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“Books? Coffee?” She held the bag in one hand, the go-cup in the other.
“Oh yeah.” He laughed, shook his head. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She sighed a little when he left, and wondered if her boyfriend ever watched her walk away.
CLARE CARTED A tub of books packaged for shipping down to the post office. She breathed in deep a moment as she went out the back and across the gravel parking lot as an actual breeze fluttered over her face.
She thought—hoped—it looked like rain. Maybe a nice, solid soaker that would spare her the time it took to water her garden and pots. If it didn’t come with lightning, she could let the boys run around in the wet after dinner, burn off some energy.
Scrub them up afterward, then, since it was movie night, fix some popcorn. She’d have to check the chart, see whose turn it was to pick the flick.
Charts, she’d learned, helped cut down on arguing, complaining, and bickering when three little boys had to decide whether to spend some time with SpongeBob, the Power Rangers, or the Star Wars gang. It didn’t eliminate the arguing, complaining, and bickering, but it usually kept it at a more manageable level.
She dropped off the shipments, spent a few moments chatting with the postmistress. Because the traffic on Route 34 ran a bit thick, she walked back to The Square, pressed the button for the Walk light. And waited.
Every once in a while it struck her that she was, geographically at least, back where she’d started. Everything else had changed, she mused, glancing over at the big blue tarp.
And was still changing.
She’d left Boonsboro as a brand-new bride of nineteen. So young! she thought now. So full of excitement and confidence, so much in love. She’d thought nothing of driving off to North Carolina to start her life with Clint, as an army wife.
She’d done a decent job of it, too, she decided. Setting up house, playing house, working part-time in a bookstore—and hurrying home to fix dinner. She’d learned she was pregnant only days before Clint had been deployed for his first tour to Iraq.
She’d known fear then, she remembered as she crossed toward Vesta. But it had been offset by the wide-eyed optimism of youth, and the joy of carrying a child—one she’d borne back home, at barely twenty.
Then Clint came home, and they were off to Kansas. They’d had nearly a year. Liam had been born during Clint’s second tour of duty. When he’d come home again, he’d been a great father to their two little boys, but war had stolen his easy cheer, his quick, rolling laugh.
She hadn’t known she was pregnant when she’d kissed him goodbye that last time.
The day they’d handed her the flag from Clint’s casket, Murphy quickened for the first time inside her.
And now, she thought as she opened the glass door, she was back home. For good.
She’d timed the visit postlunch, predinner prep. A scatter of people sat at the dark, glossy wood tables, and a family—not locals, she noted—piled into the booth in the far corner. Their curly-headed toddler sprawled over the red cushions, sound asleep.
She lifted her hand in salute to Avery as her friend ladled sauce on dough behind the service counter. At home, Clare walked over to pull herself a glass of lemonade and brought it back to the counter with her.
“I think it’s going to rain.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Today I mean it.”
“Oh, well then. I’ll get my umbrella.” Avery covered the sauce with shredded mozzarella, layered that with pepperoni, sliced mushrooms, and black olives. Her movements quick and practiced, she opened one of the big ovens behind her and shoved in the pie. She shoveled out another, sliced it.
One of the waitresses swung out of the closed kitchen area, sang out a “Hi, Clare,” then carried the pizza and plates to one of the tables.
Avery said, “Whew.”
“Busy day?”
“We were slammed from eleven thirty until about a half hour ago.”
“Are you on tonight?” Clare asked.
“Wendy called in sick, again, so it looks like I’m pulling a double.”
“Sick meaning she made up with her boyfriend again.”
“I’d be sick too if I was hooked up with that loser. She makes a damn good pizza.” Avery took a bottle of water from under the counter, gestured with it. “But I’m probably going to have to let her go. Kids today?” She rolled her bright blue eyes. “No work ethic.”
“I’m trying to remember the name of the guy you were tight with when you got caught hooking school.”
“Lance Poffinberger—a momentary lapse. And boy, did I pay for it. Screw up once, just once, and Dad grounded me for a month. Lance works down at Canfield’s as a mechanic.” Avery wiggled her eyebrows as she took a slug of water. “Mechanics are hot.”
“Really?”
“With Lance the exception that proves the rule.”
She answered the phone, took an order, pulled out the pizza, sliced it so her waitress could carry the still-bubbling pie to the table.
Clare enjoyed her lemonade and watched Avery work.
They’d been friendly in high school, cocaptains on the cheerlead-ing squad. A bit competitive, but friendly. Then they’d lost touch when Avery went off to college, and Clare had headed shortly after to Fort Bragg with Clint.
They’d reconnected when Clare, pregnant with Murphy and with two boys in tow, had moved back. And Avery, with the red hair and milk white skin of her Scot forebears had just opened her Italian family restaurant.
“Beckett was by earlier.”
“Alert the media!”
Clare met sarcasm with a smug smile. “He said I could take a look inside the inn.”
“Yeah? Let me finish putting this order together, and we’ll go.”
“I can’t, not now. I have to pick up the kids in . . .” She checked her watch. “An hour. And I’ve still got some work. Tomorrow? Maybe before things get busy here or at TTP?”
“That’s a date. I’ll be in around nine to start the ovens and so on. I could slip out about ten.”
“Ten it is. I’ve gotta go. Work, kid pickup, fix dinner, baths, then it’s movie night.”
“We have some excellent spinach ravioli if you want to cross off the fix-dinner portion.”
Clare started to decline, then decided it would be an excellent delivery method of spinach, and save her about forty-five minutes in the kitchen. “Deal. Listen, my parents want the boys for a sleepover on Saturday. How about I fix something that isn’t pizza, open a bottle of wine, and we have an adult, female evening.”
“I can do that. We could also put on sexy dresses and go out, perhaps find adult males to share the evening.”
“We could, but since I’ll be spending the bulk of the day at the mall and the outlets browbeating three boys into trying on back-to-school clothes, I’d probably just shoot the first male who spoke to me.”
“Girls’ night in it is.”
“Perfect.”
Avery boxed up the takeout herself, put it on Clare’s tab.
“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”
“Clare,” Avery said as Clare walked to the door. “Saturday, I’ll bring a second bottle of wine, something gooey for dessert. And my pj’s.”
“Even better. Who needs a man when you’ve got a best girl pal?”
Clare laughed as Avery shot a hand in the air.
She stepped out and nearly bumped into Ryder.
“Two out of three,” she said. “I saw Beck earlier. Now I just need Owen for the hat trick.”
“Heading over to Mom’s. He and Beck are working in the shop. I’ll give you a ride,” he said with a grin. “I just took a dinner order, since Mom says it’s too hot to cook.”
Clare lifted her bag. “I’m with her. Say hi for me.”
“Will do. Looking good, Clare the Fair. Wanna go dancing?”
She shot him grin for grin as she pushed the Walk button on the post. “Sure. Pick me and the boys up at eight.”
She got lucky with the timing, and headed across with a wave. She tried to remember the last time a man had asked her to go dancing and meant it.
She just couldn’t.
THE MONTGOMERY WORKSHOP was big as a house and designed to look like one. It boasted a long covered porch—often crowded with projects in various stages—including a couple of battered Adirondack chairs waiting for repair and paint, for two years and counting.
Doors, windows, a couple of sinks, boxes of tile, shingles, plywood, and various and sundry items salvaged from or left over from other jobs mixed together in a rear jut they’d added on when they’d run out of room.
Because the hodgepodge drove him crazy, Owen organized it every few months, then Ryder or Beckett would haul something else in, and dump it wherever.
He knew damn well they did it on purpose.
The main area held table tools, work counters, shelving for supplies, a couple of massive rolling tool chests, stacks of lumber, old mason jars and coffee cans (labeled by Owen) for screws, nails, bolts.
Here, though it would never fully meet Owen’s high standards, the men kept at least a semblance of organization.
They worked together well, with music from the ancient stereo recycled from the family home banging out rock, a couple of floor fans blowing the heat around, the table saw buzzing as Beckett fed the next piece of chestnut to the blade.
He liked getting his hands on wood, enjoyed the feel of it, the smell of it. His mother’s Lab-retriever mix Cus—short for Atticus—stretched his massive bulk
