So he didn’t argue. He didn’t hold her. He didn’t do a damn thing, except what he did best: he ran. He turned away from her emotional needs and tackled the practical ones. He went to work on the drain again.
After several minutes of thick, increasingly awkward silence, she left the room. Hank didn’t look up. He said nothing.
When she’d gone, the faintest scent of strawberries lingered. It taunted his senses in a way that expensive French perfumes never had. He wondered if the taste of strawberries was on her lips. The possibility was provocative. Maddening. He had the oddest feeling, now that she was out of reach, that he’d made a terrible mistake in not acting on impulse and kissing the woman senseless. Maybe once he’d done it, her odd grip on him would loosen.
His hand slipped and his knuckles scraped along the jagged inside edge of the drain. He cursed as blood welled slowly. He ransacked the medicine cabinet for antiseptic and dumped it on, grateful for the pain. For an instant, anyway, it blocked out his unexpected, inexplicable sense of loss.
It was going to be a very long couple of months.
It was a very long evening. There was absolutely no gracious way Hank could think of to get out of joining the whole unorthodox, noisy family for dinner on his very first night. He figured it was a test contrived by an irritated Maker. He barely passed. His nerves were so tightly wound by the time they finished saying grace and passed the heaping platters of food that his shoulders felt as if he’d been lifting weights for an hour.
He discovered that there was no such thing as conversation, much less seductive intimacy, at a table with six children. There were pokes. There were grumbled complaints about vegetables. There were muttered gripes about the choice of baked rather than fried chicken. There were threats of banishment if one single spoonful of mashed potatoes was actually flung across the table. There were promises of dessert for those who finished their glazed carrots. And there was intense bargaining over dishwashing duties. Ann presided over it all with Madonna-like serenity.
Hank watched her and marveled. While his muscles knotted at the confusion, she seemed to thrive on it. Her cheeks glowed. Her blue eyes sparkled with laughter. She was as adept as an experienced referee in the midst of a goal-line pileup. She knew exactly what everyone needed at any given second and provided it. Platters and bowls came and went with the precision of a banquet caterer. No argument was allowed to erupt into anger. She teased. She soothed. She tolerated spilled milk and gravy stains with equanimity, but drew the line at food fights.
“Enough,” she said, unable to hide a grin as David—or was it Jason? Nope, Jason was the one who never talked—promised to stuff cold potatoes down Tracy’s throat if she dared to reveal some secret he’d entrusted her with. Ann moved the potatoes safely out of reach.
“You are such a jerk,” Tracy countered with a look of supreme disgust for the red-haired boy beside her. “Why would I want to tell anyone that you—”
“Tracy!” he threatened, stretching to try to get a grip on the bowl that Ann had just moved. An embarrassed flush spread beneath his freckles.
Tracy grinned back. “Gotcha.”
“Mom, make her promise,” David implored.
“Not me,” Ann said, getting up and beginning to clear the table. “You two work it out or leave the table.”
David moved his chair with a thump. Tracy propped her elbow on the table and settled her chin in her hand. Her expression of exaggerated innocence amused Hank. He waited for David’s next move.
“What’ll it cost me?” he said resignedly, sinking back in his chair.
Tracy reacted indignantly. “I am not blackmailing you, you little twerp. Jeez, what’s wrong with you? I was only teasing.”
Ann paused behind Tracy’s chair and put a warning hand on her shoulder. Hank watched as the girl struggled with her anger. “I’m sorry,” she muttered finally.
David blinked at the apology, then stared at the table. “Yeah, me, too,” he mumbled.
“Now how about dessert?” Ann said cheerfully, ending the brief moment of tension. “Who wants strawberries with ice cream?”
“Me.”
“Me.”
The chorus came from around the table. Hank found himself chiming in, though the thought of strawberries brought all sorts of dangerous memories to mind. “I’ll help,” he said, feeling a sudden need to move, a surprising desire to be an active participant, rather than an observer.
“Not tonight,” Ann said, her gaze pinning him where he was.
“You told me everyone helped,” he reminded her, wondering if this was yet another attempt to set him apart, to remind him that he wasn’t a permanent fixture.
She grinned. “We have another rule. No one helps on the first night here.”
“Yeah, but after tonight, watch out,” Jason warned in a sullen tone. They were the only words he’d spoken since the start of the meal. “Mom’s schedules make the army look like summer camp.”
“Who’d like Jason’s share of dessert?” Ann queried lightly.
Though he’d been slouched down in his chair, feigning disinterest, Jason immediately scrambled to his feet and reached for the bowl.
“Hey, hand it over.”
A grin on her face, Ann held the bowl just beyond his reach. Wiry and swift, he tried to grab it, but she made a move as smooth as any quarterback could have performed and passed it over to David at the table. Jason didn’t waste time bemoaning the loss. He simply nabbed the one remaining bowl on the counter, and clutching it securely to his chest, went back to his place at the table. The lightening of his mood surprised Hank.
“That’s mine,” Ann said.
“Oh, really,” Jason said with exaggerated innocence.
“Give that back this minute.”
“Gee, Mom, are you sure you should be eating all this rich food? There’s gotta be cholesterol in this stuff, right? We wouldn’t want to watch you die of clogged arteries or something,” he said in
