Always Florence

Bobbie was aghast. She hadn’t spent that much time with children, except for the few she’d met when she had her treatments, and they were, sadly, very adult. She was startled by what went on in the minds of little boys.

“I promise I’m not a witch,” she told Sheamus seriously. “That was probably pretty scary for you to think that.”

He shrugged a small shoulder. “Dylan said you wouldn’t take me, because only brave kids would work.”

She saw his uncle straighten up from the trash can and frown. “You ran to get help when you thought your brother was in trouble,” he said, patting the little boy’s head. “That was brave. Come on and help me clean off this table. Grab that brush and dustpan.” He pointed to the ancient set propped in a corner that had been in the garage when she moved in.

After salvaging what she could, Bobbie went inside and put half the brownies she’d made that morning into a freezer bag, and took it out to Nate and Sheamus. They were placing the lid on the trash can. The garage floor was remarkably clean. Nate carried the can back to where he’d found it.

“What do you want to do with the ruined pulp?” he asked, peering into the pot. All kinds of dust, shavings and debris were now mixed in its murky contents.

“I’ve got an old plastic bucket with a lid.” She pointed to a shelf above the oil tank. Nate reached up to bring it down. “If you can pour it into that and put the lid on, I’ll keep it for later. It might still be useful for something.”

Sheamus helped him replace the lid, then he put it in a corner, out of the way.

“Thank you for cleaning up,” she said, handing Sheamus the bag.

The boy looked thrilled. “Brownies!” Arnold sniffed interestedly.

Nate dusted his hands on his jeans and thanked her. “Brownies are something all of us agree on. But I’m not sure you should be giving gifts to the kids who caused the damage.”

He’s gorgeous, she thought with the comfortable distance of a woman who didn’t really care. Now that much of the mess was cleaned up and she felt calmer, she could observe him with detached interest. Tall, lean, hazel eyes with stubby lashes, nice nose, Saturday morning stubble around a straight mouth that was a little tight. He didn’t smile much. She was willing to bet he had a dynamite smile when he used it.

She wondered what had happened that his nephews were living with him. He seemed to be good with them, though she sensed an undercurrent of antagonism with the older boy.

She could list Nate Raleigh’s qualities without a stirring of feminine interest because she had a life plan that didn’t involve a husband and children. She was going to Florence, Italy, to study art. It had been a dream since she was sixteen, and the last year had made it an obsession. She was in remission, but she didn’t have forever. Follicular non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma was less aggressive than the B-cell form, but it was a lifelong disease. She had to go now. The need to make art lived inside her like the creature in Alien, and was always trying to break out. She had to go to the birthplace of classical European art. She wanted to study and learn, to find the depths of her talent.

She offered her hand again. “I’m happy to share. It was nice to meet all of you.”

“Again, we apologize for destroying your work.” He shook her hand. “We’ll bring the shelves over soon. Is there anything else we can do before we go?”

“No, I’m good.”

“I’m glad you didn’t have kid feet in there,” Sheamus said.

She pinched his chin. “Me, too. They would have looked awful sticking out of my paper.”

Sheamus laughed infectiously.

Bobbie watched them walk across the yard to the big yellow Craftsman-style house next door, the man and the boy hand in hand, the dog lumbering along beside them. She smiled at the sight.

Nice, but not for her.

CHAPTER TWO

NATE LOOKED THROUGH the rack of Halloween costumes, spotted the bright red and blue, and triumphantly pulled out Spider-Man. They’d been to four stores, found Dylan’s Iron Man right away, but had been searching all afternoon for Sheamus’s choice. Everyone was now tired and grumpy.

Certain this find would change the mood, Nate was surprised when he held up the costume and turned around, only to discover Sheamus close to tears—again. Nate drew a breath for patience.

“I thought you wanted to be Spider-Man.”

“I want the one with the muscles.” Nate looked to Dylan for help. Dylan, holding the bag with his own costume in a death grip, reached up to a shelf of masks for a skull with a rubber snake crawling out of the mouth. “Would you lend me a hand here, please? What is Sheamus talking about?”

Dylan rolled his eyes, clearly disdainful of his uncle’s ignorance. “Some of the superhero costumes have built-in muscles. They’re more expensive.”

“Built-in muscles,” Nate repeated under his breath. What he needed was built-in patience and endurance.

A smiling older clerk gave him a sympathetic look. “Musclemen are over there.” She pointed to a long rack across the floor. A half dozen parents and children were rummaging through it.

Sheamus ran in that direction. Dylan shook his head. “He’s not going to be able to reach it. Then he’ll start crying again.”

“Why don’t you go help him,” Nate suggested, nerves frayed after the grueling afternoon, “instead of making fun of him?”

“Because he’s such a baby!”

Nate directed him toward Sheamus, who was already being pushed aside by older kids. “You find things hard sometimes, and he’s a lot younger than you are. You should try giving him a hand rather than telling him the neighbor is a witch who collects body parts of little kids.”

“Who’d believe that, anyway?”

“He’s seven, Dylan. And he’s scared.”

“So? Isn’t everybody scared?”

The profound question stopped Nate in his tracks, but the frantic shoving going on at the rack precluded a discussion. And Dylan had already wandered away, looking as though he regretted that admission.

Nate spotted all the red-and-blue costumes hung together, and reached for a small one at the same moment that a beautiful, pregnant young woman did. Prepared to fight her for it no matter how bad it made him look, he was relieved when she grasped another size instead. He yanked the small outfit off the rack and got down on one knee to hold it up against Sheamus. Stitched to create the appearance of muscles across the torso and along the arms, the costume brought a smile to the boy’s face. Sheamus wrapped his arms around Nate’s neck. “Thanks, Uncle Nate! We got it!”

“Great. Now we have to get candy for the trick-or-treaters.”

“How can we give out candy?” Dylan asked. “Aren’t we going to be at the Monster Bash?”

“Stella’s going to stay until we get back,” he said.

Nate cringed inwardly at the thought of the event. The city-sponsored Halloween celebration held in a Parks and Recreation building was intended to keep children safe while letting them enjoy a ghoulish experience. He heard it was an ordeal for parents, who often commiserated with each other about having to go.

There was a brief discussion over the merits of mini chocolate bars, small boxes of licorice and sour candy. Nate bought several bags of each.

“Can we get something to drink?” Dylan asked at the checkout. “I’m thirsty.”

“Sure.” Nate pictured a tall gin and tonic, but led the boys to the Starbucks on the other side of the store. “We shoulda brought the brownies with us,” Sheamus said on the drive home. “They would taste good with this.”

Nate found the boy’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Sheamus drew on the straw of his smoothie so hard that his thin cheeks sucked in. “We can have them for dessert tonight. Stella left us mac and cheese for dinner.”

Dylan grumbled. “She’s a really good cook, but I like the mac and cheese in the box better.” Then he asked seriously and without warning, “Do you think Bobbie had cancer?”

His older nephew’s out-of-the-blue observations never failed to surprise Nate. Mostly because they were usually on target.

“Her hair looks like a man’s. And she looks kind of like she has a bad cold. You know what I mean?”