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Les didn’t hear Marcus, but wherever her brother was, his husband wasn’t far.
“Les?” Daralyn peered in. “Your mom sent me to see if you were up.”
“Actually,” a raised voice came up the stairs, “We were wondering if you were going to get your butt up so the rest of us could eat.”
Daralyn suppressed a smile as Les rolled her eyes. “Is Mom down there?” she called back.
“Yeah, she is.”
“So I can’t call you a dickhead?”
“No,” Elaine said. The tread of feet told Les she’d come to the stairs with Rory. “Stop bothering your sister and come back into the kitchen.”
Daralyn’s eyes twinkled. She had hazel eyes, too, but the brown, gray and green were a different blend from Les’s. Her dark, thick hair was clipped back with a wide barrette, the front part loose around her face, accentuating its prettiness. “Brick went to the fire station, but he should be back soon.”
“He let me know. He texted me just a few minutes ago.”
“So…he brought you home?” The expectant look on her sister-in-law’s face pleased and amused Les at once. Not so long ago, Daralyn would have suppressed the entirely natural female desire to have Les spill all the details.
“He did.” Les lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know what we are yet, but…we’re something. And he’s…”
“All over you. I mean how you feel, when you talk about him.” Daralyn flushed at Les’s raised brow and glanced down the stairs. They could hear pans rattling. “I’ll go help your mom. But do you need anything?”
“No, I’m good. I’ll be there in a couple minutes. Just a superfast clean-up in the bathroom and I’ll change into something that’s not pajamas.”
“It’s all family downstairs. But that’s not for us, is it? It’s for Brick.”
Les crossed her eyes at her. With a quiet note of laughter, Daralyn disappeared.
Brick had been right about the energy one drew from family. Savoring that laugh was part of it. Les had helped Daralyn learn to read, something the bastards who didn’t deserve to be called her family had kept her from doing.
It made her think of what she’d told Brick about the mission trip, helping others in simple ways that could mean so much. Who gives a shit about being a rockstar?
Though if it meant she could have anticipated the cold virus would invite myocarditis into Llanzo’s heart, she’d have given anything for a rock star moment.
She reminded herself of Brick’s text. Gripping the cross and fire badge in her hand, she also said a prayer for Llanzo and his family. Both things helped her get out of bed.
Smiling over Daralyn’s teasing, Les had to admit it was true. She wanted her appearance to reflect her eagerness to see him. What was between them was too new for her to tolerate being without him for too long.
She put on jeans that hugged her curves, plus a short-sleeved shirt that accentuated her neck, the nip of her waist and flare of her hips. And of course her breasts. She added a little makeup and brushed her hair, creating waves she held in place with a tortoiseshell patterned comb on either side.
The shirt was lettuce green with painted flowers over the sleeves and around the V-neckline. They had a tumbling look, like a close-up picture taken of a covered trellis at the height of spring. Thomas had given it to her, swag Marcus had used to promote another artist. Her brother’s trained eye was evident, because the colors in the flowers and the shirt’s background brought out the golden brown and green in her eyes.
As she came down the creaky wood steps, she heard Rory and Thomas talking about store stuff, something about local egg production. Her hand trailed along the family photographs on the wall, including one of her maternal great-grandfather. He stood with a violin in hand, the picture a news clipping from when he was in his thirties. He’d been a locally renown fiddler, also known for his peach moonshine recipe. Her mother had it written down and tucked in the back of one of her family scrapbooks.
When Les reached the kitchen, she saw the brief pause, the exchange of glances, that told her she’d been an earlier topic of conversation. But the gazes that turned her way were full of love and care, and the awkward moment was only that, a moment. When Rory started to navigate his chair around the table, she came to him, leaning in to wrap an arm around his shoulders and give him a smacking kiss on the ear.
“Eww, sister cooties.” But he hugged her back with a strong arm and brushed her face with a surprisingly firm touch from his callused fingers. Rory had their father’s brown eyes and hair, like Thomas.
Though she’d always thought Thomas had more of the look of their father, she was startled to see plenty of him in Rory’s concerned expression. He’d embraced the same life as their dad, which had added weathering to his face. That, plus the trim beard her father had also sometimes cultivated, made the similarity more evident. “Good to have you home for Easter,” Rory said.
“Good to be here.”
Thomas stepped forward. He was built like a man who’d been raised on a farm, but he also had an artist’s beauty worked into that, with his dark eyes and hair kept mostly short, though it always had some curl on the ends. He reminded her of a young Colin Farrell.
He enveloped her in another big brother hug, lifting her off her feet as she hid a sudden sting of tears against his broad shoulder.
She was not doing that today. But hell, it was so good to be home. Really home. Not partly here, half of her mind already back in Durham, figuring out how to make up the time she’d stolen for a trip to see family. Which was how she’d managed the past couple years’ worth of visits.
