The Trouble With Twins

He shook his head. “I called a service and hired a baby-sitter. She was due here at eight this morning.”

“She didn’t call you?”

“Not a word.”

“Maybe something happened. You might call them and see.”

“I would. Except I can’t find the phone.”

“Oh.”

“Let me rephrase that. I can’t find any of the phones.”

She nodded. “I see.”

“I imagine you can. It’s been…” He didn’t finish. It was obvious what his day had been like. The house had been immaculate before Ben and Ellen had taken off. Everything in its place. They’d made it sound like a piece of cake. Feed the kids, play games, maybe a nap. They should have warned him. But then Ben probably thought it was a big joke. “My apologies. You haven’t caught me on my best day.”

Her smile stayed generous. “No problem. But now that we have a moment, I’d like to ask—”

“The genealogy question.”

She nodded. “You’re one of triplets, aren’t you?”

He nodded, wondering where she’d gotten her information. And why. “I have a brother, Ben, and a sister, Kate. Ben’s the oldest, but— Never mind. It’s triplet stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Want to bet?”

“Are you kidding?”

She shook her head, making her hair shimmer.

“Is that what your study is about? Triplets?”

“In an indirect way. I am a triplet. I have a brother, Michael, and a sister, Lana.”

“I haven’t met many.”

“Me, neither. Lots of twins, though.”

He shook his head. “Twins. They think they’ve got problems. They don’t know the half of it.”

“Well, perhaps they don’t know one third of it.”

He grinned. “Right. So, what is it about my being a triplet that brought you here?”

Her smile faded, and her gaze went past his shoulder to the far wall. “We were abandoned as infants, along with my older brother, who was two. My brothers are trying to find out who our birth parents are. We’ve got records of about five triplet births around that time that match our configuration—two girls, one boy. The only couples left to check were your parents and one other. Your hospital records were lost, so we didn’t know for sure what the sexes of the triplets were—or even the exact date of birth. Obviously we’re down to our last possibility.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you. My mother died a year ago. My father still lives here in Blue Point. This was their house. We go back three generations.” He looked at Jem, who was picking up Cheerios from the floor and shoving them into his mouth. “Four generations now.”

“I figured as much. Not the generation part, but the parents part. It was a long shot, believe me.”

“I wish I could give you something. You really saved my life.”

She put her cup on the table and gave him a troubled stare. “What about my thousand dollars?”

“Your thou—”

She laughed. A terrific sound. Not a trace of self-consciousness, not at all girly. She laughed like a woman ought to.

“Very amusing.”

“Couldn’t resist.” Her gaze went to the twins. Scout had abandoned her meal and was trailing egg yolk across the wooden floor.

Gray watched as the little girl picked up a broken crayon and stuck it in her mouth. “I’d better get going. I have to give them a bath, go to the market, clean up in here…. Oh, hell.” He turned to her, making himself look as pathetic as possible.

She stood up. “Stay right there.” Then she walked out of the room.

Jem had grown bored with the cereal and had moved over to the box of Lego by the staircase. Scout was still sucking on her crayon. Gray didn’t understand how parents did it. How they got anything done.

He heard the front door shut. Damn. She’d probably taken off for the hills. He didn’t blame her. What a mess. What a joke.

But then he heard the door again. Her footsteps. She rounded the bend and smiled as she neared him. “Here.”

In her hand was a cell phone.

“Pardon?”

“To call the baby-sitter.”

“Oh, right.” He closed his eyes for a moment as he cursed his own stupidity. “Thanks.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Except I have my own cell phone in my room.”

“Does it work?”

“It works.”

“Oh.” She sat again.

He went into the kitchen and grabbed the notepaper from behind the hamburger magnet on the fridge. As he dialed the agency, he walked to the dining room. A woman answered on the third ring.

“This is Gray Jackson. You were supposed to send a baby-sitter here this morning.”

“Oh, Mr. Jackson. Thank heavens. We were about to call the police.”

“Why?”