stools, the heat from the oven enveloping her. How had it happened that she was catering a party attended by children who were quite possibly hers biologically?

Matt hadn’t forced her to accept this job. And it was clear Kevin was in the golf league with Carter, but a part of Jazz must have realized Matt might invite family to a going-away party for a friend. Maybe a chance to see the twins again had even been part of the allure. Jazz’s willpower had certainly let her down before.

The French doors opened. Matt entered the kitchen and spotted her sitting down. His brows creased. “Hey, are you okay?”

She got up from the stool so fast she felt light-headed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Kevin—that’s my brother-in-law—just told me about Terry and all her questions. Sorry about that.”

“No problem.”

He tilted his head. His eyes were almost the exact shade of golden-brown as his hair. A golden boy, Carter had called him.

“You sure you’re okay?” Matt asked. “The way Terry goes on sometimes, I think she misses the interrogation room.”

“Excuse me?”

“She used to be a cop until the kids came along. That’s how she met Kevin. He’s a D.A. They’re good people even if Terry can be kind of scary.” He paused just as the doorbell rang. “Excuse me. I need to get that.”

More guests trickled in over the next few hours, a decent turnout. Jazz kept busy supplying a constant stream of hot finger foods, trying not to think about what Matt had said. It didn’t work.

Ironically, the ex-con’s children had quite possibly ended up with a district attorney and a former cop for parents.

The kitchen window provided a panoramic view of the backyard, where Brooke and Robbie played. The soccer ball covered with netting appeared to be a training tool with a boomerang effect. The twins took turns kicking it under the supervision of their father and uncle.

Jazz was careful to stand far enough back from the window not to be seen. Through the screen she could hear snippets of conversation about this morning’s youth soccer games. She watched Robbie run up to his sister, tag her on the arm and backpedal.

“Bet you can’t catch me!” the boy shouted.

“Maybe I don’t want to catch you,” Brooke retorted just as loudly.

“Chicken!” Robbie taunted.

After a long hesitation, Brooke dropped the soccer ball and dashed after him. Robbie ran in a zigzag pattern, his laughter ringing out. Brooke was about to tag him when she stumbled. She fell down, giggling even before she hit the grass.

Robbie raised both arms to the sky in triumph. “Told you that you couldn’t catch me!” he shouted.

“This is scrumptious. What’s in it? I think I taste eggplant.” Terry walked into the kitchen holding up a cracker slathered with dip.

Jazz slid back from the window, feeling unaccountably guilty. She strived for composure. “Eggplant, sunflower oil, onions, garlic and black pepper,” she said. “It’s called vinetta in Hungarian.”

“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.”

CHAPTER FIVE