“This is your room? Your bed?”

“Yes.”

Lucy tried to sit up. “Sam, no—”

“Be still,” he said. “I mean it, Lucy. You’re going to hurt yourself. You’re taking the bed. I’m going to sleep on a rollaway in another room.”

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own room. I’ll sleep on the roll-away.”

“You’re going to sleep where I put you.” Sam tugged the snowy white and blue quilt over her. Bracing one hand on either side of Lucy’s body, he stared down at her. Maybe it was the effect of the sunset glow pouring through the windows, but his face seemed to have gentled. He reached down to tuck a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. “Think you could stay awake long enough to have some soup?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Rest, then. I’ll check on you in a little while.”

Lucy lay quietly after he left. The room was serene and cool, and from the distance she could hear the rhythmic lapping of the tide. Pleasantly indistinct sounds filtered through the floor and walls, voices punctuated by an occasional laugh, the clinking of pots and dishes and flatware. Sounds of family and home, floating on the air like a lullaby.

* * *

Sam paused to stare out the window on the second-floor landing. The moon had appeared even before sunset had finished, a massive white-gold circle against the magenta sky. Scientists said that the size of the summer solstice moon was an optical trick, that the human eye was unable to accurately measure distance without the help of visual cues. But some illusions were truer than reality.

Once Sam had read a story about an ancient Chinese poet who had drowned while trying to embrace the reflection of the moon. He had been drinking rice wine along the Yangtze River—too much wine, in light of his ignominious death. But God knew there was no choice in yearning for something or someone you would never be able to have. You didn’t even want a choice. That was the fatal temptation of moonlight.

Lucy was in his bed, as fragile as a broken orchid. He was tempted to stay in the hallway just outside the bedroom door and sit on the floor with his back to the wall, waiting for any sign that she needed something. But he made himself go downstairs, where Renfield was trotting back and forth with a discarded sock in his mouth, and Holly was setting the table, and Mark was on the phone talking to someone about scheduling a dentist appointment.

Heading into the kitchen, Sam went to the big freestanding wooden worktable where Maggie stood whisking cream in a bowl.

Maggie Conroy was pretty rather than beautiful, her personality so effervescent that she gave the impression of being taller than she actually was. It was only when you stood right next to her that you realized she couldn’t be more than five foot one. “I’m five one and a half,” Maggie always insisted, as if that last half inch made a damn bit of difference.

In the past Mark had always gone for trophy chicks, the kind who were great to look at but rarely fun to spend any actual time around. Thank God that when Mark had finally gotten serious with someone, it had been Maggie, whose quirky optimism was exactly what the family had needed.

Wordlessly Sam approached, took the whisk and bowl from her, and continued to whip the cream.

“Thanks,” Maggie said, shaking out her cramped hand.

“Why don’t you use the mixer?”

“Mark didn’t tell you?” Maggie scrunched up her face adorably, and hung her head in shame. “I burned up the mixer motor last week. I promise, I’ll replace it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said, still whisking. “We’re used to kitchen disasters around here. Except that Mark and I are usually the cause. How did you burn up the motor?”

“I was trying to make whole wheat pizza dough, and it got too heavy and stiff, and then there was a burning smell and the mixer started smoking.”

Sam grinned, using the tip of the whisk to test the whipped cream, which was holding its shape. “Maggie, sweetheart, pizza is not something you cook at home. Pizza is what you get when you don’t feel like cooking at home.”

“I was trying to make a healthy version.”

“Pizza’s not supposed to be healthy. It’s pizza.” He handed the bowl to her, and she proceeded to cover it with plastic wrap and put it into the fridge.

After closing the Sub-Zero, which had been camouflaged with cream-painted cabinet doors to blend in with the rest of the kitchen, Maggie went to the stockpot on the stove and stirred the soup. “How is your friend?” she asked. “Lucy, right?”

“Yeah. She’ll be fine.”

Maggie sent him a perceptive sideways glance. “How about you?”

“Great,” he said, a shade too quickly.

She began to ladle the steaming soup into bowls. “Should I fix a dinner tray for her?”

“No, she’s down for the count.” Sam went to an already-opened bottle of wine and poured himself a glass.

“So you’ve brought Lucy here to recuperate,” Maggie remarked. “And you’re going to take care of her. She must be someone special.”

“No big deal.” Sam kept his tone scrupulously offhand. “We’re friends.”

“Just friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there a chance of anything more developing?”

“No.” Again, his response was a little too fast. He scowled as he saw Maggie’s knowing smile. “She doesn’t want my kind of relationship.”

“What kind is that? Sex with random beautiful women with no chance of commitment?”

“Exactly.”

“If you find the right woman, you may want to try something a little more long-term.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t do long-term.” He set the table and went in search of Mark and Holly to tell them that dinner was ready. Finding them in the living room, he paused at the broad threshold, where a superfluous wall had been knocked out to allow for a more open floor plan.

Mark and Holly were seated close together on the sofa, a boatlike antique that Maggie had found and convinced Mark to buy. In its original condition, the sofa had been a monstrosity, all scarred and moth-eaten. But after the carved rosewood had been stripped and refinished, and it had been upholstered in acres of sage-green velvet, the settee possessed a whimsical grandiosity that suited the house.

Holly’s legs dangled from the sofa. She swung her feet idly while Mark made notes in the family planner spread out on the coffee table.

“… so when you’re at the dentist’s, and he asks how often you floss,” Mark said, “what are you going to say?”

“I’ll say, ‘What’s floss?’” Holly giggled as Mark goosed her in the side and kissed the top of her head.

Not for the first time, Sam was struck by the fatherly quality in Mark’s attachment to her. In the past, it hadn’t been a role that Mark had seemed particularly suited for … but he had grown into it with lightning speed when Holly had come into their lives.

Mark leaned over to scribble something in the family planner. “Did Maggie order those ballet shoes for your dance class yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, I’ll ask her.”

“Uncle Mark?”

“Mmmm-hmm?”

“The baby’s going to be my cousin, isn’t he?”

The pen stopped moving. Mark set it down carefully and looked into the child’s solemn face. “Technically, yes. But I imagine…” He paused, choosing his words with care. “I imagine it will feel like the baby is your brother or sister. Because you’ll be growing up together.”

“Some kids in my class think you’re my dad. You even look like a dad.”

Sam, who had been about to say something from the threshold, closed his mouth. He didn’t dare disrupt the moment by leaving or intruding. He could only stand there, frozen in the understanding that something important was happening.

Mark’s face was carefully impassive. “What do you tell your friends when they ask if I’m your dad?”

“I just let them think it.” Holly paused. “Is that wrong?”

Mark shook his head. “’Course not.” His voice was husky.

“Will I still call you Uncle Mark after the baby comes?”

Reaching down, Mark took one of Holly’s hands, absurdly small in comparison to his, and sandwiched it between his palms. “You can call me whatever you want, Holly.”

The child leaned closer until her head was on his arm. “I want to call you Dad. I want you to be my dad.”

Mark was robbed of speech. It was clearly something he had not expected, or had even allowed himself to consider. His throat worked, and he bent to press his face against her pale, moonlight-blond hair. “I would love that. I … yes.” He lifted her onto his lap and hugged her, clumsily petting her hair. A few indistinguishable murmurs followed, three syllables repeated over and over.

The muscles of Sam’s own throat knotted. He was outside the moment and yet part of it.

“You’re squishing me,” came Holly’s muffled voice after a long minute.

Mark’s arms loosened, and she wriggled off his lap.

Renfield had padded into the room, a wadded-up paper napkin hanging from his mouth.

“Renfield,” Holly scolded, “don’t eat that.”

Pleased at having gotten her attention, the dog trotted from the room with the napkin.

“I’ll get it away from him,” Holly said. She paused to rub noses with Mark. “Dad,” she said with an impish grin, and dashed after the dog.

Sam had never seen his brother so utterly humbled. He came into the room as Mark let out a short, winded sigh and wiped his eyes with his fingers.

Seeing him, Mark blinked and began unsteadily, “Sam—”

“I heard,” Sam interrupted quietly, and smiled. “It’s good, Mark. Holly was right. You do look like a dad.”

Fourteen

Voices floated into the bedroom.

“… I want Lucy to use my pink bathroom,” Holly insisted. “It’s prettier than yours.”

“It is,” came Sam’s reply. “But Lucy needs a walk-in shower stall. She can’t climb in and out of the tub.”

“Can she still see my bathroom? And my room?”

“Yeah, you can give her the official tour later. For now, put your socks on. You’re going to be late for school.”

Lucy breathed in an elusive scent from the pillow, like leaves and new rain and newly cut cedar. It was Sam’s smell, so appealing that she hunted for it shamelessly, digging her head deep into the warm down.

She had a vague memory of waking in pain in the middle of the night. Of Sam coming to her like a shadow. He had given her pills and a glass of water, sliding his arm behind her back as she took the medicine. She had awakened another time, groggily aware of him replacing the cold gel packs around her leg, and she had told him that it wasn’t necessary to keep getting up for her, he should get some rest.

“Quiet,” he had murmured, straightening the covers around her. “Everything’s okay.”

As the morning brightened, Lucy lay quietly and listened to the muffled sounds of voices, breakfast, a phone ringing, a house-wide hunt for a missing homework folder and field-trip permission slip. Eventually a car rolled along the drive.

Footsteps ascended the stairs. There was a tap at the door, and Sam ducked his head in. “How are you doing?” The sound of his morning-roughened baritone chased pleasantly across her ears.

“I’m a little sore.”

“Probably a lot sore.” Sam came into the room, carrying a breakfast tray. The sight of him scruffy and sexy, wearing only flannel pajama pants and a white tee, drew a rampant flush to the surface of her skin. “It’s time for another pill, but you should eat first. How does an egg and toast sound?”

“Great.”

“After that you can take a shower.”

Lucy’s color deepened further, her pulse turning hectic. She wanted a shower badly, but in light of her physical condition, it was obvious that she was going to need a lot of help. “How exactly would that work?” she managed to ask.

Sam set the tray on the bed and helped Lucy to sit up. He propped an extra pillow behind her as he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s a walk-in shower. You can sit on a plastic stool and wash with a handheld spray. I’ll have to help you in and out, but you can do most of it yourself.”

“Thank you,” she said, relieved. “That sounds good.” She picked up a piece of lightly buttered toast and began to spread jam on it. “Why do you have a handheld shower spray?”

One of his brows arched. “Something wrong with that?”

“Not at all. It’s just the kind of thing I would expect an old person to have, not a guy your age.”

“I have hard-to-reach places,” Sam said in a deadpan tone. After he saw the smile tugging at her lips, he said, “Also, we wash Renfield in there.”

Sam went to shower and shave while she ate. He returned wearing a pair of raggedy-looking jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed SCHRÖDINGER’S CAT IS ALIVE.

“What does that mean?” Lucy asked, reading the shirt.

“It’s a principle in quantum theory.” Sam set a plastic bag of supplies on the floor, and lifted the bed tray away from Lucy’s lap. “Schrödinger was a scientist who used the example of a cat placed in a box with a radioactive source and a flask of poison, to demonstrate how an observation affects an outcome.”

“What happens to the cat?”

“Do you like cats?”

“Yes.”

“Then you don’t want me to tell you about the theorem.”

She made a face. “Don’t you have any optimistic T-shirts?”

“This one is optimistic,” Sam said. “I just can’t tell you why, or you’ll bitch about the cat.”

Lucy chuckled. But as Sam approached the bed and reached for the covers, she fell silent and shrank back, her heart lurching into overdrive.

Sam let go of the bed linens at once, his expression carefully neutral. He studied her, his gaze alighting on her tightly crossed arms. “Before we do this,” he said quietly, “let’s deal with the elephant in the room.”

“Who’s the elephant?” Lucy asked warily.

“No one’s the elephant. The elephant is the fact it’s surprisingly awkward to help a woman take a shower when I haven’t had sex with her first.”