“More? I just asked for—”
He wagged a finger, grinned in the way that crinkled his mossy green eyes at the corners. “You know your mother.”
She wouldn’t have to squeeze in a stop at the store tomorrow, Clare thought as she put away a week’s worth of groceries, which included, from the indulgent grandparents, Popsicles, gummy worms, potato chips, and ice cream bars.
“Popsicles and ice cream bars?” Clare said when Rosie came in.
“They’ve been sick.”
“Just don’t tell them until they’ve had some lunch. The receipt wasn’t in any of the bags.”
“Consider it your reward for dealing with two sick boys and I imagine their pesky little brother all weekend, with no casualties.”
“It was close. But I don’t want you to pay for—”
“Never argue with a woman giving you food.”
“Murphy’s law?” She turned and put her arms around her mother. “Thanks.” Then laid her head on Rosie’s shoulder a moment.
Always there, Clare thought.
“My baby’s tired,” Rosie murmured.
“Some.” She eased back.
She’d gotten her sunny hair from her mother, though Rosie wore it short and sassy, and cleverly low-lighted. It suited her angular face, the delicate-as-a-tea-rose skin.
“You look so good.”
“New moisturizer. And a good night’s sleep, which I don’t imagine you’ve had lately. Oh, be sure to ask your father if he’s lost weight.”
“Has he?”
“Three pounds. I’ve nagged him into exercising with me. I’m shooting for ten. Now, what can I do for you?”
“You did it, and possibly saved lives.” She picked up the soup can. “Harry was getting desperate.”
“They all want grilled cheese sandwiches. I’ll make them. You, take a break. Get some air, take a walk. Get out of the house.”
Clare started to protest, then saved her breath. Besides, she could use a walk. “I owe you.”
“Give me three grandsons. Oh, wait, you already have. Take an hour.”
“Half hour, and I’ll have my cell phone in case.”
“I think we can handle things. We’re watching Star Wars. Oh, and the boys want a sleepover. Is Friday night all right?”
“Yeah, sure, if you want.”
“We want. And maybe your night out with Beckett Montgomery will go a little smoother.”
“It would have to. Though I told you, he was great about it.”
“I always liked the Montgomery boys.” Rosie assembled ingredients for grilled cheese sandwiches. “And I’m glad you’re dating someone—and someone I know.”
“We’re not really dating. I mean, obviously we would have, but . . . It feels a little strange yet.”
“You like him.”
“I’ve always . . . Yes, I do.”
“Then give him a test-drive, honey. But drive safe.”
“Mom, are you having the kids over so I can take the wheel?”
“Just clearing the road,” Rosie said cheerfully.
Clare shook her head. “I’m definitely taking a walk.”
MIDDLE OF THE week, Beckett thought, and though they’d run into countless glitches, they’d made some decent progress. The gas lines were in, and that was a huge headache behind them. He’d spent the weekend in the shop, working with Ryder on the bookcases and the arches while Owen built the counter his mother wanted for the gift shop.
The extra project wasn’t as much of a time suck as he’d feared. And he had to admit, seeing the building painted in the warm cream and sage gave him a nice lift.
Plus, checking the progress there made it handy to drop in and see Clare.
Most of the work he focused on was behind the tarp, and he was as ready as the rest of the town to see it come down. Not much longer now, he calculated as he set another plank on the main porch. Maybe next week if they clicked along.
He and his two-man crew worked steadily through the morning. Just as they broke for lunch, Owen came to the doorway.
“Looks good. That’s damn pretty wood.”
“It’ll be prettier yet when we get poly on it. This mahogany’s going to gleam.”
“It’ll make a statement. We need you out back.”
Beckett stepped inside, checking as he went. Progress, he thought again.
“We’re working on the back steps. We want to go over the landings one more time, the columns, the paint. Once it’s done, it’s done.”
“You’ve got the drawing.”
“Yeah, and we’ve got a couple questions on tying it in, and how it’s going to work with the pavers, the stone walls around The Courtyard. They’re going to start that as soon as they finish the patio deal at the gift shop.”
“We haven’t settled on the pavers yet.”
“Yeah, and that’s another thing.”
He walked out. He could see it. The ground still rough, the stairs half done, with rails and pickets yet to come. But he could see it.
Ryder stood, hands on hips, looking up. “Are you sure you want those angles on the second floor?”
“Yeah.”
“A straight run would be easier.”
“And not as aesthetically pleasing.”
“Told you he’d say that,” Owen put in.
“Yeah, yeah. About this planting wall.”
They discussed, wrangled about parking and access until Beckett stepped it off. “Paved walkway here, running from the sidewalk, past Reception, then right around the side and to the lobby porch. Handicapped parking there, regular parking there.”
“We’d have more parking without the plantings.”
Beckett shook his head at Ryder. “You’re sitting out here at one of the tables, having a drink. Do you really want to stare out at a parking lot, or be stared at by people pulling in?”
“You’re still going to see the lot. It’s not like we’re planting a run of oak trees.”
“You have the feel of private, and that’s what a courtyard’s about. There’s no place for a garden, which is what Mom really wanted. This works. You’ve got some nice raised beds, and with the arch over the entrance there, some sort of flowering vine. Like the main porch, it makes a statement.”
“Fine, fine, you’re the ‘aesthetically pleasing’ guy.”
“And I’m right.”
Ryder’s lips twitched. “You’d better be. I’m going to grab some lunch.”
“I think I’ll get a sub at Vesta,” Owen said. “I’ve got some calls to make.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll catch up with you,” Beckett told them. “I’m going to check in at the gift shop.”
Owen snorted. “Tell Clare hi.”
“I will, but I’m still checking on the gift shop.”
He felt a hint of fall in the air—somethi
ng changing. He caught a whiff of burgers grilling in Crawford’s as somebody came out the door. Then the smell of paint, fresh and new.
Things were headed that way, he thought. Fresh and new.
He noted the gift shop crew had already broken for lunch. Tarps covered the floors, and tape ran in front of the steps still wet with the dark green contrast paint.
He walked through, down the steps into the office area. They’d need a desk, a computer, office supplies, shelves. God knew what else. But that was Owen’s area.
Apparently the hardscape crew heard the lunch bell, but they’d put in a solid morning’s work first. Pavers replaced the narrow gravel walkway that had bisected the scruffy grass. They’d hauled out rocks, cleverly using them to build a low wall around the Rose of Sharon—still blooming madly.
Tools and supplies sat in piles, and with the materials and space left, the fencing to be replaced, he calculated they’d be done by the following week.
He could report to his brothers, if all continued smoothly, work on The Courtyard could begin within two weeks.
Not bad.
He rounded the old fence, and went through the back door of the bookstore.
He heard kids in the children’s section, saw a couple of them poking at each other in the main store while their mother—he assumed—browsed the shelves. Cassie waited on a customer at the counter while Laurie manned the computer station.
“Busy,” he commented.
“We just finished our first Story Time of the fall.” Laurie stopped keyboarding to give him a thumbs-up. “Had a nice turnout. Avery should, too. Most of them plan on hitting Vesta for lunch.”