CHAPTER ELEVEN

It wasn’t as simple as loading up the car and heading south. It wasn’t, Raylan discovered, even as basic as packing. First you had to cull and purge and decide and organize. And guide a couple of kids into doing the same with all their stuff.

How and when had they accumulated so much stuff?

Then he had to deal with the baby stuff he and Lorilee had tucked away in anticipation of one or two more babies.

It didn’t hurt his heart as much as it might have, as he could offer it all—the crib, the bouncer, the changing table, the swing, the slings, the whole lot—to Bick.

Whatever didn’t work for her and Pats, he’d donate.

And because he could admit that other than his own office, he’d left most of the furniture choices to his wife, and because he didn’t know what he’d need or want in the next house, he offered some of that as well.

Even so, it took time to sort through and pack up eight years, and all the memories that went with a bedside lamp or a set of pots, the birthday and Christmas gifts, even the living room rug—slightly chewed on one corner by the puppy Jasper had been.

He rented the storage unit, hired the movers, canceled what needed canceling, transferred what needed transferring, and kept himself insanely busy for three weeks.

At dawn on moving day, he wandered the nearly empty house, listening to the echoes of the life he’d had. Laughter, plenty of it, but tears, too. The wail of a teething baby at two a.m., the couch naps. Stubbed toes, spilled milk, morning coffee, tangled Christmas tree lights, first steps.

Hopes and dreams.

How did he say goodbye to all of that?

Hands in the pockets of the sweat shorts he’d pulled on, he rounded back into the living room. And spotted Bradley sitting on the steps.

His boy had a sleep crease in his left cheek, bright hair tousled, big blue eyes still heavy. And watching him.

“Hey, pal.”

“Don’t be sad.”

Raylan crossed over to the steps, sat beside his son, draped an arm over his shoulders. In his Batman pj’s—what could you do?—Bradley still smelled like a forest.

“I’m not so sad.”

“I said goodbye to my friends and to my team, and to Mrs. Howley across the street. When I woke up, I said goodbye to my room.”

Raylan hugged him closer, kissed the top of his head. “Am I doing the right thing, kid?”

“Mo’s excited, but she’s just a baby whatever she says. I love Nana, and Aunt Maya and Uncle Joe, and Collin’s kind of funny. I like Nana’s house and going to the pizza place where she works. And Ollie who lives next door to Nana’s okay. But it’s going to be different because it’s not just a visit.”

“Yeah, it’s going to be different.”

“When we get our own house, will she go with us?”

Raylan didn’t have to ask who. “She’s in you and Mo as much as I am. Where you go, she goes.”

Bradley leaned his head against his father. “Then it’s okay. But when we get our new house, it can’t be pink, right? No matter what she says.”

Raylan understood this “she” referred to Mariah. “No pink house. That’s a pact between men. How about a manly breakfast of Pop-Tarts before we get dressed, get Mariah moving? We can get this adventure started.”

“Pop-Tarts! Can we stop at the place that has the McDonald’s and get Happy Meals for lunch?”

“I’ll put it on our travel agenda.”

The agenda included the ceremonial passing of the keys to Bick and Pats, a send-off by Jonah that included two sacks of travel snacks, games, comics that would have kept a busload of kids happy for a five-hour drive, horn honking, waving—and a pit stop less than thirty minutes out when Mariah had to pee.

That delicate dance—Raylan hovering outside the women’s bathroom and feeling like a pervert—would be repeated at the lunch stop, which nobody actually needed with the sacks of snacks, and fifteen minutes shy of target when both kids had to pee.

And, naturally, every pit stop required putting the leash on Jasper and walking him so he could pee.

They arrived in Traveler’s Creek with empty bladders and gummy worm sugar highs.

Jan rushed out of the tidy house she’d lived in for more than thirty years with her braid bouncing at her back and her eyes shining with happy tears.

“You’re here! Welcome home! I need hugs. I need them bad!”

A little zoned from what had turned into a five-and-a-half-hour drive, a little buzzed on sugar himself, Raylan peeled himself out of the car. Already unstrapping Mariah, Jan turned to give him a huge hug.

Jasper leaped out to race in circles around the front yard like a dog who’d suffered captivity for weeks.

“I’ve got a cold beer waiting for you,” she murmured. “I bet you earned it.”

“I did, and I’ll take it. Mom. Thanks.”

“Stop.”

The kids talked nonstop, so his mother had the appropriate noises on tap—amazement, disbelief, delight—as she herded them into the house.

“Your rooms are all ready. With surprises.”

“What surprises?” Mariah demanded. “What?”

“Go and see.”

Shouting, shrieking, they shot up the stairs with Jasper barking and running behind them.

“I got a ’Merican Girl doll! Nana!”

“A remote-control Batmobile! It’s so cool!”

“Batmobile. You’re not helping my cause.” Raylan just put his arms around his mother, laid his cheek on her head. “Mom.”

“Oh, my boy, my baby. It’s going to be fine. It’s all going to be fine.” She turned, kept her arm around his waist as she led him back to the kitchen. “Let’s get you that beer. Now, if you’re up for it, Maya and her crew are coming over for a family cookout, but that’ll keep if you’re not.”

“No, that would be great.”

She got out his beer, opened it. Once she’d handed it to him, she brushed at his hair. “You’re tired. You need a trim and a shave and a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s been a crazy couple of weeks.”

“You’re here now. When you catch your breath, drink your beer, we’ll get your stuff inside so you can settle. Raylan, I wish you’d take the bedroom.”

“I’m not taking your bed, that’s a firm negative. I’ll be fine on the pullout in the den.”

“With your big feet hanging over the bottom?” She leaned back against her snowy white kitchen counter. “If I had my selfish way, I’d have that basement finished off, and talk you into living here until the kids graduated college. But being a sensible woman, I know you need your own place.”

“If the kids have their way, it’ll be a hybrid of a pink castle and Wayne Manor.”

“I don’t know if I can help you there, but there’s a house I think you’re going to want to look at.”

“Really?”

“I got the inside word—or Dom did. Two-story, four-bedroom, home office on the first floor, quarter-acre lot. Just renovated. Somebody bought it to flip and is just about ready to list it.”

“Just about?”