powder room under the stairs and into the combination kitchen/dining room.
White appliances and dark oak cabinets. Fresh summer fruit in a wooden bowl on the short run of white countertop between the stove and refrigerator, the refrigerator covered with kids’ drawings and a monthly planner calendar. Four chairs around the square wooden table.
“The kids’ll be in the back. Give me a second.”
She went to the door, called through the screen. “Hi, guys!”
There were whoops and shouts, and from his angle Beckett saw her face just light up.
“Clare! Why didn’t you call me to come get you?”
“I got a ride home. No problem.”
Beckett heard the scrape of a chair, then saw Alva Ridenour come to the door.
He’d had her for algebra, freshman year, and calculus his senior. As she had then, she wore silver glasses perched on her nose, and her hair—now brilliantly white—pulled back in a no-nonsense bun.
“Why, Beckett Montgomery. I didn’t know you were running a taxi service.”
“Anywhere you want to go, Miz Ridenour. The meter’s never running for you.”
She opened the screen as the boys rushed in to assault Clare with tales of the day’s adventures, questions, pleas, complaints.
Alva scooted around them, gave Beckett a poke in the shoulder. “When’s that inn going to be finished?”
“It’ll be a while yet, but when it is I’ll give you a personal tour.”
“You’d better.”
“Do you need any help with your car?”
“No. My husband managed to get it into the shop. How’s your mama?”
“Busy, and keeping us busier.”
“As she should. Nobody wants a pack of lazy boys. Clare, I’m going to get on.”
“I’ll drive you home, Miz Ridenour.”
“It’s two houses down, Beckett. Do I look infirm?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You boys.” She used her former teacher’s voice, and the three kids fell silent. “Give your mother a chance to take a breath. I want to hear all about the first day of school when I see you next. And Liam? You pick up those cars in the living room.”
“But Murphy—”
“You brought them down, you pick them up.” She winked at Clare. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Thanks, Alva.”
“Oh, I promised them cookies and milk if they didn’t fight for a half hour. They made it.”
“Cookies and milk it is.”
“Did you fight with your brothers today?” Alva asked Beckett.
“Not in the last half hour.”
She cackled out a laugh as she left.
Murphy tugged on Beckett’s hand. “Do you wanna see my Power Rangers?”
“You got Red Ranger from Mystic Force?”
Murphy’s eyes widened. He could only nod rapidly before running from the room.
“Wash your hands,” Clare called after him. “Now you’ve done it,” she murmured to Beckett. “Wash up,” she told the other boys, “if you want cookies.”
They obviously did, as they dashed off.
“Power Rangers are Murphy’s current obsession. He has action figures, DVDs, pajamas, T-shirts, costumes, transports. We had a Power Ranger theme for his birthday in April.”
“I used to watch them on TV. I was about twelve, I guess, so I said they were cheesy. But I ate it up.”
As he spoke he watched her take little plates out of a cupboard to set on the table. Power Rangers, Spider-Man, and Wolverine.
“Which one’s mine?”
“Sorry?”
“Don’t I rate cookies and milk and a superhero plate?”
“Oh. Sure.” Obviously surprised, she went back to the cupboard, chose another plate. “Han Solo.”
“Perfect. I dressed up as Han Solo for Halloween.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
He loved the way she laughed, and when she brought the plate and four small, colorful plastic cups to the table, he caught her hand.
“Clare.”
“I got ALL of them.” Murphy muscled in a white plastic basket loaded with action figures. “See, we got Mighty Morphin and Jungle Fury and see, I got Pink Ranger even though she’s a girl.”
Beckett crouched down, took out one of the Green Rangers. “This, my man, is an amazing collection.”
Murphy, eyes wide and deadly earnest, nodded. “I know.”
HE STAYED NEARLY an hour. Clare would have kissed him again just for the fact he’d given her kids such a great time. He’d never seemed bored or annoyed with a conversation dominated by superheroes, their powers, their partners, their foes.
But he didn’t kiss her.
Of course, he didn’t kiss her, Clare thought as she slipped potatoes, quartered and coated with olive oil and herbs, in to roast. That would’ve proved awkward with three kids hanging all over him.
She set her cutting board over the sink—the better to watch the kids, who’d gone back to swarming all over the play set her parents had given them—and minced garlic for the chicken’s marinade.