Nora Roberts: The Next Always

“I know, what are the odds? I hope they’re as good for me getting an iced cappuccino.”

“I can hook you up. Iced everything’s the order of the day this summer.” Her honey brown hair scooped up with a clip against the heat, she gestured to the cups. “Large?”

“You bet.”

“How’s the inn coming along?”

“It’s moving.” He walked to the counter as she turned to the espresso machine.

Pretty little thing, Beckett mused. She’d worked for Clare since the beginning, shuffling work and school. Five years, maybe six? Could it be that long already?

“People ask us all the time,” she told him as she worked. “When, when, when, what, how. And especially when you’re going to take down that tarp so we can all see for ourselves.”

“And spoil the big reveal?”

“It’s killing me.”

With the conversation, the noise of the machine, he didn’t hear her, but sensed her. He looked over as she came down the curve of the steps, one hand trailing along the banister.

When his heart jumped, he thought, Oh well. But then, Clare had been making his heart jump since he’d been sixteen.

“Hi, Beck. I thought I heard you down here.”

She smiled, and his heart stopped jumping to fall flat.

He handled it. He smiled back at her, quick and casual, as she walked down the stairs with her long, sunny ponytail swaying. She always reminded him of a sunflower, tall and bright and cheerful. Her gray eyes held hints of green that gave them a sparkle whenever her mouth, with its deep center dip, curved up.

“Haven’t seen you in a couple days,” she commented.

“I was down in Richmond.” She’d gotten some sun, he thought, giving her skin just a hint of gold. “Did I miss anything?”

“Let’s see. Somebody stole the garden gnome out of Carol Tecker’s yard.”

“Jeez. A crime spree.”

“She’s offering a ten-dollar reward.”

“I’ll keep my eye out for it.”

“Anything new at the inn?”

“We started drywall.”

“Old news.” She flicked that away. “I got that from Avery yesterday, who got it from Ry when he stopped in for pizza.”

“My mother’s putting another furniture order together, and she’s moving on to fabrics.”

“Now that’s a bulletin.” Green sparkled in the gray; it just killed him. “I’d love to see what she’s picking out. I know it’s going to be beautiful. And I heard a rumor there’s going to be a copper tub.”

Beckett held up three fingers.

Her eyes widened; the green deepened in the smoky gray. He’d need oxygen any minute.

“Three? Where do you find these things?”

“We have our ways.”

She glanced toward Laurie with a long, female sigh. “Imagine lounging in a copper bathtub. It sounds so romantic.”

Unfortunately he instantly imagined her slipping out of the pretty summer dress with red poppies over a field of blue—and into a copper bathtub.

And that, he reminded himself, wasn’t handling it.

“How are the kids?” he asked, and took out his wallet.

“They’re great. We’re starting to gear up for full back-to-school mode, so they’re excited. Harry’s pretending not to be, playing Mr. Old Hat since he’s going into third grade. But he and Liam are giving Murphy the benefit of their vast experience. I can’t believe my baby’s starting kindergarten.”

Thinking of the kids always leveled him off, helped him slide her into the do-not-imagine-naked column of MOTHER.

“Oh.” She tapped the Mosley book before Laurie bagged it. “I haven’t had a chance to read that yet. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”

“Sure. Ah, you should come over, walk through sometime.”

Her mouth bowed up. “We peek in the side windows.”

“Just go on around the back.”

“Really? I’d like to, but I figured you didn’t want people getting in the way.”

“As a rule, but—” He broke off as the bells jangled, and two couples came in. “Anyway, I’d better get going.”

“Enjoy the book,” she told him, then turned to her customers. “Can I help you find anything?”

“We’re touring the area,” one of the men told her. “Got any books on Antietam?”

“We do. Let me show you.” She led him away as the rest of the group started to browse.

Beckett watched her go down the little flight of steps into what they called the annex.

“Well. See you later, Laurie.”

“Beck?”

He stopped, one hand on the doorknob.

“Books? Coffee?” She held the bag in one hand, the go-cup in the other.

“Oh yeah.” He laughed, shook his head. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She sighed a little when he left, and wondered if her boyfriend ever watched her walk away.

Clare carted A tub of books packaged for shipping down to the post office. She breathed in deep a moment as she went out the back and across the gravel parking lot as an actual breeze fluttered over her face.

She thought—hoped—it looked like rain. Maybe a nice, solid soaker that would spare her the time it took to water her garden and pots. If it didn’t come with lightning, she could let the boys run around in the wet after dinner, burn off some energy.

Scrub them up afterward, then, since it was movie night, fix some popcorn. She’d have to check the chart, see whose turn it was to pick the flick.

Charts, she’d learned, helped cut down on arguing, complaining, and bickering when three little boys had to decide whether to spend some time with SpongeBob, the Power Rangers, or the Star Wars gang. It didn’t eliminate the arguing, complaining, and bickering, but it usually kept it at a more manageable level.

She dropped off the shipments, spent a few moments chatting with the postmistress. Because the traffic on Route 34 ran a bit thick, she walked back to The Square, pressed the button for the Walk light. And waited.

Every once in a while it struck her that she was, geographically at least, back where she’d started. Everything else had changed, she mused, glancing over at the big blue tarp.

And was still changing.

She’d left Boonsboro as a brand-new bride of nineteen. So young! she thought now. So full of excitement and confidence, so much in love. She’d thought nothing of driving off to North Carolina to start her life with Clint, as an army wife.

She’d done a decent job of it, too, she decided. Setting up house, playing house, working part-time in a bookstore—and hurrying home to fix dinner. She’d learned she was pregnant only days before Clint had been deployed for his first tour to Iraq.

She’d known fear then, she remembered as she crossed toward Vesta. But it had been offset by the wide-eyed optimism of youth, and the joy of carrying a child—one she’d borne back home, at barely twenty.

Then Clint came home, and they were off to Kansas. They’d had nearly a year. Liam had been born during Clint’s second tour of duty. When he’d come home again, he’d been a great father to their two little boys, but war had stolen his easy cheer, his quick, rolling laugh.

She hadn’t known she was pregnant when she’d kissed him goodbye that last time.

The day they’d handed her the flag from Clint’s casket, Murphy quickened for the first time inside her.

And now, she thought as she opened the glass door, she was back home. For good.

She’d timed the visit postlunch, predinner prep. A scatter of people sat at the dark, glossy wood tables, and a family—not locals, she noted—piled into the booth in the far corner. Their curly-headed toddler sprawled over the red cushions, sound asleep.