It wasn’t a bad way to wrap up his day, he thought as he chased after Evan’s long drive to centerfield. Aurora had killed him at Pink Rainbow Ponies and he was determined to give her brother a run for his money.
He wasn’t sure if it was the homemade apple pie, the giggles from the kids, or the constant music that flowed from a stereo in the corner, but Gia had made his guesthouse feel like a home.
The living room furniture was worn, but comfortable. Mismatched frames held pictures of the kids, the kids and Gia, even Franklin. The framed images told the story of their family. There were two pictures of the man Beckett assumed was the kids’ father. In the first, he was onstage behind a drum kit, the stage lights painting him in blue.
The other showed him sitting at a bar, drumsticks in his back pocket and sunglasses on his face. Beckett could make out just enough of Evan in the man’s jawline and nose.
There were no pictures of him with the kids or with Gianna and he wondered if that was selective editing or, more likely, he hadn’t been around to be in any of the pictures.
He noticed she’d hung soft, colorful tapestries from the walls and tucked candles into nooks and crannies, adding bits of color and texture to the living space. They ate off of simple white dishes that Gianna washed by hand, though not without telling Beckett the charm of the house had only barely offset the lack of a dishwasher.
It was a tidy and cozy home full of life and laughter.
At eight, Aurora argued and bargained her way upstairs to bed. At nine, it was Evan’s turn. He didn’t put up the fight that his sister had, but hugged both Gia and Beckett before forlornly shuffling up the stairs.
“A voluntary bedtime hug,” Gia sighed, sliding onto the arm of the couch. “That’s a good day.”
“That’s not an every night occurrence?” Beckett asked, leaning back against the cushions.
“Sometimes I have to chase him upstairs and threaten to hold a pillow over his face first.”
“You’re really good at this, Gianna,” Beckett said, studying her.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I try hard. It’s a constant balancing act and a lot of times I feel like I’m failing.”
Beckett reached out and grabbed her foot, tugging her down onto the cushion beside him. “You’re not failing.”
“Oh, I’m getting very close. Do you want to see my dirty little secret?”
“More than anything in the world,” Beckett said, stroking his thumb across the bottom of her bare foot.
She bit her lip, and he felt his blood rush south so fast he saw stars. She had the power over him to make him hard in a second. It was disconcerting, yet not enough to make him leave her alone.
“Come here.” She rose and pulled him with her to the glass doors that led to what had been a sun porch.
She was taking him to her bedroom. Panic spiked in Beckett’s veins. He wasn’t prepared to be strong enough for the both of them. Especially not if a bed was in view.
“I don’t know if this is a good —”
“This is my dirty little secret,” Gia announced, pushing open one of the doors.
The gauzy curtains on the other side of the glass had blocked the nightmare beyond. There was indeed a bed set back against the far wall, but in order to get to it, one would have to weave through dozens of boxes, piles of clothing and books, and a tangled mountain of home décor and yoga accessories. In the corner opposite the doors a yoga mat was rolled out “What is this?” Beckett winced.
“My bedroom slash office slash studio,” she said with resignation. “It’s awful isn’t it? I just wanted to get the house together for the kids. You know, make the transition a little easier?”
“So everything that didn’t have a place landed here?” He caught a sweatshirt that started to tumble off the mirror of a dresser that was buried under boxes. A swatch of lace floated out of the hood. He picked it up before realizing it was a pink thong.
“It looks like a hoarder lives here,” he said.
Gia nodded looking at the chaos. “Come to think of it, we did have a cat when we moved in.”
Beckett felt the color drain from his face.
“I’m just kidding,” she said, smacking him in the chest.
Distracted, Beckett wrapped the lace around his fingers. “Gianna, you can’t live like this.”
“I know,” she said, pushing him back out the door and closing it behind her. “I just haven’t had time to fix it. If I’m here, I’m with the kids making sure they stay alive, eat, go to bed, do their homework. And if I’m not here, I’m at the studio. When I finally have some time, I’ll take care of this. I’m just starting to worry that I’ll never find the time.”
“Did you at least find your shoes?”
She nodded. “I found the box.”
“And?”
“And it’s in there somewhere.”
“My God, Red. I’m breaking out in hives just thinking about you going in there at night. What if there’s a stuff avalanche and you get buried alive?”