* * *
THE PARTY WENT downhill from there. After Brig walked in, Molly was definitely not in a festive mood. The good thing was, nobody noticed except Pop, whose back went rigid with disapproval as soon as he spied Brig. Apparently he hadn’t forgotten, either, what had happened eight years ago.
“Look at this adorable baby,” one of Molly’s cousins cooed, crossing the room with her arms outstretched. “Take off that soaked trench coat and give this poor child to me.”
Looking disoriented, Brig didn’t move except to relinquish the baby. Like Molly, he seemed numb. He was an only child, and his smaller family never had get-togethers of such utter chaos. Then, too, he wasn’t a homebody like Molly, who had never been out of Ohio. No. Brig had left Liberty Courthouse right after he’d run out on her. To this day, according to his worried mother, he preferred flying around the world, getting in and out of trouble on behalf of some quasimilitary outfit no one was supposed to know about. Trying to get himself killed.
Brig was all about risk.
Molly, who had suffered enough loss, hated the very thought of risk.
For years, she reminded herself, she and Brig had literally been worlds apart. The last she’d heard, he was somewhere in Afghanistan.
If he expected her to welcome him warmly, he had some nerve. She peered behind him but didn’t see a wife, which didn’t mean he didn’t have one somewhere. Before she had all her defenses in place, Brig walked right toward her, his gaze as piercing as a laser.
His deep voice sent an unwanted shiver down her spine.
“Hey, Molly.” He bent as though to kiss her cheek, but Molly stepped back to avoid contact. Seeming to sense her rejection, Brig glanced away. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said. “Or that you’d still be putting on this show every year. Sorry to burst in—”
“No, really, it’s a party. The more, the merrier.” She pasted a smile on her face but folded her arms across her chest. “Actually, I haven’t been here,” she went on, “but things change...life changes...and now I’m back.”
Apparently so was he. But why? And for how long?
Not that it mattered to Molly.
“My parents weren’t exactly expecting us,” he said, then explained about new locks and the key he didn’t have. “Do you know where they are?”
She hesitated. “No, but since your dad retired, they come and go all the time.” Unlike Thomas, Molly thought, who stayed home way too much. She paused again, wishing Pop had other interests besides the house and, above all, Molly. “We invited them to the party. I thought they were coming, but maybe they made other plans.”
Brig frowned. “Do you or Thomas have the new key to their house?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Last summer Molly had watered the Colliers’ garden while they were on vacation, but that hadn’t involved her going inside.
She risked a peek at the baby in her cousin’s arms and felt a familiar, deep ache. Surely Brig’s parents would have spread the word about their first grandchild. If that had been Molly’s baby, Pop would have trumpeted the news.
As for Brig, she hadn’t heard a word about any wedding, either.
“I didn’t know you were married,” she murmured, unable to stop herself.
“Me? In my line of work? No, I’m not.” He shifted, looking uncomfortable at the reminder that he’d once left Molly. Across the living room the baby, who was being passed around and admired, began to cry. Brig quickly retrieved the tiny bundle and picked up a bulky diaper bag. “Long story,” he said with a harried glance toward the kitchen. “I’ll tell you later. She’s hungry. I need to fix her a bottle. May I—?”
“Follow me,” Molly said with a sinking feeling.
She didn’t usually turn away from people. Right now that meant Brig.
And, to Molly’s utter dismay, a tiny, helpless infant she couldn’t bear to even look at full-on.
* * *
BRIG STOOD IN the kitchen doorway, the diaper bag weighing down one shoulder and Laila fussing in his arms. Two laughing teenagers sat at the table, and Brig watched them swipe red frosting from a lopsided cake.
“Stop that, you two,” Molly said, but her tone was laced with affection. “I’m no gourmet chef, and you’re not helping my cake appear any better.” She smiled. “My cousins,” she told Brig. “Second cousins.”
Crooked or not, the cake made Brig’s mouth water. The whole room smelled of comfort foods: fried chicken, baked beans laced with brown sugar and onions, and, if Brig wasn’t mistaken, his favorite macaroni and cheese.
Red heart decals—the same kind Molly wore on her face—skipped gaily across the kitchen chairs, and in the dining room on his way through, a green balloon had bounced from the ceiling on his head.
He didn’t belong here. This was like all those birthday parties he’d gone to as a kid but had never felt part of. As though he’d forgotten to bring a present. With a father in the military, he and his parents had lived all over, and making friends became harder and harder as Brig grew older. It was the only life he knew and one reason he’d followed in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. Now, after hearing Dari and Pashto being spoken every day in Afghanistan, even the cadence of English sounded foreign to him. Brig kept losing words in what was being said.
Molly, on the other hand, fit right in. She handed the boy and girl a bowl of potato salad and a relish tray from the fridge. “Set these in the dining room, please.”
When the giggling pair vanished, she waved Brig toward a chair.
“Sit. You look like you need to.”
Brig put down the diaper bag but stayed on his feet, gently rocking Laila in his arms. His head ached.
All he wanted was sleep. All Molly wanted, he guessed, was to avoid him. She hadn’t taken one real good look at the baby, either, and like a cat, Molly maintained a deliberate space between herself and him. Obviously, she hadn’t forgiven him for breaking their engagement years ago. Not that she should. Not that he expected her to.
At the same time he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her. The instant he’d seen her, his memories and his guilt had overwhelmed him. His gaze traveled now from her blunt-cut brown hair—shorter than he remembered—to her trim sweater, her fitted jeans and her feet in scarlet socks. But the red heart by her mouth was what kept his eyes riveted. Thick honey seemed to flow through him. And what kind of jerk am I? Molly, with her warmth and openness, had always deserved more.
“Do you have formula?” she asked, still keeping her distance.
It took Brig forever to find a can in the overloaded bag, a clean plastic liner for the bottle and one fresh nipple. Juggling Laila, he managed to put the whole contraption together. Then, Molly eyeing him with obvious suspicion as he walked past her, he opened the microwave and stuck it inside. One minute should do it. He hoped.
Right behind him, Molly almost stepped on his heel.
“You can’t warm a baby’s milk in there.”
“Why not?”
“The bottle might feel cool to the touch, but the milk could be too hot in spots and burn a baby’s mouth and throat.” With an efficiency he could only admire, she took the bottle to the sink and held it under the water. When she seemed satisfied with the temperature, Molly thrust the bottle at Brig. “Shake some on your inner wrist before you give it to her—to make sure.”
He sat down at the table, tried to nestle Laila into a good position, then watched her latch on to the nipple. He could hear the party noise swell from the living room, and the teenagers