Father Formula. Muriel Jensen

clock. “Brady, it’s well after eleven in New York. They’re probably fast asleep.”

      “Maybe not.”

      “We’ll call tomorrow when you come home from school.”

      “Maybe they’re not asleep,” Brady insisted. “Dave works late lots of times.”

      “But he’s married now, doofus,” Brandon said, heading for the stairs.

      “So?” Brady demanded.

      “So, they’re probably…you know.” Brandon cast a knowing but embarrassed glance in Alexis’s direction and waved a hand to replace the words he couldn’t quite say.

      “What?” Brady insisted.

      Alexis opened her mouth to suggest a diplomatic explanation when Brady’s eyes suddenly widened and his expression made it clear that he understood. He looked horrified for a moment, then shoved Brandon aside and ran up the stairs.

      Brandon heaved a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. “He’s still kind of young,” he said, and followed him, Ferdie trailing behind.

      Alexis was stunned by that reaction. She knew that children Brady’s age discussed sex among themselves, but often hated the suggestion that their parents or guardians practiced it.

      But she was fairly sure that hadn’t been disgust on Brady’s face, but fear. She didn’t understand what that meant. Judging by his behavior with Athena, he seemed to adore her.

      “Let me know,” she called after Brandon, “before you turn the lights out.”

      When Brandon called shortly after nine, Brady’s room was already dark. Alexis tucked Brandon in, then patted the dog lying on a blanket across the boy’s feet.

      “French toast for breakfast?” Alexis asked before flipping off the light.

      “Just cereal, please,” he said, snuggling into his pillow. “We’ve got Graham O’s.”

      “And you don’t trust my cooking?”

      He laughed. “Nope. Good night.”

      “Good night, Brandon.”

      She went across the hall to Brady’s room, braved the quiet darkness and looked down on him. She suspected he simply pretended to be asleep, but she tucked his blankets in anyway, then went to the door.

      “I’d like French toast,” a voice said in the darkness.

      Relieved to have some response from him, though still worried about his unusual behavior, Alexis replied briefly, “You got it. Should I get you up a little early so you’ll have more time?”

      “More time?”

      “To spread butter and drizzle syrup. You have to cover all the corners, you know, or it isn’t as good.”

      “Yeah,” he said. “That’s true.”

      “Brady?” she blurted, moving surreptitiously back toward the bed. “Are you worried about something?”

      Silence.

      “Because if you are,” she went on intrepidly, “you can tell me and I’ll do what I can to help. I know I’m not as good as having David and Athena here, but I’m sort of like your aunt now. So you can tell me if you’re worried. Or afraid.”

      There was silence for another moment, then he said finally, “No. Nothing.”

      “Okay.” Dispiritedly she reversed directions. “Two pieces or three?”

      “Three.”

      “Good night, Brady.”

      “Night,” he replied.

      All right, she told herself as she walked down the stairs to look through the kitchen and make sure they did indeed have syrup. She hadn’t exactly conquered Everest, but she’d given Brady something to look forward to in the morning. And that might help the curious fear he seemed to be dealing with.

      She was relieved beyond words to find a bottle of syrup on a shelf in the refrigerator door.