Adding Up to Marriage

“Since I haven’t done anything to fill it myself.”

She shrugged. Woman could say more with a shrug than most women say in a thirty-minute conversation. Then she blew out a long breath.

“I adore those little monkeys, you know that. But even before this happened, I’d begun to realize I’m not as up to chasing them as I’d thought. As I want to be. Occasionally is fine—well, once this blasted ankle is better—but full time?” She shook her head. “I’m so tired by the time evening rolls around I can barely have a conversation with your father.” That was followed by a weary chuckle. “Let alone anything else.”

“Mom, geez.”

His mother laughed again, then briefly squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry, Silas. The spirit’s willing, but—”

“And there’s nothing to be sorry for.” He flashed a smile at her, even as panic began to simmer in his gut. Nobody knew better than he that both his sons had gotten double doses of snips and snails and puppy dog tails. Not to mention enough energy to fuel a hydrogen bomb. Finding another day-care option for them wasn’t going to be easy. But taking out his mother—who’d already earned her medal for surviving her own four boys—hadn’t been part of the game plan. “You could’ve backed out anytime, you know.”

In the dim light from the dash, he saw tears glisten in his mother’s warm brown eyes. “Couldn’t. Would’ve meant giving them up.”

“It’s okay, we’ll figure something out,” he said softly as they pulled into his parents’ driveway, his father shooting through the front door before Silas switched off the engine.

Nearly thirty-four years his parents had been married, and yet Gene Garrett’s solicitous concern for his wife when he jerked open her door was every bit as tender as Silas remembered from his childhood. Oh, they fussed at each other as much as the next couple, but what they had—it was magic and rare and defied explanation. Or definition.

And there were times when Silas envied them so much it hurt.

“For heaven’s sake, Gene,” Donna said after Silas’s dad gingerly maneuvered her out of the truck. No mean feat. “I’m completely capable of managing on my own. Thank you, honey,” she said to Silas after he handed her the crutches. She squinted at the things for a moment, shaking her head, then fitted them under her arms, her grip firm on the braces. “But you better go on—I imagine Jewel’s more than ready to be rescued by now.”

“It’s nearly ten—the boys are bound to be asleep.” His mother rolled her eyes, and he smiled. “You sure you don’t need me?”

“Honestly, between you and Gene … It’s a broken ankle, for goodness’ sake, not bubonic plague! Here, hold this,” she said to Gene, shoving a crutch at him, then reached up to give Silas a strong, one-armed hug around his neck. “Thanks for everything, honey. And we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Still, after Silas climbed back into the truck to watch his father hover over his mother as she unsteadily navigated the short sidewalk between the driveway and house, envy pinched again. And regret, that his own marriage had been a dismal failure.

But at twenty-four, even with his parents’ example, he hadn’t been nearly as ready for it as he’d thought. Especially to a gal who’d apparently tuned out when the minister, during their prenuptial classes, had done his best to drive home that married life wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, that it took more than love—and sex—to get through the rough patches. That without determination to make it work, a willingness to put each other’s feelings and needs ahead of your own from time to time, you didn’t have a chance in hell.

Not that he had used those exact words, but close enough.

And God knew Silas had tried his best. He’d hated seeing Amy so miserable, especially after Bundle of Joy Two arrived. But as her demands became increasingly impossible to meet—she constantly complained about not having enough money, yet pitched a fit if he worked late because he wasn’t around to help her with the babies—Silas began to see the writing on the wall.

Oh, he’d dug in his heels the first time she’d said she wanted out, not about to give up that easily on something he still believed in. But eventually Silas had had to admit he couldn’t prop up the marriage on his own. Or raise his wife as well as his sons.

His folks inside, Silas backed out of the drive, thinking that at least the resulting implosion, as horrendous as it had been, hadn’t left him where it had found him. In fact, his shrugging off his mother’s relentless matchmaking attempts notwithstanding, he was beginning to heal, even if only in terms of … maybe. If the right woman—not girl, woman—crossed his path, he might, might, consider trying again.

But this time, he had a checklist as long as his arm, with Putting the boys first at the top. Followed closely by maturity. Serenity. Stability.

Sanity.

In other words, not someone who made him feel like the ground was constantly shifting under his feet.

Moments later he pulled up into his driveway and cut the engine, his forehead crunched. Why were the lights still on?

The cottonwood’s first crackly, fallen leaves scampered across his feet as he walked to the door, the rustle barely audible over the raucous goings-on inside. The instant he opened the heavy carved door to the hundred-year-old adobe, Doughboy speed-waddled over and plastered himself against Silas’s calf, the English bulldog’s underbite trembling underneath bulging, terror-stricken eyes.

Why? Why you send crazy lady here?

Then, his spawn’s shrieks of unbridled glee assaulting his ears, Silas got the first glimpse of what had once been his living room.

Which now looked like Tokyo, post-Godzilla-rampage.

Chapter Two

“Daddy! Daddy! You’re home—!”

“You shoulda been here, we had sooooo much fun!”

“So I see,” Silas said in a low, controlled voice as he swept Tad up onto his hip while leveling a What the hell? look past the destruction at the flushed, heavily breathing, messy-haired female responsible for the mayhem.

Who gave him a whatchagonnado? shrug.

Woman destroys his house and she gives him a shrug? God help him.

And her.

Sofa and chair cushions teetered in unstable towers all over the room. Sheets, tablecloths, bedspreads—was that his good comforter?—shrouded every flat surface. No lamp was where he’d left it that morning, not a single picture on the wall was straight. And so many toys littered the floor—what he could see of it—it looked like Santa’s sleigh had upchucked.

Leaning against his ankle, the dog moaned. See? Told ya.

Jewel giggled. “Guess we kinda got carried away.”

Silas forced himself to breathe. “Ya think?”

Apparently, she got the message. “O-kay, guys, Daddy’s home, so off to bed—no, no arguments, we had a deal, remember?”

He could only imagine. “Thought I said bedtime was eight?” “You did, but—”

“Jewel said if we took our baths and got our jammies on,” Ollie said, “we could stay up for a bit.”

“A bit?” Silas said. Calmly. Over the seething rage. “It’s after ten.”

“What? You’re kidding!” Shoving loose pieces of hair behind her ears, Jewel picked her way through the wreckage to peer at the cable box clock. “Ohmigosh—I’m so sorry! The clock got covered and we were having so much fun we lost track of time—”

“Yeah,” Tad said, curls bobbing. “We made cookies, an’ then Jewel said we could bring our toys out here, an’ then we decided to make tunnels an’ stuff—”

“Jewel’s like the funnest person ever,” Ollie put in. “She’s not like a grownup at all!”

There’s an understatement, Silas thought as he lowered the four-year-old to his feet, then lightly swatted both pajama-covered bottoms. “Go get your teeth brushed, I’ll be there in a sec—”

“But we already brushed our teeth!” Ollie said, then stretched his lips back to show. “Shee?”

“Fine. Let’s go, then. And you,” he said, pointing at Jewel, “stay right where you are.”

She shrugged again, then plucked the boys’ quilts off two chairs. “Here! Take these back to your room!” The kids ran over, grabbed the quilts, gave Jewel hugs and kisses, and took off down the hall. Where, naturally, somebody tripped over his quilt, taking his brother down in the process, resulting in a tangle of Thomas the Tank Engines and hysterically giggling little boys. Silas sighed, sorted out his spawn and steered them to their room as Doughboy trudged dutifully behind, leaving a trail of slobber in his wake.

The boys flew into their beds on opposite sides of the room hard enough to bang both headboards into the walls, while poor Doughboy collapsed on the multicolored carpet in the center of the floor with a noisy, relieved sigh. His little masters, however, were still high as kites from overexertion and God only knew how much sugar. In fact, no sooner had Silas tucked Tad’s quilt around him than he yanked back the covers, yelled “Gotta pee!” and flew to the bathroom, leaping over the already snoring dog.