“You’re going to sleep where I put you.” Sam tugged the snowy white and blue quilt over her. Bracing one hand on either side of Lucy’s body, he stared down at her. Maybe it was the effect of the sunset glow pouring through the windows, but his face seemed to have gentled. He reached down to tuck a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. “Think you could stay awake long enough to have some soup?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Rest, then. I’ll check on you in a little while.”
Lucy lay quietly after he left. The room was serene and cool, and from the distance she could hear the rhythmic lapping of the tide. Pleasantly indistinct sounds filtered through the floor and walls, voices punctuated by an occasional laugh, the clinking of pots and dishes and flatware. Sounds of family and home, floating on the air like a lullaby.
* * *
Sam paused to stare out the window on the second-floor landing. The moon had appeared even before sunset had finished, a massive white-gold circle against the magenta sky. Scientists said that the size of the summer solstice moon was an optical trick, that the human eye was unable to accurately measure distance without the help of visual cues. But some illusions were truer than reality.
Once Sam had read a story about an ancient Chinese poet who had drowned while trying to embrace the reflection of the moon. He had been drinking rice wine along the Yangtze River—too much wine, in light of his ignominious death. But God knew there was no choice in yearning for something or someone you would never be able to have. You didn’t even want a choice. That was the fatal temptation of moonlight.
Lucy was in his bed, as fragile as a broken orchid. He was tempted to stay in the hallway just outside the bedroom door and sit on the floor with his back to the wall, waiting for any sign that she needed something. But he made himself go downstairs, where Renfield was trotting back and forth with a discarded sock in his mouth, and Holly was setting the table, and Mark was on the phone talking to someone about scheduling a dentist appointment.
Heading into the kitchen, Sam went to the big freestanding wooden worktable where Maggie stood whisking cream in a bowl.
Maggie Conroy was pretty rather than beautiful, her personality so effervescent that she gave the impression of being taller than she actually was. It was only when you stood right next to her that you realized she couldn’t be more than five foot one. “I’m five one and a half,” Maggie always insisted, as if that last half inch made a damn bit of difference.
In the past Mark had always gone for trophy chicks, the kind who were great to look at but rarely fun to spend any actual time around. Thank God that when Mark had finally gotten serious with someone, it had been Maggie, whose quirky optimism was exactly what the family had needed.
Wordlessly Sam approached, took the whisk and bowl from her, and continued to whip the cream.
“Thanks,” Maggie said, shaking out her cramped hand.
“Why don’t you use the mixer?”
“Mark didn’t tell you?” Maggie scrunched up her face adorably, and hung her head in shame. “I burned up the mixer motor last week. I promise, I’ll replace it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said, still whisking. “We’re used to kitchen disasters around here. Except that Mark and I are usually the cause. How did you burn up the motor?”
“I was trying to make whole wheat pizza dough, and it got too heavy and stiff, and then there was a burning smell and the mixer started smoking.”
Sam grinned, using the tip of the whisk to test the whipped cream, which was holding its shape. “Maggie, sweetheart, pizza is not something you cook at home. Pizza is what you get when you don’t feel like cooking at home.”
“I was trying to make a healthy version.”
“Pizza’s not supposed to be healthy. It’s pizza.” He handed the bowl to her, and she proceeded to cover it with plastic wrap and put it into the fridge.
After closing the Sub-Zero, which had been camouflaged with cream-painted cabinet doors to blend in with the rest of the kitchen, Maggie went to the stockpot on the stove and stirred the soup. “How is your friend?” she asked. “Lucy, right?”
“Yeah. She’ll be fine.”
Maggie sent him a perceptive sideways glance. “How about you?”
“Great,” he said, a shade too quickly.
She began to ladle the steaming soup into bowls. “Should I fix a dinner tray for her?”
“No, she’s down for the count.” Sam went to an already-opened bottle of wine and poured himself a glass.
“So you’ve brought Lucy here to recuperate,” Maggie remarked. “And you’re going to take care of her. She must be someone special.”
“No big deal.” Sam kept his tone scrupulously offhand. “We’re friends.”
“Just friends?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there a chance of anything more developing?”
“No.” Again, his response was a little too fast. He scowled as he saw Maggie’s knowing smile. “She doesn’t want my kind of relationship.”
“What kind is that? Sex with random beautiful women with no chance of commitment?”
“Exactly.”
“If you find the right woman, you may want to try something a little more long- term.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t do long-term.” He set the table and went in search of Mark and Holly to tell them that dinner was ready. Finding them in the living room, he paused at the broad threshold, where a superfluous wall had been knocked out to allow for a more open floor plan.
Mark and Holly were seated close together on the sofa, a boatlike antique that Maggie had found and convinced Mark to buy. In its original condition, the sofa had been a monstrosity, all scarred and moth-eaten. But after the carved rosewood had been stripped and refinished, and it had been upholstered in acres of sage-green velvet, the settee possessed a whimsical grandiosity that suited the house.
Holly’s legs dangled from the sofa. She swung her feet idly while Mark made notes in the family planner spread out on the coffee table.
“… so when you’re at the dentist’s, and he asks how often you floss,” Mark said, “what are you going to say?”
“I’ll say, ‘What’s floss?’” Holly giggled as Mark goosed her in the side and kissed the top of her head.
Not for the first time, Sam was struck by the fatherly quality in Mark’s attachment to her. In the past, it hadn’t been a role that Mark had seemed particularly suited for … but he had grown into it with lightning speed when Holly had come into their lives.
Mark leaned over to scribble something in the family planner. “Did Maggie order those ballet shoes for your dance class yet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her.”
“Uncle Mark?”
“Mmmm-hmm?”
“The baby’s going to be my cousin, isn’t he?”
The pen stopped moving. Mark set it down carefully and looked into the child’s solemn face. “Technically, yes. But I imagine…” He paused, choosing his words with care. “I imagine it will feel like the baby is your brother or sister. Because you’ll be growing up together.”
“Some kids in my class think you’re my dad. You even look like a dad.”
