Nicholas Sparks - The Rescue

The only thing left was the white picket fence, and that was going up next week.

She heard the timer go off in the kitchen and rose from her chair. An apple pie was in the oven, and she took it out, setting it on the counter to cool. On the stove, stewed chicken was boiling, and the salty smell of broth wafted through the house.

Their house. The McAdens. Even though she’d been married a little over a year, she still relished the sound of that. Denise and Taylor McAden. It had a nice ring to it, if she did say so herself.

She stirred the stew-it had been cooking for an hour now, and meat was beginning to fall off the bones. Though Kyle still avoided eating meat for the most part, a few months earlier she’d made him try chicken. He’d fussed for an hour but had finally taken a bite; over the next few weeks he’d gradually started eating a little more. Now, on days like these, they ate as a family, everyone sharing the same food. Just as a family should.

A family. She liked the sound of that, too.

Glancing out the window, she saw Taylor and Kyle walking up the lawn, toward the shed where they kept their fishing poles. She watched as Taylor hung his pole, then took Kyle’s as well. Kyle put the tackle box on the floor inside, and Taylor scooted it out of the way with a tip of his boot. A moment later they were mounting the steps to the porch.

“Hey, Mom,” Kyle chirped.

“Did you catch anything?” she asked.

“No. No fish.”

Like everything else in her life, Kyle’s speech had improved dramatically. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but he was gradually closing the gap between himself and his peers at school. More important, she’d stopped worrying about it so much.

Taylor kissed Denise as Kyle made his way inside.

“So, where is the little fella?” Taylor asked.

She nodded toward the corner of the porch. “Still asleep.”

“Shouldn’t he be awake by now?”

“In a few minutes. He’ll be getting hungry soon.”

Together they approached the basket in the corner, and Taylor bent over, peering closely, something he still did often, as if he couldn’t believe he’d been responsible for helping to create a new life. He reached out and gently ran his hand over his son’s hair. At seven weeks there was barely anything at all.

“He seems so peaceful,” he whispered, almost in awe. Denise put her hand on Taylor’s shoulder, hoping that one day he’d look just like his father.

“He’s beautiful,” she said.

Taylor looked over his shoulder at the woman he loved, then turned back to his son. He leaned in close, kissing his son on his forehead.

“Did you hear that, Mitch? Your mom thinks you’re beautiful.”