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Susan went to the French doors and saw the boys helping the men pull the long wooden pieces of playground equipment out of the boxes. Off to the side on an even stretch of grass between the garage and the large shed she used as a shop, Aaron was spreading sand presumably to give the boys a soft spot to land in case of a fall.
Even as she defended herself in her mind, she admired the fact that he’d thought of everything.
She opened the doors. “Do you need tools?” she asked no one in particular.
Aaron didn’t even look up at her.
Micah pointed to a long metal box. “I keep a toolbox in my truck,” he said.
She nodded. “Hot coffee?”
Micah and Ross replied in the affirmative.
A short while later she carried out three mugs and placed them on the edge of a nearby planter. Aaron offered a perfunctory thank-you while concentrating on attaching the seat of a swing to the chains.
The set was up by dusk, and Susan put on the outside lights in the back so that Aaron could supervise a test of the equipment.
She made a chicken-noodle casserole from a recipe she’d found in Becky’s box, put together a salad and baked a tube of refrigerator biscuits.
Micah and Ross left when it appeared that the equipment was sound. So that Aaron didn’t have to leave the boys, Susan walked the men to Micah’s truck and thanked them for their help.
Ross left her a business card for Hardware and Muffins, and Micah told her that she was welcome as his guest at the Knight Club if she ever needed an evening away from the boys.
She waved as they drove away.
The boys had to be dragged in to eat half an hour later, their cheeks pink, their eyes bright. This was a very different group, she thought, from the boys who’d sat around the table at breakfast, despondent about having to leave their home.
She knew she had Aaron to thank for that.
“You don’t have to go tonight do you?” John asked as they ate ice cream for dessert.
Surely Aaron would look at her now. He hadn’t met her eyes since she’d turned around on the countertop to find him standing there.
Before he answered John, he would have to know if she would offer to let him stay.
“You said,” John reminded him, “you were gonna buy Aunt Susan another step stool tomorrow. So you’re not going home yet, right? That means you have to sleep someplace. And this is our house now, too, so we can invite you to stay here.” John looked to Susan for confirmation. “Right?”
Aaron did meet her eyes then, but the small yet friendly connection they’d made yesterday was gone. It was like looking into the eyes of a stranger—one who didn’t particularly like her on first impression.
She had to look away. “That’s right,” she told John. “The sofa in the family room opens up.”
“See?” John said eagerly.
Aaron nodded. “Then I accept your invitation,” he said.
Susan began clearing the table, and the boys helped, falling into a routine she’d apparently already established at his brother’s house.
Wanting to help without actually being in contact with her, he wet a couple of paper towels and washed Ringo’s face and hands, then cleared the front pocket of his coveralls of noodles. He freed him from the high chair and washed it off while the toddler ran his colorful truck over Aaron’s feet.
The table cleared and the dishwasher doing its work, Susan took the boys into the family room and handed John the remote.
“You can be in charge of it,” she said “but you have to try to be fair about what you watch, okay? Everybody should have a say in it.”
“Uncle Aaron got us some videos.” John held up a paper bag.
“Harriet the Spy and The King of Egypt.” He studied the remote. “So I press TV/VCR then Play, right?”
“Right.” Susan glanced back at Aaron. Fortunately Ringo was busy trying to redecorate his face, so he didn’t have to meet her gaze. He hadn’t decided why he didn’t want to. Either he was angry with her because he knew he should have made more time to spend with Dave and his family and he’d been plagued by the guilt of it since he’d learned Dave and Becky had died. Or he just didn’t like what looking at her did to him. Her large brown eyes seemed to demand, as well as condemn, though he didn’t think she was even aware of that.
It was as if he had something she needed, and it was in her eyes every time they shared a glance.
But he had a business to run that was becoming more and more of a rebellious child every day. It was growing bigger and smarter and seemed to require more careful and attentive management.
He couldn’t play with the guys in Research and Development anymore. He had to keep his eyes on the money, the numbers, with the competitors looking for takeover and the government looking for mistakes.
And Starscape represented his whole reason for being, the light he’d seen at the end of the interminable tunnel of his childhood, the success for which he’d worked so hard, the proof that his stepmother had been wrong and he was worth something, after all.
He couldn’t care for a family and keep his business, too. It had to be one or the other.
“It’s time for his bath.”
He came out of his thoughts to find Susan studying him with puzzlement, her hands on the child he held in his arms. “Unless,” she said, as though trying to figure out why he held on to Ringo for dear life, “you’d like to give him a bath yourself. But I warn you—you’ll need a wet suit and a snorkel.”
She smiled.
He didn’t want to respond to it, but it took every fiber of his self-control to stop himself.
“You do it,” he said, letting her take Ringo. “I’ll supervise the film festival.”
Hurt flickered in her eyes, then was gone with a tilt of her chin. “Okay. There’s more coffee in the pot. I’ll be at least a half hour.”
“Take your time.”
They were halfway into the film when she returned with sweet-smelling Ringo in footed blue pajamas. She held him out to his brothers, who hugged him good-night, then to Aaron.
Ringo clung to Aaron’s neck as though he had no intention of ever letting go. Aaron finally carried him upstairs and helped Susan tuck him in. She turned on a music box on the dresser and handed him the scruffy bear he often toted around by the foot during the day.
In a moment Ringo was rubbing his eyes sleepily and yawning. He didn’t seem to notice when they crept out of the room.
Susan stopped Aaron halfway to the stairs. She looked both defensive and apologetic. “I’m sorry about that remark,” she said. “You’ve done a lot for the boys since you’ve been here and they…we all appreciate that.”
He turned to her, hands in his pockets, expression remote. “Really. You made it sound as though all my being here has done is intensify your problems because eventually I have to go.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice rising a little in agitation. “It’s just that helping them through the loss of their parents has been hard, but your being here has helped a lot. John barely spoke until you arrived. But you have to go home and…they lose again. I feel inadequate to the task of making them understand.”
“Maybe I should just take them with me.” He’d entertained that thought before he’d seen her in action with the boys. Now he wondered if that was what she wanted from him, if that was the need he saw in her eyes. She was young and alone and had her own demanding career.
She gave him an impatient look. “How could you possibly care for four little children?”
That made him defensive. “The same way you will. I’m sure I’d be awkward at first, but they respond to me and that’s a start.”
“They’d never see you.”
“I’d hire a nanny.”
Her eyes darkened and pinned him in place. “You might remember that I was given custody. It’s what your brother and Becky wanted.”
“I understand that,” he replied patiently, “but the job’s too big for one—”
“Who said the job was too big?” she demanded. “Did I say that? No, I didn’t. I just said that I felt inadequate, but that doesn’t mean I won’t do my damnedest to see that they’re loved and cared—”
He raised a warm gentle hand to cover her mouth. “You’re shouting,” he said quietly, the suggestion of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t questioning your determination or your willingness to do the job. I was just wondering whether any one person should have to do it alone.”
She caught his wrist and pushed away his hand, but his index finger slid over her lips in the process. The sensation seemed to ripple all over her body.
“The reality is that I am alone.” She spoke firmly so that he would have no doubt about her conviction to see this through. “I’m sure once we’re all settled into a routine, once they’ve made friends at school and gotten acquainted in the neighborhood…”
It was as she spoke, her color high, her eyes bright with maternal fervor, that he saw the need in her eyes take on a complexity he hadn’t noticed before.
She needed him—out of the picture.
So that was it. As difficult as the task of mothering the boys would be, she wanted to do it alone. Of course. It was so much easier to move forward when you didn’t have to consider anyone else’s input.
“Tomorrow we’ll get whatever you need for yourself and the boys,” he said, “then I’ll get out of your way.”
She frowned. “I didn’t say you were in the way.”
“You didn’t have to. So I presume it’ll be all right with you if I just show up every three years or so?”
He knew that was nasty, but he was feeling nasty. She’d completely misunderstood what he was trying to do here and he just couldn’t figure her at all. So even though they had four little boys in common, it didn’t look as though they were going to find a way to come together on anything.
She sagged visibly. “I said I was sorry about that. I’m defensive about people who come and go in other people’s lives, because my father did that. He built bridges in Africa and Central America. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of love that’s only intermittent.”
“Maybe the love was constant,” he suggested after a moment. “It was just that the nature of his work only allowed you to see him intermittently.”
She shook her head. “All the child knows is that he’s never there. And after you’ve waited months and months and he finally arrives, you suddenly realize that he’s going to be gone again before you know it. I don’t think children should have to live like that.”
“I had no children when I embarked on this life. And it’s not like I go thousands of miles away. I just go to work.”
She nodded. “But the result is the same. Your family never saw you and they missed you.”
She was right. Guilt rattled inside him.
“Why don’t you relax for the rest of the evening?” he said, moving toward the stairs. “I’ll get them going on their showers after the movie.”
She opened her mouth to protest that he’d been working hard all day, but he cut her off with a wry, “It’s your last chance. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon. Go on. You must have something to do to get ready for your show on Friday.”
It was for the best, she knew. Her real life with the boys would include only the five of them, so the sooner they adjusted to that reality the better off they would all be. It was only right.
She just couldn’t decide why it felt so wrong.
SUSAN HEARD THE WIND pick up around two in the morning. It whispered in the trees behind the house but within minutes had grown to a roar. Branches scraped against the house and the windows; she heard the trash can at the side of the house fall over, the chimes on the patio tinkled as though trying to play some up-tempo jazz piece.
And then she heard the first rumble of thunder. It was in the distance, low as the crackling of paper.
Oh, no. She hated electrical storms. She had no childhood trauma to trace it back to, no logical explanation for the serious fear that built in her when thunder rattled overhead and made the house shake.
It wasn’t hereditary because her mother had always slept through them, surprised to hear in the morning that there’d been a storm.
She remembered sitting in the middle of her bed as a child, knees pulled up to her chin, eyes closed against the flashes of light as she rocked herself and waited for the storm to end.
The second clap of thunder came, considerably closer and therefore louder.
“This is ridiculous,” she told herself firmly as she swung her legs to the floor. She was a mother now. She couldn’t cower in the middle of her bed. She had to check on the boys, bring in the chime before it woke the whole neighborhood, put the trash can in the garage.
A peek into the rooms showed the boys still sound asleep. She adjusted blankets, tucked in feet, then left both doors slightly ajar as she ran downstairs to haul in the chimes.
As she did so, a brilliant flash of lightning lit the sky and she hurried back inside, the bamboo tubes riotously noisy in her hands. She closed the doors and put the chime on the dining-room table.
But she wasn’t fast enough to cover her ears before the clap of thunder struck, louder, closer, reverberating long enough to laugh at her attempts at courage.
But she made herself function. The trash can. She had to bring in the trash can.
She opened the kitchen door into the garage and reached to the side for the light switch—and collided with a solid object trying to occupy the same space.
Shock was followed instantly by terror. She screamed as a hand reached out to catch her arm, the sound bloodcurdling even to her own ears.
“Susan, it’s me!” Aaron said, flipping on the light. He was still holding her arm, looking as though she’d alarmed him as much as he’d alarmed her.
She stared at him, unable to speak.
“I heard the trash can rolling around,” he explained, “and I thought I’d better bring it in before you had to chase it into the next county. I’m sorry I frightened you. I didn’t realize you were up.”
“It’s all right,” she whispered, her heartbeat choking her. “I…didn’t know you were awake.”
Light filled the dark house like sunshine, then was snuffed in an instant as thunder crashed and rolled, the noise deafening and interminable.
Susan wasn’t sure whether to cover her ears to block the sound or her mouth to hold back the scream. She decided to cover her ears and bite her lips.
Aaron flipped off the garage light, stepped into the kitchen and pulled the door closed.
“Are you afraid of—?” Lightning flashed and thunder struck again, sounding as though a truckload of cymbals had overturned on the roof.
All pretense of courage gone. Susan wrapped her arms around Aaron’s chest and held on. It helped considerably when he enfolded her, providing a haven against the next barrage of sound, and the one after that.
SEPARATING HER FROM HIM, Aaron speculated with a smile in the darkness, would probably require surgery. She was holding him so tightly, it felt as though she would join him in his skin if she could, as though their bodies may already have fused in a few places.
“I don’t like…thunder,” she said against him in a quiet moment, her fingers still clutching the back of the T-shirt he’d pulled on with his jeans.
