The Next Always Page 8

SINCE YARD WORK WASN’T ON THE WEEKEND AGENDA, AND he couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse to drop by Clare’s, Beckett put some extra time in at the family shop. With the dogs and his iPod for company, he set to work building the wood frame that would cap in the stone arch leading from The Lobby to the entrance hallway.

He didn’t do as much fine carpentry or cabinetmaking as his brothers, but enjoyed it when he did. And for the moment, he liked having the shop to himself.

He remembered his father teaching him how to use the saws, the lathe, the planer. Thomas Montgomery had been patient, but expected precision.

No point in doing something if you’re going to do it half-assed.

A motto to live by, Beckett thought now.

God, his dad would’ve loved this project. Everything about it would have appealed to him, challenged him. He’d loved the town, the old buildings, its rhythm, its colors and tones. Its politics.

He could sit at the counter at Crawford’s over bacon, eggs, and hash browns and bullshit with the best of them.

He’d never missed a parade or the fireworks for the Fourth in Shafer Park, not in Beckett’s memory. He’d sponsored a Little League team, and the family business still did. He’d even coached for a few years.

In his way, Beckett supposed, without the bullshit or posturing, he’d taught his sons what it was to be a part of a community. And how to value it.

Yeah, he’d love this project, for the work, for the building, and for the community.

For that reason alone, nothing about it would be half-assed.

Beckett took out his tape measure, the one that had been his father’s. Their mother had made sure each of them kept a specific tool. He measured and marked the next piece.

He straightened when his mother came in.

“Putting in some overtime, I see.”

“I got into it. Since I’m the one who wanted the archways framed in, I thought I should start the build.”

“It’s going to look fine, too. Look at the bookcases.” She laid a hand on her heart. “That’s damn pretty work you boys are doing there. Your dad would be so proud.”

“I was just thinking about him. It’s hard not to in here. I was thinking how much he’d love working on the inn, bringing it back.”

“Rolling his eyes at me behind my back when I came up with some new idea. And don’t think I don’t know you do the same.”

“Just carrying on the tradition.”

“You do a good job of that, the three of you.”

“Are you still mad?”

She angled her head. “Do I look mad?”

“You can be sneaky about it. Anyway.” He grinned. “It was Ry’s fault.”

“He’s got his father’s hard head and my temper. Tough combo. But he had a point. I should’ve talked it over with the three of you first. And if you tell him that, I’ll kick your ass.”

“He won’t hear it from me. Why’d you hire her like that, Mom? Just bam!”

She shrugged, then opened the shop fridge, shook her head at the pair of six-packs, took out two cold sodas. “Sometimes you know something’s right, and sometimes you have to accept things happen for a reason. This was both.”

Then she laughed, drank. “I think Hope surprised herself taking the offer as quick as it was made. I don’t think she was going to, but that’s what love’ll do to you. She fell for the place. You’ll see.”

“I guess we’ll see soon enough if she moves up.”

“She will be,” Justine assured him. “She’s going to get herself organized. She’ll make the move in a couple of weeks.”

“You talked her into it?”

“I had help. Avery.”

“Secret weapon.”

“She’s a go-getter, all right,” Justine agreed. “I gave Hope the key, let her go over and see the apartment. You’re going to need to see it gets a fresh coat of paint.”

When he blew out a breath, she lifted her eyebrows. “I know, but it needs to be done. By the way, I ordered the new sink and faucet for the gift shop. And a new toilet while I was at it. I sent you the links. Since Willow Run’s coming in to talk about the final design for The Courtyard next week, I’m having Brian take a look at the back of the gift shop. I think it needs a nice patio, and new fencing along the bookstore side. Some plantings,” she added, laughing now. “And those old steps can be worked in with stone like the patio.”

“Would you turn around so I can roll my eyes?”

“It’s going to be nice. Madeline’s already talking to local artists. And I’ve got Willy B signed on.”

“Avery’s dad?”

“He does wonderful metalwork in his spare time. You saw those candlesticks he gave me last Christmas. So . . . I think we can open toward the end of October.”

He felt the swallow of Coke stick at the base of his throat. “Mom, we haven’t even started.”

“Better get to it then. Oh, and mention the fence to Clare if I don’t get a chance.”

“Okay.”

“You can talk about it on your Friday night date.”

He lowered his drink. “What, did somebody take out an ad? I only mentioned it to Owen and Ryder.”

“And they didn’t tell me? I need to talk to those boys. Avery told me. You sure took your sweet time there, baby boy.”

“It’s just dinner or something.”

“You’ve been wanting to have dinner or something with Clare since you were a teenager. It broke my heart.”

“I didn’t think you knew.”

“Baby, of course I knew. I’m your mom. Just like I knew the night you came back from a date with Melony Fisher you’d had sex for the first time.”

He actually felt heat rush up the back of his neck. “Jesus, Mom.”

She laughed herself breathless. “I know what I know, and I trusted you’d been careful as your father and I drummed safe sex, respect, and consequences in all your heads. Make sure you remember all that with Clare.”

“Jesus, Mom.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“I—” When his phone rang, he snatched at it like a lifeline. “Owen. You don’t know why, but I owe you big. I’m out at the shop, why? He what? Seriously. Yeah, yeah, I’ll come in.”

He shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Ry’s sucking up after this morning. He’s taking your wall out. They want me to come take a look.”

“Go on then. Have you got anything going on tonight?”

“No.”

“You could pick up a pizza, come back. I’ll go over what I ordered today, and a few things I’m mulling over.”

“I can do that.”

“If either or both of your brothers hasn’t managed a date on Saturday night, I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with them. But if not, and they want, get more pizza.”

BY MONDAY, THEY had crew in three buildings, painting the vacant apartment, prepping for paint at the gift shop, and since the temperatures dropped a little, doing exterior paint at the inn. Copper shone in the sun as the roofers worked on the mansard.

By ten, ready for a break, Beckett walked over to the bookstore.

He found Clare at Laurie’s station. “Hey. Where’s your crew?”

“Laurie had a dentist appointment. She’ll be in later. Cassie’s due in any minute, and Charlene’s coming at one. I said I’d open today anyway so I wouldn’t sit home and brood.”

“Brood?”

“First day of school.” She walked behind the counter to make his coffee without being asked.

He supposed that made him predictable.

“Did they get off okay?”

“Oh yeah. They were raring to go—that’ll last about a week. They’re excited about seeing all their friends, using their new supplies. I’m the one having problems,” she admitted. “I didn’t even go back to the house after I dropped them off because I knew the quiet would kill me. That’ll probably last about a week, too, then I’ll be annoyed when they have one of those professional days, and the kids have off.”

He dug back in his memory, felt a little glow. “I loved those.”

“I bet your mother didn’t. I’ve been watching all the activity this morning. It feels like the whole town’s buzzing with it.”

“We’re scattered everywhere. Mom wants to open the gift shop in about six weeks. You knew,” he said when she cleared her throat.

“She may have mentioned it. It’s great Hope will be here for the opening.” Clare handed him the coffee. “She’ll be able to meet some people.”

“Opening? We’re having an opening? I should’ve figured.”

“Your mother will take care of it. I imagine you’ll just have to show up.” Obviously amused by the worry on his face, she gave his hand a pat. “Consider it a trial run for the opening for the inn.”

“I guess I’ll need a date. How about—sorry.” He pulled out his phone. “Yeah. No, I drew that up. I showed you. Yes, I—no, I didn’t. I left them at home. I’ll get them and be right there. Gotta go,” he said as he shoved his phone away.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said when he reached for his wallet. “First cup, first customer. No charge on back-to-school day.”

“Thanks. Why don’t we—” His phone rang again, and the bookstore line jingled along with it. “Later,” he said and headed out with his phone to his ear. “What now?”

IT WAS A week of fits and starts, progress and delays, with plenty of frustration mixed in. Beckett found now that he didn’t feel as obliged to come up with an excuse to see Clare, he didn’t have time. And when he did, she didn’t.

“You’d think two people who live and work in the same town could manage more than a five-minute conversation.” Beckett installed yet another picket on the third-floor porch.

“You’ve got it bad. I’ve got it bad,” Ryder decided, “when I know who you’re whining about even when you don’t use names.”

“I’m not whining, I’m just saying.”

“Aren’t you going out tomorrow night?”

No point in admitting he still felt the need to sort of work up to that. “Yeah.”

“Talk then. Hell, go over and talk to her after we knock off. She’s open till six.”

“She’s got to pick up the kids from school. Plus she’s got that book club thing she does tonight.”

“People talk too much anyway, especially when they don’t have anything to say. The woman I went out with last weekend? She never shut up. Great pair of legs, and a mouth that wouldn’t quit.” He ran his hand along the side rail he’d finished. “Nice.”

He looked
over at Beckett. “Why don’t you go over and check on the crew at the gift shop? Since it’s next to the bookstore, maybe you can have the conversation you’re yearning for. Plus, it’ll get your lovesick germs away from me.”

“Good idea. Want me to send one of the men out to work with you?”

“No. I like the quiet.”

Beckett went through the building, where quiet it wasn’t, and out the back. They’d be taking the scaffolding down soon, he thought as he walked under it. And before much longer, they’d get rid of the tarp on the front.

He ran through scheduling and time lines in his head as he crossed the street. He met obligations first, going inside the gift shop. His mother had been dead-on about the wall color, he decided, and about opening the wall.

He talked with the painters, and went out the back.

His mother was right about that, too. It needed sprucing up. Maybe they could add a little gate to—

He caught himself. “Don’t start, man. Just don’t give her any more ideas.”

He walked around to the parking lot just as Clare came out the back, moving fast, her phone at her ear.

“No, don’t worry about it. Just tell her to feel better. Okay, sure.” She sent Beckett a distracted wave. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

“Problem?”

“Lynn Barney. Called to tell me Mazie came home from school early. Maybe a stomach virus.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Mazie was on tap to babysit for me—book club night.”

“Oh, right.”

“I’ve got to run, pick up the kids, figure this out.”

“I can watch them,” he heard himself say. Then wondered where the hell that came from.

“What?”

“I can watch them. It’s, what, a couple, three hours, right?”

“Oh, well, thanks, but I’ll figure something out.”

“Hold on.”

Amused at both of them, he took her arm before she could wrench open the door to her van. Besides, now that he actually thought about it, he liked the idea.

“You don’t think I can handle three boys? I was a boy. I was one of three boys.”

“I know, but—”

“What time do you have to leave for the thing?”

“I should be here around five to help set up. We usually start around five thirty. We generally go until about seven, then it takes a while to close up and—”

“So about five to eight. No problem.”

“Yes, but they need to be fed and bathed and—”

“I’ll pick up dinner at Vesta, come down at five.”

“Well . . .”

“It’ll be fun. I like your kids.”

“God, I’m going to be late.”

“So go. See you at five.”

“I just don’t know if—Okay,” she decided. “But not pizza. If you get spaghetti and meatballs, they can split it three ways. And a salad. Just tell whoever’s taking the order it’s for my boys. They all know what they like. I’ll make sure they have their homework done,” she added as she climbed into the van.

“If something comes up—”

“Clare, I’ll be by at five. Go pick up your kids.”

“Right. Thanks.”

It would be fun, he thought again as she drove off. And spaghetti and meatballs sounded just about perfect.

“HOW COME GRANDDAD can’t come play with us?” Liam sulked over his chapter book.

“I told you, he’s got a meeting with his photography group. Now answer the question. What did Mike find when he climbed the tree?”

“A stupid bird’s nest.”

“Write it down.”

He slid his eyes up with the little smirk Clare found both endearing and infuriating, depending on her mood. “I don’t know how to spell ‘stupid.’ ”

“L-I-A-M,” Harry sang out.

“Mom! Harry called me stupid.”

“Harry, knock it off. Liam, write down the answer. Murphy, how many times do I have to tell you not to throw that ball in the house? Take it outside.”

“I don’t wanna go outside. Can I watch TV?”

“Yes, please. Go do that.”

“I wanna watch TV.”

Me, too, she thought when she glanced at Liam. “Then finish your homework.”

“I hate homework.”

“You and me both, pal. Harry—”

“I finished mine. See?”

“Great. Let’s go over your words for your spelling test tomorrow.”

“I know the words.”

It was probably true. Spelling had always been a breeze for Harry.

“We’ll go over them anyway, then yours, Liam, when you’re done with your book.”

“How come Murphy gets to watch TV?” Liam managed to look long-suffering and outraged at the same time. “How come he doesn’t have homework? It’s not fair.”

“He had homework. He finished.”

“Just stupid flash cards. Baby homework.”

“I’m not a baby!” Murphy’s furious protest rang from the living room. He had ears like a cat.

“He gets to do anything he wants. It’s not—”

“I don’t want to hear ‘it’s not fair.’ You know, Liam, the longer you sit here complaining, the longer it’s going to take. Then you won’t have any play or TV time.”

“I don’t want Beckett to watch us.”

“You like Beckett.”

“Maybe he’ll be mean. Maybe he’ll yell and lock us in our room.”

Clare folded her arms. “Has he ever been mean before?”

“No, but he could be.”

“If you want somebody to yell, keep stalling over that homework. You’ll hear somebody yell.” She grabbed Harry’s spelling list, began to call off the words.

After he’d finished, she scanned the list he’d written. “That’s an A-plus. Good job, Harry. Now scram.”

She sat, the better to focus her middle son. “That’s good, Liam. See here, though, you wrote a d instead of b.”

“How come they made them that way, so they get mixed up?”

“That’s a good question, but it’s what erasers are for.” She got out his spelling list while he fixed it—grudgingly. “Get a fresh piece of paper.”

“I got more homework than anybody.”

He didn’t, but she didn’t have time for the lecture about stalling, scribbling, and staring into space. “Almost done.” He hunched over the paper when she gave him the words.

His penmanship was better than Harry’s, but the spelling? Not so much.

“Pretty good. You missed three, but see here, you wrote b instead of d. You know how you can remember? B’s for butt, and your butt’s in the back.”

It made him laugh, and she decided to end it on a high note. “We’ll go over it in the morning, one more time. Put your things away, and you can watch TV.”

She walked out with him. “No fighting,” she called out, and dashed upstairs to freshen up before the book club meeting.

She shoved the book and her notes in her purse, grabbed her hairbrush. And heard the doorbell.

Not only on time, but ten minutes early. She glanced at herself in the bedroom mirror. She could’ve used that ten minutes.

She rushed downstairs in time to hear Murphy ask, “Are you going to lock us in our room?”

“Are you guys planning to rob the bank?”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Then I won’t need to lock you up.” Beckett looked over, up. And smiled. “Spaghetti and meatballs, as ordered.”

“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.” She took the bag, then felt a little clutch in her belly as she noted all three boys watched Beckett like they would a strange animal in the zoo.

“Let’s take this back so I can show you where everything is. They’ve finished their homework,” she began as they went back to the kitchen.

“They should eat by around six.” She got out plates as she spoke. “Don’t worry about the
bath, I’ll get them in the shower in the morning. Their pj’s are laid out, they like to get in them at least an hour before bedtime.”

“Men of leisure.”

“Exactly. I’ll be home before bedtime, that’s eight fifteen or so.”

“Got it. Clare, relax. Those child endangerment charges were dismissed.”

“Very funny. I’m actually more worried about you. They know the rules, but that doesn’t mean they won’t pull something. You’ve got my numbers. I can be home in five minutes if—”

“We’ll be fine. I won’t listen if they tell me to run with scissors.”

“Okay.” She let out a breath. “I’d better go.”

He walked back in with her, and once again the boys turned as one, stared. “I’ll be home by bedtime. Be good, and no snacks before dinner. Good luck,” she told Beckett.

He closed the door behind her, waited a beat. “All right, men, what’s the plan?”

As oldest, Harry took point. “We want cookies.”

“Gotta say no to that one. Just got a direct order.”

“Told ya,” Liam muttered.

“We want to play PlayStation. Pop and Nan gave us PlayStation 3 for Christmas.”

“What games have you got?”

Harry eyed him speculatively. “Do you know how to play?”

“Please. You’re looking at the reigning town champ.”

“Nuh-uh.”

Beckett just smiled, flexed his fingers. “Bring it on.”

THEY WERE PRETTY good, even the little guy. It shouldn’t have surprised him to find himself in real competition. He’d been battling his brothers at video games at five. Harry had patience and a knack for strategy while Liam went full-out, a technique that either paid off big-time or went down in flames.

And Murphy? He just lived it.

They bitched and moaned a lot, accused each other or the game itself of cheating regularly. Beckett either ignored them or joined in. Once they got over the shock of not being called out for poor sportsmanship or not being told it was just a game and supposed to be fun, they got louder, and wilder.

“I smoked you!” Harry cackled, shook his fists in the air.

Not entirely pleased at being smoked by an eight-year-old, Beckett scowled at the screen. “Shit.”

“You’re not supposed to say bad words,” Murphy informed him.

“You’re not supposed to say bad words. I have a license to swear.”

Liam snorted. “Come on.”

“And it’s up for renewal next month. Let’s—shit,” he repeated when he noticed the time. “We were supposed to eat a half hour ago.”

“We’ve got another Ben 10 game.” Harry bounced up to get it out of the case. “We can play it first.”

“Gotta fuel up, otherwise your mom will kick all our butts.”

“Butts are behind so you know how to write a b.”

Beckett studied Liam. “Okay. Let’s eat.”

He didn’t tell them to pick up the games. Harry hesitated, then shrugged and raced to the kitchen.

In the spirit of solidarity Beckett chose a Hulk plate. It amazed him that they ate salad without whining about it, but maybe it was because they rehashed the games while they wolfed it down.

Or they were starving since dinner was late.

They asked for Coke. Murphy broke as Beckett poured it out.

“We’re supposed to have milk. We’re not supposed to have soda.”

Liam shoved him. Murphy shoved back.

“Cut it out. It’s a special occasion. Man Night. Sodas all around.”

“He hit me.”

“I did not.”

“Yeah, you did,” Beckett said before Murphy could come up with the inevitable “did, too.” “And you hit back. It’s a wash.”

“I’m telling Mom,” Murphy muttered.

“You can’t do that, man.” Beckett shook his head as he scooped spaghetti, without warming it up, onto plates.

Torn between insult and being called man, Murphy stared at him, bottom lip quivering. “How come?”

“Code of Brotherhood. It’s strictly enforced on Man Night. What goes on here, stays here.”

Murphy thought about it as he studied his plate. Nobody cut up the spaghetti or the meatball. Maybe because it was Man Night. He stabbed at the meatball with his fork, and sent it winging across the table to land in Liam’s lap.

“Two points,” Beckett commented.

Then all hell broke loose.

On a cry of rage, Liam scooped up the meatball, threw it at his brother. He had damn good aim, and bounced the meatball off Murphy’s forehead.

Beckett had to give the little guy credit. He didn’t cry; he didn’t hesitate. He attacked.

He bounded out of the chair, leaping toward Liam. Spaghetti flew like wet confetti. Beckett managed to hook an arm around Murphy’s waist, haul him back as he kicked enthusiastically at his brother. Wild to retaliate, Liam made a grab. Beckett shifted to block, bumped the boy into the table.

And the cup of soda dumped all over Harry.

Desperate to stop the war, Beckett scooped up Liam as Harry, fists bunched, jumped up.

“Hold it, hold it. Harry, that was my fault. I knocked it over. Take it easy. Everybody just stop!”

“He did it on purpose!” Liam accused and tried to wiggle around to punch his little brother.

“Did not.” Murder in his eye, red sauce on his face, Murphy got in one good kick. “He didn’t cut it up. It’s his fault.”

“Everybody stop! Quiet!”

The shouts and accusations snapped off. Three mutinous faces stared at him as Beckett surveyed the damage. “Wow, that’s a pretty big mess.”

The meatball that started it sat partially smashed on the floor. Noodles and sauce glopped over the table.

“Mom’s gonna be mad.” And now Murphy’s eyes shone with tears.

“No, she’s not. Look, kid, these things happen when men eat together without women around.”

“They do?”

“I’m looking at it, so they do. Everybody just sit down.”

“He threw a meatball at me.”

“He didn’t throw it at you,” Beckett corrected as Liam stared at Murphy with the active dislike only siblings can feel for one another. “It was an accident because I didn’t cut it up. It’s my first day on the job, so cut me some slack. Go on and sit down.”

“But I got meatball on my pants.”

“So what? We’ll clean up after we eat.”

He set Murphy down, then picked up the guilty meatball and tossed it in the sink before sliding Murphy’s spaghetti back on his plate. He got a knife, another meatball out of the take-out dish, then set to work cutting it up.

“Big Chief Murphy. You look like you’re wearing war paint.”

And the boy smiled at him, sweet as an angel. “I like pisgetti.”

“Me, too. Want yours cut up, Liam?”

“Okay.”

“Gut shot.” Beckett poked a finger on the red stain on Liam’s T-shirt. “And still up for the battle. Harry?”

“I like to twirl it.”

“Good plan.” Fairly exhausted, Beckett dropped into his chair. “Dig in, men.”