If I Loved You

Brig headed for the kitchen, duly warned.

He would need more caffeine than usual to get through the day in this close-knit family, which he understood even less than he did taking care of Laila. Far less than he might the workings of the Taliban.

But before Brig exited the room, he got in the last word.

“I’ll work on finding a key to Mom and Dad’s house. Move Laila next door as soon as I can. That would be best for you—and for Molly.”

* * *

MONDAY WAS NOT Molly’s favorite day of the week at Little Darlings, or anywhere else, and sometime between last Friday and this morning she had lost her equilibrium.

Oh, who are you kidding, Molly? She knew exactly when.

Around her, toy trucks clashed, the laughter of children shrilled and someone pounded on a drum. She couldn’t term the noise unusual, yet her jangled nerves wanted her to shout surrender. Today her day care center’s proximity to Pop’s house seemed way too close. That was, way too close to Brig.

She hadn’t been herself since she’d spied him yesterday standing in the doorway with Laila, like a broken dream come back to haunt her.

No, make that a nightmare.

At least the rain had finally stopped last night. The clouds had disappeared as if someone had rolled up a rug, and by midnight the sky had been full of stars. Holding Laila, feeding her while Brig slept, Molly had watched the weather improve even as a storm still roiled inside her.

Fortunately, for the rest of the day, she wouldn’t have another chance to dwell on the situation. Which was a good thing, because without half trying, she could summon the image of Brig’s lean, fit body and handsome, serious face.

Too bad for her, but he looked better than ever. Any remnants of boyishness in his face were now gone. In their place was an uncompromising set of male features with interesting planes and angles.

It wasn’t every day that an old love walked back into her life, and when she added Laila to the picture, Molly felt shaken anew. Better to keep her mind on business.

At the end of the afternoon, many of “her” children had left by the time Jeff Barlow, little Ernie’s dad, arrived dressed in his tan sheriff’s deputy uniform. At the same time, her sister, Ann, who helped with the babies in the nursery, reached the front door from outside after walking baby Ashley Jones and her mother out to their car. Under a darkening sky, she stopped cold.

Her expression told Molly that her sister’s timing couldn’t have been worse for her. The distinct chill in the air didn’t just come from the freezing wind.

Molly bit back a sigh. Jeff was one of her favorite people, and she wished her sister would stop giving him the cold shoulder.

As if he hadn’t noticed Ann’s frostiness, Jeff held the door open for her, but Ann took care not to brush against him as she came inside. She hurried down the hall with just a murmured “Thank you.”

Jeff raised an eyebrow at Molly. “Hello to her, too,” he said.

“I don’t know what gets into her,” Molly said, hoping to soothe his feelings.

But of course she did.

He looked glum. “I called twice last week to ask her out. Once, for dinner, and then to see a romantic comedy playing in town—don’t most women enjoy a good chick flick?—but she said no. Both times.” He paused. “Not that I’ve been dating enough to be up on what a woman might like.”

Molly had heard about Jeff’s bitter divorce. Clearly he was wounded. But when he and Ann had started dating a few months ago, Molly had hoped that their relationship would take root and grow, and that Ann could be happy again, as well. Then, all at once, to Molly’s dismay, Ann had pulled back like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

“I know she wanted to see that movie,” Molly said without thinking.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Just not with me.”

She eyed him sympathetically. Jeff was just the latest example of romance gone awry in her sister’s life. Ann didn’t date often or, when she did, for very long. Molly had no idea what—if anything—she should do about that.

“Ann’s a good-looking woman,” Jeff added, “and she can be very funny when she lets her hair down. We like the same kind of books, Mexican food, sunsets... I don’t understand what happened. I thought we had clicked,” he went on. “I mean, she seemed to enjoy the one dinner we had together. We found a lot to talk about. And we went hiking one weekend with my son—”

“Daddy! Guess what I made?”

As if on cue, Jeff’s four-year-old son, his spitting image, raced up to them, his mop of sandy hair flopping into his blue eyes. He thrust a green construction-paper triangle studded with spiral pasta dyed a fluorescent pink into Jeff’s face.

“Whoa, buddy.” Jeff dodged the pointed artwork that threatened to put out an eye and gathered Ernie up with a grin. A blob of glue dripped onto Jeff’s clean uniform. “This is one great-looking...” He scrambled for a word.

“You know. It’s a tree!”

“Ah.” Jeff shot Molly an amused glance. “Ernie, I’ve never seen a better one.”

Ernie beamed. “I did it all by myself.”

Jeff’s plain-to-see love for his son caused Molly’s throat to tighten. Her Andrew would also have made a good dad, and Ernie was like the child they’d never had.

“Molly, do you like it, too?” the little boy asked.

She ruffled his hair. “I love it. Your father is an excellent judge of art.”

Smiling, Molly walked them to the outer doors. A couple of homeward-bound little stragglers ran past them, scuffling and laughing. Benjamin Crandall, a pint-size troublemaker of late, made sure to knock against Ernie on his way. But Molly focused on her more pressing problem. As she said goodbye to each child and parent, she could sense the tension still radiating from Jeff’s broad-shouldered body.

Her smile faded. He was a nice man. A decent man. A solid man.

And it wasn’t as if men like Jeff Barlow grew on trees, including pink ones like Ernie’s collage.

“I’ll talk to Ann,” she said, following Jeff’s glance toward the nursery.

“I don’t know that you should, Molly. But is it—” he nodded toward his small son “—you know. Because if that’s her problem—” His voice had hardened in Ernie’s defense.

“I’ll talk to her,” Molly repeated.

As if she was an expert on romantic relationships.

Jeff didn’t wave goodbye when they left, but Ernie gave Molly an exuberant flip of one chubby hand. He was the most lovable four-year-old at the center.

Once Jeff had buckled Ernie into his car seat in the back of the cruiser and pulled out of the lot, Molly took off for the playroom adjacent to the nursery.

She organized paint cups in the art cupboard for the next day. Within a moment, Ann appeared.

“Don’t say a word,” she warned. “I don’t need the big-sister act.”

Molly faced her, intent on speaking her mind anyway. “I can’t believe how you treated Jeff. I’m disappointed in you.”

Ann tossed honey-brown bangs out of her eyes. They were a rich hazel, their mother’s color. “Maybe I just like being an old maid.”

“Don’t be smart. There are no old maids these days.” Molly tried to lighten the mood. “Not since Aunt Tilly went to her heavenly reward still ‘intact,’ as she always said, at the age of ninety.” They shared a weak smile before Molly went on. “You’re only twenty-seven, Ann. You can’t seriously want to be alone for the rest of your life.”