“Let me know if you change your mind. I know Ruth isn’t always easy to take first thing in the morning.”
Claire smiled and they quickly ended the call. She sat for a moment, rolling that silky bead between her fingers again and thinking of the events that had affected so many lives in Hope’s Crossing. Charlie Beaumont’s life would never be the same. He would always have this tragedy around his neck. The ripples from that moment were expanding out in wholly unexpected ways. Gen pushing her wedding back six months. Riley struggling to find his place in town. Probably in a hundred other lives she didn’t even know.
She thought of Maura, whose life had been changed forever. Riley’s sister was still avoiding her phone calls most of the time, and Claire was determined to make it to her house as soon as possible, if she had to wheel herself the four blocks there.
With a sigh, she turned back to the bracelet, hoping beading would soothe and quiet her spirit.
She was just beginning to find a rhythm of sorts when the back door opened and Riley and Owen came inside.
“Mom? Where are you, Mom?”
“Family room,” she called.
Her son burst through the doorway, baseball cap shoved backward and his face flushed with excitement.
“Did you see me work the nail gun, Mom? I did a whole row of shingles by myself.”
The very thought of it caused heart palpitations. Her son on a ladder with a nail gun that could impale his hand to the roof. She supposed it was a good thing she hadn’t allowed herself to watch.
“You let him use a nail gun?” she asked Riley in what she hoped was a calm voice.
“With help,” he assured her. “I kept my hand on it at all times.”
“It was awesome,” Owen exclaimed. “I think I’m gonna save up my allowance and buy one. Man, I’d have the best tree house in town!”
Riley laughed. “You’ve got to build to a nail gun, kid. Start out with some regular tools and see how that goes first. You don’t snowboard on the black diamond trails until you’ve had a few runs down the beginner slope.”
Her son seemed to accept that bit of philosophy with his usual equanimity—and short attention span. “Hey, Mom, can we have pizza for dinner?”
She smiled. “I was thinking the same thing. It is Friday night after all.” She was always grateful when she had the children on the weekend and tried to make Friday nights fun time for the three of them. “I’ll call and put in the order as soon as Macy comes back from soccer practice. Want to watch a movie, too? We have all those DVDs your dad and Holly brought over for me to watch while I recover, plus the instant streaming. Wasn’t there some superhero show you’ve been wanting to see?”
“Can I go check out our queue and see?”
“Sure. My laptop’s on the kitchen table.”
She was deeply grateful for technology—and even more grateful that her kids could figure it out far better than she could.
The moment her son headed out of the room, Claire instantly wanted to call him back. His presence provided a buffer between her and Riley. Without him, that ridiculous teenage girl inside her couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.
“Owen is a great kid. You’ve done a great job with him.”
“He is a great kid, but I’m not sure I had anything to do with it. He came out of the box that way. He was the easiest, most good-natured baby you could ever imagine and a very sweet toddler.”
“He has a good mother who loves him. That’s got to count for something.”
She smiled. “Thanks. And thank you for your help, Riley.” She paused. “You probably have figured out that I don’t like being in a position to need help.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said, his tone dry as he came closer.
“I’m working on it. So thank you.”
“You’re welcome. We’ve still got a bike to fix but that shouldn’t take long.” He stepped closer and her heartbeat kicked up a notch. He was just so big. He crowded out any common sense she might have hoped to cling to. “What are you working on over here?”
“A bracelet. I wanted to give something to Brooke Callahan for taking such good care of me when I was in the hospital. While I was there, I noticed she had several flowered scrubs in that color.”
He gave her an exasperated look. “Do you ever do anything for yourself?”
“Beading is for me. Oh, I might sometimes give away the things I make, but the process of creating them is all about me. I find pleasure in the whole thing, from coming up with the design to choosing the beads to the feel of them under my fingers. These recycled glass beads from Africa are like sea glass that’s been worn smooth by the waves.”
He leaned forward to touch the beads, his hands looking incongruously large against the delicate blue. “Soft. You’re right.”
She couldn’t breathe with him this close. He smelled musky and male, like cedar and sage, and he crowded her, made her feel girlish and silly. She eased away a fraction of an inch, but he still noticed the movement.
“Why do you do that?”