The Real Father (Twins) (Harlequin Superromance No. 927) by Kathleen O`Brien Page A

was rarely conscious, Mrs. Forrest had said frigidly. Molly’s condolences would be conveyed. There was no need to come again….
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t go that far.” She worked at keeping her face neutral. No need to dredge all that up now—though she could see an avid curiosity shining in Annie’s eyes. “Lavinia was always kind to everyone. I started calling her that when we were all very little, and I guess it just stuck.”
    â€œYeah, Lavinia’s a peach,” Annie agreed. She rested her cheek on her knuckles and sighed. “That other one, though. The mother. She sure was a puffed-up peacock, wasn’t she? Thought the Forrests were too good to breathe the same air as the rest of us plebes.”
    Molly smiled. Giselle Forrest had looked something like a peacock, actually, with her jewel-toned designer clothes and her stylishly spiked and highlighted hair.
    â€œShe was pretty aloof, wasn’t she? But I think maybe she was just difficult to know.”
    â€œDifficult?” Annie laughed. “Honey, I know the mannequin down at Bloomingdale’s better than I knew that woman. Like her better, too.”
    Molly didn’t argue. She had felt that way once. She remembered being amazed, that day at the hospital, that Giselle could look so perfectly groomed, complete with flashing diamonds, sleek nylons and perfectly applied lip liner. Molly herself had been a mess, tearstained and disheveled. For weeks she had found it a struggle even to run a comb through her own hair.
    She had hated Giselle that day, both for turning her away and for looking so completely unaffected by Beau’s death.
    It wasn’t until years later—when she heard that Giselle Forrest had died of liver disease—that Molly had finally understood how personal, how unique, grief really is. That compulsive poise had been Giselle’s protection. Her exquisitely cut diamond brooch had been nothing but armor placed over a heart as mangled as Molly’s own.
    Annie shifted to a sitting position, stretching like a cat. “Yes, ma’am, I’ve always said it beats me how a cold-blooded witch like that could have a decent son like Jack.”
    â€œOr Beau,” Molly added, feeling strangely as if Annie had slighted him.
    â€œYeah, sure.” Annie shrugged. “Whatever. Heck, it’s a mystery how she had any children at all, if you know what I mean. Deserves its own segment on ‘Tales of the Unexplained,’ don’t you think?”
    Liza appeared in the doorway once again. “Excuse me,” she said politely, “Mom, where are my suitcases? I want to play with all my dolls together.”
    Molly picked two pieces from the pile of luggage and passed them to her daughter, who eagerlyhoisted them both and trotted back toward her own room. Molly envied the little girl her easy ability to adapt wherever she went. A few spangled scarves for costumes, a few hand-drawn pictures for backdrops, a few smiling princess dolls for companionship, and that little bedroom was well on its way to becoming the Planet Cuspian.
    Annie was expertly eyeing the diminished stack of luggage, which, now that Liza’s bright-pink pieces were gone, did look a little skimpy, Molly had to admit.
    â€œEven allowing for the minimalist approach to wardrobing,” Annie said dryly, “I’d have to guess you haven’t exactly come home intending to put down roots.” She laughed. “No pun intended.”
    â€œNope. Just the landscaping kind,” Molly said with a smile, sliding the largest of the suitcases, which held her seed catalogues, garden brochures and drafting supplies, toward the window. She’d probably work over there—the light was perfect, the view of terraced lawns marching down to the river inspirational. “We’ll only be staying a couple of months, just until the renovations are done. Liza and I consider Atlanta home