Page 33

Merry shrugged and resumed running around the room at breakneck speed, making airplane-zooming noises whenever he rounded a piece of furniture or got near a wall.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaad!” The whine following Art up the stairs somehow turned the short word into something that would have rivaled the longest in the dictionary.

“I had no idea the word ‘dad’ contained so many syllables,” I whispered to Art as he dropped the first two duffel bags next to the couch.

My comment surprised a laugh out of him, and his eyes danced mischievously as he replied sweetly, aiming his answer at the open doorway, “Yes, darling child of mine? How can I be of service?”

His daughter muttered something under her breath that we were probably glad not to hear. I jumped at the loud thud followed by an angry shriek heavy with the promise of imminent tears.

“Kicked the stairs and hurt herself,” Art stage-whispered before heaving the remaining bag off his back and dropping it onto the other two already on the floor. “What’s up, kiddo?” he called down the stairs in his normal voice.

“Do you really expect me to carry this bag all the way up these stairs?” his daughter whined back.

Art’s jaw ticked, but whatever reply he was biting back never made it out of his mouth. I was suitably impressed.

He took a deep breath and forced a smile onto his face before opening his mouth.

“Hey, Viv? Remember when I told you not to pack too much because you’d have to carry it yourself?” he said in a mildly chiding tone I would not have been able to replicate in his place.

“You never said anything about stupid stairs,” she whined, sounding younger and closer to tears by the moment.

Art shot me an apologetic glance.

“On my way, kiddo. Hang tight,” Art called back as he headed for the stairs, somehow not sounding annoyed or frustrated.

A moment later, he strode back into the room carrying an unwieldy hard-shelled suitcase that had to have been challenging to maneuver up the narrow stairs, not that he let any of it show on his face.

The sullen teen trudged up the stairs behind him, her limp, bottle-dyed wavy red hair partially covering her scowling face and the chunky over-the-ear headphones slung around her neck. A stretched-out, white, ribbed tank was tucked into oversized—and presumably artfully ripped—jeans held up by a tightly cinched classic men’s leather belt with the extra foot or so looped back on itself and into the waistband. The grunge look was rounded out by beat-up black Doc Martens that looked exactly like the ones I’d worn at her age, and a teal-and-white plaid shirt tied loosely around her hips that looked an awful lot like one I still owned. Her makeup, however, was far better applied than anything I could have pulled off in my teens, let alone as an adult.

“Kids, say hi to Meg and please thank her for letting us crash here until we find a more permanent solution,” Art prompted.

Merry, who had apparently traded in his fighter jet, trotted over on an imaginary horse that whinnied as he reined it in a foot away from me. Bending at the waist, he folded himself into a deep bow, complete with the artful flourish of a hat. “Fair lady, we thank you for this gracious welcome. We are at your service and are forever in your debt,” he intoned gravely when he reached the lowest point of his bow.

Rolling her eyes at her little brother, Viv muttered, “Little weirdo,” at him before aiming an equally surly “Thanks” at me.

“I’m afraid that’s the best we’re going to get today,” Art said, shooting me a “what are you gonna do” grin that sent shivers down my back.

I tried hard not to look as overwhelmed as I felt. Merry’s engine noises had been replaced by a rapid-fire stream-of-consciousness narration punctuated by high-pitched giggles and his imaginary steed’s occasional strident whiny. Viv kept muttering to herself as she shot her father murderous looks. And the sheer presence of Art’s large body pulled at me like a magnet. The room, which a moment ago had seemed a little too empty for my taste, was suddenly unbearably crowded with people and things.

As if she could tell that I needed one less person to worry about, or because she couldn’t handle the chaos herself, Grandma vanished in a puff of three extra-large smoke rings.

When they drifted past him, Art spun around to narrow his eyes at Viv, who completely ignored his accusing glare. The urge to come to her defense was strong, but I resisted. Telling them about my ghostly grandmother didn’t seem like a great way to start things off. It would also have required me to speak, which I wasn’t entirely sure I could manage.

Art shot me a worried glance as I made a beeline for the window only to find it stuck tight.

“Everything okay?” Art murmured, sidling up to me, and sliding the window open with one well-placed thump of his wrist.

“Of course!” I replied, my voice painfully high and thin. “Everything’s fine! What makes you think it isn’t?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Art answered, wiggling the window all the way up and then turning to lean against the windowsill. “Maybe because your face is an interesting shade of pale, and your eyes are rolling around like you’re a terrified horse looking for a way to bolt?”

The loud buzzing in my head quieted when he placed one of his broad hands on my lower back. I sucked in a breath and tried to relax my hands and my shoulders. With a small chuckle that felt more empathetic than judgmental, Art slid his hand around my waist and tugged me closer to him. The tension holding my body in its grip melted away, and I sank into his embrace, tucking myself neatly under his arm and resting my head against his shoulder.

“Better?”

“Humm,” I replied, closing my eyes and breathing in his warm, comforting scent. I would have felt more awkward about huffing him like a restorative essential oil blend if he hadn’t been surreptitiously burying his nose in my hair and doing the same to me.

I smiled wanly when he looked me over with a worried glance. “Sorry. I…”