Page 50 of The Rainbow Recipe
“Twin talk, mostly.” Pris sat on the back steps to show them how the cat preferred to be petted.
“Twin talk? They’re not saying anything.” Evie studied them. “But they’re taking turns without squabbling. Amazing.”
Pris shrugged, uncomfortable with explaining. “Scientists have studied twins. There’s a mental or empathic connection most siblings don’t have. Because these two have been so isolated, theirs may be stronger than most.”
Evie glanced at her quizzically. “And you can tell they’re not deaf mute how?”
Pris grinned. “I’m psychic.”
Evie punched her arm. The twins instantly looked up in concern.
Pris shook her head at them. “Evie is like my sister. We fuss at each other.”
They nodded and returned to petting the cat.
“They understood.” Evie picked up the long-handled feather duster and swished it across the porch.
The cat leapt at it, startling the twins into giggles. Nan held out her hand for the duster. Evie didn’t give it to her.
Pris relaxed against a porch column, letting the game play out. “Their minds are so open and simple that it’s a pleasure being around them.”
“Unlike adults, who are twisty-minded and blasting ugly thoughts.” Evie swished the feathers for the cat to chase.
“Me?” Alex demanded, holding out his hand.
As reward for using his words, Evie surrendered the duster, and twins and cat raced off.
“Yeah, I know. They need to be encouraged to speak. Not my job. I’m just keeping them safe,” Pris said. It actually physically hurt to admit that. “Maybe Gladwell is furious that Lucia gave the twins away. They’d be great in commercials.”
“That’s stupid. And Lucia giving them up was stupid. We’re missing some vital component here. I just fail to see how it connects with KK’s death.” Evie glanced over her shoulder at a sound in the drive. “A car just pulled up.”
Pris grimaced as the familiar fury and confusion reached her. Dante’s mind was never quiet, although he acted the part of stoic well. “The twins’ father. He’s totally pissed.”
“Can’t say I blame him. Misappropriating his children isn’t quite the same as moving flower pots and pets to more appreciative homes the way you did as a kid. I’ll try to keep the twins outside until the tempest passes.” Evie settled into the cushioned porch swing.
“Someone needs to rattle the man into listening. Why not me?” Pris sauntered into the house as if she weren’t shaking in her shoes. She really had pushed him to the edge.
Dante might be politely respectful in public, but he had a temper that probably needed release occasionally before he imploded.
She opened the front door before he’d maneuvered the crutch across the Victorian verandah. A nondescript sedan with an Uber sticker pulled away from the curb.
Leaning against the jamb, Pris watched him unsympathetically. “Took you long enough.”
“It’s only a result of my upbringing and this damned leg that I don’t fling you over my shoulder and cart you to the cops for kidnapping.” He shouldered past her, leaving his luggage on the step. “Where are they?”
“Learning to talk to cats in the backyard. You didn’t really think I’d harm them, did you? I told you where to find them.” With a sigh, Pris followed him down the hall. “You should be grateful.”
She left him sputtering while she aimed for the kitchen counter. “What time zone are you in? Coffee, tea, or booze?”
“Coffee.” He limped through the kitchen to the back door, even though she could see how much it pained him. After watching through the screen, his broad shoulders finally slumped in what might be relief. “Good morning, Evangeline.”
Pris didn’t hear Evie’s reply. She turned on Jax’s coffee machine and poured herself juice, returning to the cookie dough. She didn’t intend to explain herself again.
Dante wearily took a stool at the counter. “Lucia isn’t in London.”
“We needto coordinate and go deeper on this,” Jax insisted over the newly-cleared dinner table.
While he’d been at work, gremlins had mucked out accumulations of—collections, Evie had called them. Stacks of vinyl albums, old magazines, fabrics, and assorted whatsits had vanished from the scarred walnut dining table and the mismatched chairs. Stacks of cardboard boxes now lined the walls, but the table was covered in a gawdawful white vinyl cloth so the children could eat with the adults. The battered wooden chairs weren’t worth protecting.
