shot down by 10:00 a.m. Either he got in the way of one of Dylan’s MythBusters-wannabe experiments that was eventually going to kill them all, or Sheamus burst into tears because Nate sent him back upstairs to get his jacket before letting him out to play. Sheamus was convinced there was a monster in his bedroom closet.
They’d at least reached a temporary solution for the monster issue by putting Sheamus’s jacket in the downstairs closet.
Nate picked up toy cars and trucks off the living room floor and was about to put them in a big wooden box next to the fireplace when he heard Sheamus’s shrill shout: “Uncle Na-a-ate!”
It had taken Nate a month in his role as guardian to realize that the boys’ bloodcurdling shouts didn’t necessarily mean death or dismemberment. They might just want a banana or a pudding pop. So he dropped the toy vehicles carefully into the box and was heading for the kitchen when the door burst open and Sheamus appeared. His blond hair stood up in spikes. His blue eyes were filled with terror.
He pointed a grimy finger in the direction of the backyard. “The witch’s got them!” he said breathlessly, his bony chest heaving under his Seattle Mariners sweatshirt. To add emphasis, he grabbed Nate’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “Hurry!”
“What witch?” Nate drew Sheamus back to him, then got down on one knee. “And got who?”
“The witch next door! Dylan and Arnold! She’s not just a lady, she’s a witch! And she’s stirring a pot with bat wings and spiders and feet from little kids!”
Nate felt a familiar exasperation at his younger nephew’s never-ending terrors. A four-letter word sprang to his lips, but his one success since moving in with the boys was that he’d cleaned up his language.
He caught the weeping seven-year-old by the hand, slapped the back door open and headed across the yard, ready to put an end to this latest fear.
“See!” Sheamus pointed to the little tableau near their neighbor’s garage. The woman, who never spoke to anyone, had Dylan by the arm and was leaning over him, her expression angry.
Nate stopped Sheamus at the edge of their property, dropped his hand and told him not to move, then covered the distance to Dylan and their neighbor in three long strides. He circled the woman’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger, pulled her hand from Dylan and moved the boy behind him.
“Is there a problem?” He tried to sound reasonable, but Dylan looked worried and Nate’s protective instincts flared.
The woman looked up at him in surprise and opened her mouth to speak. No sound came out for a moment, giving him time to study her. She’d been an enigma for the four weeks she’d been here.
She was usually dressed in a baggy black sweatshirt over skinny black pants, and he hadn’t realized until now how slight she was, how pale. It was the first time he’d seen her without a hat pulled down to her eyebrows. Her hair was very short, very dark and all tight little curls. Something red and sticky covered her face, but the overall impression she made was one of fragility.
This was the first time he’d been close enough to look into her eyes. They were wide and brown, with a whole range of emotions he no longer felt qualified to analyze. He’d once prided himself on a respectable knowledge of women, but he hadn’t spent much time with any since he’d moved in with the boys. And he was angry about everything, anyway. As he recalled, women preferred good-natured men.
He did think he saw fear in her velvety gaze, and realizing he still held her wrist in a firm grip, he let it drop. Whatever had happened, he’d be willing to bet his season tickets to the Timbers that it was Dylan’s fault. He handed her a tissue from the wad he’d started keeping in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What’s the problem here?”
* * *
BOBBIE MOLLOY ACCEPTED the tissue with a grudging “thank you” and a scolding glance at the dark-haired boy. “It’s not a problem, exactly.” As she wiped her face, her fingertips brushed the fine hair on her head. She looked around for her hat and found it on the ground, covered in grass and raspberry-hibiscus tea. She tossed it at a small table—the only thing nearby that hadn’t been overturned.
“Your son was spying on me,” she explained, “and your pony destroyed several days’ work and tried to kill my cat.” She indicated the collapsed shelf behind her, most of the tools and supplies it had held now floating in her pot of paper pulp. Monet, her orange tabby, looked down on them from the top of the oil tank against the wall, tail swishing. Below him, the giant dog with its black muzzle and wide mouth, black tongue lolling, studied the cat.
Bobbie looked over the destruction. Stress was her enemy, so she drew several steadying breaths. To be fair, the man Sandy had told her was new to the neighborhood—almost as new as her—appeared to be as frustrated as she felt.
And he was looking at her hair. It had grown back to at least cover her scalp in a cap of tight curls, and her eyebrows were back. She looked better than she had a couple months ago, but the glossy, shoulder-length hair in her art school graduation photo was a thing of the past. Worse, she knew her face showed the wear and tear of chemotherapy and radiation.
She hated that she cared. Cancer survival, and life in general, were all about what you had inside, not what adorned you outside. But she’d never get over her love of clothes and makeup and all things girlie. Though she was an artist and wore grubbies when she worked, she loved to dress up. In the past, that had earned her admiring looks, but these days it was easy for others to see what she was dealing with. Most men took an unconscious step back. Cancer was scary stuff. No one wanted to be near it if they could help it.
This man, though, stood his ground. It was entirely possible he hadn’t figured it out yet. Sandy had told her she had a handsome, single neighbor and Bobbie had told her she didn’t want to hear anymore. Sandy had tried to add interesting details but Bobbie had refused to listen. He called the dog to him, told him “sit!” and patted his head.
“I’m sorry. Arnie is very big and can’t help making a mess. But he wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Her neighbor turned slightly to catch the arm of the boy he’d placed protectively behind him and pulled him forward. “This is Dylan. He’s fascinated by everything. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.” He gave the boy a firm look. “But it isn’t polite to spy on people. Please apologize.”
Dylan folded his arms. “She was chanting while she was stirring,” he said. “People who aren’t witches don’t usually do that, do they?”
Chanting. Bobbie had to think about that a minute. Then she realized what he must have heard, and had to laugh. “Okay, I don’t have a great voice. But I was singing to ABBA.”
“Who?”
“ABBA,” the man repeated for her. “Remember when Stella made us watch Mamma Mia for her birthday? The movie about the wedding in Greece and all the singing?” When the boy winced and nodded, he explained, “That was music by a group called ABBA. They’re from Sweden.”
“Weird name.”
“Yeah. There are four members and I think it’s their first initials. About the apology...”
Dylan complied. “I’m sorry.” Then he added to Bobbie, as though it was important, “I’m not his son. I’m his nephew.”
“Oh.” She’d been watching them come and go for the past month and assumed they were father and sons. She hadn’t noticed a woman, except for the older housekeeper. “I just assumed...”
The man extended his hand. “I’m Nate Raleigh,” he said.
“Bobbie Molloy,” she replied.
Seeing the handshake, the younger boy apparently felt it was safe to come closer. He hid behind his uncle’s arm and pointed to the garage. “What’s in there?”
“This is Sheamus,” Nate said. “I’m sure he wants to apologize, too.”
She smiled at