Нора Робертс - The Next Always

He wasn’t a stalker.

He slowed a bit, scanning the little house just inside the town limits, and saw that, like his family home, her kitchen lights were on—front porch and living room, too, he noted.

He couldn’t think of an excuse to stop in, not that he would have, but . . .

He imagined her relaxing after a full day, maybe reading a book, watching a little TV. Grabbing a little downtime with the kids tucked in for the night.

He could go knock on her door. Hey, just in the neighborhood, saw your lights on. I’ve got my tools in the truck if you need anything fixed.

Jesus.

He drove on. In his entire history with the female species, Clare Murphy Brewster was the single one of her kind who flustered and flummoxed him.

He was good with women, he reminded himself. Probably because he just liked them—the way they looked, sounded, smelled—the strange way their minds worked. Toddler to great-granny, he enjoyed the female for who and what she was.

He’d never been at a loss for what to say around a woman, unless it was Clare. Never second-guessed what he should say, or had said. Unless it was Clare. Never had the hots for without at least making an opening move. Unless it was Clare.

Really, he was better off with somebody like Drew’s sister. A woman he found attractive, who liked to flirt, and who didn’t make him think or want too much.

Time to put Clare and her appealing boys out of his brain, once and for all.

He pulled into the lot behind his building, looked up at his dark windows.

He should go up, do a little work, then make an early night of it and catch up on some sleep.

Instead, he walked across the street. He’d just do a walk-through, check out what Ry, the crew, and the subs had gotten done that day. He wasn’t ready for his own company, he admitted, and the current resident of the inn was better than nothing.

In Clare’s house, the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers waged war against the evil forces. Bombs exploded; Rangers flew, flipped, rolled, and charged. Clare had seen this particular DVD and countless others in the series so often she could time the blasts with her eyes closed.

It did give her the advantage of pretending she was riveted to the action while she worked on her mental checklist. Liam sprawled with his head in her lap. When she peeked over, she saw his eyes were open, but glassy.

Not long now.

Harry lay on the floor, a Red Ranger in his hand. His stillness told her he’d already passed out. But Murphy, her night owl, sat beside her—as alert and as fascinated by the movie as he’d been the first time he’d watched it.

He could, and would, remain up and revved until midnight if she allowed it. She knew damn well when the movie ended, he’d beg for another.

She really needed to pay her personal bills, finish folding the laundry, and throw in another load of towels while she was at it. She needed to start the new book she’d brought home—not just for pleasure, though it was, but because she considered reading an essential part of her job.

Thinking of what she’d yet to check off that mental list made her realize she’d be the one up until midnight.

Her own fault, she reminded herself, for letting the boys talk her into a double feature.

Still, it made them so happy, and gave her the joy of spending an evening snuggled up with her little men.

Laundry would always be there, she thought, but her guys wouldn’t always be thrilled to spend the evening with Mom watching a movie at home.

As predicted, the minute good vanquished evil, Murphy sent her an imploring look out of big brown eyes. How odd, she thought, he’d been the only one to inherit Clint’s color, and genetics had mixed it with her blond hair.

“Please, Mom! I’m not tired.”

“You got two, that’s all for you.” On the rhyme, she flicked his nose with her finger.

His pretty face with its pug nose and dusting of freckles crumpled into abject misery. “Please! Just one episode.”

He sounded like a starving man begging for just one stale crust of bread.

“Murphy, it’s already way past bedtime.” Now she held up a finger when he opened his mouth. “And if that’s a whine about to come out, I’ll remember it next movie night. Come on, go up and pee.”

“I don’t gotta pee.”

“Go pee anyway.”

He trudged off like a man walking to the hangman’s noose while she shifted Liam. She got him up, his head on her shoulder, his body boneless.

And his hair, she thought, the thick golden brown waves she loved, smelling of shampoo. She carried him to the steps, and up, and into the bathroom where I-don’t-gotta-pee Murphy sang to himself as he emptied his bladder.

“Leave the seat up, and don’t flush it.”

“I’m s’posed to. You said.”

“Yes, but Liam has to go. Go ahead and get into bed, my baby. I’ll be right in.”

With the dexterity of experience, Clare stood Liam on his feet, held him upright with one hand, lowered his pj shorts with the other.

“Let’s pee, my man.”

“’Kay.” He swayed, and when he aimed, she had to guide his hand to avoid the prospect of scrubbing down the walls.

She hitched his pants back up, would have guided him to bed, but he turned, held his arms up.

She carried him to the bedroom—the one intended as the master, then laid him on the bottom of one of the two sets of bunks. Murphy lay in the other bottom bunk, curled up with his stuffed Optimus Prime.

“Be right back,” she whispered. “I’m going to get Harry.”

She repeated the routine with Harry, as far as the bathroom. He’d recently decided Mom was a girl, and girls weren’t allowed to be in the bathroom when he peed.

She made sure he was awake enough to stand upright, stepped out. She winced a little as the toilet seat slammed down, waited while it flushed.

He wandered out. “There’s blue frogs in the car.”

“Hmm.” Knowing he dreamed vividly and often, she guided him to bed. “I like blue. Up you go.”

“The red one’s driving.”

“He’s probably the oldest.”

She kissed his cheek—he was already asleep again—walked over to kiss Liam, then turned and bent down to Murphy. “Close your eyes.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Close them anyway. Maybe you’ll catch up with Harry and the blue frogs. The red one’s driving.”

“Are there dogs?”

“If you want there to be. Good night.”

“’Night. Can we get a dog?”

“Why don’t you just dream about one for now.”

She gave her boys, her world, a last glance as they lay in the glow of their Spider-Man night-light.

Then she went downstairs to start work on her mental checklist.

Just after midnight, she fell asleep with the book in her hands and the light on. She dreamed of blue frogs and their red driver, purple and green dogs. And oddly, she realized when she woke enough to shut off the light, of Beckett Montgomery smiling at her as she walked down the stairs at her bookstore.

Clare pulled into the gravel parking lot behind Turn The Page at nine. Since her mother had the boys for the day—God bless her—Clare had time to work in the quiet before Laurie came in to open. Shouldering her purse and briefcase, she crossed over to the back door, unlocked it. She flipped on lights as she went up the short flight of stairs, through the room where they stocked sidelines, and through to the front room of the store. She loved the feel of it, the way one section flowed into the next but remained distinct.

The minute she’d seen the old town house just off The Square, she’d known it would be her place. She could still remember the excitement and nerves when she’d taken that leap of faith. But somehow, investing so much of the lump sum the army provided to the spouses of the fallen had made Clint part of what she’d done.

What she’d needed to do for herself and her children.

Buying the property, creating the business plan, opening accounts, buying supplies—and books, books, books. Interviewing potential employees, working on the layout. All of the intensity, the stress, the sheer volume of time and effort had helped her cope. Had helped her survive.

She’d thought then, and knew now, the store had saved her. Without it, without the pressure, the work, the focus, she might have shattered and dissolved in those months after Clint’s death and before Murphy’s birth.

She’d needed to be strong for her boys, for herself. To be strong, she had to have a purpose, a goal—and an income.

Now she had this, she thought as she went behind the front counter to prepare the first pot of coffee of the day. The mom, the military wife—and widow—had built herself into a businesswoman, a proprietor, an employer.

Between her sons and the store the hours were long, the work constant. But she loved it, she mused as she made herself a skinny latte. She loved being busy, had the deep personal satisfaction of knowing she could and did support herself and her kids while adding a solid business to her hometown.

Couldn’t have done it without her parents—or without the support and affection of Clint’s. Or without friends like Avery, who’d given her commonsense business advice and a wailing wall.

She carried the coffee upstairs, settled down at her desk. She booted up her computer and, because she’d thought of Clint’s parents, sent them a quick email with new snapshots of the kids attached before she got to work updating the store’s website.

When Laurie came in, Clare called down a good morning. She gave the website a few more minutes before dealing with the rest of the email. After adding a few additional items to a pending order, she headed downstairs where Laurie sat at her computer behind the low wall.

“Got some nice Internet orders overnight. I—” Laurie cocked her brows over chocolate brown eyes. “Hey, you look great today.”

“Well, thanks.” Pleased, Clare did a little turn in the grass green sundress. “But I can’t afford to give you a raise.”

“Seriously. You’re all glowy.”

“Who isn’t in this heat? I’m going out, getting my tour of the inn, but I’ve got my phone if you need me. Otherwise, I’ll probably be back in thirty.”

“Take your time. And I want details. Oh, you didn’t send in that book order to Penguin yet, did you?”

“No, I thought I’d do it when I got back.”

“Perfect. Some of these orders take us down to one copy of a couple titles. I’ll give you the deets before you send it in.”

“Good enough. Need anything while I’m out?”

“Could you box up one of the Montgomery boys?”

Clare smiled as she opened the front door. “No preference?”

“I trust your judgment.”

On a laugh, Clare went out, texting Avery as she strolled up toward Vesta. On my way.

Almost instantly Avery came out the restaurant’s door. “Me, too,” she called out. They stood on opposite corners, waiting for the light—Clare in her breezy sundress, Avery in her black capris and T-shirt.