The Marine's Babies

What Emma thought was that her mom should mind her own business.

Emma said her goodbyes, grabbed her receipt from the pump and then climbed back behind the wheel of her car.

Beatrice was cranky—had been all through their trip to the grocery store—and was fitfully crying. “We’re on our way home, ladybug,” she soothed, checking on her in the rearview mirror.

She popped a sing-along children’s disc into the CD player, and turned the volume to High.

Bronwyn, at least, happily kicked and cooed.

At the house, Emma made quick work of unloading the babies, then the groceries. Bronwyn seemed content on a pink quilt on the living room carpet, lying on her back, grinning at the mirror and dangling shapes on her baby gym. Beatrice, however, wasn’t so easily amused.

After trying a bottle, baby-food peaches and pears, a diaper change and burping, Emma settled for good old-fashioned rocking in Jace’s navy leather recliner.

Cradling her close, tucking Beatrice’s head beneath her chin, Emma sang softly. “Hush little baby, don’t you cry, Momma’s gonna sing you a lullaby…”

Soon enough, Beatrice had calmed, and then fallen asleep. Lots of times when Henry had been cranky, Emma had found that nothing but human contact soothed. Emma guessed it worked for grown-ups, too, since she had isolated herself from family and friends up north, but still hadn’t found solace. Yet here, now, with two infants and an oftentimes infuriating lug of a Marine, she truly was feeling better than she had in months.

No matter what her mother might think!

Since it was nearing six, Emma knew she should start dinner, but she hated to disturb the baby, who had finally fallen asleep.

A key sounded in the front-door lock, and in walked Jace, wearing his usual grin. His complexion looked sun-kissed, as if he’d spent the day outdoors. “Hey,” he said, setting his flight bag on the tiled entry floor. “How’re my girls?”

“Better now,” Emma said, her voice soft so as not to wake Beatrice. “This one’s had a rough day.”

“She’s not sick is she?” Jace crossed the short distance to the recliner, kneeling alongside it, putting his hand on the infant’s forehead. “She doesn’t feel hot.”

“No. Maybe she just misses her mom. I suppose it’s only natural.”

Jace stayed quiet.

“No word from the PI?”

“Nope.” Exhaustion weighing his shoulders, he rose, then dropped onto the sofa, unlacing his boots.

“How would you feel if Vicki abruptly showed up?”

He shrugged. “It’s a fluid situation. At first, I was panicked enough by the girls’ tag-team screaming that I probably would’ve given Vicki another chance at motherhood. But now…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You all right?” Emma asked. “You look pasty.”

“I feel pasty.” In a decidedly un-Marine-like pose of vulnerability, he covered his face with his hands. “Em? What if I never figure out how to be a good dad? What if I lack the parental gene?”

Beatrice still in her arms, Emma rocked up and out of the chair to sit alongside Jace. “When you held this one in the park—really held her—she nestled against you like she’d known you forever. Because she has. You’re her father, Jace. Your DNA is hers—and her sister’s. You can’t help but grow into an amazing father.”

He snorted.

“What?”

“Your logic is ludicrous. If all it took to be a perfect parent was DNA, then what was Vicki’s excuse?”

Emma lowered her gaze. Agreed with him, did she?

Jace knew he’d have been laughed out of the Corps for admitting it, but right at that moment, he was jealous of a six-month-old for being held by Emma. In three tours of duty in hellacious war zones, he couldn’t remember ever having been this scared.

“Trust me,” Emma said. “Stop a second to look at who you are. What you do. If you have enough intellect and courage to fly a helicopter in the most dangerous parts of the world, then can’t you use that same chutzpah to raise two amazing babies into well-rounded, happy and healthy grown women?”

Eyes stinging, throat tight, Jace nodded.

“So then you’re feeling better about the whole situation?”

“Sure,” he lied. “Only how am I going to pay for two sets of braces? Two cars? Two college degrees?” Cheeks flaming, he added, “Holy hell, what if one—or both—want to become doctors or lawyers? But then, that might be a good thing, right? Because they’ll have nice, safe jobs and meet straight-laced types who—”

“Whoa.” Emma curved her hand around his shoulder, telling herself the jolt of heat was imagined. “The girls are six months old, Jace. You’re getting ahead of yourself on the old worry tree. For now, let’s stick with introducing a few more solid foods and baby-proofing all of your cabinets and electrical outlets.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Baby-proofing. Good plan.”

“Jace…” her tone was soft. A verbal pillow on which to rest his turbulent emotions. “Trust me, down the line—weeks from now, maybe even months—you’ll never be able to imagine your life before Bea and Bronwyn entered it. Being a parent is…” In the living room’s dim light, her eyes shone. Was she on the verge of crying? “…the most wonderful thing you can imagine. Through these angels’ eyes, you’ll experience everything anew. Their first Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas. And just think, with every year, every occasion will be new again because the girls will be at a fresh stage of life. There will be trick-or-treating and baking cookies for Santa. Holding out your arms to them when they run off the school bus ecstatic to see you.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she turned to brush them away. “Anyway,” she added with a sniffle, “you have lots of good times ahead of you. I’m actually a little jealous.”

“In that case,” he said, sensing that for whatever reason, she needed him to lighten the moment, “how about I give you the honor of handling the good—and stinky—surprise I’m guessing Bea just left in her diaper.”

Chapter Five

While changing Bea, Emma pondered how Jace had sensed she’d needed not only a joke, but a few moments of alone time to gather her composure. He hadn’t noticed her blubbering like a big baby herself, had he?

“How’s it going?” he asked, standing behind her, his size dwarfing her. “Need help?”

“I’m good,” she said, forcing a smile. Clearly, no matter what she’d told her mother about her current mental state, Emma was far from good. Dreaming about what her life might have been with Henry—his first words and steps, kindergarten and high-school graduations, along with all of the infinitely lovely steps in between—had been more than she could bear.

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