Always Florence. Muriel Jensen

But she and your dad were so happy, and when you guys were born, it was hard not to be happy with them.”

      There was a moment’s silence, then Sheamus asked worriedly, “Do you think they’re still happy?”

      “I do. They’re together, so they’re happy.”

      The boy thought about that, then sat up in Nate’s lap and rested an elbow on his shoulder. His blue eyes were troubled. “Okay, but you’re not going anywhere for a long time, are you?”

      “No, I’m not.” He prayed that fate would support his conviction.

      * * *

      NATE DROPPED THE boys off at school Monday morning, then detoured a block and a half to the Astoria Coffee House to pick up a triple Americano. By the time he parked in the transit center lot just steps from his office, his cup was almost empty.

      It had been an awful morning. Mondays were tense for the boys anyway after two days of not having to conform to a schedule. But today was Halloween and Sheamus was so excited he was practically airborne—without benefit of a spiderweb. Nate hated to think what the added sugar after trick-or-treating would do to him.

      Dylan pretended to be taking the day in stride, but Sheamus was driving him into a foul mood more easily than usual. The ride to school had been loud and contentious. Trying to focus on the road, Nate had heard Sheamus accuse, “You’re on my side of the seat!”

      Dylan rebutted with typical hostility. “How can I be on your side? You’re in a stupid little-kid seat!”

      Nate looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see Sheamus fling a hand at Dylan. His brother caught it and squeezed. Sheamus’s screech felt as though it drove a spike through Nate’s ears.

      He’d pulled up to the school and turned to frown at both of them. Sheamus was crying and rubbing his hand, and Dylan’s expression could have drawn blood.

      “I’d love to make this trip once,” he said, suppressing the bellow in his throat through sheer force of will, “without the two of you screaming at each other before we even get here.”

      “He broke my hand!” Sheamus wept.

      “You hit him first.” Nate came around the car to help Sheamus out of his seat. “When you react by hitting, you have to expect the other person to hit back.” He leaned over the little boy and gently manipulated his hand. It felt intact, though there was a slight bruising on the back. “Can you close it tight?”

      Sheamus made a fist and didn’t even wince.

      “I think it’s fine. Now, don’t hit anybody else, okay?”

      Sheamus looked abused and misunderstood. “I don’t ever hit anybody. I just hit him ’cause I hate him!”

      “I hate you more!” Dylan replied venomously.

      “You don’t hate each other,” Nate insisted, pained over the thought that they really might. “You get angry because life is hard, and you take it out on each other.”

      They looked at him as though he were a Klingon come to life. It occurred to him to be grateful that at least they agreed on that.

      “No,” Dylan insisted seriously. “We really hate each other.”

      Nate gave Sheamus a gentle shove toward the school yard, where kids ran and shouted and waited for the bell to ring. “Remember that tonight you’re Spider-Man and everyone’s going to give you candy.”

      “We have to go to Bobbie’s,” Sheamus said over his shoulder. He’d stopped crying, and excitement now battled the misery in his eyes.

      “Right. First thing.” Nate caught Dylan by the shoulder and stopped him from following Sheamus.

      They boy squirmed, trying to escape. “I’m going to be late!”

      “You’ve got four minutes.” Nate held on to him. “Look, Dyl. You have to stop being so mean to Sheamus.”

      “But he...”

      “I know. He swung at you first because he’s even more scared than you are, and you’re always awful to him. I know he can be exasperating for you, but try to have patience. Try to help him out a little.”

      “He’s a dork.”

      “He’s seven.”

      “I’m not scared. I’m just...”

      When Dylan hesitated, Nate offered carefully, “Lonesome?”

      Dylan looked into his eyes and for just an instant the vulnerability he struggled so hard to hide was visible. He opened his mouth to speak. Nate waited, hoping. Then the bell rang and the moment was gone.

      “Now I have to go,” Dylan said.

      Nate dropped his hand and straightened. “Right. Try to have a good day. Think candy.”

      Dylan seemed to consider whether or not to be amused by that blatant example of bad adult advice, but decided against it. He simply turned and ran for the door, his Iron Man pack slapping against his back.

      Nate returned to the present as Hunter pulled open the office door for him. His friend took one look at him and the empty coffee cup and made a face. “Rug rats getting to you, huh? I want to sympathize, man, but the Astoria Food Bank Fund-raiser Committee is in the conference room and they’ve been waiting for you for a good fifteen minutes.”

      Nate said something he’d never let the boys hear. “Forgot they were meeting here today. We have to get doughnuts.” Not only had he taken over Ben’s place in the Astoria office of Raleigh and Raleigh, but he’d found himself taking over his brother’s place as a community volunteer. He could deal with never having a free moment, but with charity work he faced a learning curve, since most of his previous activities—both professional and social—had been focused on self-interests. Still, the people involved in this particular fund-raiser were hardworking and appreciated the use of the office conference room. And they probably accounted for all he had in the way of a social life these days.

      “Jonni went to Danish Maid Bakery, and Karen is making coffee and hot water for tea and cocoa. I told your committee that you had to stop first at a client’s.” He pointed to the cup Nate still clutched. “The Coffee House is a client. I didn’t say you were doing business, just that you had to stop there.”

      Hunter was several inches shorter than Nate, but had a build more appropriate to a quarterback than an accountant. He had the dark blond hair and blue eyes of his mother’s Scandinavian ancestry. Ben had trusted him completely, and now Nate did, too. Hunter had saved his hide more than once in front of clients. He never missed a detail and seemed to have memorized the tax code, complete with current changes.

      Nate felt fractional relief. “You should have been a lawyer rather than an accountant.”

      His colleague laughed lightly. “They don’t have a tax season. Who’d want to miss that? Here’s Jonni.”

      An attractive woman in her mid-fifties wearing a dark skirt and matching jacket ran from a silver compact at the curb to the office door. Nate held it open for her. She was the workplace counterpart of Stella, without whom nothing would function smoothly. She had bright blue eyes, silky blond hair and an easy, efficient manner that had saved him more than once.

      She handed him the bakery box and a tub of cocoa mix with one hand, and took his briefcase with the other. “Go,” she said. “Karen and I’ll bring in the coffee and water. Your committee notes are on your chair at the conference table.”

      “You’re a treasure,” he told her.

      “Yeah, yeah.” She disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen as Nate carried the appeasing doughnuts into the conference room.

      The previous renter, a law firm, had had a nautical bent, and the walls of the room were decorated with ship’s wheels, navigation charts and paintings of ships. The