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The realization stripped the air from his lungs.
He waited for her to finish the book, then called out, “Lunch is ready.”
Simon scrambled up, clearly hungry. He eyed Grace expectantly.
She said something to Simon and slipped her book back into the bag she’d brought. She’d already put their paper plates and empty whipped cream cans in a plastic bag for rinsing and recycling. As Simon’s shoulders slumped, Amos guessed that Grace just told him she wasn’t staying for lunch.
Amos left the houseboat to keep her from leaving.
“I made a large salad,” he called, chasing her to her car, “artichoke chicken and rice salad. It’ll help put some meat on your bones.”
Oh, he should not have said that last part.
She wheeled around with an incredulous expression. “I might have an appetite if my own son were not stuck in a civil war.”
He closed his eyes and counted to five. “And I’m sorry for that.” How many times would he have to apologize to her? “It’s just that I made a large lunch, and I would like to talk to you about Simon’s aptitude.”
Simon, who stood right beside him, tipped his head at the unfamiliar word.
“I can’t stay. I’m sorry. I’m sure your salad is delicious.” Grace turned away and kept walking.
Amos pursued her. “Where do you have to go?”
“To my sister’s. She’s widowed with two children and a baby on the way, and she’s starting up a business. I watch her kids for her in the afternoons.”
Frustrated by her credible excuse, Amos gave Simon a job so he could talk to Grace in private. “Son, go and check our mailbox at the head of the driveway. Ours is the one on the bottom.”
“Okay.” Simon struck a runner’s pose. “Wanna see how fast I can run?”
“I’ll time you.” Amos pushed the same button on his watch that he used for junior SEALs at the obstacle course. “Go.”
As Simon sprinted toward the front of the house, Amos stepped closer to Grace, who kept a wary eye on him, no doubt worried he might pull her into his arms.
“How did Simon do? Do you think he’ll learn to read before school starts?”
“Honestly,” she glanced back at Simon’s disappearing form, “I suspect he’s had some instruction, whether he was aware of it or not. The concept of phonetics wasn’t new to him.”
An image of Emma Moulton reading to her brood sprang to mind. Amos owed that woman more than he realized. “Good, good. But I was hoping you would tutor him all day.”
Grace arched an eyebrow. “He is six years old, Amos.”
It was the first time she’d ever said his name. It thrilled him to the core.
“You can’t expect a boy that young to hold still any longer than three hours. Take him on field trips in the afternoon. He’ll learn that way. I would start with the aquarium; that’s a great place to take kids.”
“Would you meet us there? Bring your sister’s children?” Was he being overly eager?
Grace searched his expression with a frown. But then Simon was streaking toward them, his hands empty.
“Nothing’s in it? How fast am I?”
Amos checked his stopwatch. “Twenty-five seconds. That’s a land-speed record.”
“I’m as fast as Colton,” his son said proudly. His expression clouded over as he remembered his old playmate.
Grace divided an astute glance between them. “Who’s Colton?”
“My cousin.”
