Holding the Dream Page 0,57

Margo had also remembered Kate's shuddering childhood fear. "That's done now. You have to start taking care so it doesn't happen again."

"Which means you have to start practicing to be human," Margo said, but there wasn't any sting in it.

"Are they still mad?" Kayla whispered, still clutching Josh's trouser leg with one hand.

"Maybe a little, but I think it's safe now."

"Mama never yells." Unsettled, uneasy, Ali chewed on her nails. "She never yells."

"She used to yell at me. It takes a lot to make her yell. It has to really, really matter. And once she hit me right in the nose," Josh said.

Fascinated, Kayla reached up and rubbed her fingers over Josh's nose as he bent down. "Did it bleed and everything?"

"And everything. Kate and Margo had to pull her off me. Then she felt really bad." Then he grinned. "Even though I started it. What do you say we have some of that lemonade?"

Ali walked behind her uncle and studied her mother with a curious and considering eye.

* * * * *

It had to be done, Kate reminded herself. It was Sunday morning. Her aunt and uncle were expected by mid-afternoon. Before she faced them, she had to face Byron.

It was her new plan for a healthy life. Deal with your personal and emotional problems as carefully as you dealt with the practical ones. Why, she wondered, was it so much harder?

She'd secretly hoped he wouldn't be home. A lot of people went to brunch on Sunday mornings, or to the beach. Somewhere. But both of his cars were in the drive. Even parked behind them, she could hear the music pounding out of the windows. Creedence Clearwater Revival. She spent a moment listening to John Fogerty's fervent warning about a bad moon on the rise.

She hoped it wasn't an omen.

It was difficult to reconcile a man with his looks - smooth, elegant - and his obvious preference for down-and-dirty rock and edgy Motown. Well, she wasn't here to analyze his musical tastes. She was here to thank him and then turn the page on this awkward chapter in her life.

Prompting herself as she went, Kate got out of the car, started toward the house. She would be casual, brief, friendly, cheerful. She would turn the whole matter into a joke on herself, show the proper appreciation for his consideration and concern. And get out.

She drew a breath, rubbed her hands over the thighs of her jeans, then knocked. And laughed at herself. Superman wouldn't have heard a knock over the blast of CCR. She pressed the doorbell hard. At the tinny notes of "Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here" she gaped in shock, then shook with laughter. Enjoying the absurdity, she pressed it again, then a third time.

He came to the door, sweaty and incredibly sexy in tattered shorts and a sweatshirt with the sleeves torn off. "The doorbell tune isn't mine," he said immediately. "I can't change it until after the settlement."

"I bet-that's what you tell everyone." She indulged herself with a long, thorough look. "Did I interrupt a wrestling match?"

"Weight lifting." He stepped back. "Come on in."

"Look, I can come back when you're not busy pumping iron." Christ, he had amazing muscles. Everywhere. How had she missed that?

"I was nearly finished anyway. Gatorade?" He held up the bottle in his hand, and when she shook her head, glugged from it himself. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. That's why I dropped by. To - " He leaned close, closed the door behind her, and made her jump. "To tell you I was fine. And to thank you for... things. The flowers. They were nice."

"Any flare-ups?"

"No. It's not a big deal. Really." Nervous, she shrugged her shoulders, rubbed her palms together. "One out of ten people ends up with a peptic ulcer. All socioeconomic levels, too. There's no clear evidence that they hit on, you know, people with a lot of stress and harried schedules."

"Been researching, have we?" A smile flirted around his mouth.

"Well, it seemed the logical thing to do. All in all."

"Uh-huh. And did your research also reveal that people with chronic anxiety tend to be more susceptible and to aggravate the condition?''

She dipped her restless hands in her pockets. "Maybe."

"Sit down." He gestured to the single chair before he walked over to turn down the music.

"I can't stay. My aunt and uncle are coming in today."

"Their flight's not due until two-thirty."

He'd know, of course. She caught herself twisting her fingers together, and made herself stop. "Yes,