She held his gaze, the smile in place. “I’ve missed you, too. Isn’t that remarkable?”
“It’s been a long time,” he said.
“Not so long that you felt the need to call or write?”
He gave her a rueful look. “I’ve never been much good at either. I tell myself to do it, but I just don’t follow through. I don’t really know what to say. It feels strange trying to put down what I’m thinking on paper or to say it into a phone. I don’t know. Ask Nest. I haven’t called or written her either.”
The smile faded, and she shook her head slowly. “It’s all right. I guess I never really thought you would.” She handed him the plate of cookies. “Here, hold these for a moment, will you?”
She shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the coatrack, draping her scarf on top and shoving her gloves into the pockets. She brushed back her hair self-consciously, smoothed her blouse where it tucked into her pants, and took the cookies back.
“Pour me a glass of milk and I’ll share,” she offered, the smile back in place again.
They walked down the hall past the living room, and Bennett and Harper looked up. Little John, kneeling on the couch, never moved. Josie leaned around Ross to say hello and asked if anyone would like a snack. The women didn’t seem to know each other, but neither made an effort to introduce herself, so Ross let the matter alone. He went into the kitchen with Josie, helped her with glasses of milk, then remained leaning against the counter looking off into the tree-shrouded distance while Josie carried a tray for Bennett and the children into the living room.
When she returned, he sat with her at the old wooden table, the cookies and milk between them. For a moment, no one spoke.
“Do you still have the coffee shop?” he asked finally.
“Yep. Mostly the same customers, too. Nothing changes.” She arched one eyebrow. “You?”
“Traveling,” he said. “Working odd jobs here and there, trying to make sense of my life. You know. How’s your daughter?”
“Grown up, married, two kids. I’m a grandmother. Who would have thought?”
“Not me. I don’t see you that way.”
“Thanks. How long are you here for?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know yet. Through Christmas, I guess. It depends.”
She nodded slowly. “On them?” She indicated the living room with a nod of her head.
“Well, on the boy, at least.”
She waited, watching him carefully. When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “Who is he?”
He cleared his throat softly. “He’s my son. I’m taking him to Chicago to see a specialist. He doesn’t speak.”
She went very still. “Is that your wife and daughter with him?”
“What?”
“The woman and the little girl?”
He blinked. “No. Why would you—No, she’s barely twenty, and I don’t…”
“You seemed a little awkward about introducing them,” she said.
“Oh, well, maybe so.” He shook his head. “I don’t know them, is the problem. I just got here last night, and they were already here, and I don’t know much more about them than you do.”
She took a bite of cookie and a sip of milk, eyes shifting away. “Tell me about your son. Where is his mother?”
He shook his head again. “I don’t know.” He caught himself too late, the lie already spoken, and quickly added, “He’s adopted. Single-parent adoption.” His mind raced. “That’s another reason I’m here. I’m not much good at this. I’m hoping Nest can help.”
He was getting in deeper, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He had never thought he would have to explain the gypsy morph to anyone except Nest, that he would slip in at night, tell her why he was there, then wait for something to develop, and slip out again. Instead, he found himself in a situation where he was forced to make things up almost faster than he could manage.
“What is it you think Nest can do?”
He stared at her wearily. “I don’t know,” he admitted, realizing he was saying the same thing over/and over, but this time speaking the truth. “I’m in over my head, and 1 don’t know who else to turn to.”