“Fuck,” Ryder muttered.
“Don’t say
“She says they’re . . . involved now and then. She laid it out for me when he went up to put some pants on. They’ve been friends forever. They both loved Dad. You know he loved Dad, that’s no bullshit.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Ry,” Beckett murmured.
“Okay, shit. Okay, yeah they were tight. It’s not bullshit. But if this is all good for Mom, why are they sneaking around?”
“It’s more being discreet, I think, at least that’s how it struck me once she’d laid it out. She talked to me about how she felt when Dad died, and she cried.”
“Shit.” Ryder paced to the window, stared out.
“She and Willy B care about each other, we know that. They leaned on each other when Dad died, we know that, too. I guess, after a while . . .”
“They started leaning on each other naked.”
“Goddamn it, Ry.” Beckett pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Stop putting those pictures in my head.”
“They’re in mine, so they might as well be in yours, too. It still feels like I should go punch him—at least one good punch. On principle.”
“She wouldn’t like it.” Owen shrugged. “And he’s still Willy B, so you know he’d let you punch him if you needed to do it.”
“Goddamn it, he would, too. It’s no good that way. I’ve got to think about this.” Jaw tight, Ryder picked up his hammer, set a framing nail, and whaled on it.
“I guess we all do.” Beckett put his safety glasses on, turned on the saw.
Nodding, Owen strapped on his tool belt.
It was better to work, he decided, better to push through the strange day with the smell of sawdust and the sounds of nails hammered into wood.
By the time Clare and the kids arrived with provisions, they’d finished framing in on the second floor, and had started on the main level.
“You work so fast!” Clare wandered what would be her office—her own home office!—off the kitchen.
“We got a system.” Beckett draped an arm over her shoulders as the boys stomped around the subflooring.
“It works. Well, we’re here to help, if we can. And as payment I’ve got beef stew in the Crock-Pot. A manly meal for manly men.”
“I’m in,” Owen told her.
“I hate to miss it, but I’ve got a date.” Ryder tossed a hunk of his sub in the air. Dumbass caught the high fly like a veteran center fielder.
“Can you teach Ben and Yoda to do that?” Liam demanded. “Stuff just bounces off their face mostly.”
“D.A. here, he was born knowing how to field food, but yeah, we could teach them.”
“Not in the house,” Clare said absently as she pored over the blueprints.
Ryder just grinned at the boy, broke off another small hunk. “Go ahead, practice with D.A.”
“D.A. stands for Dumbass,” Murphy announced, “but we’re not supposed to say
“Depends, doesn’t it?”
“On how?”
“Well.” Considering, Ryder took a pencil out of his tool belt, drew on the subflooring. “What’s that?”
“It’s a donkey. You draw good.”
“Nah, it’s a jackass.”
“Mom! Ryder drawed a jackass on the floor!”
“Drew,” Clare corrected, and sent Ryder a sighing look.
“I like to draw. Can I draw on the floor?”
Ryder handed over the pencil. “Have at it, midget.”
Happily, Murphy sat on the floor and drew a box with a triangle on top. “This is gonna be our house when we get married.”
Liam trooped over to Owen. “I need more for D.A. to catch.”
Owen obliged him with a chunk of sub.
“You’re gonna be our uncle.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“So you have to buy us Christmas presents.”
“I guess I do.”
“I got a list.”
“A man after my own heart. Where is it?”
“On the frigerator at home. It’s only ten more days till Christmas.”
“Then I better get on it.”
Liam looked across the room where Beckett was teaching Harry how to hammer in a stud. “I wanna hammer, too.”
“Then you better help me finish framing in the pantry.”
“What’s the pantry?”
“It’s where your mom’s going to keep food.”
“That’s the frigerator.”
“Not everything goes in the fridge, kid. How about cans of soup?”
“I like Chicken and Stars.”
“Who doesn’t? Let’s get it done.”
Despite the endless stream of questions, he liked working with the kid, showing him how to measure, how to mark, how to hold a hammer. And he figured it showed their simpatico when Liam lasted nearly an hour before he joined Murphy on the floor with a pile of action figures.
He gave Clare credit, too. She fetched, she carried, she drove in a few nails herself—and rode herd on the kids.
He remembered his mother doing much the same when they’d added on to the house.
His father always had a project going.
After they knocked off, he found himself flattered when Liam asked to ride with him. They strapped the booster seat in the truck, strapped the kid in it.
“Where’s your house?” Liam wanted to know.
“Right down the road—or through the woods if you’re walking.”
“Can I see it?”
“Ah. Sure, I guess.”
It wasn’t much of a detour. Owen made the turns, cruised up his lane.
He’d strung a few lights, had the tree centered in the front window—all on timer so they sparkled against the December dark.
“Ours is bigger,” Liam announced.
“Yeah, it is. There are more of you.”
“Do you live here all by yourself?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . it’s my house.”
“You don’t have anybody to play with.”
He hadn’t thought of it quite that way. “I guess not, but Ryder lives right over that way, and when your place is finished, you guys will be right over that way.”
“Can I come play at your house?”
