.

heard light laughter behind him. “That’s called Hare Raising.” It was Bobbie’s voice.

      He continued to study the canvas. “Really. It’s wild. I’m surprised that I like it, but I do. Who’s RLM?”

      “I am.”

      He turned to her in surprise. She had an armload of books, papers and boxes, and a canvas tote she was trying to put it all in. He took the bag from her and held it open. “So, Bobbie is for, what? Roberta rather than Barbara?”

      “Right.” She dropped everything inside, then took the bag from him and gave it an adjusting shake. She handed it back. “Roberta Louise Molloy. That was my one foray into surrealism.”

      “I think of myself as a traditionalist, but I really like it.”

      “I did, too, when I did it. It was toward the end of my first round of chemo and I had to dig deep for energy and enthusiasm, so I tried something new. I had a dream one night about a similar scene. I added the birds and the ducks just because I like them. But I haven’t been able to find that feeling again.”

      He looked at the painting once more, then at her. “The feeling of a frightened rabbit on a wild ride?”

      She blinked and stared. He was obviously on target, but he felt sure she didn’t appreciate it. Something shifted in her eyes as she lowered them and closed him out. He could almost hear the sound of a slamming door.

      She gave him an artificial smile. “Yes. That was perceptive. I think you probably understand the boys better than you think you do.” She walked ahead of him to the door and opened it for him.

      He paused in the entry before she physically pushed him out. Instinct told him that was coming next. “Thank you.” He held up the bag. “Dylan will be very happy.”

      “You’re welcome. See you on Halloween.”

      He stepped onto the porch as the door began to close.

      It was clear that, for whatever reason, she didn’t like being understood. Which was probably best. He didn’t want her to become a chummy neighbor and understand that he was a deeply angry man who wasn’t dealing very well with his life, and had no idea how to raise two lost and frightened little boys.

      God, he missed Ben.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “COOL!” Dylan studied the art supplies spread out on the kitchen table. He picked up a sketch pad and flipped through the blank pages. “Really?” he asked Nate for the third time. “Bobbie gave you all this for me?”

      “Yeah.” Nate turned off the burner under the whistling teakettle. “She was telling me she’s teaching art at your school until the holidays, but just for the lower grades. I told her that was too bad, because you like to sketch. She thought you might like to have some stuff to work with.”

      “Wow.” Sheamus hung over Dylan as he zipped open a green fabric envelope that contained pencils, some new, some stubs. There was a large-format paperback on basic sketching and a box of pastels. Dylan held up a two-inch-square gray object wrapped in plastic.

      “What’s that?” Nate asked.

      “The wrapper says it’s an eraser.”

      “I’ve never seen one like that.”

      “It’s probably for real artists. Wow.”

      Nate turned back to the stove before Dylan could think he was too interested. That would certainly ruin his own fascination with Bobbie’s gift. After pouring boiling water over the cocoa powder in the mugs, Nate added two ice cubes to each, then topped them with miniature marshmallows. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

      He put the cups on the end of the table, away from the supplies. Sheamus, wearing a pout, sat down in front of his cup. His hair was disheveled and a smear of dirt ran across his cheek like a scar. Stella would be horrified that Nate had seated the boys at the table without making them wash first, but there should be some advantages to an all-male weekend.

      “She doesn’t like me, does she?” Sheamus asked, his voice a little strained. “’Cause I thought she was a witch.”

      Nate gave him a gentle shove. “Of course she likes you. But this is for Dylan because he’s interested in the same thing she’s interested in. And she gave you a carved pumpkin to hang in your room.”

      That didn’t help. “But Dylan got one of those, too.”

      “Remember when we bought you a new winter jacket, but we didn’t get one for Dylan because he didn’t need one?”

      Sheamus was horrified by the comparison. “That’s clothes! Who cares about clothes?”

      Nate bit back laughter, having to give him that one. “I’m sorry. You can’t have everything he has, and he can’t have everything you have. It’s the way the world works.”

      “It sucks!”

      “I know.”

      Sheamus blew out air and sipped carefully from his cup. He gave Nate a pleading, put-upon look over the rim. “Can we buy me a new game for my Nintendo?”

      “No.”

      He sighed noisily. “Then can I have a cookie?”

      “Sure. Help yourself.”

      Dylan put everything in his bag and picked up his cup. “I’m going to look at this in my room.”

      “Bobbie said the pastels are messy,” Nate warned. “So be careful, okay?”

      “Okay.” Dylan walked away, the bag slung over his shoulder, the cocoa held carefully ahead of him. Arnold, curled up under the table, stood—unsure whether to follow Dylan or stay with Sheamus. Then he heard the cookie jar lid and the decision was made.

      Sheamus came back to the table with three cookies. He handed one to Nate, held one out to Arnold, who snatched it greedily without touching the small hand with even a tooth, then sat down again.

      “Thank you,” Nate said. Sheamus sloshed his cocoa and Nate handed him a napkin.

      “Maybe I could be an artist, too.” Sheamus twisted his sandwich cookie apart and scraped cream off the bottom half with his teeth.

      “Maybe you could. I have paper in my office. We’ll get you some.”

      “Artists use special paper.”

      “Right. Maybe Dylan will give you a sheet.”

      Sheamus gave Nate a look that told him he knew better than that.

      “My mom would buy me something to make me feel better,” he said, trying another tack. “Maybe some different kind of art stuff.”

      Nate pushed his cup aside, crossed his arms on the table and leaned closer. “No, she wouldn’t. She never let you whine, remember? And she didn’t like it when one of you had to have something just because the other one did.”

      Sheamus’s eyes filled with tears suddenly. Nate could see this was no artful manipulation, but real emotion. “I don’t like to remember,” he said, a quiver in his lips.

      Nate reached for his arm and drew him onto his lap. “I know. Sometimes I don’t, either. But if you don’t ever think about them, then you can’t remember the really nice things.”

      Arnold whined in concern and came to sit beside them.

      Sheamus leaned into Nate and kicked out with a grubby tennis shoe. “When I think, all I think is that they’re not here.”

      “Yeah.” He couldn’t deny the truth of that. “I really miss them, too. When your dad and I were little, we were a lot like you and Dylan. We did a lot of things together and we fought a lot, but when we got older, I realized how smart he was. We stopped fighting so much and started helping