The Marriage Campaign. Karen Templeton

the surfer-blond hair.

      “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” Then it hit her, that the radical attitude shift probably had nothing to do with her. “Your dad didn’t tell you he’d hired me to help you redecorate your room, did he?” The dog knocked his huge, gleaming head against her palm. Jack glared at the beast as though he’d betrayed him, then turned agitated green eyes to Blythe.

      “So that’s what you two were talking about? That morning at breakfast? After I left?”

      Blythe smiled. “Hatching our sinister plot—yes, we were.” Then she remembered. “Your grandmother said ‘the children.’ Is Quinn here, too?”

      “Yeah. She thinks I went to the bathroom.” Jack looked around the room, then threw his school-uniformed self on the rumpled little-boy bed, an incongruous image if ever there was one. Then again, incongruity pretty much summed up kids that age, didn’t it? Too big to be coddled, not nearly old enough to handle the very grown-up issues that life far too often flung in their faces.

      Sure, many kids had it far worse—something she’d told herself over and over at that age, when faced with all the crap she didn’t know how to handle, either. But she’d decided a long time ago that nobody got to decide whether somebody’s hurt was more or less valid than anyone else’s. Or that, given her own experience, there was a kid alive who could do or say anything that would shock her. Or keep her from being his or her champion, if necessary.

      “What if I don’t want to change anything? I mean—” Jack grabbed a pillow and wadded it under his head “—what if I like it the way it is?”

      Blythe’s brows lifted. “This wasn’t your idea?”

      The boy was quiet for a moment, then suddenly sat up, slamming his sneakered feet onto the floor. “I mentioned it once, yeah. Like, a year ago. When I thought …” He shook his head, hard, then looked around. “I don’t want somebody coming in and changing it around just because. It’s my room, dammit.”

      Blythe carefully shifted the pile of clothes on a nearby chair to sit on the edge. “Yes, it is,” she said, knowing how it felt to desperately want to hang on to what you knew, even if it hurt. “Which is why I wouldn’t dream of getting rid of anything you want to keep. That’s not my job—”

      “You’re right, it’s not,” the boy shot back, more pain than anger sparking in his green eyes. “Because I thought—”

      He slammed his arms across his chest, clamping his jaw shut in an obvious effort to keep a lid on his emotions. Again, Blythe reminded herself that this wasn’t about her.

      “Because you wanted your father to help?”

      After a moment, Jack nodded, and Blythe considered what to say next. “I’m not sure your dad knew where to begin,” she finally said. “So since this is what I do for a living, he asked me to get things going. That doesn’t mean he can’t still be part of it.”

      Jack’s eyes shunted to hers. “He’ll probably be too busy.”

      “Why don’t you let me worry about that?” Blythe said, smiling, then pushed through with, “And I promise, you can keep anything you want. Although you might want to think about updating a thing or two—” she pointed to the bed, which got a grunt “—maybe change the wall color?” She glanced up. “Ditch the wallpaper border?”

      The boy’s eyes followed hers. “I remember when Mom put that up there.”

      “Yeah? How old were you?”

      His mouth twisted. “Six.” Then he sighed. “I guess it is kinda little kid-ish.”

      “Yeah. And judging from what a great job your mom did with the rest of the house, I’ll bet she would’ve changed things here by now, anyway.”

      Silence bumped between them for a moment or two before he said, “She told me I could paint the walls brown, if I wanted. Before … before she died, I mean.”

      “We can still do that,” Blythe said, aching for his sadness. “We can go to Home Depot, you can pick the color you see in your head—”

      “Except I don’t want brown anymore.”

      “Then you can choose something else,” Blythe said, feeling like she was playing table tennis. “This is your project. I’m only here to make it happen. We can even go shopping together, so you can pick out your new bed and bedding, new accessories, whatever you want. Here,” she said, digging in her bag for her tablet and a tape measure. “Let’s take some measurements.”

      Another glare. “Now?”

      “No pressure,” Blythe said, still digging. Not looking at the boy. “But I’m here, so I might as well.” She held out the tape measure. “So we’re all ready to go when you are.”

      Several beats passed before Jack pushed himself off the bed and took the heavy silver measure, weighing it in his hand for a moment like he was half considering chucking it through the window. “What if I want to make the walls four different colors?” he asked, challenging, holding one end of the measure as Blythe stretched out the tape.

      “Why not?” she said evenly, glancing over in time to see a smile—complete with baby dimples, God help the women in his future—creep across his cheeks.

      They were nearly finished when Candace reappeared, Quinn tagging behind her, the child’s wild red hair an absolute affront to her own white polo and khakis, like Jack’s. The dog, who’d been dozing in the puddle of light on the carpet, jumped to his feet and wriggle-bounded over to Quinn, as though he hadn’t seen her in years.

      “We thought the earth had swallowed you up, jeez,” Quinn said, then realized Blythe was there. “Blythe! What are you—? Holy cannoli—are you going to do Jack’s room?”

      Blythe smiled. “We’re talking about it.”

      “Well, talk harder, because—” her expression mildly horrified, she checked out the space “—it is way past time this place got a face-lift. I’ve never said anything before, but dude. Seriously—that bed?”

      Blythe held her breath. And squelched a laugh. Honestly, except for the red hair, the kid was her mother’s clone. Except then Blythe saw the indulgent smile stretch across Jack’s face and realized she had nothing to worry about.

      Although Mel might. Down what could be far too short a road.

      As if reading Blythe’s mind, Candace sighed. “Quinn’s been so good for Jack,” she said in a low voice. “We absolutely love her. But we do not let them come up here by themselves. I know how young kids start … experimenting these days. Can’t be too careful.”

      Although, come to think of it, Quinn had vehemently informed them all not long ago that she’d slug any boy who dared tried to pull any of “that funny business.” Probably something to do with now knowing that her mother had gotten pregnant at sixteen, an event that had complicated Mel’s life no end. Granted, Blythe imagined that Quinn’s attitude toward “funny business” would change sooner rather than later, but maybe the road wouldn’t be so short, after all.

      “With Bear as a chaperone?” she said as the dog wedged between the two of them with a sappy doggy grin on his face. “I think you’re good.”

      To her credit, Candace chuckled. “You may have a point. Listen, would you like to stay for dinner? Quinn’s here quite often, anyway, when her mom’s on duty at the inn and Ryder’s on call. Makes it feel more like a family,” she whispered. “Instead of the poor boy being stuck with his grandparents night after night.”

      “Oh. I’d planned on driving back to the city tonight. And I wouldn’t want to put you out—”

      “Don’t be silly, it’s just pot roast, there’s plenty. Unless—” Horror streaked across her laugh-lined face. “You’re one of those vegetarians