The Prodigal Valentine. Karen Templeton

beside him, grabbing a far-too-large handful that promptly exploded all over her, the sofa and the floor.

      “Sorry, Aunt Mercy!”

      “Don’t worry about it, cutie-pie, it happens.” Mercy bent over to pick up the scattered kernels, her hair and face glimmering red…blue…green…red. “Yeah,” she said. Deliberately avoiding his eyes? “They’d already made reservations at the Hilton, so it seemed a shame to give them up just because Tony broke his leg. But the real party’s here—right, munchkin?” she said to Mattie, lightly tapping her niece on the nose with a piece of popcorn. The child giggled, snuggling closer to Ben and swiping a piece of popcorn out of his hand.

      “We get to stay up until midnight—” she yawned “—and watch the ball drop in Tom’s hair.”

      “Times Square, stupid,” Jacob said, prompting an immediate “Don’t call your sister stupid,” from Mercy.

      Apparently unfazed, the little girl twisted around to look up at Ben with big, solemn, slightly sleepy eyes. “It’s funner over here. Mama ’n’ Daddy’ve been fighting a lot. I don’t like it when they do that.”

      Mercy’s eyes flashed to Ben’s as Jacob, instantly turning beet red, muttered, “Shut up, Mattie.”

      “Well, they have. An’you’re not supposed to say ‘shut up,’ Mama says it’s rude.”

      “Guys!” Mercy said. “Enough. But you know what? Your mama and I used to fight like crazy when we were kids, and it didn’t mean anything.”

      “Really?” Mattie said.

      Mercy laughed. “Oh, yeah. Yelling, screaming…ask your grandma, she used to swear it sounded like we were killing each other. And then it would blow over and we’d be best buddies again—”

      “C’n I have a Coke?” the boy said, bouncing up out of the chair.

      “Sure, sweetie,” Mercy said. “You know where they are. And by the way,” she said to his back as he walked away, “what happens here, stays here, got it?”

      That got a fleeting grin and a nod. Only Ben wasn’t sure if Mercy was talking about the questionable menu or the even more questionable conversation. He stuffed another handful of popcorn into his mouth, staring at the slightly trembling image of a red-and-white fish on the screen in front of him. As Jake traipsed back to Mercy’s bedroom with his popcorn and soda, Mattie dug the remote out from under Ben’s hip, punched the Play button and the red fish started talking to a blue fish that sounded oddly like Ellen de Generes.

      “So you really think that’s all this is?” he said softly over Mattie’s giggles as Mercy sank into the cushion on the other side of her niece, tucking her feet up under her.

      Her silence spoke volumes as she reached across their niece to pluck several kernels from the bowl. “No,” she said, her eyes on the screen. “Unfortunately.”

      “You think somebody should go talk to Jake?”

      “I’ve tried, but…” She shrugged, her forehead puckered.

      “Guys, shh,” Mattie said, poking Ben with her elbow. “This is the best part, when Dory pretends she’s a whale.”

      Out of deference to Mattie, they stopped talking. But Ben wasn’t paying the slightest attention to the movie, and he somehow doubted Mercy—whose mouth was still pulled down at the corners—was, either. Under other circumstances, he would have been perfectly fine with staying right where he was, with this goofy little girl cuddled next to him and her goofy aunt not much farther away, munching popcorn and watching a kid flick.

      But sometimes, life has other ideas.

      So he gently extricated himself from the soft, trusting warmth curled into his side, shifting the child to lean against her aunt instead, then followed the sound of engines roaring and tires screeching until he reached Mercy’s bedroom. Sitting cross-legged on the end of Mercy’s double bed, Jake was intently focused on the game flashing across the smaller TV sitting on the dresser in front of him, his thumbs a blur on the controller as he leaned from side to side.

      Ben leaned against the door frame, his thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets. “Hey,” he said softly, acutely aware that, as far as Jake was concerned, Ben was a stranger. Not to mention he was venturing into potentially explosive-ridden territory. No doubt Tony would see Ben’s attempt to help as blatant, and extremely unwelcome, interference.

      Attention riveted to the car zooming and swerving wildly on the screen, Jake bumped one shoulder in acknowledgment. “Soon as I’m done—” he hunched forward, pounded one button a dozen times in rapid succession, then whispered “Yes! I can set it up…for two players…”

      “No hurry.”

      The room was dark except for a single bedside lamp, but he could see she’d gone with the orange in here, Ben noted with a wry smile. Sort of the same color as that clownfish, actually. But for a woman as unabashedly female as Mercedes Zamora, her bedroom was almost eerily frou-frou free. Even more than he remembered. No lace, no filmy stuff at the windows, no mounds of pillows or—God bless her—stuffed animals on the unadorned platform bed, covered with a plain white comforter. Nothing but clean lines as far as the eye could see.

      And all that color, drenching the room in a perpetual sunset.

      Ben turned his attention to his nephew, then eased over to sit next to him. The cat, who’d been God knew where up to that point, jumped up and butted his arm, then tramped across his lap to sniff Jake’s hand.

      “Go away, Homer,” he said, giggling. “Your whiskers tickle.”

      Yeah, that’s how kids are supposed to sound. “Wow,” Ben said, sincerely impressed. “You really rock at this.”

      A quick grin bloomed across the kid’s face. “Thanks. Okay,” he said a minute later, his fingers again flying over the buttons as the image changed to a split screen. “The other controller’s in my backpack, if you want to get it?”

      “Sure.” Ben dug through a wad of rumpled, detergent-scented clothes, pulled it out, plugged it into the console. “You have to promise to go easy on me, though,” he said. “I think the last video game I played was Mario on Nintendo.”

      “You mean, like Game Cube?”

      “No, I mean the original Nintendo. Way before your time.”

      “Oh, yeah…my dad still drags that out every once in a while. But mostly he likes my PlayStation, ’cause it’s way cooler.”

      Ben chose his car—a red Porsche, what else?—and they were off. Twenty seconds in, Ben realized his reaction time needed some serious retooling. The kid was beating the crap out of him. “Your dad play games with you?”

      “Yeah, sometimes. Mom doesn’t like it much, though.”

      “Oh?” Ben said carefully.

      “She keeps saying…he needs to…grow up.” Apparently realizing his gaffe, the kid flicked a glance in Ben’s direction, only to then say, “Why’s Dad mad at you?”

      Ben stiffened, tempted to pretend he had no idea what the kid was talking about. But what would be the point? “I’m not sure I can explain.” He glanced at the boy. “Why?” he asked, smiling. “Was he bad-mouthing me?”

      Jake flushed. “Kind of. Papi though, he like couldn’t stop talkin’ about you when they were over at our house last night. He’s really, really happy you came home.”

      “So am I,” Ben said. Then he bumped the boy’s shoulder with his own, earning him a quick, slightly embarrassed grin.

      After another couple of seconds, though, Jake said quietly, “Mattie’s right, Mom an’ Dad really have been yelling a lot at each other lately.”

      “That must suck,” Ben said after a short pause.

      “Totally.