How silly, Cris chided herself, to get choked up over a crayon drawing, even a good crayon drawing, depicting a little boy holding what she could only assume was his mother’s hand. The two figures were surrounded by three female figures and a tall, thin man, who, because Ricky had used a gray crayon for the hair, had to be his grandfather. This was their family, Cris thought, the way her son saw all of them.
Close.
Hovering over this gathering was what appeared to be a large, unusual-looking bird. Cris glanced at her son. Approval and maternal pride shone in her eyes.
“It’s beautiful, honey.”
Ricky nodded, as if he had expected that response. Proudly, he acted like a tour guide for the drawing. “That’s you, Mama, and me. You’re holding my hand—”
“I can see that,” Cris said, relieved that she had correctly assumed as much and sounded believable when she commented on it.
“—’cause I’m letting you,” Ricky added by way of a narrative. “But I am a big boy.”
Cris knew that was her son’s way of making sure she understood he considered himself independent. “Yes, you are,” she agreed.
“And that’s Aunt Alex, and Aunt Stevi and Aunt Andy,” he continued, pointing his finger at each figure. All three had blond hair, just as he and his mother did, but he had dressed them in different colors and had managed to capture the height difference. “And that’s Grandpa,” he explained, jabbing a small finger at the other male on the page. “And that’s Daddy,” Ricky concluded, pointing to the winged creation just above his self-portrait.
“You drew your daddy as a bird?” Alex asked, trying to follow her nephew’s reasoning.
“Not a bird,” Ricky said indignantly. “He’s an angel.”
“Of course he is. Can’t you see that?” Stevi deliberately took her nephew’s side, pretending that Alex had to be blind not to see the figure for who it was.
Cris laughed as she bent over to hug her son, delighted that he thought his father was watching over him, the way she’d explained when Ricky had asked her to tell him about his father.
“Yes, he is, Ricky. Don’t mind your aunt Alex, she’s not good at seeing what’s right in front of her unless someone points it out.”
Alex knew Cris was referring to the antagonistic relationship Alex and Wyatt had had on the surface for years before Alex had realized how deep the feelings ran. Because Ricky was present, she decided not to comment on Cris’s barely veiled allusion.
“You gonna put that on the ’frigerator?” Ricky asked, eagerly shifting from foot to foot as he watched his mother’s face.
“Yes, I am.” She held out the drawing, taking note of its size. It was bigger than most of the drawings he brought home. “But you realize that means I have to take down another one of your drawings,” she reminded Ricky. “We’ve only go so much room on the refrigerator—even if it is industrial-sized,” she added, winking at him affectionately.
The boy nodded solemnly. “I know, Mama. I’m not a dummy-head.”
“Ah, a new term from the playground I see,” Cris noted with a good-natured sigh. He seemed to have a new addition to his vocabulary at least once a week. Usually not of the best variety. “No, sweetheart, you’re not a ‘dummy-head’ and I hope you don’t call anyone else that,” she added, eyeing the boy.
Silky straight blond hair swung as Ricky shook his head in firm denial. “No, ’cause you said not to call people names even if they call me those names. Right?” he asked.
“Right. Because that makes you the bigger man,” Cris concluded firmly.
An unexpected little frown formed on Ricky’s forehead as he said, “Teacher says I’m not a man.”
Alex ruffled her nephew’s hair and laughed affectionately. “Your teacher doesn’t know you the way we do,” she assured the boy. “You’re more of a man than some guys three times your age.”
From the look on Ricky’s face, her nephew clearly saw no reason to contest that. He beamed at her as though she had just lifted a bad spell he’d been forced to endure for the sake of peace and quiet.
“You hungry, big guy?” Cris asked.
“Uh-huh,” he answered, once again bobbing his head.
“Okay, let’s see what we can find for you to eat,” Cris suggested.
As she slipped her arm around his shoulders, ready to usher him to the inn’s kitchen, Shane McCallister emerged from the section of the inn temporarily curtained off with sheets of plastic. They hung from the ceiling and went all the way to the floor to keep dust spreading to the rest of the inn at a minimum.
Behind the plastic sheets, the latest addition, as well as renovations to a previously constructed section, was taking place. Dust from his recent foray into carpentry had turned sections of Shane’s dark blond hair to a shade of off-white.
Ricky had taken to Shane astoundingly fast. Excited to see him now, the boy broke away from his mother and ran over to the contractor.
“Look at what I drewed, Shane!” he declared proudly, holding up the drawing.
Shane got down on one knee, the hammer that was hanging from his tool belt hitting the tiled floor with a thud. He gave the boy his complete attention.
One arm around the boy’s waist, Shane pulled Ricky to him as he held one edge of the drawing with the other. “You drew this?” he asked with the appropriate amount of wonder in his voice.
Pleased at the reaction he was receiving, Ricky grinned. “Yes, I did.”
“Cool. That’s a really fine family portrait,” Shane said. Releasing Ricky but still holding the drawing with one hand, he pointed with the other hand to what had previously been identified as a bird. “That angel your dad?”
Cris exchanged looks with Stevi, who watched from a distance. The latter shrugged in confusion, as clueless as Cris about how Shane could identify what still appeared to be an oversize bird. Cris couldn’t help wondering if perhaps Shane had somehow overheard the end of the conversation about the drawing. Shane’s startling interpretative ability seemed too much of a coincidence otherwise.
“Yes!” Ricky cried out, glancing over his shoulder at his mother. The glance all but shouted, See?
“You can tell it’s an angel?” Cris asked, gazing at the general contractor pointedly to see if he was pulling her leg.
“Sure,” Shane replied, the complete picture of innocence.
“Why didn’t you think it was a bird?” she asked suspiciously.
He regarded her as if the answer was obvious. “Because it’s a family portrait and Ricky doesn’t have a pet bird.”
Cris laughed as she shook her head. “You’re good,” she told him, impressed. “You make it sound so simple.”
The smile on his handsome, tanned face was utterly and frustratingly enigmatic. “Some things just are. Right, Rick?”
In response to hearing the adult version of his name, Ricky puffed up his small chest and beamed at this newest man in his life.
“Right,” he echoed with confidence. “Mama’s gonna make me lunch. You wanna have some, too?” Ricky asked, slipping his hand into Shane’s as if the man’s affirmative answer was already a foregone conclusion.
“Okay,” Shane readily agreed. He jerked a thumb toward where he’d parked his vehicle. “I was just going to take break and get my lunch out of the truck. Give me a few minutes and I’ll join you, Rick,” he said, pulling his hand out of the boy’s grip.
Cris stared at him.