Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

Nodding in satisfaction, he climbed into his truck. Sounded like a plan—and he liked a good plan.

He pulled out, drove past the little barn he’d built to house the jeep and plow he used on the property, down to the main road. He made the turn, turned again into his mother’s lane to her house on the slope.

The dogs bounded across the drive—Cus (short for Atticus) with one of his many mangled balls clamped in his mouth, and his eyes wild with joy. His brother Finch gave Cus a body block that had both dogs rolling and wrestling.

Yeah, Owen thought with a grin, he definitely needed a dog.

He wound the drive, puzzled for a moment when he saw Willy B’s truck parked beside his mother’s car.

Early for a visit, Owen thought, even for Avery’s father. Then again, Willy B dropped by often, Owen knew, and now that he was one of the featured artists at his mother’s gift shop, he likely dropped by more with some new piece or design.

Stroke of luck, Owen decided as he parked. He might be able to finesse some insight or info out of Willy B on Avery—subtle, subtle.

He stopped long enough to snatch up the ball Cus had dropped pleadingly at his feet. He winged it, long and hard for the dogs to chase while he hurried up to the back door.

He heard the music when he was still ten feet away, and shook his head. Typical for his mom—who’d never yelled at any of her sons to turn that damn music down.

She’d always blasted her own.

He shoved open the door, caught the scent of bacon, of coffee. Grinning, he thought: just in time.

Then his eyes all but popped out of his head.

Bacon sizzled on the stove. His mother stood in front of the griddle.

So did Willy B, all six feet four inches of him wearing nothing but white boxers, with his hands on Owen’s mother’s ass, and his mouth locked on hers.

He must have made some sound that cut through the blast of music and the jaw-dropping embrace. Maybe he screamed. He hoped he hadn’t screamed, at least not outside of his head.

But his mother—an open robe over short red pajama pants and a thin (way too thin) white tank—stepped back. Her eyes met Owen’s, blinked once.

Then she laughed.

She laughed.

Willy B had the grace to blush as red as his tumbled hair and trim beard.

“What?” Owen managed, shocked to the bone. “What—you— What?”

“I’m fixing us some breakfast,” Justine said easily, and with that laugh still fluttering on the edges. “I guess I need to break some more eggs.”

“You— But— What? Mom.”

“Try to make a complete sentence, Owen. Have some coffee.” She reached for a mug.

“Ah . . . I should . . .” Still bright red, Willy B shuffled his enormous feet. “Put some pants on.”

“Yes!” Owen felt his hands flapping in the air, but just couldn’t stop them. “That. Pants. You. Please God.”

Rumbling in his throat, Willy B scooted off like a bear toward his cave.

“Mom.”

“That’s my name.” All cheer, Justine beamed smiles. “Sit down, honey. Drink your coffee.”

“What—”

Justine picked up tongs to take the bacon out to drain. “Finish it this time. I’ll get you started. What . . . ?”

“What—” He had to swallow the tight, prickly ball in his throat. It didn’t go down well. “What are you doing? Here. With him. Naked.”

Eyebrows hiked, Justine looked down at herself. “I’m not naked.”

“Almost.”

Obviously fighting another smile, Justine closed her robe, belted it. “Better?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. My head. Did my head explode?” He patted his hands over it.

Without missing a beat, Justine took eggs and milk from the big refrigerator. “I was going to scramble eggs, but under the circumstances, we’ll have French toast. You’re partial to French toast. You haven’t had breakfast, have you?”

“No. Mom, I don’t understand this.”

“What part of this don’t you understand, baby?”

“Any of it. All of it.”

“All right, let me explain. When people grow up, they often want to be close to each other. It’s best if they really like and respect each other. An important part of that closeness includes sex, which means—”

“Mom.” Heat crept up his neck, but he wasn’t sure what emotion kindled it. “Cut it out.”

“So you do understand that part. Willy B and I really like and respect each other, and sometimes we have sex.”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t say Willy B and sex, with you, in the same sentence.”

“Then I can’t explain, can I? Suck it up, Owen,” she advised, and offered him a slice of bacon.

“But . . .” He took the bacon. He couldn’t defog his brain to speak coherently.

“I loved your father. So, so much. I was eighteen when I first saw him—my very first day on the job for Wilson Contractors. There he was, standing on that ladder, torn jeans, big boots, tool belt, no shirt. And oh my God.” She laid a hand on her heart. “I couldn’t see straight the rest of the day. Tom Montgomery. My Tommy.”

She got out a bowl, began to mix the eggs and milk with a fork. “I couldn’t even pretend to be coy when he asked me out. I never went out with anyone else from that first date. Never wanted anyone else. I never loved anyone like I did your daddy.”

“I know, Mom.”

“We had a good life. He was such a good man. Smart, strong, funny. Such a good man, such a good father. We built the business together because we wanted our own. And this house, this family—it’s all got Tommy all over it. All of you have him in you, some of it in the way you are, some in the way you look. You got his mouth, Beckett his eyes, Ryder his hands. And more. I treasure that.”

“I’m sorry.” Watching her, hearing her, he felt his heart drop into his guts. “I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

“They aren’t sad tears. They’re grateful ones.” She added sugar, a dash of vanilla, generous shakes of cinnamon. “We had a wonderful, interesting, busy life together, and he died. You don’t know—I never let you know—how mad I was at him for dying on me. So mad, for weeks, months. I don’t know how long. He wasn’t supposed to die on me. We were supposed to be together, forever, and then he was gone. He’s gone, Owen, and I’ll miss him as long as I live.”

“Me, too.”

She reached across the counter, laid a hand over Owen’s, then turned, got a loaf of bread.

“Willy B loved Tommy. They were as close as you boys are to each other.”

“I know that. I know that, Mom.”

“We needed each other when Tommy died. We needed somebody else who’d loved him, who could tell stories about him. Somebody to lean on, to cry on, to laugh with. And that’s what we did, all we did, for a long time. Then a couple years ago, we . . . let’s just say I started fixing him breakfast now and again.”

“A couple . . . years.”

“Maybe I should’ve told you.” She shrugged as she dunked bread in the milk and eggs. “Maybe I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk about my sex life with my grown sons. And the fact is, Willy B’s shy.”

“Are you . . . in love with him?”

“I love him, of course I do. I have for years, just like Tommy loved him. He’s a good man, you know that. He’s a good father—and he had to raise Avery alone when her mother took off the way she did. He’s got kindness layered all the way through him. In love?” Coated bread sizzled on the griddle. “We enjoy each other, Owen. Like being together when we have time. We each have our own place, our own lives, our own family. We’re happy the way things are, and that’s enough for anyone.

“Now, can I tell him to come on down, have some breakfast?”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe I should go.”

“You sit right there. I made enough egg batter for a damn army.” She stepped out of the kitchen, set her hands on her hips and called out. “Willy B, you’ve got your pants on by now, so come on down here and have your breakfast.”

Stepping back, she flipped another line of bread, plated bacon and French toast, slid plates over the counter.

By the time Willy B shuffled in, she’d put another line of bread on the griddle. “Sit down and eat,” she ordered. “Don’t let it get cold.”

“It looks real good, Justine.” Rumbling in his throat, Willy B sat on the stool beside Owen.

Out of the corner of her eye, Justine gave Owen the look.

“Um, so . . . how’s it going, Willy B?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Yeah.” With no real choice, Owen dumped syrup on his toast.

“Ah . . . the inn’s coming along real nice,” Willy B ventured. “It sure makes a picture on The Square. Your dad, he’d be real proud and pleased.”

“He would.” Owen sighed. “The women have put some of your fancy work around. It looks good in there.”

“Don’t that beat all?”

At the stove, Justine flipped more bread, and smiled as the two men stumbled their way through breakfast conversation.

He got through it. He still wasn’t sure what to think about it, but he got through breakfast with his mother’s . . . with Willy B. The dogs trooped out to the shop with him, with Cus, always hopeful, carrying one of his balls.

Owen flipped on the lights, the shop radio, boosted the heat up. And after thirty minutes of fumbling, gave it up. His brain just refused to engage, and he wouldn’t risk his hand at the fancy work.

He turned down the heat, turned off the radio, the lights. The dogs dutifully followed him out. To please Cus, he gave the ball a solid kick before climbing back into his truck.

Straight, sweaty carpentry, he decided, and headed over to Beckett’s property. He had enough brain in him to do some framing in on the extra rooms they’d added on for Clare’s boys.

He spotted his brothers’ trucks as he drove back, and couldn’t decide if it relieved or unnerved him.

What did he say? Did he say anything?

Of course he did. He had to tell them—plus it meant he wouldn’t be flustered and weirded-out alone.

He heard the music from hammer and saw, and Beckett’s iPod as he got his tool belt out of the truck.

The place was coming along, Owen thought, especially considering work on it was squeezed in and juggled around the inn project. They had the addition to the original, unfinished structure under roof—thank God, considering the weather. Windows looked good, he decided, and would offer a nice view. The decks and patios for outdoor living would have to wait till spring, but if they could knock the rest out by April, Beckett and his new family could move in right after the wedding.

He went in through what would be the kitchen door, did a short walk-through before climbing the temporary stairs to the second floor.

Freaking huge, he thought, but supposed that made sense for a family of five. The generous master suite included a full-size fireplace the boys had told Beckett their mom had always wanted. Another full bath linked two more bedrooms. Another bathroom, another two bedrooms spread out on the second level, he recalled.

As he headed toward the noise, D.A. wandered over to greet him. The dog sat, eyes trained on Owen’s face. He thumped his tail.

“I got nothing.” Owen spread his empty hands before giving D.A. a rub. He avoided saying the words food or eat so D.A. didn’t get any false hope.

He walked into one of the bedrooms, where Beckett ran the saw and Ryder framed in a closet.

“You don’t call, you don’t write,” Owen said over the din.

With a grin, Beckett straightened, pulled off his safety glasses. “Ry just showed up. I should’ve known you wouldn’t be far behind. Appreciate it.”

“No donuts?” Ryder asked, and D.A. thumped his tail.

“Not on me.”

“Clare’s opening the store this morning, then picking up the kids from her parents’ about noon—running some errands. She can pick up some subs or whatever. They’re coming here to help anyway.”

“Pity him.”

Beckett gave Ryder a shrug. “Dad gave us plenty of on-the-job training when we were their age.”

“I didn’t know enough to pity him at the time. And speaking of time, you could’ve saved a lot of it by cutting back on the bedrooms. What do you need five for anyway? Unless Clare won’t sleep with you.”

“One for each kid,” Owen said, “master suite, guest room.”

“Pull-out down in the family room would take care of anybody who stayed over. Or same deal in the office.”

“Actually, we’re going to need five. We’re going to have another kid.”

Owen paused in the act of pulling off his coat. “Clare’s pregnant?”