“I know. Let’s get you upstairs. Beckett, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Alva came bustling out with towels, a bucket, and a mop.

“Liam puked,” Murphy informed her.

“I heard. Poor thing—and you, too,” she said to Beckett. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

“I have to get him upstairs.” Clare gave Beckett a distracted smile. “I’ll need to take a rain check.”

“Sure.”

“The flowers—thanks. Sorry. Come on, baby.” She hefted Liam into her arms. He laid his pale cheek on her shoulder.

“Can I get in your bed?”

“Sure. We’ll fix you up. Harry, sweetie, will you bring up a glass of ginger ale?”

Upstairs, she washed his face—held his head when he threw up a second time. She took his temperature—ninety-nine point three—then urged the ginger ale on him.

“I threw up two times.”

“I know,” she soothed as she changed him into his Iron Man pajamas. “Do you feel sick again?”

“No.”

“I’ve got the bucket right here if you do and we can’t make it to the bathroom.” Stroking his head, she picked up the TV remote. “Cartoon channel or Nick?”

“Nick. I feel better since I threw up.”

“That’s good, baby.”

Tears glimmered as he huddled against her. “I didn’t mean to throw up on Beckett.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“Is he mad?”

“No, he’s not mad.” She kissed the top of Liam’s head. “I’m going to change my clothes.”

“Are you mad?” he asked as she pulled yoga pants and a T-shirt out of her drawer.

“Why would I be?”

“ ’Cause you got dressed up.”

She took off the pretty, impractical shoes. “It was fun to get dressed up. And I’ll get dressed up again another time.” Angling the closet door, she stepped behind it, took off the dress, put on her mom clothes. Because it smelled faintly of vomit, she stuffed the dress in the dry cleaning bag.

Oh well.

“Mom, can I have Iron Man—the new one, not the old one—and Wolverine and Deadpool? Can I have Luke, too?”

Luke was his tattered stuffed dog, named for Skywalker.

“Sure.”

“And can I have more ginger ale?”

“You bet.” She laid her hand on his brow again, then her lips. Still warm, she thought, and so very pale. “I’ll be back in a minute. There’s the bucket now. You call if you feel sick before I come back.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

She got the toys first, left him curled up with Luke.

“Alva? Thanks so much for—” She broke off when a barefoot Beckett stepped out of the playroom.

“She just left. She said to call if you needed any help. How’s Liam doing?”

“Better, I think. He’s in my bed watching Nickelodeon with his stuffed dog, Wolverine, Iron Man, and Deadpool for company. Deadpool’s—”

“I know who Deadpool is. You keep forgetting I used to be a boy.”

“You know who Deadpool is. Okay, anyway, he’s just got a low-grade fever, and his color’s already a little better so it sounds like the same thing Mazie had. I didn’t expect you to stay.”

“We had a date.”

“Oh, but—”

“So, since you’re standing me up, I’m hanging with the bros. It’s what men do. I guess you’ve got some nursing to do. And I don’t guess you’ve got one of those uniforms, with the little white skirt and—”

“Did Liam frow up again?” Murphy asked.

“Yeah, he did, but he felt better after.” She laid a hand on his brow. “How about you?”

“I don’t feel sick.”

“We don’t call you Iron Guts for nothing. Harry?”

“I feel okay. We’re going to play Bendominoes, but Beckett doesn’t know how.”

“I’m a quick study. Set it up, prepare to be beaten.”

“No way!” Harry grabbed the box.

“Beckett, you don’t have to—Oh, hell, I need to take more ginger ale to Liam. I don’t want him to get dehydrated. Just give me a minute.”

She hurried into the kitchen. Popcorn sat in a bowl, and her lovely, lovely roses in a vase on the table.

“Am I in the way?”

She turned to see Beckett watching her from the doorway. “No, of course not, but you can’t want to spend two evenings in a row with a bunch of kids, including one who threw up on your shoes. How are your shoes?”

“They’ll survive.”

“He was afraid you’d be mad at him.”

“It’s not like he aimed for me.” He watched her pour ginger ale in the cup she’d brought back down, then put a few crackers in a bowl.

He thought of the kid, stuck in bed while his brothers played.

“Why don’t I take them up to him?”

“Oh . . . well.”

He solved it by taking the glass and bowl out of her hands. “I hear there’s movies and popcorn on for later.”

“That was the plan—a bit of a delay now.”

“I can wait. I can wait,” he repeated, making sure she got the message.

“Beckett,” she said when he turned. “How about scrambled eggs?”

“How about them?”

“If Liam keeps those crackers down, he’s going to want scrambled eggs. It’s his sick meal. Harry’s is Campbell’s Chicken and Stars and Murphy—though he’s hardly ever sick—goes for toast and strawberry jelly. I can make some scrambled eggs. And I’ve got some wine.”

“Sounds good. About that nurse’s uniform.”

“It’s at the cleaners.”

“Damn. Bad timing.”

She smiled at his back as he went out. He didn’t run for the hills when a sick boy was involved, he made her stomach flutter when he kissed her. And, he knew who Deadpool was.

Yeah, she was a goner.

Upstairs, Beckett walked into Clare’s room, and thought how small the boy looked in her bed.

“How’s it going, kid?”

“I threw up two times.”

“That’s what you get for eating all those oysters and drinking all that whiskey.”

“I didn’t!”

“Yeah, you say that now.”

He hugged a worn stuffed dog hard. “I didn’t mean to throw up on you.”

“These things happen between men.” Beckett sat on the side of the bed, offered the cup and bowl.

“They do?”

“Ask me again in about ten years. I bet Deadpool’s puked on Wolverine before.”

“No, he . . . Really?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Intrigued, Liam picked up Deadpool and made puking noises.

“Nice. Your mom said she’d make you scrambled eggs if you’re up for it.”

“Maybe. Will you watch TV with me?”

“For a couple minutes.” Though it wasn’t the way he’d envisioned getting into Clare’s bed, Beckett shifted, settled back against the headboard. The boy shifted, too, settled his head in the crook of Beckett’s arm.

And glanced up. There it was, that angel smile, just like his younger brother.

He played bendominoes—cool game—while she scrambled eggs for Liam. He watched a fun flick with the kids while she sat with the sick boy. He waited while she put the other two boys to bed, checked on Liam.

“He’s sleeping,” she told Beckett when she came back down. “And his forehead’s cooler. So, I’d say that crisis is over. Harry’ll be next, and he’ll have it worse.”

“That’s optimistic.”

“I know what I know. So. Scrambled eggs in the kitchen?”

“You don’t have to bother. You must be tired.”

“I’m starving, and I really want a glass of wine.”

“Talked me into it.”

It wasn’t such a bad deal, sitting in the kitchen drinking a glass of wine while she scrambled eggs at the stove. Inspired, he went into the living room, gathered a trio of tea lights she had in dark blue cups.

“You mind? I had a candlelight dinner in my head for tonight.”

“I love it.” She opened a drawer, passed him a lighter.

They sat in the kitchen with tea lights and pink roses and ate scrambled eggs and toast.

“I’m glad you stayed.”

“So am I. And you look just as beautiful in candlelight as I imagined. Do you want to try for a meal you don’t have to cook next weekend?”

“Friday night?”

“Same time, same channel.”

“You’re a glutton for punishment. I’m in. Okay, the question has to be asked. Yes, you were once a boy, but all men were, and not all men are as easy and natural with kids as you are. Why don’t you have some of your own?”