“I told you, he’s got a meeting with his photography group. Now answer the question. What did Mike find when he climbed the tree?”

“A stupid bird’s nest.”

“Write it down.”

He slid his eyes up with the little smirk Clare found both endearing and infuriating, depending on her mood. “I don’t know how to spell ‘stupid.’ ”

“L-I-A-M,” Harry sang out.

“Mom! Harry called me stupid.”

“Harry, knock it off. Liam, write down the answer. Murphy, how many times do I have to tell you not to throw that ball in the house? Take it outside.”

“I don’t wanna go outside. Can I watch TV?”

“Yes, please. Go do that.”

“I wanna watch TV.”

Me, too, she thought when she glanced at Liam. “Then finish your homework.”

“I hate homework.”

“You and me both, pal. Harry—”

“I finished mine. See?”

“Great. Let’s go over your words for your spelling test tomorrow.”

“I know the words.”

It was probably true. Spelling had always been a breeze for Harry.

“We’ll go over them anyway, then yours, Liam, when you’re done with your book.”

“How come Murphy gets to watch TV?” Liam managed to look long-suffering and outraged at the same time. “How come he doesn’t have homework? It’s not fair.”

“He had homework. He finished.”

“Just stupid flash cards. Baby homework.”

“I’m not a baby!” Murphy’s furious protest rang from the living room. He had ears like a cat.

“He gets to do anything he wants. It’s not—”

“I don’t want to hear ‘it’s not fair.’ You know, Liam, the longer you sit here complaining, the longer it’s going to take. Then you won’t have any play or TV time.”

“I don’t want Beckett to watch us.”

“You like Beckett.”

“Maybe he’ll be mean. Maybe he’ll yell and lock us in our room.”

Clare folded her arms. “Has he ever been mean before?”

“No, but he could be.”

“If you want somebody to yell, keep stalling over that homework. You’ll hear somebody yell.” She grabbed Harry’s spelling list, began to call off the words.

After he’d finished, she scanned the list he’d written. “That’s an A-plus. Good job, Harry. Now scram.”

She sat, the better to focus her middle son. “That’s good, Liam. See here, though, you wrote a d instead of b.”

“How come they made them that way, so they get mixed up?”

“That’s a good question, but it’s what erasers are for.” She got out his spelling list while he fixed it—grudgingly. “Get a fresh piece of paper.”

“I got more homework than anybody.”

He didn’t, but she didn’t have time for the lecture about stalling, scribbling, and staring into space. “Almost done.” He hunched over the paper when she gave him the words.

His penmanship was better than Harry’s, but the spelling? Not so much.

“Pretty good. You missed three, but see here, you wrote b instead of d. You know how you can remember? B’s for butt, and your butt’s in the back.”

It made him laugh, and she decided to end it on a high note. “We’ll go over it in the morning, one more time. Put your things away, and you can watch TV.”

She walked out with him. “No fighting,” she called out, and dashed upstairs to freshen up before the book club meeting.

She shoved the book and her notes in her purse, grabbed her hairbrush. And heard the doorbell.

Not only on time, but ten minutes early. She glanced at herself in the bedroom mirror. She could’ve used that ten minutes.

She rushed downstairs in time to hear Murphy ask, “Are you going to lock us in our room?”

“Are you guys planning to rob the bank?”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Then I won’t need to lock you up.” Beckett looked over, up. And smiled. “Spaghetti and meatballs, as ordered.”

“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.” She took the bag, then felt a little clutch in her belly as she noted all three boys watched Beckett like they would a strange animal in the zoo.

“Let’s take this back so I can show you where everything is. They’ve finished their homework,” she began as they went back to the kitchen.

“They should eat by around six.” She got out plates as she spoke. “Don’t worry about the bath, I’ll get them in the shower in the morning. Their pj’s are laid out, they like to get in them at least an hour before bedtime.”

“Men of leisure.”

“Exactly. I’ll be home before bedtime, that’s eight fifteen or so.”

“Got it. Clare, relax. Those child endangerment charges were dismissed.”

“Very funny. I’m actually more worried about you. They know the rules, but that doesn’t mean they won’t pull something. You’ve got my numbers. I can be home in five minutes if—”

“We’ll be fine. I won’t listen if they tell me to run with scissors.”

“Okay.” She let out a breath. “I’d better go.”

He walked back in with her, and once again the boys turned as one, stared. “I’ll be home by bedtime. Be good, and no snacks before dinner. Good luck,” she told Beckett.

He closed the door behind her, waited a beat. “All right, men, what’s the plan?”

As oldest, Harry took point. “We want cookies.”

“Gotta say no to that one. Just got a direct order.”

“Told ya,” Liam muttered.

“We want to play PlayStation. Pop and Nan gave us PlayStation 3 for Christmas.”

“What games have you got?”

Harry eyed him speculatively. “Do you know how to play?”

“Please. You’re looking at the reigning town champ.”

“Nuh-uh.”

Beckett just smiled, flexed his fingers. “Bring it on.”

They were pretty good, even the little guy. It shouldn’t have surprised him to find himself in real competition. He’d been battling his brothers at video games at five. Harry had patience and a knack for strategy while Liam went full-out, a technique that either paid off big-time or went down in flames.

And Murphy? He just lived it.

They bitched and moaned a lot, accused each other or the game itself of cheating regularly. Beckett either ignored them or joined in. Once they got over the shock of not being called out for poor sportsmanship or not being told it was just a game and supposed to be fun, they got louder, and wilder.

“I smoked you!” Harry cackled, shook his fists in the air.

Not entirely pleased at being smoked by an eight-year-old, Beckett scowled at the screen. “Shit.”

“You’re not supposed to say bad words,” Murphy informed him.

“You’re not supposed to say bad words. I have a license to swear.”

Liam snorted. “Come on.”

“And it’s up for renewal next month. Let’s—shit,” he repeated when he noticed the time. “We were supposed to eat a half hour ago.”

“We’ve got another Ben 10 game.” Harry bounced up to get it out of the case. “We can play it first.”

“Gotta fuel up, otherwise your mom will kick all our butts.”

“Butts are behind so you know how to write a b.”

Beckett studied Liam. “Okay. Let’s eat.”

He didn’t tell them to pick up the games. Harry hesitated, then shrugged and raced to the kitchen.

In the spirit of solidarity Beckett chose a Hulk plate. It amazed him that they ate salad without whining about it, but maybe it was because they rehashed the games while they wolfed it down.

Or they were starving since dinner was late.

They asked for Coke. Murphy broke as Beckett poured it out.

“We’re supposed to have milk. We’re not supposed to have soda.”

Liam shoved him. Murphy shoved back.

“Cut it out. It’s a special occasion. Man Night. Sodas all around.”

“He hit me.”

“I did not.”

“Yeah, you did,” Beckett said before Murphy could come up with the inevitable “did, too.” “And you hit back. It’s a wash.”

“I’m telling Mom,” Murphy muttered.

“You can’t do that, man.” Beckett shook his head as he scooped spaghetti, without warming it up, onto plates.

Torn between insult and being called man, Murphy stared at him, bottom lip quivering. “How come?”