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The French doors opened.
“I’m sorry about that,” Brad said. “Some calls just can’t wait.”
Seemed like all calls could never wait, but I didn’t say so. We had company, after all.
“Where’d Bryce and Joe go?” he asked.
“Probably to Joe’s room,” I said.
“I see Tal and Ry are still out running around.” He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late.”
“It’s only nine,” I said, though the sun had set and darkness was coming.
“Goodness.” Evie stood. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I should be going. I’ll go find Bryce.”
I stood then. “I’ll find them. Just a minute.”
As I suspected, they were in Jonah’s room. I knocked.
“Yeah?” came Jonah’s cracking voice.
“It’s Mom. Can I come in?”
“Just a minute!”
Some shuffling, and then Joe opened the door. The poster of Brooke Bailey over his bed blared like a siren in the room. For a moment, I thought I could actually hear it. Then I noticed a magazine shoved hastily under his bed.
I sighed. I didn’t need much of an imagination to figure out what two boys on the verge of teenhood were looking at.
“Your mom says it’s time to go, Bryce,” I said.
“Oh. Sure.” He stood. “Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Steel.”
“Anytime. You know that. I hope your father lets you come with us to Disneyland.”
“Me too. Thanks a lot for inviting me.”
“He has to say yes,” Joe said. “Otherwise I’m stuck with my geeky little brothers.”
“Geeky?” I shook my head. “Your brothers are not geeky.”
“They still like doing little kid stuff.”
“Yeah. That’s because they’re little kids. While you’re such a grown man of twelve.”
“Thirteen.”
“In eleven days,” I reminded him.
“Eighteen for me,” Bryce piped in, leaving the room. “Thanks again, Mrs. Steel.”
“Come on,” I said to Jonah. “Let’s see them out.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Brad
The phone call with Wendy had ended on a positive note. She was leaving soon on an assignment in DC and would be gone at least two weeks.
Two weeks of reprieve.
A perfect time for me to take my beautiful wife on a well-deserved weekend getaway.
“I don’t know, Brad,” Daphne said when I broached the subject. “You know how I am with morning sickness. Just the thought of Disneyland in two weeks has me about ready to spew. But I won’t disappoint the boys. I’m not sure I’m up for anything else.”
“I know, baby, but you’re okay if you eat your crackers and stay hydrated. Let me do this for you. For us. I already booked a suite at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs.”
That should do it. Daphne loved the Broadmoor. We’d never had a honeymoon because of Murphy’s and Patty’s deaths, but a couple of years later, I took her for a weekend at the Broadmoor. First class all the way.
Talon had been conceived that weekend.
It was our special place.
“All right,” she relented.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” I said. “I promise. Mom and Belinda will take care of the kids, and we’ll be back Sunday evening.”
We began with a candlelight dinner at eight p.m. the evening we arrived. A perfect champagne moment, but Daphne couldn’t drink due to the pregnancy, so we settled for sparkling spring water.
She was radiant in a pink sundress and white heeled sandals. I’d booked her a day of beauty at the spa tomorrow, but now, gazing at her by candlelight, I knew no one in the world could make her more beautiful than she already was.
I picked up my glass for a toast. “To my beautiful wife.”
“And to you,” she countered. “My husband, who’s handsomer today than when I first laid eyes on him.”
We clinked glasses and each took a sip.
This was good. This was right. This was what we needed.
Our meals arrived. Daphne had surprised me by ordering free-range roast chicken. I was sure she’d order a bowl of plain pasta, one of her morning-sickness staples. I’d already arranged it with the chef.
“Enjoy, baby,” I said.
“I’m not sure why,” she said, “but it sounded good.”
“I’m glad.”
She took a bite of the mashed potatoes. “Mmm. I wish I’d just ordered a plate of these.”
“We can take care of that.” I signaled to our waiter.
“No, it’s okay. I want to try the chicken.” She took a bite. “Hmm. Maybe not.”
“Sir?” the waiter said.
“My wife needs a plate of just mashed potatoes, please.”
“Is there something wrong?”
“No, no,” she said. “I’m pregnant, is all.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I thought I could handle the chicken, but not so much.”
“Let me box it up for you.”
“Don’t bother.” She pushed the remaining mashed potatoes onto her bread plate. “I’m so sorry for the waste.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Just take care of your baby. I’ll be back with your potatoes shortly.”
She smiled her dazzling smile at him. “You’re so kind. Thank you.”
I gazed at her.
She’d just made that waiter’s night with a simple smile.
That was the power of my wife—that ethereal quality I’d never encountered in anyone else. Everyone saw it. Her father had been the first to use the word ethereal about her, and he’d been right on point.
