A few moments later the pitter-patter of little feet raced toward the living room. Clayton scooped up each girl and gave them airplane rides, one tucked under each arm. It was the cutest thing Jamie had ever seen. She couldn’t imagine AJ putting down his cigarette long enough to hug her properly.
“How are my rabbits, Flopsy and Mopsy?” Clayton asked his daughters.
“Daddy!” The girls howled with laughter. “We’re not rabbits!”
“I’d like y’all to meet Daddy’s friend, Miss Jamie Keaton.”
Jamie knelt at eye level with them and extended her hand. They were identical and looked so much like Clayton—his auburn hair, dark eyes, and those deep dimples. His daughters were beautiful, but she would never say that out loud.
AJ had drilled one thing into her head since she was young: she was pretty enough to marry rich. That had been his only dream for her. But Jamie had always wanted more than just being someone’s wife, especially Derrick’s.
“You can hug them,” Clayton said. “They won’t break.”
With some hesitation Jamie embraced the girls and said, “It’s nice to meet you.” The girls hugged her tightly, nearly squeezing the breath out of her.
“Now, let her be,” Clayton said.
The girls loosened their python-like grips and she laughed. “It’s okay.” Surprisingly she didn’t mind being touched by them—it felt comforting.
The girl on her right spoke first. “I’m Emily and this is Charlotte, in case you can’t tell the difference, ma’am.” That was helpful information, given they wore identical dresses.
“You don’t have to call me ma’am,” Jamie said.
“They sure do,” Clayton replied. “This is a Southern house.”
“‘Ma’am’ makes me feel old.” She turned to Clayton. “Can’t they just call me Jamie?”
“Girls, you may call her Miss Jamie if it suits you.”
“Yes, sir,” the twins said.
“That’s much better.” Jamie smiled at Charlotte. “Were you named after the city in North Carolina?”
“After Charlotte Brontë,” the girl said. “And my sister was named after her sister, Emily.”
Clayton’s daughters had probably read more books than she ever did, considering they didn’t have a TV in their house. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. AJ didn’t believe in formal education, claiming street smarts were more important. Easy to say for a man who dropped out in the tenth grade to hustle pool tables and con his way across the country.
“Want to see our room, Miss Jamie?” Emily asked.
Jamie raised her eyebrow at Clayton and he nodded, signaling it would be okay. “I’d love to.”
An hour later everyone sat down to feast on Birdie’s home-cooked meal: roast beef, tender new potatoes, corn, and green beans. Jamie couldn’t recall a time when a parent had cooked dinner for her—certainly not her own, and definitely not Derrick’s. When her mom was still around she’d bring home leftovers from the casino, and with AJ meals were mostly bar food or takeout.
“May we be excused?” Emily asked. “I can’t breathe in this dress.”
Jamie looked at the girls and could now distinguish between them. Charlotte, like her dad, was left-handed, while Emily wasn’t.
“That’s a little dramatic,” Clayton said. “But yes, you may leave the table.”
The girls picked up their plates and marched them into the kitchen.
“This is on you, son,” Birdie said, fixing her eldest with a pointed look. “Those girls ain’t got a lick of ladylike in them—riding horses, playing ball like a couple of ranch hands. I’m trying to raise proper Southern women here. Lord knows Tammy ain’t around to help.”
“Momma!” Clayton’s cheeks flushed red.
“Sorry, sugar, but the facts don’t care about your feelings.”
Clayton placed his knife and fork on the table. “You could be nicer to her.”
