The boy slowed, then stopped. His cheeks were red, she wasn’t sure whether from exertion or exposure to the sun. Freckles sprinkled his nose. His expression was open and earnest, something about it striking a note of familiarity she both searched for and feared noticing.
“Can I have that?” the boy asked.
Jazz stared at him, her mind a blank.
He pointed. “The ball.”
She looked down at her hands, almost surprised to see what they held. “Oh. Of course.”
Jazz tossed him the ball. He caught it easily, but stood his ground. His eyes dipped. “You’re bleeding.”
She gazed down at herself and saw blood trickling down her right leg from a gash on her knee. “I tripped over a root.”
“It looks like it hurts.”
“It’s nothing.” She felt numb to the injury, her entire focus on the boy. Like the girl, he wore long socks that she now saw covered shin guards. Even at his young age, he had an athletic build, and was wiry rather than muscular. As far as Jazz knew, nobody in her family was an athlete. Was that relevant?
“Well, bye.” The boy pivoted and dashed away.
She opened her mouth to call him back, then closed it. She shouldn’t prolong their encounter. To the boy, she was a stranger who’d happened to retrieve his ball. Maybe that’s all she was. She didn’t know how old the children were, whether they were twins or if they’d been adopted.
She could probably concoct a story, approach their father and get some answers. But what purpose would that serve? Even though she couldn’t help keeping an eye out for redheaded twins wherever she went, she would never consciously search for them. If they were happy, as this boy and girl seemed to be, she had no intention of disrupting their lives.
The boy appeared smaller and smaller as he retreated into the distance, finally stopping next to the man and the girl. The two children were virtually the same size, like twins might be. Jazz’s throat thickened. She tried to swallow but couldn’t manage it.
The boy said something to the man, then extended his arm and pointed to Jazz. The man patted the boy’s shoulder before he took off in a slow jog, heading directly for her. The children followed.
Jazz told herself to move, to rejoin the path and continue her run. Her feet didn’t cooperate, remaining as motionless as if they were glued to the grass. The man kept approaching, growing more substantial with every powerful stride. His coloring was nothing like the children’s, his hair a sun-lightened medium brown, his skin lightly tanned. He reached her a few seconds before the children.
“Hey, are you okay?” the man asked. “Robbie said you were bleeding.”
“She said she fell over a root,” Robbie added helpfully. The boy had come up behind him, arriving a few seconds before the girl. Up close, she looked remarkably like the boy.
The girl made a face. “Oh, gross!”
“Blood isn’t gross, Brooke,” the man said before addressing Jazz. “You look a little pale. You should sit down.”
With Brooke’s hair pulled back from her face and Robbie’s short haircut, it was easy to see their hairlines were identical, down to their widow’s peaks. Also the same were their oval faces, their green eyes and the freckles dotting their noses.
“Did you hear me? You’re not in shock, are you?” The man was talking again. To her. Jazz yanked her gaze from the children and focused on him. She placed him at somewhere around thirty, not much older than she was. With a slightly crooked nose and wide mouth, a combination that worked surprisingly well, he didn’t resemble the children facially, either.
“Sorry.” Her head was still spinning with possibility but she attempted a smile. “No, I’m not in shock. I’m fine.”
He frowned, his brows drawing together. “You should clean that cut so it doesn’t get infected.”
She attempted to rein in her scattered thoughts. “I will when I get home.”
“I have a first-aid kit in my bag,” he offered. “It’s over there by the goal.”
“Oh, no.” She immediately shook her head. “Thanks, but I couldn’t be a bother.”
“No bother,” he said. “Name the injury, and I’ve probably had it. I’m darn near an expert.”
She felt herself wavering. If she went with him, she could find out more about the children. What would it hurt to possibly verify these were the twins she’d given up at birth? She’d know for sure they were healthy and happy, all she could wish for.
“I don’t want to take time away from your kids,” she said, still undecided.
“They’re my niece and nephew,” he said.
“Uncle Matt’s not married,” Robbie added. “He doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”
“Mom says he has lots of girlfriends,” Brooke chimed in. “Nuh-uh,” Robbie said. “I never met one.”
“Not serious girlfriends.” Brooke sounded years older than she was.
“Thanks for sharing, kids, but you’re not helping,” the man said with an exaggerated grimace. He moved close enough to Jazz to extend a hand. “I’m Matt Caminetti. And these blabbermouths are Brooke and Robbie, my sister’s children.”
“I’m Jazz,” she said, deliberately omitting her last name. She had a vague impression of warmth when his hand clasped hers. Her mind whirled even as she greeted the children. Would it be a mistake to spend more time in their presence?
“Come on, Jazz. Let’s get that first-aid kit.” Matt took the decision out of her hands, turning back toward the grassy field and heading for the soccer goal. Brooke and Robbie skipped along beside him. After a moment’s hesitation, Jazz followed.
“Race you!” Robbie called to his sister and took off at a dead run.
“No fair!” Brooke complained even as she raced after him, gaining steadily with every stride.
“Wow,” Jazz said to Matt, “she’s fast.”
“It’s tough on Robbie having a sister who’s so athletic. She could beat him at just about anything if she tried. Except half the time she lets him win.”
Jazz’s heart pounded even faster than it had when she was keeping up her seven-minutes-a-mile pace. “They look a lot alike. Are they twins?”
“Yep,” he said. “Makes the whole competition thing even harder for Robbie.”
She tried to keep her voice from trembling. “How old are they? Seven? Eight?”
“Eight,” he said. Jazz’s heart squeezed. The twins she’d given away would have been eight last month. “I think,” Matt continued. “Or maybe they’re seven. I see them all the time but I lose track.”
Ahead of them, Brooke put on a burst of speed to draw even with Robbie, then slowed down noticeably. Brother and sister ran alongside each other for a few strides before Robbie stumbled, his arms windmilling as he righted himself. Brooke reached the goal inches ahead of her brother.
“You only won because I tripped!” Robbie cried.
Brooke settled her hands on her slim hips in a pose Jazz had seen females use countless times when dealing with a difficult male. “Whatever.”
“Let’s go again!”
“No.”
“What are you?” Robbie got right in her face. “Chicken?”