Rainshadow Road (Friday Harbor #2)(45)

“No, she’s down for the count.” Sam went to an already-opened bottle of wine and poured himself a glass.

“So you’ve brought Lucy here to recuperate,” Maggie remarked. “And you’re going to take care of her. She must be someone special.”

“No big deal.” Sam kept his tone scrupulously offhand. “We’re friends.”

“Just friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there a chance of anything more developing?”

“No.” Again, his response was a little too fast. He scowled as he saw Maggie’s knowing smile. “She doesn’t want my kind of relationship.”

“What kind is that? Sex with random beautiful women with no chance of commitment?”

“Exactly.”

“If you find the right woman, you may want to try something a little more long-term.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t do long-term.” He set the table and went in search of Mark and Holly to tell them that dinner was ready. Finding them in the living room, he paused at the broad threshold, where a superfluous wall had been knocked out to allow for a more open floor plan.

Mark and Holly were seated close together on the sofa, a boatlike antique that Maggie had found and convinced Mark to buy. In its original condition, the sofa had been a monstrosity, all scarred and moth-eaten. But after the carved rosewood had been stripped and refinished, and it had been upholstered in acres of sage-green velvet, the settee possessed a whimsical grandiosity that suited the house.

Holly’s legs dangled from the sofa. She swung her feet idly while Mark made notes in the family planner spread out on the coffee table.

“… so when you’re at the dentist’s, and he asks how often you floss,” Mark said, “what are you going to say?”

“I’ll say, ‘What’s floss?’” Holly giggled as Mark goosed her in the side and kissed the top of her head.

Not for the first time, Sam was struck by the fatherly quality in Mark’s attachment to her. In the past, it hadn’t been a role that Mark had seemed particularly suited for … but he had grown into it with lightning speed when Holly had come into their lives.

Mark leaned over to scribble something in the family planner. “Did Maggie order those ballet shoes for your dance class yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, I’ll ask her.”

“Uncle Mark?”

“Mmmm-hmm?”

“The baby’s going to be my cousin, isn’t he?”

The pen stopped moving. Mark set it down carefully and looked into the child’s solemn face. “Technically, yes. But I imagine…” He paused, choosing his words with care. “I imagine it will feel like the baby is your brother or sister. Because you’ll be growing up together.”

“Some kids in my class think you’re my dad. You even look like a dad.”

Sam, who had been about to say something from the threshold, closed his mouth. He didn’t dare disrupt the moment by leaving or intruding. He could only stand there, frozen in the understanding that something important was happening.

Mark’s face was carefully impassive. “What do you tell your friends when they ask if I’m your dad?”

“I just let them think it.” Holly paused. “Is that wrong?”

Mark shook his head. “’Course not.” His voice was husky.

“Will I still call you Uncle Mark after the baby comes?”

Reaching down, Mark took one of Holly’s hands, absurdly small in comparison to his, and sandwiched it between his palms. “You can call me whatever you want, Holly.”

The child leaned closer until her head was on his arm. “I want to call you Dad. I want you to be my dad.”

Mark was robbed of speech. It was clearly something he had not expected, or had even allowed himself to consider. His throat worked, and he bent to press his face against her pale, moonlight-blond hair. “I would love that. I … yes.” He lifted her onto his lap and hugged her, clumsily petting her hair. A few indistinguishable murmurs followed, three syllables repeated over and over.

The muscles of Sam’s own throat knotted. He was outside the moment and yet part of it.

“You’re squishing me,” came Holly’s muffled voice after a long minute.

Mark’s arms loosened, and she wriggled off his lap.

Renfield had padded into the room, a wadded-up paper napkin hanging from his mouth.

“Renfield,” Holly scolded, “don’t eat that.”

Pleased at having gotten her attention, the dog trotted from the room with the napkin.

“I’ll get it away from him,” Holly said. She paused to rub noses with Mark. “Dad,” she said with an impish grin, and dashed after the dog.

Sam had never seen his brother so utterly humbled. He came into the room as Mark let out a short, winded sigh and wiped his eyes with his fingers.

Seeing him, Mark blinked and began unsteadily, “Sam—”

“I heard,” Sam interrupted quietly, and smiled. “It’s good, Mark. Holly was right. You do look like a dad.”

Fourteen

Voices floated into the bedroom.

“… I want Lucy to use my pink bathroom,” Holly insisted. “It’s prettier than yours.”