bring into Bobby’s life...or his, especially if her future in Chesapeake Shores was as uncertain as Susie had just suggested. Bobby didn’t need to form an attachment to another person who might disappear from his life at any moment.
He hesitated about even considering a house just down the street from Carrie. It seemed like a really bad idea. But looking into Susie’s expectant face, he knew he couldn’t afford to ignore a house with real potential, especially in a town where he already knew real estate came at a premium and was in short supply.
“Sure, let’s take a look,” he said. “I’ll give you a call and we can set it up.”
“You don’t want to look this morning? I have time.”
“Don’t push,” Mack said quietly. “Sam has a lot to do.”
“Anything more important than this?” Susie asked, her voice tight.
With Mack’s steady gaze holding hers, she finally backed down. She reached in her purse and handed Sam a business card. “Call me whenever you’re ready. But houses don’t stay on the market long here,” she cautioned.
Sam nodded, then turned to Bobby, noting that he was making slow but steady progress through a stack of pancakes more suited to Sam’s appetite than a boy’s. “You doing okay, buddy?”
Bobby nodded happily, his mouth full. When he’d swallowed, he took a big gulp of milk and said, “You were right, Sam. These are the best, even better than Mom’s.”
As if he’d suddenly realized what he said, his smile faded. “Is it okay that I like them?” he whispered. “It won’t make Mom mad, will it?”
“No way,” Sam said. “Your mom only wanted the very best for you always, whether it was pancakes or...” He searched his mind for something sufficiently yucky to appeal to Bobby’s sense of the ridiculous. He grinned. “Or escargots.”
Bobby wrinkled his nose. “What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.
“Snails,” Sam told him.
With Susie and Mack fighting smiles, Bobby made a gagging sound. “Mom would never make me eat snails.” He gave Sam a wary look. “You’re not gonna, either, are you?”
“They are considered a delicacy,” Sam told him.
Bobby’s jaw set stubbornly. “I don’t care. I’m not eating them.”
Sam laughed and ruffled his hair. “Okay. Good to know where you draw the line when it comes to food. No snails.”
“No snails,” Bobby repeated fervently. He bounced in his seat. “What are we gonna do today?”
Sam glanced at Mack, then back at his suddenly eager nephew. “I thought I’d play hooky and we could check out the shops on Main Street, maybe spend some time on the beach or swim in the pool. And I think I saw a playground on the town green. Would you like to check that out?”
“All right!” Bobby said with a fist pump that had everyone at the table smiling.
Sam breathed in a sigh of relief. Finally, after days of awkward, disapproving silences and difficult choices that had Bobby shifting from tantrums to outright rebellions, it seemed Sam had gotten something exactly right. Unfortunately, it was mostly thanks to Mack’s instincts and not his own.
* * *
Even after giving Jackson a bath and dressing him in clean clothes after the cereal debacle, Carrie discovered it was still surprisingly pleasant for a morning in early August. Rather than pushing his stroller straight over to her house, she headed for Main Street and then Shore Road.
Her first stop was Grandma Megan’s art gallery, which was currently showing an exhibition of Moira’s local photographs, many of them taken of O’Brien children, as well as other Chesapeake Shores residents. Luke’s wife had become a surprisingly successful photographer thanks to Megan’s contacts in the New York art world. Out of loyalty to Megan, Moira always insisted on a show here in town in late summer. It had the added advantage of giving her a solid stretch of time at home with Luke.
When Grandma Megan spotted Carrie with the baby, she rushed over to hold open the door.
“There’s my precious boy,” she cooed, leaning down to scoop Jackson out of the stroller.
“I’m delighted to see you, too,” Carrie said, amused by her grandmother’s complete lack of interest in anything other than her first great-grandchild.
Megan glanced up at her. “I fussed over you from the day you were born. It’s Jackson’s turn now.” She bounced the baby in her arms. “You’re almost too big for me to hold.”
“I’d suggest you not bounce him quite so energetically,” Carrie cautioned. “He’s just finished his breakfast.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone in this family spit up all over one of us,” Megan said dismissively.
“Didn’t you buy that scarf in Paris when you and Grandpa Mick went there for your second honeymoon?” Carrie asked. “Isn’t it your favorite?”
Her grandmother glanced down and shrugged. “I’ll just make your grandfather take me back to buy another one.”
“And he’d do it without batting an eye, wouldn’t he?” Carrie said, envying them the devotion they’d found together the second time around.
Apparently something in her voice alerted Megan that Carrie was in an odd mood. She returned Jackson to his stroller with a little pat, then turned to Carrie, giving her the full attention she’d apparently concluded was required. “Would you care for some tea? It’s Irish Breakfast tea, Nell’s favorite.”
“We should be going. You’re probably busy.”
“I’m never too busy for a visit with you. Sit. I’ll get the tea.”
When she came back, Carrie was pushing the stroller back and forth and watching Jackson fight sleep.
“Here’s your tea,” Megan said, handing her the delicate, old-fashioned chintz-patterned teacup. “Now tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I’m at loose ends,” Carrie admitted.
“No news there,” her grandmother agreed. “Any thoughts about what you intend to do about it?” She gave her a sly look. “Other than avoiding advice from your grandfather, that is?”
Carrie grinned. “How’d you guess?”
“The way you took off from the pub as if you didn’t hear him calling after you last night,” Megan said. “And the fact that you’re in here right now, rather than in your own house where you could put the baby down for his nap.”
“You know how Grandpa Mick is,” Carrie said.
“I most certainly do,” Megan replied. “That said, not all of his ideas should be dismissed so readily.”
“But I need to find my own ideas,” Carrie argued. “Isn’t that the whole point of growing up, to figure out what we’re meant to do? You didn’t exactly have a handle on it, did you? You were how old and had five kids at home, when you decided it wasn’t enough, divorced Grandpa Mick, moved to New York and discovered how much you loved art and working in a gallery?”
“Touché,” her grandmother said. “But there was a little more to the divorce than my running off to find myself.”
“I know that. It was because Grandpa Mick was a workaholic and you felt like he’d abandoned you to be a single mom, stuck at home with five kids.”
Megan smiled at what even Carrie knew to be a simplistic version of a very difficult time in her grandparents’ marriage.
“That does sum it up,” Megan acknowledged. “Or at least the heart of what happened. Here’s the difference between you and me. I didn’t