disturbing in a way that carried undercurrents he hadn’t quite put his finger on. The dream itself had not been terrible, not like the killers who stalked the edges of his thoughts and littered the pages of his books. Those didn’t disturb him at all.
“Some.”
“Did you kill anyone? Metaphorically speaking.”
“Will you be disappointed if I say neither metaphorically nor literally?”
She laughed, and a single dimple flashed at the corner of her mouth. She had a sweet face, made even more innocent by her round puppy-dog eyes and fresh-scrubbed style. She was doubtless younger than him by several years and a lifetime of experiences he wouldn’t wish on anyone. A small-town woman protected by and comfortable in the bosom of familiarity.
“Have you checked on Brody yet?” she asked.
“Later. He needs the sleep.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
“Great minds.” He stretched his legs out on the porch, propped his crossed ankles on the railing.
“When he wakes up, I’ll drive him home.”
“Nice of you,” he said, though he would have made the same offer. He was curious about Brody’s home life, curious to know why the kid had lied and didn’t want to go home. He was also gritty-eyed from lack of sleep and wouldn’t mind a few hours’ sack time on the pillow top upstairs.
“I’m going that way. Might as well give him a ride.” She sipped again, dainty and ladylike, fingers on the handle and the opposite hand beneath the cup. “Thank you for keeping me company last night.”
“Storms really scare you that much?” He wanted to probe deep, his usual response to anyone’s fears because, quite frankly, he could use the information in a book. Psychology, even one’s own, provided powerful motivation.
“The fear is silly, I know, but they do. Always have. I owe you one.”
“Count us even.” He toasted her. “You knew where to find the coffee and cookies.”
He thought of her pretty pink toes and hid his grin with the coffee mug. The lack of sleep and the bizarre dream were giving him weird thoughts.
* * *
The kid didn’t want to go home.
Hayden figured that out about two minutes after stepping into the Mulberry Room with Brody’s dry clothes.
Still in the baggy sweats, the Huck Finn look-alike stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He’d wet his sandy-colored hair and was doing his best to slick down a frontal cowlick with both hands.
Hayden tossed him a comb. It would wash.
“When you get dressed, come down to the dining room. Julia has breakfast ready.” Hayden hung the dried clothes over the towel bar. “After breakfast, Miss Carrie will drive you home.”
The kid tensed, the comb flush against his wet hair. He kept his focus on the mirror, but Hayden could see the wheels turning. The kid’s body language spoke volumes.
“I’m okay. She doesn’t need to do that. I can walk.”
“A ride’s no problem. She lives in town and is going that way. See you downstairs.”
Hayden left before Brody could argue or come up with an excuse, though he didn’t know why it mattered. He was here to write a book, not get tangled up with some wayward kid.
The chatter of too many voices met him at the bottom of the crimson-carpeted stairs. He’d expected other guests, but when he walked into the red-walled dining room, one china-laden table was flooded with animated, laughing, gesturing women. Carrie was one of them.
The only males in the room, Eli Donovan and a small black-haired boy who could only be his much-missed son, sat next to a double window overlooking a backyard garden. Their plates were loaded with French toast, fruit and bacon, and the smell was enough to make Hayden’s mouth water.
“You’re surrounded,” Eli said wryly with a tilt of his head toward the female contingency. “Might as well enjoy it.” He pushed at an empty chair. “You’re welcome to join us.”
Hayden did, though he overheard the women’s chatter, gleaned bits of gossip, catalogued names. Julia slipped away from the others to bring his breakfast and more coffee.
When Brody appeared in the arched doorway, Hayden almost laughed. The kid looked shell-shocked, either by the abundance of estrogen or the opulence of the breakfast room.
Carrie saw the boy, too, and sent a smile in his direction. “Good morning, Brody. You look better.”
Brody offered a shy grin and made his way, silent as a memory, to what Hayden thought of as the guys’ table.
“They don’t bite,” he promised.
With a flourish, Valery placed a glass of orange juice in front of the boy. “In fact, girls can be kind of handy. Do you like bacon?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“French toast?”
This time the boy floundered. He stared at his juice.
“Ever had French toast, Brody?” Hayden asked gently.
The boy shook his head.
“Might as well try it,” Valery said. “Julia makes the best.”
“It’s sort of like pancakes, only better,” Hayden said.
This brought Brody’s head up. “I love pancakes.”
“There you go, then. French toast with plenty of powdered sugar and syrup coming right up.” Valery flounced out of the room like a flamenco dancer. The innkeeper was flashy, a head turner, with dark hair curling around her shoulders and bright red lipstick.
Food was served, and Brody ate like a starved pup, speaking only once to say, his mouth stuffed with French toast, “This is good.”
The exceptional meal made Hayden sleepy and lethargic. If he ate like this every day for the next few months, he would have to do some serious walking or find a gym.
During the meal, he made polite conversation with Eli and listened to sweet exchanges between the father and son that stirred thoughts of his own father. Donald Briggs had been his light in a dark childhood and when that light went out, Hayden had been lost. If not for an English teacher who had seen his talent, he’d still be lost, likely in the same drug-dulled world that had sucked Dora Lee under.
Eli’s son, Alex, finished his meal, hopped down from his chair and hugged his father. “I missed you, Daddy.”
Hayden experienced a pinch beneath his breastbone. He missed his daddy, too.
Hayden tossed his napkin on the table. He must need sleep worse than he’d thought.
* * *
Brody
