“No, he . . . Really?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Intrigued, Liam picked up Deadpool and made puking noises.
“Nice. Your mom said she’d make you scrambled eggs if you’re up for it.”
“Maybe. Will you watch TV with me?”
“For a couple minutes.” Though it wasn’t the way he’d envisioned getting into Clare’s bed, Beckett shifted, settled back against the headboard. The boy shifted, too, settled his head in the crook of Beckett’s arm.
And glanced up. There it was, that angel smile, just like his younger brother.
He played bendominoes—cool game—while she scrambled eggs for Liam. He watched a fun flick with the kids while she sat with the sick boy. He waited while she put the other two boys to bed, checked on Liam.
“He’s sleeping,” she told Beckett when she came back down. “And his forehead’s cooler. So, I’d say that crisis is over. Harry’ll be next, and he’ll have it worse.”
“That’s optimistic.”
“I know what I know. So. Scrambled eggs in the kitchen?”
“You don’t have to bother. You must be tired.”
“I’m starving, and I really want a glass of wine.”
“Talked me into it.”
It wasn’t such a bad deal, sitting in the kitchen drinking a glass of wine while she scrambled eggs at the stove. Inspired, he went into the living room, gathered a trio of tea lights she had in dark blue cups.
“You mind? I had a candlelight dinner in my head for tonight.”
“I love it.” She opened a drawer, passed him a lighter.
They sat in the kitchen with tea lights and pink roses and ate scrambled eggs and toast.
“I’m glad you stayed.”
“So am I. And you look just as beautiful in candlelight as I imagined. Do you want to try for a meal you don’t have to cook next weekend?”
“Friday night?”
“Same time, same channel.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment. I’m in. Okay, the question has to be asked. Yes, you were once a boy, but all men were, and not all men are as easy and natural with kids as you are. Why don’t you have some of your own?”
“I never got serious enough about anybody, I guess. You started younger than most.”
“It was exactly what I wanted, and I didn’t want to wait. It was the same for Clint. We just knew.”
“What was it like, the military life?”
“There’s a lot of waiting, if you’re a military spouse. I saw parts of the world I never would have seen, learned how to organize, how to let things go. I did miss home. Not all the time, but there were moments, I missed it so much. When Clint was killed, I knew I had to come back, bring the boys here. For family, and for the sense of continuity.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have made it without my parents, without his parents. They were, are, wonderful. You know how that is, working with your brothers, your mother, the family business.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Some people need to step away from family, and others need to stick. I’ve done both, I suppose. This is home now, or again. Did you ever consider living somewhere else?”
“Thought about it, but there’s nowhere else I wanted to be.”
He made her laugh, talking about people she knew, people she’d never met. And when he rose with her when she cleared the table, when he drew her close, kissed her, he made her pulse jump.
“Maybe we could sit on the couch,” he murmured in her ear. “Drink another glass of wine. Neck.”
Oh yes, please, she thought. “You pour the wine. I’ll just go check on Liam, then—Harry.”
Sheet white, a little glassy-eyed, he stood in the doorway. “I got sick.”
“Oh, baby.” She went to him quickly, felt his forehead. “Yeah, you’re a little warm. We’ll fix you up. Beckett.”
“It’s okay. Do you need any help?”
“No, I’ve got this.”
“Go ahead. I’ll let myself out. Feel better, big guy.”
“Thanks. Come on, baby.”
“Can I get in your bed, too? Liam did.”
“Sure.”
She sent Beckett an apologetic look, then led her sick boy upstairs.
Chapter TEN
The weekend passed in a blur of sickbeds, soup, and scrambled eggs. By Sunday morning, both Liam and Harry felt well enough to be bored and cranky. She’d thought her idea to make camp in the living room where the two boys could have each other and an assortment of books and DVDs for company inspired. But the novelty wore off as Harry, no longer feverish but still a bit peaked, also became thoroughly sick of his brothers.
She had to sympathize, as she was fairly sick of them herself.
She solved the last shouting match over which DVD to watch by walking in, picking up the remote, and switching off the TV.
“Mom!”
The single word blasted in three-part harmony.
“Since all you can do is bicker and complain about the movies, we’ll take a break from them.”
“Harry started it,” Liam began.
“I did not! You—”
“I don’t care who started it.” Sick kids or not, Clare pulled out the Mom Voice. “It appears I’ve finished it. Now you can all stay here and read, or color, or play quietly with your toys. Or you can go to your room and sulk. And if you argue with me,” she said anticipating, “
“It’s his fault,” Liam said under his breath.
“Liam Edward Brewster, you’re on notice. Not another word.”
His eyes filled, tears and temper. She felt a little like a crying jag herself. “Now I want everyone to be quiet for ten minutes.”
“Mom.”
“Harry,” she said with a warning note in her voice.
“I’m hungry. I want my soup.”
Getting his appetite back was a good sign. However. “Harry, I told you, we’re out. Marmie and Granddad are bringing more.”
“But I’m hungry now.”
“I can fix you something else. I have Chicken Noodle or Alphabet soup.”
“I don’t want those. I want Chicken and Stars.”
“Then you have to wait. They’ll be here soon.”
“Why can’t they be here
Feeling her patience fray, Clare reminded herself how pale and pitiful he’d looked the night before. “They’ll be here soon. It’s the best I can do, Harry. Ten minutes of quiet now. I have to check the laundry.”
She figured she’d be lucky to get five minutes of quiet, and didn’t rate that as Murphy followed her into the kitchen.
“I’m hungry, too. I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
