although she picked up a course from time to time.
Tonight, though, concentrating on a morphology study didn’t hold her attention. Well, of course not. She’d been going through quite an emotional earthquake since Earl Carter had called her with the news.
Lowering her head, she tried to force herself to pay attention, but the words on the page just seemed to swim in front of her. Maybe she should try reading it on her laptop, where she could magnify the print.
But there was something she’d always loved about holding a journal, the way it felt, the way it smelled, the brand-new unread pages. She viewed each one with a fresh excitement that she didn’t at all feel when she read online.
So she kept trying, wondering how long it took to put a little boy to bed—and wondering why she should care. She was in a cozy place with nothing to worry her, at least until sometime tomorrow.
Between one breath and the next, she drifted off with the journal in her hand and her head on the overstuffed arm of the sofa.
* * *
Tim had one of those revelations that only a parent could have. When he helped Matthew get into his pajamas, he discovered the boy was wearing four pairs of briefs.
“What’s this?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Why so many?”
“You told me to put on new ones every day.”
Apparently, he’d left out an important part of the instructions, Tim thought as laughter rose in him. He quelled it, funny though this was, because another thought occurred to him: the boy couldn’t have been bathing. He wouldn’t have worn all those underpants if they were wet.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “And how do you handle your socks?”
“New ones every day. I was going to tell you my shoes are getting tight, too.”
Tim could easily imagine that they were, even though they were almost new. “So how many socks do you have on each foot?”
“Four.”
“What started all this?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“When you were doing the laundry and said I hadn’t worn enough underpants or socks for a week. Fresh ones every day.”
Tim remembered that conversation clearly. Oh, man. “I left out part of the instructions, kiddo. The part about taking off the dirty ones before you put on fresh ones. Come on, let’s get rid of all these in the hamper and put you in the shower.”
Tim wondered if he’d ever learn how literal a child could be. Probably not. He’d keep making these simple mistakes until Matthew grew up enough to fill in the blanks.
With his son showered, dried and in fresh pajamas, Tim scooped him up and carried him to bed. God, it felt so good to have this boy in his arms. He smelled sweet and just so right. Not much more of this, though. One way or another, Matthew was going to get too big, and from what he’d seen of slightly older kids, he’d be lucky to snag a hug.
But for now he took pleasure in the moment and just wished Claire could share it, too.
Sometimes he felt his wife around, as if she peeked in on them, as if her love still existed. Maybe it did. And maybe, like an angel, she kept watch over Matthew. He certainly hoped so.
Though it had been six years since Claire’s unexpected passing, he still missed her. Missed all the little things they had shared, which in retrospect seemed a whole lot more important than the big things.
Glances over breakfast that seemed to warm the air. Shared looks of understanding that needed no words. Being able to reach out and just hold her hand. Those little things had turned into a huge gap in his life.
He wanted no replacement for Claire. He didn’t think it was possible, and he wasn’t looking. Most especially he didn’t want to upset Matthew’s life. His son seemed to have adapted quite well to the fact that he didn’t have a mother, unlike his friends.
Whenever someone pressed Tim on the subject—and yes, he knew they did out of some kind of concern—he simply said that was for later. After Matthew was grown. Safely down the road and something he didn’t need to think about now. Not when he had his son to concern him, and not when he was still aching with loss.
He was learning that you never stopped grieving. It just softened with time. Or became like a comfortable old friend, always there, never gone. At least it didn’t cripple him the way it once had. He could pause, absorb and acknowledge the pain, then keep going.
Matthew made that essential.
Downstairs, he found Vanessa curled up on the couch and sound asleep. He thought about moving her to her room then decided against disturbing her. If she woke up on her own, she could go to her room then. In the meantime, she looked comfortable, and it wouldn’t be the first time that sofa had been a bed.
Out in the kitchen, he opened his laptop and logged in while he brewed fresh coffee. He had more jobs than the Higgins house. There were a couple of remodel and repair jobs he’d promised to email estimates on by Saturday, and he needed to finish them.
He paused a moment, thinking of the woman sleeping in his living room. What a cutie, he decided. A lovely woman, and she’d handled Matthew’s sometimes overwhelming energy well.
Then he returned to work. Two things in his life, mainly. His son and his work. Everything else paled beside them.
Vanessa awoke in the dark. All the lights in the room were off, and in a faint spill of light coming from elsewhere, she needed a couple of seconds to orient herself. Tim Dawson’s house. Conard County. Oh, God.
She sat up, rotating her shoulders and neck to ease the stiffness, and put her slightly crumpled journal to one side. How rude of her. The man had given her shelter, served her a fine meal, and she’d responded by falling asleep on his sofa while he put his son to bed?
Well, maybe he wasn’t terribly offended. She guessed she’d have to wait until morning to find out. She could hear the blizzard now, howling outside as if it were alive. She was so glad she wasn’t alone in that ruin of a house she’d inherited, or at the motel where she’d be stuck in one room alone, probably listening to the more regular patrons celebrate the weather with whiskey.
In fact, though she didn’t drink often, a whiskey didn’t sound too bad to her, either.
She rose, grateful she’d changed into comfy fleece earlier, and stretched every muscle in her body. There was nothing quite like a good stretch. Feeling better, she headed toward the light, which was coming from the kitchen, and was surprised to see Tim at the kitchen table, computer in front of him and stacks of paper surrounding him.
He looked up at once and smiled. “Good nap?”
“I was so out of it,” she admitted. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you.”
“I don’t remember inviting you here to be entertaining. You obviously needed the sleep.”
“And
