The Next Always

CHAPTER TWO




HE HANDLED IT. HE SMILED BACK AT HER, QUICK AND casual, as she walked down the stairs with her long, sunny ponytail swaying. She always reminded him of a sunflower, tall and bright and cheerful. Her gray eyes held hints of green that gave them a sparkle whenever her mouth, with its deep center dip, curved up.

“Haven’t seen you in a couple days,” she commented.

“I was down in Richmond.” She’d gotten some sun, he thought, giving her skin just a hint of gold. “Did I miss anything?”

“Let’s see. Somebody stole the garden gnome out of Carol Tecker’s yard.”

“Jeez. A crime spree.”

“She’s offering a ten-dollar reward.”

“I’ll keep my eye out for it.”

“Anything new at the inn?”

“We started drywall.”

“Old news.” She flicked that away. “I got that from Avery yesterday, who got it from Ry when he stopped in for pizza.”

“My mother’s putting another furniture order together, and she’s moving on to fabrics.”

“Now that’s a bulletin.” Green sparkled in the gray; it just killed him. “I’d love to see what she’s picking out. I know it’s going to be beautiful. And I heard a rumor there’s going to be a copper tub.”

Beckett held up three fingers.

Her eyes widened; the green deepened in the smoky gray. He’d need oxygen any minute.

“Three? Where do you find these things?”

“We have our ways.”

She glanced toward Laurie with a long, female sigh. “Imagine lounging in a copper bathtub. It sounds so romantic.”

Unfortunately he instantly imagined her slipping out of the pretty summer dress with red poppies over a field of blue—and into a copper bathtub.

And that, he reminded himself, wasn’t handling it.

“How are the kids?” he asked, and took out his wallet.

“They’re great. We’re starting to gear up for full back-to-school mode, so they’re excited. Harry’s pretending not to be, playing Mr. Old Hat since he’s going into third grade. But he and Liam are giving Murphy the benefit of their vast experience. I can’t believe my baby’s starting kindergarten.”

Thinking of the kids always leveled him off, helped him slide her into the do-not-imagine-naked column of MOTHER.

“Oh.” She tapped the Mosley book before Laurie bagged it. “I haven’t had a chance to read that yet. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”

“Sure. Ah, you should come over, walk through sometime.”

Her mouth bowed up. “We peek in the side windows.”

“Just go on around the back.”

“Really? I’d like to, but I figured you didn’t want people getting in the way.”

“As a rule, but—” He broke off as the bells jangled, and two couples came in. “Anyway, I’d better get going.”

“Enjoy the book,” she told him, then turned to her customers. “Can I help you find anything?”

“We’re touring the area,” one of the men told her. “Got any books on Antietam?”

“We do. Let me show you.” She led him away as the rest of the group started to browse.

Beckett watched her go down the little flight of steps into what they called the annex.

“Well. See you later, Laurie.”

“Beck?”

He stopped, one hand on the doorknob.

“Books? Coffee?” She held the bag in one hand, the go-cup in the other.

“Oh yeah.” He laughed, shook his head. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She sighed a little when he left, and wondered if her boyfriend ever watched her walk away.




CLARE CARTED A tub of books packaged for shipping down to the post office. She breathed in deep a moment as she went out the back and across the gravel parking lot as an actual breeze fluttered over her face.

She thought—hoped—it looked like rain. Maybe a nice, solid soaker that would spare her the time it took to water her garden and pots. If it didn’t come with lightning, she could let the boys run around in the wet after dinner, burn off some energy.

Scrub them up afterward, then, since it was movie night, fix some popcorn. She’d have to check the chart, see whose turn it was to pick the flick.

Charts, she’d learned, helped cut down on arguing, complaining, and bickering when three little boys had to decide whether to spend some time with SpongeBob, the Power Rangers, or the Star Wars gang. It didn’t eliminate the arguing, complaining, and bickering, but it usually kept it at a more manageable level.

She dropped off the shipments, spent a few moments chatting with the postmistress. Because the traffic on Route 34 ran a bit thick, she walked back to The Square, pressed the button for the Walk light. And waited.

Every once in a while it struck her that she was, geographically at least, back where she’d started. Everything else had changed, she mused, glancing over at the big blue tarp.

And was still changing.

She’d left Boonsboro as a brand-new bride of nineteen. So young! she thought now. So full of excitement and confidence, so much in love. She’d thought nothing of driving off to North Carolina to start her life with Clint, as an army wife.

She’d done a decent job of it, too, she decided. Setting up house, playing house, working part-time in a bookstore—and hurrying home to fix dinner. She’d learned she was pregnant only days before Clint had been deployed for his first tour to Iraq.

She’d known fear then, she remembered as she crossed toward Vesta. But it had been offset by the wide-eyed optimism of youth, and the joy of carrying a child—one she’d borne back home, at barely twenty.

Then Clint came home, and they were off to Kansas. They’d had nearly a year. Liam had been born during Clint’s second tour of duty. When he’d come home again, he’d been a great father to their two little boys, but war had stolen his easy cheer, his quick, rolling laugh.

She hadn’t known she was pregnant when she’d kissed him goodbye that last time.

The day they’d handed her the flag from Clint’s casket, Murphy quickened for the first time inside her.

And now, she thought as she opened the glass door, she was back home. For good.

She’d timed the visit postlunch, predinner prep. A scatter of people sat at the dark, glossy wood tables, and a family—not locals, she noted—piled into the booth in the far corner. Their curly-headed toddler sprawled over the red cushions, sound asleep.

She lifted her hand in salute to Avery as her friend ladled sauce on dough behind the service counter. At home, Clare walked over to pull herself a glass of lemonade and brought it back to the counter with her.

“I think it’s going to rain.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Today I mean it.”

“Oh, well then. I’ll get my umbrella.” Avery covered the sauce with shredded mozzarella, layered that with pepperoni, sliced mushrooms, and black olives. Her movements quick and practiced, she opened one of the big ovens behind her and shoved in the pie. She shoveled out another, sliced it.

One of the waitresses swung out of the closed kitchen area, sang out a “Hi, Clare,” then carried the pizza and plates to one of the tables.

Avery said, “Whew.”

“Busy day?”

“We were slammed from eleven thirty until about a half hour ago.”

“Are you on tonight?” Clare asked.

“Wendy called in sick, again, so it looks like I’m pulling a double.”

“Sick meaning she made up with her boyfriend again.”

“I’d be sick too if I was hooked up with that loser. She makes a damn good pizza.” Avery took a bottle of water from under the counter, gestured with it. “But I’m probably going to have to let her go. Kids today?” She rolled her bright blue eyes. “No work ethic.”

“I’m trying to remember the name of the guy you were tight with when you got caught hooking school.”

“Lance Poffinberger—a momentary lapse. And boy, did I pay for it. Screw up once, just once, and Dad grounded me for a month. Lance works down at Canfield’s as a mechanic.” Avery wiggled her eyebrows as she took a slug of water. “Mechanics are hot.”

“Really?”

“With Lance the exception that proves the rule.”

She answered the phone, took an order, pulled out the pizza, sliced it so her waitress could carry the still-bubbling pie to the table.

Clare enjoyed her lemonade and watched Avery work.

They’d been friendly in high school, cocaptains on the cheerlead-ing squad. A bit competitive, but friendly. Then they’d lost touch when Avery went off to college, and Clare had headed shortly after to Fort Bragg with Clint.

They’d reconnected when Clare, pregnant with Murphy and with two boys in tow, had moved back. And Avery, with the red hair and milk white skin of her Scot forebears had just opened her Italian family restaurant.

“Beckett was by earlier.”

“Alert the media!”

Clare met sarcasm with a smug smile. “He said I could take a look inside the inn.”

“Yeah? Let me finish putting this order together, and we’ll go.”

“I can’t, not now. I have to pick up the kids in . . .” She checked her watch. “An hour. And I’ve still got some work. Tomorrow? Maybe before things get busy here or at TTP?”

“That’s a date. I’ll be in around nine to start the ovens and so on. I could slip out about ten.”

“Ten it is. I’ve gotta go. Work, kid pickup, fix dinner, baths, then it’s movie night.”

“We have some excellent spinach ravioli if you want to cross off the fix-dinner portion.”

Clare started to decline, then decided it would be an excellent delivery method of spinach, and save her about forty-five minutes in the kitchen. “Deal. Listen, my parents want the boys for a sleepover on Saturday. How about I fix something that isn’t pizza, open a bottle of wine, and we have an adult, female evening.”

“I can do that. We could also put on sexy dresses and go out, perhaps find adult males to share the evening.”

“We could, but since I’ll be spending the bulk of the day at the mall and the outlets browbeating three boys into trying on back-to-school clothes, I’d probably just shoot the first male who spoke to me.”

“Girls’ night in it is.”

“Perfect.”

Avery boxed up the takeout herself, put it on Clare’s tab.

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

“Clare,” Avery said as Clare walked to the door. “Saturday, I’ll bring a second bottle of wine, something gooey for dessert. And my pj’s.”

“Even better. Who needs a man when you’ve got a best girl pal?”

Clare laughed as Avery shot a hand in the air.

She stepped out and nearly bumped into Ryder.

“Two out of three,” she said. “I saw Beck earlier. Now I just need Owen for the hat trick.”

“Heading over to Mom’s. He and Beck are working in the shop. I’ll give you a ride,” he said with a grin. “I just took a dinner order, since Mom says it’s too hot to cook.”

Clare lifted her bag. “I’m with her. Say hi for me.”

“Will do. Looking good, Clare the Fair. Wanna go dancing?”

She shot him grin for grin as she pushed the Walk button on the post. “Sure. Pick me and the boys up at eight.”

She got lucky with the timing, and headed across with a wave. She tried to remember the last time a man had asked her to go dancing and meant it.

She just couldn’t.




THE MONTGOMERY WORKSHOP was big as a house and designed to look like one. It boasted a long covered porch—often crowded with projects in various stages—including a couple of battered Adirondack chairs waiting for repair and paint, for two years and counting.

Doors, windows, a couple of sinks, boxes of tile, shingles, plywood, and various and sundry items salvaged from or left over from other jobs mixed together in a rear jut they’d added on when they’d run out of room.

Because the hodgepodge drove him crazy, Owen organized it every few months, then Ryder or Beckett would haul something else in, and dump it wherever.

He knew damn well they did it on purpose.

The main area held table tools, work counters, shelving for supplies, a couple of massive rolling tool chests, stacks of lumber, old mason jars and coffee cans (labeled by Owen) for screws, nails, bolts.

Here, though it would never fully meet Owen’s high standards, the men kept at least a semblance of organization.

They worked together well, with music from the ancient stereo recycled from the family home banging out rock, a couple of floor fans blowing the heat around, the table saw buzzing as Beckett fed the next piece of chestnut to the blade.

He liked getting his hands on wood, enjoyed the feel of it, the smell of it. His mother’s Lab-retriever mix Cus—short for Atticus—stretched his massive bulk under the table saw for a nap. Cus’s brother, Finch, dropped a baseball squeaky toy at Beckett’s feet about every ten seconds.

Dumbass lay on his back in a pile of sawdust, feet in the air.

When Beckett turned off the saw, he looked down into Finch’s wildly excited eyes. “Do I look like I’m in play mode?”

Finch picked up the ball in his mouth again, spat it on Beckett’s boot. Though he knew it only encouraged the endless routine, Beckett snagged the ball, then heaved it out the open front door of the shop.

Finch’s chase was a study in mad joy.

“Do you jerk off with that hand?” Ryder asked him.

Beckett wiped the dog slobber on his jeans. “I’m ambidextrous.”

He took the next length of chestnut Ryder had measured and marked. And Finch charged back with the ball, dropped it at his feet.

The process continued, Ryder measuring and marking, Beckett cutting, Owen putting the pieces together with wood glue and clamps according to the designs tacked on sheets of plywood.

One set of the two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that would flank The Library’s fireplace stood waiting for sanding, staining, for the lower cabinet doors. Once they’d finished the second, and the fireplace surround, they’d probably tag Owen for the fancy work.

They all had the skills, Beckett thought, but no one would deny Owen was the most meticulous of the three.

He turned off the saw, tossed the ball for the delirious Finch, and noticed it had gone dark outside. Cus rose with a yawn and stretch, leaned against Beckett’s leg for a rub before wandering out.

Time to call it, Beckett decided, and got three beers out of the old shop refrigerator. “It’s oh-beer-thirty,” he announced and walked over to hand bottles off to his brothers.

“I hear that.” Ry kicked the ball the dog dropped at his feet out the open window with the same accuracy he’d kicked a football through the goalposts in high school.

With a running leap, Finch soared through after it. Something crashed on the porch.

“Did you see that?” Beckett demanded over his brothers’ laughter. “That dog’s crazy.”

“Damn good jump.” Ryder wet his thumb, rubbed it on the side of the bookcase. “That’s pretty wood. The chestnut was a good call, Beck.”

“It’s going to work well with the flooring. The sofa in there needs to be leather,” he decided. “Dark, but rich, with lighter leather on the chairs for contrast.”

“Whatever. The ceiling lights Mom ordered came in today.” Ryder took a pull of his beer.

Owen took out his phone to make a note. “Did you inspect them?”

“I was a little busy.”

Owen made another note. “Mark the boxes? Put them in storage?”

“Yeah, yeah. Marked and in the basement at Vesta. The dining room lights—ceiling and sconces—came in, too. Same deal.”

“I need the packing slips.”

“They’re on-site, Nancy.”

“We’ve got to keep the paperwork organized, Jethro.”

Finch trotted back in, dropped the ball, banged his tail like a hammer.

“See if he’ll do it again,” Beckett suggested.

Obliging, Ryder kicked it out the window. The dog sailed after it. Something crashed. Intrigued, Dumbass wandered over, put his paws on the sill. After a moment he tried crawling out.

“I’ve got to get a dog.” Owen sipped his beer as they watched D.A.’s back legs kicking and scrabbling. “I’m getting a dog as soon as we get this job finished.”

They closed up, and taking the beer outside, spent another fifteen minutes talking shop, throwing the ball for the indefatigable Finch.

The cicadas and lightning bugs filled the strip of lawn and surrounding woods with sound and sparkles. Now and again, an owl worked up the energy to hoot mournfully. It made Beckett think of other sultry summer nights, with the three of them running around as tirelessly as Finch. With the lights on in the house on the rise as they were now.

When the lights flicked on and off, on and off, it was time to come in—and always too soon.

He’d wondered—and worried a little—about his mother, alone up here in the big house tucked in the woods. When his father had died—and that had been hard—the three of them had basically moved back home. Until she’d booted them out again after a couple months.

Still, for probably another year, at least one of them would find an excuse to spend the night once a week or so. But the simple fact was, she did fine. She had her work, her sister, her friends, her dogs. Justine Montgomery didn’t rattle around in the big house. She lived in it.

Ryder nodded toward the house where the porch and kitchen lights—in case they came back in—and their mother’s office light shone.

“She’s up there, hunting on the Internet for more stuff.”

“She’s good at it,” Beckett said. “And if she didn’t spend the time, and have a damn good eye, we’d be chained down doing it.”

“You do anyway,” Ryder pointed out. “Mister Dark but Rich with Contrast.”

“All part of the design work, bro.”

“Speaking of which,” Owen put in, “we still need the safety lights and exit signs for code.”

“I’m looking. We’re not putting up ugly.” Beckett stuck his hands in his pockets, dug in on the point. “I’ll find something that works. I’m going to head out. I can give you most of tomorrow,” he told Ryder.

“Bring your tool belt.”




HE DROVE HOME with the wind blowing through the truck’s open windows. Since the station he had on reached back to his high school days with the Goo Goo Dolls, he thought of Clare.

He took the long way around, driving the back roads in a wide circle. Because he wanted the drive, he told himself, not because that route would take him by Clare’s house.

He wasn’t a stalker.

He slowed a bit, scanning the little house just inside the town limits, and saw that, like his family home, her kitchen lights were on—front porch and living room, too, he noted.

He couldn’t think of an excuse to stop in, not that he would have, but . . .

He imagined her relaxing after a full day, maybe reading a book, watching a little TV. Grabbing a little downtime with the kids tucked in for the night.

He could go knock on her door. Hey, just in the neighborhood, saw your lights on. I’ve got my tools in the truck if you need anything fixed.

Jesus.

He drove on. In his entire history with the female species, Clare Murphy Brewster was the single one of her kind who flustered and flummoxed him.

He was good with women, he reminded himself. Probably because he just liked them—the way they looked, sounded, smelled—the strange way their minds worked. Toddler to great-granny, he enjoyed the female for who and what she was.

He’d never been at a loss for what to say around a woman, unless it was Clare. Never second-guessed what he should say, or had said. Unless it was Clare. Never had the hots for without at least making an opening move. Unless it was Clare.

Really, he was better off with somebody like Drew’s sister. A woman he found attractive, who liked to flirt, and who didn’t make him think or want too much.

Time to put Clare and her appealing boys out of his brain, once and for all.

He pulled into the lot behind his building, looked up at his dark windows.

He should go up, do a little work, then make an early night of it and catch up on some sleep.

Instead, he walked across the street. He’d just do a walk-through, check out what Ry, the crew, and the subs had gotten done that day. He wasn’t ready for his own company, he admitted, and the current resident of the inn was better than nothing.




IN CLARE’S HOUSE, the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers waged war against the evil forces. Bombs exploded; Rangers flew, flipped, rolled, and charged. Clare had seen this particular DVD and countless others in the series so often she could time the blasts with her eyes closed.

It did give her the advantage of pretending she was riveted to the action while she worked on her mental checklist. Liam sprawled with his head in her lap. When she peeked over, she saw his eyes were open, but glassy.

Not long now.

Harry lay on the floor, a Red Ranger in his hand. His stillness told her he’d already passed out. But Murphy, her night owl, sat beside her—as alert and as fascinated by the movie as he’d been the first time he’d watched it.

He could, and would, remain up and revved until midnight if she allowed it. She knew damn well when the movie ended, he’d beg for another.

She really needed to pay her personal bills, finish folding the laundry, and throw in another load of towels while she was at it. She needed to start the new book she’d brought home—not just for pleasure, though it was, but because she considered reading an essential part of her job.

Thinking of what she’d yet to check off that mental list made her realize she’d be the one up until midnight.

Her own fault, she reminded herself, for letting the boys talk her into a double feature.

Still, it made them so happy, and gave her the joy of spending an evening snuggled up with her little men.

Laundry would always be there, she thought, but her guys wouldn’t always be thrilled to spend the evening with Mom watching a movie at home.

As predicted, the minute good vanquished evil, Murphy sent her an imploring look out of big brown eyes. How odd, she thought, he’d been the only one to inherit Clint’s color, and genetics had mixed it with her blond hair.

“Please, Mom! I’m not tired.”

“You got two, that’s all for you.” On the rhyme, she flicked his nose with her finger.

His pretty face with its pug nose and dusting of freckles crumpled into abject misery. “Please! Just one episode.”

He sounded like a starving man begging for just one stale crust of bread.

“Murphy, it’s already way past bedtime.” Now she held up a finger when he opened his mouth. “And if that’s a whine about to come out, I’ll remember it next movie night. Come on, go up and pee.”

“I don’t gotta pee.”

“Go pee anyway.”

He trudged off like a man walking to the hangman’s noose while she shifted Liam. She got him up, his head on her shoulder, his body boneless.

And his hair, she thought, the thick golden brown waves she loved, smelling of shampoo. She carried him to the steps, and up, and into the bathroom where I-don’t-gotta-pee Murphy sang to himself as he emptied his bladder.

“Leave the seat up, and don’t flush it.”

“I’m s’posed to. You said.”

“Yes, but Liam has to go. Go ahead and get into bed, my baby. I’ll be right in.”

With the dexterity of experience, Clare stood Liam on his feet, held him upright with one hand, lowered his pj shorts with the other.

“Let’s pee, my man.”

“’Kay.” He swayed, and when he aimed, she had to guide his hand to avoid the prospect of scrubbing down the walls.

She hitched his pants back up, would have guided him to bed, but he turned, held his arms up.

She carried him to the bedroom—the one intended as the master, then laid him on the bottom of one of the two sets of bunks. Murphy lay in the other bottom bunk, curled up with his stuffed Optimus Prime.

“Be right back,” she whispered. “I’m going to get Harry.”

She repeated the routine with Harry, as far as the bathroom. He’d recently decided Mom was a girl, and girls weren’t allowed to be in the bathroom when he peed.

She made sure he was awake enough to stand upright, stepped out. She winced a little as the toilet seat slammed down, waited while it flushed.

He wandered out. “There’s blue frogs in the car.”

“Hmm.” Knowing he dreamed vividly and often, she guided him to bed. “I like blue. Up you go.”

“The red one’s driving.”

“He’s probably the oldest.”

She kissed his cheek—he was already asleep again—walked over to kiss Liam, then turned and bent down to Murphy. “Close your eyes.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Close them anyway. Maybe you’ll catch up with Harry and the blue frogs. The red one’s driving.”

“Are there dogs?”

“If you want there to be. Good night.”

“’Night. Can we get a dog?”

“Why don’t you just dream about one for now.”

She gave her boys, her world, a last glance as they lay in the glow of their Spider-Man night-light.

Then she went downstairs to start work on her mental checklist.

Just after midnight, she fell asleep with the book in her hands and the light on. She dreamed of blue frogs and their red driver, purple and green dogs. And oddly, she realized when she woke enough to shut off the light, of Beckett Montgomery smiling at her as she walked down the stairs at her bookstore.