Always Florence. Muriel Jensen

been soaked with tea and should be thrown into the laundry.

      She stopped in surprise at the sight of three pristine shelves leaning up against the inside wall. She slipped one onto a surviving bracket and found it a perfect fit.

      Feeling guilty that the boys had probably gotten into trouble for the morning’s escapade, she picked up the two small pumpkins Addie and Zoey had rejected in favor of the cat-faced one, and headed next door.

      The Raleighs had left earlier, but she’d noticed the car was back. She walked around to the front. The tall mountain ash on the deep lawn was covered in red berries. Birds chirped and fluttered, so that the tree seemed alive. Bobbie stopped to take in the pleasure of the moment. There was such richness in nature for her now. She’d always been aware of it, but since she’d been ill, she felt more a part of it—as though everything in the universe was connected, herself included.

      She stepped over a toy truck and climbed the steps to the wide front porch of the yellow house. A seasonal figure made of straw and wearing overalls and a baseball hat sat on a wooden bench. Two pumpkins, obviously carved by children, sat beside him.

      She knocked on the front door with its classic Craftsman leaded window, and heard Arnold’s deep bark, followed by the sound of running feet.

      The door was yanked open and she was greeted by...well, she wasn’t sure who. She’d apparently walked into a comic book.

      “Hi, Spidey!” she said, recognizing the blue-and-red costume worn by the smaller boy. But she wasn’t sure which character the red-gold-and-black costume represented. “Who’s your friend?”

      “I’m Iron Man,” Dylan replied, striking a pose.

      “Ah. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

      Arnold, standing between the boys, wagged his tail and reached up to lick her hand when she patted his giant head.

      Dylan did a turn. “Iron Man is really Tony Stark. He made armor to escape terrorists in Afghanistan.”

      “Iron Man can fly,” Sheamus said, “but I can shoot spiderwebs.”

      “Iron Man can fly without having to hold on to spiderwebs or anything else.”

      Sheamus shrugged off the implied criticism of his powers and pointed to the pumpkins in Bobbie’s hands. “What are those?”

      “Miss Molloy.” Nate appeared behind his nephews and opened the door wider. He now wore a dark blue sweater and had shaved. She couldn’t help staring a little. He looked fresh and crisp, but he still wasn’t smiling. The “what are you doing here?” look in his eyes seemed to mirror his polite but cool greeting.

      Still, he was handsome. She felt the smallest flutter behind her breastbone. Of course, she’d had radiation there, and a burn remained as a result. There was a little bit of a laserlike quality to his expression.

      “The shelves fit okay?” he asked.

      “They’re perfect. Thank you.” She remained on the porch, but held out the pumpkins. “I have only a minute. I made a few pumpkins for myself and a friend’s children, and had these left over. I thought the boys might like them. But I see they already have some really cool ones on the front porch.”

      The boys pulled off their headpieces and each reached excitedly for one of her pumpkins before she could withdraw them.

      “Whoa!” Sheamus held his up, then turned to study Dylan’s. “I like mine better. It has a smiley face.”

      Dylan’s had a saw-toothed mouth to indicate distress or fear. He seemed to like that. “Who wants to smile on Halloween? It’s supposed to be scary. This one’s the best!”

      “You can hang them on the plant hooks on the porch,” Bobbie said, “or in the tree in the yard.” She reached into Dylan’s to show Nate the flameless candle. “No fire, so you don’t have to worry about where they put them.”

      “Good idea.” Nate duly admired each one. “We do have our share of disasters around here. I’m happy not to have to deal with fire. Thank you. That was very thoughtful.” He said it in the same tone one might use to say, “And don’t let the door hit you on your way out!”

      She ignored him and smiled at the boys. “I have to get back to my work. Be sure to come by trick-or-treating. I’m making something special.”

      Sheamus jumped up and down. “We’ll come to your house first!”

      “Thanks, Bobbie.” Dylan’s smile was wide. “I’m going to put my pumpkin in my room.”

      “Me, too!” Sheamus ran off toward the stairs. Dylan followed more slowly, holding his up to study it as he walked, Arnold at his heels.

      “You made them very happy.” Nate stepped out onto the porch, the statement sounding a little like an accusation. She frowned up at him, wondering what his problem was. “Thank you,” he added grudgingly. “I sometimes have trouble doing that.”

      Ah. She’d overstepped somehow. But she’d be darned if she’d apologize for having pleased his nephews.

      “Gotta go,” she said with a pretense of a smile. “Thank you for the shelves.”

      She was halfway down the stairs when he ordered, “Wait!”

      She stopped in her tracks, holding on to the railing to get her balance. She turned to ask what he wanted, and found him right beside her. He caught her arm. “Sheamus left one of his trucks at the bottom of the steps.” He tightened his grip and led her around it. “I’ve told him a million times about leaving his toys out, but he never remembers.”

      Nate’s eyes were turbulent suddenly, that remote, unsettling quality gone. It made it somehow easier to talk to him.

      “How did you become a parenting uncle?” she asked. She thought the answer to the question might help her understand him. Not that she had to make a connection here. By all indications, he didn’t want one, either. “On second thought,” she said quickly, turning to start across the lawn, “it’s none of my business. I apologize for invading your space.”

      “No.” Again he stopped her with a single word. “You did no such thing. And there’s nothing secret about it. Their father was my brother. He and my sister-in-law died in a boating accident six months ago.”

      “Oh.” The small sound expressed her horror at that information. She felt sudden sympathy for him. “I’m so sorry. How awful for all of you.”

      He made a one-handed gesture of helplessness. “It is what it is—at least that’s what everyone says about things they can’t explain or do anything about.” He stopped on the lawn, his expression grim. “I guess the suggestion is that since you can’t change it, you have to accept it. I’m having a little trouble with that.”

      She nodded in understanding, his admission forcing her to reassess her opinion of him. “I get that. I tore my curtains off my bedroom window when my mother died. I was in my teens. Then I had to replace a window in my kitchen door after my teacup went through it when I got my cancer diagnosis.” She smiled in self-deprecation. “Sometimes it’s just too hard to pretend that we’re adult and in control.”

      He frowned as his eyes went to her hair. “I wondered if that was the case. Not that it’s any of my business.”

      “It’s all right. Nothing secret with me, either. Millions of people deal with cancer every day, and my prognosis is better than many.” She ran a hand self-consciously over her head. “And my hair’s back. Well, mostly. So, all in all, things aren’t too bad.”

      His eyes roved her hair, then slowly and with an interest that pinned her in place, moved over her face, feature by feature. He lingered for the barest moment on her mouth, then went back to her eyes.

      “So, the cancer is gone?” he asked.

      “Ah...” She had to pull her thoughts away