A Ready-Made Family. Carrie Alexander

for a while.” Lia was dismayed that she’d been thinking mostly of herself and how Rose could help her out of a dire situation.

      But that had been their pattern as friends, since Rose had always been so cussedly independent, even taciturn, about her own desires. Lia was still having a hard time wrapping her head around the idea of the gruff woman she’d known marrying the town’s widowed basketball coach and making a family that included his daughter and the teenage son Rose had given up for adoption when she was young.

      “A few years apart doesn’t matter between friends,” said Claire. She tipped her head. “What did you think of Jake?”

      Lia gulped down the thickness that formed in her throat at every thought of him. “He’s a lot like Rose.”

      “The old Rose.” Claire’s eyes narrowed slightly as she considered Lia. “Maybe the new Rose, too.”

      What did that mean? Lia didn’t want to ask because she suspected the observation involved her and the kids. “I don’t know the new Rose.”

      “She’s much like the old one except she smiles more often and even carries on a conversation. She has a great rapport with Lucy, her new stepdaughter.”

      “Uh-huh. She was always good with my kids. I have three.” Lia lifted her head to the sound of the trio squabbling in the next aisle of the small grocery store. She gave a wry smile. “That’s them. I’d better go.”

      “Tell Jake I said hi.”

      “Sure.” Lia made a hurried wave and wheeled away, her face growing warm as she puzzled over the idea of how Jake might be like the newly married, newly mothered Rose. The likeliest explanation was too absurd to hold in her head. She shook it loose. Crazy. Although she barely knew the man, she was certain that Jake was not the family type.

      Pretty certain.

       CHAPTER THREE

      TWENTY MINUTES LATER , Lia poured a sixty-four-ounce can of tomato juice over Jake’s head. The thick red waterfall coated his hair and face, then streamed in slimy globules over his shoulders and chest. He was stoic, not making a sound as she shook the can and the last droplets landed all over his face.

      “Cool,” Howie said. “It looks like blood. Dump some on me.”

      “Ugh.” Lia cranked open another can.

      Jake used a washcloth to smear the juice over his skin. He and Howie sat in a big iron claw-foot tub. Howie had insisted on the communal bath, which was unusual because he’d always been a serious little guy, private about his personal business from an early age. Lia had expected Jake to refuse or at least hesitate, but he’d merely shrugged and climbed into the tub in his boxers. It was the same with the grocery receipt and remaining cash that she’d carefully laid out on the kitchen table so he could see she’d accounted for every penny. He’d barely spared a glance. Jake certainly wasn’t a fussy man.

      Not like Larry.

      “Sauce me,” Howie said.

      “Seinfeld,” Jake said. “The entity.”

      Howie pumped a fist, making a splash in the pink water. “Yes!”

      “What did I miss?” Lia dumped juice over Howie’s head. He shrieked and sputtered with delight. She smiled to hear it, and her lungs expanded, taking in a deeper breath than she’d known for months, even years.

      Jake leaned back in the tub. “Don’t you ever watch Seinfeld reruns?”

      “Not really.”

      “See, there was this episode with a stink in the car, called ‘the entity,’” Howie said, forgetting to breathe he was so excited.

      “The stink clung to everything it touched,” Jake added.

      “So Elaine, her hair smelled, and she had to get a tomato-juice shampoo, and she said—”

      “Sauce me,” Jake and Howie chorused. They looked at Lia, waiting for a laugh.

      “I see.” She shook the empty can. “But this is juice, not sauce.”

      “Mom.”

      “Same thing.” Jake shook his head at Howie. “She doesn’t get it.”

      Howie shook his head at Lia. “You don’t get it, Mom.”

      “I guess not.” She caught Jake’s eye and lifted an eyebrow. “Seeing as you’re the man with so much stinkin’ entity experience, how fast does this remedy work?”

      Jake sniffed himself. “We stay in as long as it takes.”

      Howie leaned forward to get a whiff. “I smell tomato juice.”

      Lia took a pitcher of water and poured it over her son’s sandy-colored head. “You’re going to have pink hair.”

      Howie wasn’t sure how to take that news. “Jake, too?”

      “His hair is dark. The tomato won’t stain as much.”

      Jake passed her a bottle of shampoo. Lia snapped it open and squeezed out a dollop. She began massaging the lather into Howie’s hair and scalp, but he pushed her away. “I can do it.”

      “Want to wash mine?” Jake’s question seemed serious—until Lia detected the smile in the laugh lines carved around his eyes. He had a very masculine face—strong bones, blunt features, a firm jaw bristling with a five-o’clock shadow. His dark hair was peppered with gray.

      “I’m sure you’re capable.” She collected the cans and can opener. “I’ll leave you two to finish up. Howie, rinse off thoroughly. I don’t want to find sticky tomato juice behind your ears.”

      Jake saluted. “We’ll proceed accordingly and present ourselves for inspection, ma’am. Right, Howie?”

      “Yes, sir.” Howie saluted with a sudsy hand.

      Lia smiled at them. “Here are your glasses, Howie.” She placed the spectacles on the surround of a chipped white sink of fifties vintage and caught sight of herself in the mirrored medicine cabinet. Her hair was as fuzzy as a played-out Barbie doll’s. The touch of lipstick and mascara she’d applied that morning was long gone. She looked bone-tired and at least ten years older than thirty-two.

      She turned her face aside. Some days she felt that old. But not right now. Being around Jake was rejuvenating. He put out a lot of rugged male energy. Her spirits perked up and her body responded whether or not she wanted it to. Even though she was usually not focused on that stuff, him being half-naked most of the time was mighty distracting.

      The girls were hovering outside the door to the bathroom. “When can we leave?” Sam asked.

      Kristen tugged on Lia’s hand and said plaintively, “I’m hungry.”

      Lia mouthed, “Quiet,” and hustled both of them toward the kitchen. The stone house was small—two bedrooms, one bath, with a fairly roomy kitchen that opened onto an L-shaped dining and living room area. Though neat as a pin, the kitchen showed the wear and tear of time on the scuffed linoleum, ancient fixtures and stained ceramic sink. A pair of faded print curtains hung in the window that overlooked the new garden and the stand of evergreens that crested the riverbank. Altogether, it was a homely but homey place. Lia wished she could curl into a fetal position on the sagging plaid couch and sleep for the next twenty-four hours.

      The shower was running. Jake shouldn’t have been able to overhear, but Lia spoke quickly in a low voice nevertheless. “Samantha, we will go as soon as we can.” Even though I don’t know where we’re going. “Krissy, baby…” She sank onto her heels and gave her youngest a quick hug. “Dinner’s coming. Eat a few animal crackers to tide you over.”

      The box of cookies hung from a string wound around Kristen’s finger. Her stuffed rabbit, Cuddlebunny, was clutched in the other hand. “They’re gone.” She was on