The Next Always

  “It’s just smart. I’ve got to go. I’m closing tonight.” She took Clare’s shoulders. “Have fun, and call me tomorrow and tell me everything.”

  “I will.”

  She took another moment, studying herself from every angle. Three kids, she thought, but she’d kept in pretty good shape. That was a matter of vigilance and lucky genes.

  If tonight went well, if the chemistry continued, she and Beckett could—probably would—end up doing what single adults with chemistry did.

  “It’s called sex, Clare,” she muttered to herself. “Just because you haven’t had any in years doesn’t mean you can’t say the word.”

  She didn’t even know if she was good at it. She and Clint had enjoyed a healthy, satisfying sex life, but he was the only man she’d been with. And they’d known each other’s rhythm, signals, bodies so well even with, maybe because of, the long separations.

  And now, Beckett.

  What would it be like with Beckett?

  What would she be like with Beckett?

  Don’t think about it, she ordered herself, or you’ll never be able to enjoy a simple date. Be in the moment. One step at a time.

  She went downstairs. She could hear the boys in the playroom. Loud, but getting along. Saw them ranged around a superhero war as she walked by to the kitchen. Alva sat paging through a garden magazine at the table while the happy sound of popcorn popped in the microwave.

  “We’re watching How to Train Your Dragon.”

  “Again?”

  “Good thing I like it.” Alva tipped down her reading glasses. “Clare, you look beautiful.”

  “It’s nice to dress up for a date. Different, but nice.”

  “You did a good job of it. And he’s right on time,” Alva added when the doorbell rang. “Want me to get it so you can make an entrance?”

  “No, and too late,” she said as Harry shouted I’ll get it. “I’d better go save him from the pack.”

  They outnumbered him right inside the door, battering him with questions, begging for a game. She realized she’d gotten used to seeing him in work clothes so it came as a pleasant jolt to study him in black dress pants and a steel gray jacket.

  He held a bouquet of pink baby roses in his hand as he grinned down at her boys.

  She knew, in that instant, she was a goner.

  “Boys, let Beckett get in the house at least.”

  His grin softened to a smile when he looked at her. His eyes warmed. “You look great.”

  “Mom got dressed up ’cause she’s going out,” Murphy informed him.

  “Me, too. These are for you.”

  “They’re beautiful. Thanks.” She saw Harry’s solemn, searching look as she bent her head to sniff the blooms. Instinctively she ran a hand down his back. “Come on in while I put these in water. I’ll—”

  “Mom.”

  “Just a minute, Liam.”

  “Mom, I don’t feel good. My belly hurts.”

  As she shifted toward him, he bent over and threw up on Beckett’s shoes.

  “Oh God.” She thrust the flowers back at Beckett. “Harry, go tell Mrs. Ridenour that Liam got sick, and ask her for a towel.”

  “Wow,” Beckett said as Clare crouched to feel Liam’s forehead.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just let me—Baby, you’re a little warm.”

  “I don’t feel good.”

  “I know. Let’s get you upstairs. Beckett, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Alva came bustling out with towels, a bucket, and a mop.

  “Liam puked,” Murphy informed her.

  “I heard. Poor thing—and you, too,” she said to Beckett. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

  “I have to get him upstairs.” Clare gave Beckett a distracted smile. “I’ll need to take a rain check.”

  “Sure.”

  “The flowers—thanks. Sorry. Come on, baby.” She hefted Liam into her arms. He laid his pale cheek on her shoulder.

  “Can I get in your bed?”

  “Sure. We’ll fix you up. Harry, sweetie, will you bring up a glass of ginger ale?”

  Upstairs, she washed his face—held his head when he threw up a second time. She took his temperature—ninety-nine point three—then urged the ginger ale on him.

  “I threw up two times.”

  “I know,” she soothed as she changed him into his Iron Man pajamas. “Do you feel sick again?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve got the bucket right here if you do and we can’t make it to the bathroom.” Stroking his head, she picked up the TV remote. “Cartoon channel or Nick?”

  “Nick. I feel better since I threw up.”

  “That’s good, baby.”

  Tears glimmered as he huddled against her. “I didn’t mean to throw up on Beckett.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  “Is he mad?”

  “No, he’s not mad.” She kissed the top of Liam’s head. “I’m going to change my clothes.”

  “Are you mad?” he asked as she pulled yoga pants and a T-shirt out of her drawer.

  “Why would I be?”

  “ ’Cause you got dressed up.”

  She took off the pretty, impractical shoes. “It was fun to get dressed up. And I’ll get dressed up again another time.” Angling the closet door, she stepped behind it, took off the dress, put on her mom clothes. Because it smelled faintly of vomit, she stuffed the dress in the dry cleaning bag.

  Oh well.

  “Mom, can I have Iron Man—the new one, not the old one—and Wolverine and Deadpool? Can I have Luke, too?”

  Luke was his tattered stuffed dog, named for Skywalker.

  “Sure.”

  “And can I have more ginger ale?”

  “You bet.” She laid her hand on his brow again, then her lips. Still warm, she thought, and so very pale. “I’ll be back in a minute. There’s the bucket now. You call if you feel sick before I come back.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

  She got the toys first, left him curled up with Luke.

  “Alva? Thanks so much for—” She broke off when a barefoot Beckett stepped out of the playroom.

  “She just left. She said to call if you needed any help. How’s Liam doing?”

  “Better, I think. He’s in my bed watching Nickelodeon with his stuffed dog, Wolverine, Iron Man, and Deadpool for company. Deadpool’s—”

  “I know who Deadpool is. You keep forgetting I used to be a boy.”

  “You know who Deadpool is. Okay, anyway, he’s just got a low-grade fever, and his color’s already a little better so it sounds like the same thing Mazie had. I didn’t expect you to stay.”

  “We had a date.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “So, since you’re standing me up, I’m hanging with the bros. It’s what men do. I guess you’ve got some nursing to do. And I don’t guess you’ve got one of those uniforms, with the little white skirt and—”

  “Did Liam frow up again?” Murphy asked.

  “Yeah, he did, but he felt better after.” She laid a hand on his brow. “How about you?”

  “I don’t feel sick.”

  “We don’t call you Iron Guts for nothing. Harry?”

  “I feel okay. We’re going to play Bendominoes, but Beckett doesn’t know how.”

  “I’m a quick study. Set it up, prepare to be beaten.”

  “No way!” Harry grabbed the box.

  “Beckett, you don’t have to—Oh, hell, I need to take more ginger ale to Liam. I don’t want him to get dehydrated. Just give me a minute.”

  She hurried into the kitchen. Popcorn sat in a bowl, and her lovely, lovely roses in a vase on the table.

  “Am I in the way?”

  She turned to see Beckett watching her from the doorway. “No, of course not, but you can’t want to spend two evenings in a row with a bunch of kids, including one who threw up on your shoes. How are your shoes?”

  “They’ll survi
ve.”

  “He was afraid you’d be mad at him.”

  “It’s not like he aimed for me.” He watched her pour ginger ale in the cup she’d brought back down, then put a few crackers in a bowl.

  He thought of the kid, stuck in bed while his brothers played.

  “Why don’t I take them up to him?”

  “Oh . . . well.”

  He solved it by taking the glass and bowl out of her hands. “I hear there’s movies and popcorn on for later.”

  “That was the plan—a bit of a delay now.”

  “I can wait. I can wait,” he repeated, making sure she got the message.

  “Beckett,” she said when he turned. “How about scrambled eggs?”

  “How about them?”

  “If Liam keeps those crackers down, he’s going to want scrambled eggs. It’s his sick meal. Harry’s is Campbell’s Chicken and Stars and Murphy—though he’s hardly ever sick—goes for toast and strawberry jelly. I can make some scrambled eggs. And I’ve got some wine.”

  “Sounds good. About that nurse’s uniform.”

  “It’s at the cleaners.”

  “Damn. Bad timing.”

  She smiled at his back as he went out. He didn’t run for the hills when a sick boy was involved, he made her stomach flutter when he kissed her. And, he knew who Deadpool was.

  Yeah, she was a goner.

  Upstairs, Beckett walked into Clare’s room, and thought how small the boy looked in her bed.

  “How’s it going, kid?”

  “I threw up two times.”

  “That’s what you get for eating all those oysters and drinking all that whiskey.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Yeah, you say that now.”

  He hugged a worn stuffed dog hard. “I didn’t mean to throw up on you.”

  “These things happen between men.” Beckett sat on the side of the bed, offered the cup and bowl.

  “They do?”

  “Ask me again in about ten years. I bet Deadpool’s puked on Wolverine before.”

  “No, he . . . Really?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Intrigued, Liam picked up Deadpool and made puking noises.

  “Nice. Your mom said she’d make you scrambled eggs if you’re up for it.”

  “Maybe. Will you watch TV with me?”

  “For a couple minutes.” Though it wasn’t the way he’d envisioned getting into Clare’s bed, Beckett shifted, settled back against the headboard. The boy shifted, too, settled his head in the crook of Beckett’s arm.

  And glanced up. There it was, that angel smile, just like his younger brother.

  HE PLAYED BENDOMINOES—cool game—while she scrambled eggs for Liam. He watched a fun flick with the kids while she sat with the sick boy. He waited while she put the other two boys to bed, checked on Liam.

  “He’s sleeping,” she told Beckett when she came back down. “And his forehead’s cooler. So, I’d say that crisis is over. Harry’ll be next, and he’ll have it worse.”

  “That’s optimistic.”

  “I know what I know. So. Scrambled eggs in the kitchen?”

  “You don’t have to bother. You must be tired.”

  “I’m starving, and I really want a glass of wine.”

  “Talked me into it.”

  It wasn’t such a bad deal, sitting in the kitchen drinking a glass of wine while she scrambled eggs at the stove. Inspired, he went into the living room, gathered a trio of tea lights she had in dark blue cups.

  “You mind? I had a candlelight dinner in my head for tonight.”

  “I love it.” She opened a drawer, passed him a lighter.

  They sat in the kitchen with tea lights and pink roses and ate scrambled eggs and toast.

  “I’m glad you stayed.”

  “So am I. And you look just as beautiful in candlelight as I imagined. Do you want to try for a meal you don’t have to cook next weekend?”

  “Friday night?”

  “Same time, same channel.”

  “You’re a glutton for punishment. I’m in. Okay, the question has to be asked. Yes, you were once a boy, but all men were, and not all men are as easy and natural with kids as you are. Why don’t you have some of your own?”

  “I never got serious enough about anybody, I guess. You started younger than most.”

  “It was exactly what I wanted, and I didn’t want to wait. It was the same for Clint. We just knew.”

  “What was it like, the military life?”

  “There’s a lot of waiting, if you’re a military spouse. I saw parts of the world I never would have seen, learned how to organize, how to let things go. I did miss home. Not all the time, but there were moments, I missed it so much. When Clint was killed, I knew I had to come back, bring the boys here. For family, and for the sense of continuity.”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have made it without my parents, without his parents. They were, are, wonderful. You know how that is, working with your brothers, your mother, the family business.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Some people need to step away from family, and others need to stick. I’ve done both, I suppose. This is home now, or again. Did you ever consider living somewhere else?”

  “Thought about it, but there’s nowhere else I wanted to be.”

  He made her laugh, talking about people she knew, people she’d never met. And when he rose with her when she cleared the table, when he drew her close, kissed her, he made her pulse jump.

  “Maybe we could sit on the couch,” he murmured in her ear. “Drink another glass of wine. Neck.”

  Oh yes, please, she thought. “You pour the wine. I’ll just go check on Liam, then—Harry.”

  Sheet white, a little glassy-eyed, he stood in the doorway. “I got sick.”

  “Oh, baby.” She went to him quickly, felt his forehead. “Yeah, you’re a little warm. We’ll fix you up. Beckett.”

  “It’s okay. Do you need any help?”

  “No, I’ve got this.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll let myself out. Feel better, big guy.”

  “Thanks. Come on, baby.”

  “Can I get in your bed, too? Liam did.”

  “Sure.”

  She sent Beckett an apologetic look, then led her sick boy upstairs.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE WEEKEND PASSED IN A BLUR OF SICKBEDS, SOUP, AND scrambled eggs. By Sunday morning, both Liam and Harry felt well enough to be bored and cranky. She’d thought her idea to make camp in the living room where the two boys could have each other and an assortment of books and DVDs for company inspired. But the novelty wore off as Harry, no longer feverish but still a bit peaked, also became thoroughly sick of his brothers.

  She had to sympathize, as she was fairly sick of them herself.

  She solved the last shouting match over which DVD to watch by walking in, picking up the remote, and switching off the TV.

  “Mom!”

  The single word blasted in three-part harmony.

  “Since all you can do is bicker and complain about the movies, we’ll take a break from them.”

  “Harry started it,” Liam began.

  “I did not! You—”

  “I don’t care who started it.” Sick kids or not, Clare pulled out the Mom Voice. “It appears I’ve finished it. Now you can all stay here and read, or color, or play quietly with your toys. Or you can go to your room and sulk. And if you argue with me,” she said anticipating, “all the DVDs go away until next weekend.”

  “It’s his fault,” Liam said under his breath.

  “Liam Edward Brewster, you’re on notice. Not another word.”

  His eyes filled, tears and temper. She felt a little like a crying jag herself. “Now I want everyone to be quiet for ten minutes.”

  “Mom.”

  “Harry,” she said with a warning note in her voice.

  “I’m hungry. I want my soup.”