“Already three this year. I know you’ve got an alarm system, and you’ve got an enormous dog, but you’re still pretty isolated here, Adrian. I think it may be time for you to consider personal protection.”

Truly stunned, she stopped short. “You want me to get a gun?”

Equally stunned, he stopped short right along with her. “No! God, no. Too much to go way, way wrong there. But you could get a bodyguard.”

She laughed. “Come on, Harry.”

“I’m serious. Lina has security at her events, and she hasn’t had this kind of continual threat. It’s common sense.”

“I’m not doing outside events,” she reminded him, “because, as I said, Popi’s ninety-four. And since I made that decision, I’ve learned how much I like working from home, how much I can get done, how many people I can reach.”

“Understood, but security here—human security, experienced security—would add another layer.”

“And skew my privacy, and Popi’s. The police are like five minutes away. Whoever’s doing this has had years to do something more threatening or violent. It’s emotional stalking.”

“And stalkers often act on their obsession.”

He sure as hell wasn’t making her feel any better, she thought.

Then again, he didn’t want to.

“I’m not dismissing any of that. I can’t. But if we consider worst-case—someone tries to hurt me—I’m strong, I’m agile, I’m fast. I’m not helpless, Harry.”

“You never have been.”

“I hate that you’re so worried, but the fact you are just cements my decision not to say anything to Popi. I’ll take a self-defense course.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Where?”

“Online. You can learn anything online if you’re committed. I’ll commit. It’s another layer.”

“All right, okay. I knew this wouldn’t fly, but I had to give it a shot.”

“I love you for it, but then, I love you anyway. I’ll research the classes, pick one next week. And, being the goal-oriented competitor I am, I’ll graduate at the top of the class.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“And you know what? When I learn enough, it might make a good video for the blog, or even a segment.”

“And there,” he said as they walked back toward the house, “is where you take after Lina.”

Though it irritated her, she shrugged. “Maybe. A little.”

“She’s a self-made woman, Adrian, and so are you. One of the reasons is when either of you see an obstacle, you figure out the way not to shove it away so much as work it to your advantage.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that’s what I was. An obstacle.”

“No.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “You were never that to her, believe me. You were a choice.”

Maybe, she thought again. But she’d never figured out why her mother had made that choice.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

She actually sent him a personalized fitness video. Raylan found it short, surprising, and not-so-sweet.

He supposed he should feel … what, exactly, that she’d taken the time to put together a month-long regimen? Seven days a week—really?—for four weeks.

Warm-ups and cooldowns required. Every damn day.

He watched the first segment on his laptop, standing in his kitchen while the frozen chicken fingers and Tater Tots baked (he’d had a long day; plus, he’d steam some broccoli to make up for it) and the kids ran around the backyard with the dog—maniacs all.

Cardio, day one. She demonstrated a high knee jog in place, instructed him to do that for thirty seconds before moving straight into jumping jacks, front lunges, back lunges, squats, burpees, and so on. Then she, without even breathing hard, told him to repeat all that twice before a thirty-second water break, then moving on to football shuffles, standing mountain climbers, and other tortures. For a thirty-minute sweat fest.

Repeat once a week, where she assured him he’d progress to forty-second intervals by the end of the fourth.

He also had the option—highly recommended—to add in the ten-minute core routine every day.

“Sure, why not? I’ve got nothing but time.”

He let it play while he got out the broccoli, and she moved into strength training, day two. Amazing to him, he thought as he chopped, how soothing her voice sounded while she pushed the innocent into biceps curls, hammer curls with shoulder presses, chest flys, rows, something called skull crushers.

Maybe he found it fascinating to watch her muscles work—and he’d use that for his art—but he didn’t have any dumbbells.

He’d been busy.

Day three equaled core, and that just looked painful.

Despite the soothing voice, the fascinating muscles, he shut her off.

He put the broccoli on to steam, got out plates. Belatedly remembered the laundry he’d tossed in that morning before they’d left for the last of the marathon back-to-school shopping.

He made the transfer from washer to dryer and wondered why he hadn’t just ordered pizza. Then remembered he’d done just that the night before after that leg of the marathon.

But the kids had their new shoes and fall clothes, their new backpacks and lunch sacks, their binders and folders and new pencils with their pristine erasers.

Their every-damn-thing and more.

And with the enthusiasm of new, of fresh starts, they helped him organize everything. So now those backpacks, sans the lunch sacks he’d fill in the morning, hung on the hooks in the mudroom.

Just in time, he thought, as the big yellow bus would arrive at 7:20 a.m. for the first day of school.

Was he a crap father for harboring relief and joy over that moment? No, he was not, he assured himself. He was realistic. The idea of hours of empty house, of quiet without interruptions?

Bliss. Single-tear-sliding-down-the-face bliss.

He checked on dinner, judged it about five minutes out, so went to the door to call the kids.

Then just stood, watching them.

Mariah used her dance moves against Bradley’s ninja warrior while Jasper raced around with a yellow tennis ball in his mouth.

Grass stains streaked the seat of Mariah’s petal-pink shorts. The laces of Bradley’s old Converse Chucks fell loose again, and showed gray with grime.

He loved them so much it hurt.

He opened the door to the smothering heat and humidity that had both his kids glossy with sweat.

He started to call them in, like the civilized, then went with impulse.

He got the backyard hose, turned the spray on full, and soaked them.

They squealed, danced, ran away and back again.

“Dad!” Mariah screeched it as she tried to outrun the stream, but her face, like Bradley’s shined with delight.

“Down with all backyard invaders. My powerful hose defeats you!”

“Never!” Bradley charged, made exaggerated swimming motions as the stream hit him in the gut.

Appreciating the creativity, and when Mariah joined him in the attack, the teamwork, Raylan let them take him down.

The hose plopped in the grass with Jasper happily lapping up the spurting water as he wrestled with his kids.

As soaked as they, he flopped on his back, a child caught in each arm. Because he’d left the back door open, he heard the oven timer beep.