“You didn’t call,” Isaiah said, still holding on, no rebuke in his voice. And damn, his voice was lower than Mark remembered. More mature. Body more solid now too, probably a good thirty pounds of muscle he hadn’t had six years ago.
“Didn’t know what to say.” Mark was too slammed by emotions for anything other than bald honesty. This felt like the worst déjà vu of his life. Five years ago, he’d made a similar trek when his parents had died in a plane crash. But Danielle and Cal had been at the other end of the journey, and now...
“It’s okay. You’re here now.” Isaiah rubbed his back. Fuck. I’m shaking. Mark tried to make his body cooperate, pull it together, but he couldn’t do more than choke in air.
“Who’s dis?” a small voice asked from somewhere around their legs. Mark looked down to find a small cherub with a riot of curly hair looking up at them with concern.
“It’s Uncle Mark.” Isaiah finally released him and scooped up the girl. This had to be Daphne. No. Wait. Zoe. Daphne was bigger now, maybe five. Zoe had been the baby last time, a big butterball of a baby in a bouncy seat, shown off by the nanny. Had he held her? He honestly couldn’t remember.
“We made a big mess, Unca Mark.” She looked to be three or so now, and like the bigger girl hanging back near the fridge, she was utterly filthy, covered in flour and glitter.
“I see.”
“And Unca Ikey burned down the dinner.” She shook her head sadly as Isaiah set her down.
Take charge. Assess. Damage control. It was what he did. He did not fall apart. That was not what he did. “Is there other food?” he asked Isaiah.
“Yeah, we’ve got casseroles for days. You must be starved. I’ll get something else on.” Isaiah pulled a foil-wrapped dish out of the big fridge. He messed with the oven, set a timer before Mark could give that next order.
“Good. Now, to clean up.” One step. Then the next step. Then one more after that. He knew how to do this, knew how to keep going even in the face of utter disaster.
“Bath time!” The girls raced away.
“I’m going to go clean them up. Any way you can hang out with the big guy here?” Isaiah indicated the baby strapped into the wooden high chair. “I’ll clean the floor when I’m back.”
“No. I know where the broom and mop are.” He headed to the pantry, as intent as if he were dealing with a chest wound. Which he kind of was. Just his own, and one he might not recover from.
“No. No. No.” The baby bleated out the refrain while Mark attacked the floor. I hear you, kid. He’d been hearing those same syllables in his head the past two days. No. No. No. No, this could not be happening. No, he was not dealing with this. No, Danielle and Cal were not gone. Any second now, she’d come through the patio doors over there, breezing into their childhood home, wineglass in hand, looking more and more like their mother with every year that passed.
When their parents had died, Cal and Danielle had sold their downtown condo, moved in here with baby Daphne, and Mark had been so damn glad. Danielle had chattered at the time about how it was only fair, with him living in the barracks and gone most of the time anyway, and how they needed the extra room so that they could get the live-in nanny she wanted, and could host parties for her endless supply of vapid friends. Whatever. Mark hadn’t really cared about her motivation, had only wanted her here, wanted to never again come back to it empty and sad.
“Whoa. I’m pretty sure Danielle’s cleaning service doesn’t get it that shiny.” Isaiah’s voice—the new, deeper one—pulled him from his task. And yeah, he pretty much had scrubbed the floor down to its finish, hardwoods now gleaming in the light from the pendants over the kitchen island. He hadn’t even been aware what he’d been doing, just keeping moving.
“It’s done.” Mark straightened, returned the cleaning supplies to the pantry, ready for the next task.
“Okay, dinner for you, then a shower.”
Wait. Isaiah was not supposed to be the one giving orders. That was Mark’s job. He was Wizard, master of triage. He did not—
“Eat.” Isaiah shoved him in the direction of the stools rimming the huge island. “I’ll get you a water.”
A huge plate of some sort of pasta dish and a glass of ice water appeared in front of him as he took the stool.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, really not sure what to do with himself without another disaster to manage. The kids, who had followed Isaiah into the kitchen, started whining about their turn and how hungry they were. Mark sprang from the stool. Good. He could solve this. “What do they eat?”