Belonging to Taylor (6 page)

She giggled. "No, only mow the lawn and keep the drawbridge oiled. I can change lightbulbs, fix cars, and use a hammer and screwdriver, but I get a bit dizzy on ladders, and lawn mowers don't seem to like me."

"Lawn mowers don't like you? What do they do?"

"They run away with me. Daddy says it's because I forget where the brake is, but I always remember in cars, so I don't think that's it. And they always head for ditches, so I have to bail out."

Trevor blinked. "I see. Anything else I should know? In considering you as wife material, I mean?" He was enjoying the conversation, perhaps because it was filled with such relaxed solemnity.

Taylor considered the question for a moment. "Well, I'd be a dandy asset for a lawyer, because I could tell you in a minute who was guilty. And then there's the fact that you'd never have to explain why you were going to be late for dinner. And we'd never fight over—um—crossed signals, because I'd always know what you
meant,
no matter what you said."

He found himself torn somewhere between fascination and horror. "I'd never be able to call my soul my own!" he objected, half laughing and more than half serious.

"Wouldn't you?" Her arms lifted to encircle his neck, and she smiled at him very gently. "But you'd be able to call my soul yours."

Trevor was having trouble thinking clearly; the soft promises in those vivid blue eyes overpowered everything else. "I... could never be as sure about you as you could be about me," he murmured.

"Then I'll just have to teach you to read my mind."

He realized at that moment that he could read her mind, or at least read the intent in her nakedly honest eyes. "You wouldn't—you little witch," he managed, and he wasn't talking about her teaching him telepathy.

"I wouldn't?" She leaned toward him until their lips were just a whisper away. "Watch me."

Trevor was a strong-willed man and, at times, a stubborn one, but not even the stern inner voice clamoring for self-preservation had the power to keep his arms from encircling her and his lips from responding to hers. And this time he didn't draw away when he felt that incredible warm sense of well-being surrounding him. The insidious warmth lulled him, seduced him, until it blazed suddenly into essential need. His mouth slanted across hers hungrily, demanding what she gave willingly.

"Daddy kisses Mother like that," an interested voice observed.

The intruding voice drew them apart, but reluctantly, and both turned their heads to stare toward the doorway, where Jessie watched them with critical eyes.

"As a matter of fact," she added, "he just kissed her like that in the garden. I think it was because she caught him pouring the coffee on the flowers. But, guess what? They said I could compete if I wanted to! Isn't that
wonderful?
I have to practice!"

Chapter Four

Since Jessie began at once to practice with fierce
concentration, Trevor and Taylor were more or less forced to vacate the room. Taylor went upstairs to change before beginning dinner, while Trevor was gruffly asked by Dory to retrieve the hamster shut up in the laundry room. Jack was safely back in his cage when Taylor returned to the den, and she entered just in time to hear Trevor addressed by her mother.

"Thank you for encouraging Jessie, Trevor," Sara told him in an absent tone. "She never believes us."

"She's very talented," Trevor responded. He listened for a moment to the sounds coming from those talented fingers. "I think you have a virtuoso blooming in there."

"Yes, and so nice for her," Sara said vaguely, then turned to Taylor. "Darling, I got some things for dinner and left them in the kitchen."

"All right, Mother." Taylor didn't wince visibly, but her vivid blue eyes threw a pained, laughing glance at Trevor, explained only when they were alone again in the kitchen.

"The last time Mother 'got some things' for dinner," she told him ruefully, "I found half a steer in the freezer—frozen, of course."

Trevor couldn't help but laugh. "Wonder what she got this time?"

Opening the refrigerator and peering inside, Taylor sighed. "Whatever it is, she didn't put it in here. Now where—"

"Here." Trevor, spotting an anomaly in the neat kitchen, had gone to stand by the back door, where a large metal tub reposed. Gazing bemusedly down at the contents of the tub, he added, "I only hope you know what to do with them,"

Taylor joined him. "Oh no! Lobsters.
Live
lobsters."

"At least they're fresh," he murmured.

From the kitchen doorway, Luke announced. "I'll fix dinner, Taylor, if you'll keep your mother out of the flowers." He was holding a very much alive and indignant lobster in one hand. "One got away," he explained helpfully to them, "so I knew she'd bought lobsters." His benign gaze focused on Trevor. 'Taylor hates to cook lobsters, but I'm very good with them. Not allergic to shellfish, are you?"

"No," Trevor managed to answer, ruthlessly swallowing the laugh in his throat.

"Good. Sara was craving them, I expect.
 
She did with Dory. With Jessie it was watermelon, and with Jamie it was peaches. With Taylor—" He looked reproachfully at his eldest daughter. "With Taylor it was truffles.
Truffles!"

"Sorry, Daddy," Taylor murmured, solemnly taking the blame for her mother's inexplicable long-ago cravings.

'That's all right," he said magnanimously, waving the lobster. "But go guard the flowers now; your mother's looking for the trowel again." Coming the rest of the way into the kitchen, he absently dropped the lobster—pincers waving in mute protest—into the sink and reached for an apron, his vivid blue eyes abstracted. "Now, where did I put the—Oh, there it is."

Taylor caught a fascinated Trevor by the hand and gently pulled him out the back door. "We have to guard the flowers," she reminded him, grave.

Trevor found himself standing in a beautiful yard. It was large for a suburban property, with a neatly trimmed flowering hedge on two sides, several large and graceful oak trees providing plentiful shade, and innumerable rosebushes and flowering plants. There was a hammock strung between two trees near a picnic table, circular whitewashed wooden benches
beneath two more oaks, and a dandy playground area in the far corner, complete with swings, slides, tunnels, and everything else a playful childish heart could wish for.

The flower bed was a neat L-shaped affair that conformed to the angles of the house, filled with a riotous growth that hadn't yet bloomed but nonetheless showed vast promise.

There were only two occupants of the yard at the moment: Jamie was stretched out in the hammock, reading a book, and Dory was occupied with a tire swing in the play area.

Trevor pulled his eyes from the serene picture before him and looked down at Taylor. Thinking of the cook busily working in the kitchen, he asked carefully, "Does your father really have patients? People trust him with their bodies?"

Not in the least offended, Taylor giggled. "If you could see him with his patients, you wouldn't have to ask. He's a wonderful doctor, very patient and gentle. And he's all business in the office, not the least bit absurd. I suppose being ridiculous the rest of the time is his way of unwinding."

Trevor shook his head, but made no protest as she pulled him over to sit on one of the benches. "Did he plan this yard?"

"Every bit of it." She gazed off toward the play area, smiling reminiscently. "He built the playground when I was a toddler, and he and Mother would spend hours out there with me. My friends always envied me my parents. They were always ready to drop whatever they were doing to play games or plan a cookout, and they never worried about kids messing up the house or yard. Daddy may panic when Mother gets near his flowers, but he'd never think of scolding a child for trampling on the bed or carelessly uprooting a plant he'd nursed from a seedling."

Staring at her profile as she gazed back over time, Trevor softly encouraged the memories, no longer avoiding the knowledge that her life was important to him. "What about discipline?"

She laughed quietly. "I don't know if they planned their method—knowing them, probably not!—but it worked. None of us have ever been spanked or grounded or made to stay in our rooms. If we did something wrong, there were never any harsh words. All it took was a frown from Daddy or a hurt look from Mother, and we were honestly contrite. Maybe
being psychic had something to do with it, I don't know. The house has always been noisy and cluttered, but there was never an instant's hesitation when a story was demanded or an umpire needed for a neighborhood ball game."

"Lots of love," he murmured.

Taylor nodded. "And plenty to spare. When I was in high school, the Homes for Foreign Students program was popular; at one point we had three foreign kids living with us. Then they started the Student Exchange program, and I spent a school year in London while an English girl lived here." She smiled. "All those kids still write and call Mother and Daddy; they were completely adopted in spirit."

Trevor chuckled. "I'm not surprised. I think I adopted your mother when she approved my name, and your father won me over when he came into the kitchen carrying a lobster."

She smiled up at him. '1 always thought my parents were the most fun of anyone I knew. Once some of my friends were sleeping over here—I was about Jamie's age, I think—and they all decided to test my claim that my parents were never upset by anything. So, in the middle of the night, they managed to get two goats into the house. We left the goats in the den and then crept back downstairs to the family room, where we were supposed to be sleeping, all of us giggling and expecting at least one of my parents to be awakened by the noisy goats."

"What happened?"

"Well, the goats were rummaging around above our heads, but we didn't hear anything else and finally went to sleep. The next morning we found Daddy in the kitchen cooking a huge breakfast for us, and he told us quite cheerfully that Mother was in back with the goats—for all the world as if they belonged here. Sure enough, Mother was sitting in the yard, feeding the goats bits of leftovers. When my friends went out there to see with their own eyes, Daddy said to me—in the gentlest way—that since the goats had made something of a mess in the den, perhaps we should clean the room after breakfast. And we did, too. Two of my friends begged me to exchange parents with them," she added, laughing.

"Your parents would be a hard act to follow."

"Idle observation?' she questioned with a smile. "Or are you contemplating parenthood?"

Trevor stared at her for a moment, then said firmly, "I make it a point never to answer loaded questions."

"Really? I'll keep that in mind."

He decided to change the subject. "I thought we were supposed to be guarding the flowers from your mother's fell hand. Where is she?"

"Probably in the garage looking for the trowel," Taylor responded readily, unperturbed. "Heaven only knows what she
will
find, though."

Amused, Trevor was just about to question this cryptic comment when the answer was presented to him by Sara.

"Look what I found," she said, appearing suddenly beside them with her gliding walk. She gazed in vague satisfaction at the object in her hands, which was a somewhat lopsided birdcage constructed of Popsicle sticks. "Is it yours, darling? I can't remember."

"No, Mother, it's Jamie's. She made it in third grade."

"How clever of her."

"What're you going to do with it?" Taylor asked in the tone of one who didn't expect a lucid answer.

And she didn't get one.

"A bird, I suppose," Sara murmured rather doubtfully. "Dory wants one. Or would it break, do you think? Little birds aren't very strong."

"Dory has hamsters," Taylor reminded firmly, "and Solomon doesn't like
them.
She'd definitely eat a bird."

"Would she?" Sara turned her dreamy gray eyes on Trevor. "Do you think she would?"

"Quite likely," he answered gravely.

"Oh. Well, then, I'll put this on the mantle." She smiled gently at him, then spoke to her daughter as she turned away. "I like him much better than that prince who followed you home from Arabia, darling."

"He was a sheik, Mother," Taylor murmured.

"Was he? How nice for him. But tents and things. I'm glad he went away." Serenely, she headed toward the back door.

Trevor stared at his giggling companion. "Sheik?"

Taylor got control of herself and returned his stare solemnly. "Well, yes. I met him while I was working over there."

"And?" Trevor prompted sternly.

She rubbed her nose in a rueful gesture. "And ... he decided that what he needed was an American wife. He was a very stubborn man, too. When I came back home, he followed me and asked Daddy for my hand."

Choking back a laugh, Trevor said wistfully, "I wish I'd been here to see that. What'd your father say?"

"He told the sheik that since we hadn't any goats or camels for my dowry, he didn't think it would be fair and, besides, he really didn't want me to live so far away for the rest of my life. The sheik started talking about a mansion in Beverly Hills, and Daddy said
that
was too far away and, besides, he didn't trust California not to fall into the ocean."