Triple treat (2 page)

Tyler smiled graciously. He was accustomed to the awed reactions of those who connected him to the family company's phenomenally successful chain of area discount drugstores and fast-growing national chain of bookstores.

"I plead guilty," he said politely. He readied into the pocket of his coat and removed one of his business cards that identified him as Tyler Tremaine, Executive Vice-

President, Marketing and Public Affairs, Tremaine Incorporated.

Ben studied the card reverentially, then slipped it into the pocket of his cutoff jeans. "If s an honor to meet you, sir," he said, his tone worshipfully hushed.

Tyler felt a mild streak of annoyance. Sir? He wasn't that much older than the kid! But standing here before this respectful young man was beginning to make him feel middle-aged or something. Tyler did not care for the feeling.

"I know my sister will want to ask Mrs. Tremaine if there is anything she can bring to the picnic," Ben continued politely. "Carrie makes this terrific pudding thing with marshmallows and fruit that she could—"

Tyler stared at him. Marshmallow pudding? At his orgiastic saturnalia? "That won't be necessary," he said quickly. "And there isn't a Mrs. Tremaine. That is, not a Mrs. Tyler Tremaine. The three current Mrs. Tremaines belong to my father and, uh, two brothers, respectively."

"You haven't bitten the bullet and taken the vows yet, huh? Me, either," Ben confided fraternally. "And frankly, I'm not in any hurry."

Tyler shifted uncomfortably. He did not want to swap confidences with this youngster. And suddenly, in the midst of his discomfiture, a realization struck. "You said you're Carrie's brother? Would that be Carrie Wilcox, the—er— widow who inherited this place from old Mr. Wilcox?" Something didn't compute here. Could a fifty-something widow have a college student for a brother?

"Yeah, that's my sister and she—" Ben cut himself off, turning abruptly to yell, "Hey, Carrie, you've got company!"

Tyler heard the voice before he saw the woman. "Benjy, sshh! You'll wake the baby!' • The tone was admonishing but it was the same husky, slightly girlish voice he'd conversed with over the phone.

Ben shrugged and looked sheepish. "Carrie, this is your neighbor, Ty—"

"Oh, Mr. Tyler! *' Carrie Shaw Wilcox appeared in the small hallway. "It's so nice to meet you at last." She came right up to Tyler and took his hand in hers in a firmly gentle shake, smiling up at him, her wide-set blue eyes shining with warmth. "Have you come to check on Sleuth? He's doing fine. He made a quick adjustment to life as an indoor cat."

Her voice swirled around Tyler's head and he heard the words, something about the cat, but he wasn't really comprehending them. He stared at her in total confusion for she was clearly not the fiftyish widow he'd been expecting. Carrie Wilcox looked as young as her brother, maybe younger—a teenage widow?— and she was strikingly pretty, small-boned with a heart-shaped face and delicate features.

His eyes swept over her pale blond hair, which swung thick and straight around her shoulders. She was petite, about five foot three, and she appeared all but dwarfed between him and her brother. She had ocean-blue eyes that were framed with long, dark lashes, and when she smiled, her whole face seemed to light with pleasure. She was wearing loose-fitting blue-and-white-striped shorts and a matching crop top, and though her clothes were certainly modest enough, Tyler was startlingly aware of her slender but shapely nubile young body. Her skin was clear and smooth and looked soft to the touch.

Tyler took an instinctive step backward and had to remind himself to breathe. So this is what it felt like to be struck by a lightning bolt?

"Carrie, his name isn't Mr. Tyler, it's Tremaine," brother Ben informed his sister urgently. "You know, Tremaine Drugs and Tremaine Books. That Tremaine."

Carrie looked confused. "I thought he said his name was Mr. Something Tyler when we talked on the ph—"

"No, you must've heard him wrong. He's Tyler Tremaine, " Ben insisted. "I have his business card to prove it. Want to see?"

It occurred to Tyler that they were discussing him between themselves as if he were invisible. He cleared his throat. It was definitely time to assert his presence. "Perhaps we had a bad connection that night, uh, Mrs. Wilcox. You caught the Tyler but not the Tremaine."

"A bad connection from next door?" Carrie laughed. "You're very tactful, Mr. Tremaine."

"Please, as we're neighbors, I insist that you call me Tyler, Mrs. Wilcox."

She tilted her head and looked at him, those big blue eyes of hers dancing with amusement. "That sounds like a cue for me to insist that you call me Carrie."

"It was and I will, Carrie."

Tyler studied her curiously. She was much too young for him, of course, and she'd mentioned a baby, therefore canceling any chances she might've had with him even if he'd chosen to overlook her tender years. But she was a pleasure to look at, lovely and natural with a wholesome freshness he rarely saw in his sophisticated life in the fast lane. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"You're—not at all what I expected," Tyler blurted out, surprising himself by actually speaking his thoughts aloud. Although he appeared to be the soul of spontaneity—he'd often been described that way by Tremaine friends and admirers—all those ingenuous remarks and impetuous, capricious deeds of his were actually quite premeditated, calculated and studied for their maximum effect.

He was disconcerted by his slip. "I assumed you were much older, uh, that is, with you being a widow and all." Tyler nearly groaned aloud at his lack of finesse. At this particular moment, no one could accuse him of being a silver-tongued snake, an alternate description of him offered by Tremaine enemies and detractors.

"There aie widows in their twenties,'' Carrie said bleakly, and the light went out of her eyes. "Not too many of us, but we do exist.''

He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd told him she was nineteen or younger; he was half expecting it. But sad and unsmiling, she suddenly appeared older. "How old are you?" Tyler asked and immediately smote himself for the question. He well knew how touchy women could be about their ages, regardless of age!

"We're twenty-six," Ben piped up. "Our birthday was April Fool's Day. Stupid day for a birthday, huh? You wouldn't believe the cornball jokes and gags that go with that one."

"Yes, I would because it happens to be my birthday, too." Tyler stared from brother to sister with genuine surprise. They all shared the same birthday? "And you're twins?"

"Actually, there are three of us," Carrie said. "Our sister—Alexa—and Ben and me. We're triplets." She waited for the double take that invariably accompanied that revelation.

Tyler supplied it. "Triplets?" he repeated incredulously. One didn't run across triplet siblings every day. The situation seemed to require some sort of comment from him, but nothing clever or memorable came to mind. A rarity for him. Being silver-tongued, glib and flippant quips usually came quite naturally to him.

"Our dad thought the doctor was playing an April Fool's Day joke on him when he said Mom had triplets," Ben said jocularly. "They'd been expecting twins, but Carrie here was a total surprise." Ben nudged her in the midriff with his elbow, his blue eyes teasing. "I used to say she was a total shock, but she took offense. She'd rather be surprising than shocking, although she's often both."

Carrie rolled her eyes heavenward. "Ben's the funny one in the family."

"Yeah, I can tell," Tyler said dryly. "His jokes are on a par with my brother's—and that's sub-par. Do you all live here together?"

"No, Alexa and I have our own places, but we're over here a lot," said Ben. "Uh, do you still want all of us to come to your party, or is it limited strictly to people who live in the neighborhood full-time?"

"Ben, for heaven's sakes!" admonished Carrie.

"He came over to invite us to his neighborhood Memorial Day picnic tomorrow, Carrie," countered Ben, "and he mentioned the whole family, so I was just making sure—"

"You're all invited, of course," Tyler cut in. It was disconcerting the way the two of them tended to conduct their own conversation around him, as if he was totally superfluous. Tyler Tremaine was accustomed to commanding center stage; being rendered superfluous was new to him.

He was beginning to feel strangely frazzled. And it was so warm in there!

Suddenly terribly restless, he decided that he had to leave at once. "It's getting late," he said, glancing at his watch while already backing out the door. "I've—"

"Do you want to see Sleuth before you go?" Carrie asked politely.

"That crazy cat!" exclaimed Ben. "Wait till you see his favorite hangout, Tyler!" He clasped his fingers around Tyler's forearm and gave an eager pull. "Come on."

Tyler went reluctantly into the shabby, sparsely furnished living room. Through the decrepit window, he saw the scraggly hedge that separated his property from theirs. The size and proximity of his house blocked the sunlight, casting the living room into shadows.

"There's Sleuth, on top of the breakfront," said Carrie, pointing. A fat, darkly striped cat, his left ear torn and raggedy, doubtless a souvenir from some past feline war, sat atop a heavy wooden piece in the corner of the room.

"We call it his watchtower. He also sits on top of the cabinets in the kitchen. If s like he's on guard duty," joked Ben.

"Sleuth knows and sees all," Carrie chimed in, and they both chuckled.

They were obviously enjoying a bit of shared sibling humor. Tyler felt excluded and even more anxious to leave. When the sudden wail of a baby pierced the air, he made a speedy beeline to the door. He was not about to be dragged upstairs to admire any infant!

"If you decide to come to the picnic, FU see you tomorrow," he called as he strode briskly down the walk to his car. He was aware that he sounded as if he didn't care if they came or not. And he didn't.

Tyler snatched his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. Actually, he did care, he acknowledged grimly. He knew what they would see and hear if they came to what his brother had so accurately described as "the bacchanalian kickoff to summer," and he knew that he didn't want them to witness it. Though he considered himself jaded and cynical, he felt an uncharacteristic urge to protect Carrie and her brother because they seemed so naive and young and guileless.

Offering a pudding confection! Dragging him in to see their cat! How hopelessly unsophisticated! Their openness, their innocence, made him feel uncomfortable—and guilty, too. He was so very far out of their league; it was like Dra-cula meeting the Brady Bunch.

Tyler hated feeling uncomfortable and guilty as much as he disliked feeling superfluous. Carrie Shaw Wilcox and her kin had evoked all these powerful, negative feelings within him. The sooner he bought her property and got her out of there, the better. And if tomorrow's party resulted in that end... well, it was regrettable but necessary. The end justifies the means; wasn't that the successful marketing executive's anthem?

From the air-conditioned coolness of his bright, spacious living room, Tyler glanced down at the dilapidated frame house next door. Without warning came the sharp memory of the electrical jolt he'd felt when he caught his first glimpse of Carrie Wilcox. Just imagining her enormous dark blue eyes and heart-melting smile caused him to freeze in place.

It was unthinkable, absurd. He could not be attracted to her, he assured himself. She'd simply caught him off guard because she was so different from the women he usually met.

He would not be attracted to her, Tyler vowed fiercely. It was pointless and unfair... to her. He was not in the market for a sweet, unspoiled, young widowed mother; such a prospect was as unnerving as the nice, suitable young woman of his father's threats. Both types were to be dodged.

And Tyler, that artful dodger, had long ago made himself a pledge to stay free, uninvolved and unencumbered. He had never had any difficulty keeping to his oath in the past. He expected no trouble now.

Two

Carrie rushed up the stairs to retrieve eighteen-month-old Franklin from his crib. He stopped crying the moment she entered the room, and began to jump up and down, holding onto the bars, a beatific smile lighting his small face.

"Hi, Frankie, hi!" Carried greeted him gaily, lifting him from the crib and carrying him to the changing table in the corner of the room. The baby began to wriggle and kick, laughing and yelling, "Hi, hi, hi."

After a bit of a wrestling match, with a can of baby powder and package of baby wipes being flung enthusiastically to the floor by an increasingly wild Franklin, Carrie finished diapering him and tackled the job of dressing him. She didn't set her sights too high—a one-piece blue cotton sun-suit was the quickest and easiest garment to get him into. The unique and adorable—and more complicated—little outfits remained on their hangers in the closet.

"So, Mr. Sleepyhead finally decided to wake up!" Alexa Shaw appeared in the doorway, holding one toddler in her

arms and another by the hand. "I needed a break from all the fun we were having outside," she confessed, setting one baby to the floor and releasing the other's hand.

The two toddlers ran into the room and headed straight to the long shelves that lined one wall of the room. Joined by Franklin, the three began to gleefully toss the neatly ordered toys to the floor.

Alexa sank into the rocking chair and heaved a tired sigh. "Dylan must've tried to dash through that break in the hedge out back at least forty times. And every time I ran to fetch him, Emily would head straight for the impatiens you planted yesterday. They're not looking too good, by the way. I sent Ben out to try and revive them."

Carrie dropped to the floor, cross-legged. Little Emily ran over and plopped herself down onto her mother's lap. She sat still long enough for Carrie to give her a hug and a kiss on the top of her blond head, then wriggled out of her mother's embrace and returned to her brothers and their mutual project of emptying the shelves.

"They never stop moving," Alexa marveled wearily. "If they aren't sleeping, they're zooming around like Siamese cats on speed."