Suddenly Married (9 page)

They smelled so sweet, like a beautiful blend of baby powder and sunshine, that she couldn’t help but give each little forehead a lingering kiss. “Did you sleep well?”

Angie stepped out of the hug and, nodding, said, “I had a dream.”

“Good or bad?” Dara asked.

“Very good.” Smiling, the girl wiggled her dark eyebrows. “You married Father and became our new mother.”

Heart pounding, Dara resisted the urge to gasp.

“That wasn’t a good dream,” Bobby said into Dara’s sweater. She looked into eyes as blue as cornflowers. “It was a
great
dream!” Grinning, he tightened his hold on Dara. His cherubic smile broadened as he added, “You’d be a good mother, I think.”

It was amazing how uplifting his words had been. “Why is that?”

“Because you’re fun and nice and you give good hugs. And,” he tacked on as mischief danced in his eyes, “you’re very pretty, too.”

She felt her spirit soar. “Well, thank you,” she said simply. “Now, are you hungry?”

Both children nodded. “Father keeps the cereal in the pantry.”

Opening the double doors, Dara inspected the shelves, where cold cereals of every brand and variety filled one whole shelf. “Say…there’s pancake mix in here,” she said over her shoulder. “How about a nice, tall stack of flapjacks, instead of cereal?”

“Flapjacks?” Bobby echoed, giggling. “That’s a funny word.” He marched around the kitchen, arms pumping, knees churning, repeating it like a chant. “Flapjacks, flapjacks, flapjacks.”

“Be still, Bobby,” Angie said. And to Dara, “He’s such a baby.”

He stopped midstep. Hands on his hips, he leaned forward. “I am
not
a baby!”

“No. You’re six years old,” his sister noted. “So act it.”

The boy met Dara’s gaze. Pouting, he asked, “Is marching for babies?”

Down on one knee, she pressed a palm to his cheek. “Have you ever been to a parade?”

“Of course we have,” Angie volunteered in his stead. “Every Fourth of July.”

Ignoring the girl’s too-old demeanor, Dara said, “Then I’m sure you’ve seen all sorts of people—grown-ups included—marching. Musicians and soldiers and—”

“And
clowns!
” Bobby squealed.

“It’s rude to interrupt,” Angie said.

Dara made up her mind then and there to find out what was at the root of Angie’s rigid, unchildlike behavior. For now, though, it seemed in everybody’s best interests to distract her.

“Where do you guys keep the maple syrup?”

“‘Guys’ is not the proper way to refer to—”

“Angie,” Dara said, hands on the child’s shoulders, “how would you like to help me make pancakes?”

“Flapjacks!” Bobby corrected.

Dara grinned at him. “Flapjacks.”

The girl’s dark eyes brightened, widened, and a big smile lit up her face. “You mean it?”

“Sure!”

Angie clapped her hands and jumped up and down. “The only time we’ve ever had pancakes was in a restaurant. Father always burns them, and Mother never liked them.” She turned to her brother, still bouncing like a rubber ball. “Pancakes! Right here in our own kitchen!”

“First,” Dara instructed, “we’ll need a great big bowl and one of those giant mixing spoons.”

Bobby rummaged in a low cabinet, withdrew a stain-less-steel bowl large enough for him to sit in. When he held it out in front of him, he all but disappeared behind it. “How’s this?” he asked, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

It was, in fact, five times larger than necessary, but Dara didn’t have the heart to tell him that. “Perfect!” she said, putting it on the counter. “Now, how about a step stool?”

“In the pantry,” Angie announced, dragging it from where it stood between the ironing board and a dust
mop. The broom handle teetered for a moment before toppling from the pantry. “Watch out, Bobby!”

But her warning came a tick in time too late. The handle landed square on the back of the boy’s head with a horrible
thump
that put him onto his hind end.

Dara didn’t quite know what to make of the fact that the broom handle’s blow had knocked Bobby off his feet. It wasn’t as if it had been wielded, like a bat. Its slow descent surely would have smarted, but this? On her knees, she wrapped him in a fierce hug, kissing his temples and cheeks. “Oh, sweetie,” she crooned, “are you all right?”

He was trying hard not to cry. “Yes, ma’am,” he said around a sob. Wincing, he rubbed his head. “I’m fine.”

“Well, then, what do you say we get busy on those pancakes.”

He grinned past his tears. “Flapjacks,” he corrected again.

Laughing, Dara helped him up. “Maybe we can have the
flapjacks
ready before your dad wakes up.”

“He’s sure gonna be surprised,” Bobby said, rubbing the back of his head.

Dara couldn’t help but notice the way he staggered those first few steps.
Lord,
she prayed, frowning slightly,
what’s going on here?

No sooner had she completed the thought than the boy was back to hopping and skipping around the kitchen.
Thank You!
she told God. And sighing with relief, Dara gathered the ingredients to make the main course.

After positioning the stool near the counter, she found a package of link sausage in the fridge, a dozen eggs and a loaf of unsliced Italian bread. Quickly and
efficiently, she dumped the meat into a cast-iron skillet, and while it sizzled, she sliced the bread. “Have you ever made toast, Bobby?”

“No, ma’am.”

But it was obvious by the excitement gleaming in his blue eyes that he’d love an opportunity to try. “Well, you’re in charge of toast.” She pulled open several drawers until she found the one where Noah kept the silverware. Handing the boy a butter knife and a stick of margarine, she slid two pieces of bread into the toaster and patted the stool. “Now, you have to be very, very careful not to touch anything until I tell you it’s safe,” she said as Bobby climbed onto the seat. “We don’t want you to burn your fingers, now do we?”

Grinning from ear to ear, he said, “No, ma’am.”

She tucked in one corner of her mouth. “Bobby, sweetie, would you do me a really big favor?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Dara rested a hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’” She wrinkled her nose. “Makes me feel like an old fuddy-duddy.”

His brow crinkled. “What’s a fuddy-duddy?”

Laughing, Dara drew him into a hug. “A fuddy-duddy is a stuffy crone.”

“Oh,” he said gravely, his expression and tone telling Dara he didn’t know what a crone was, either. “What
would
you like me to call you?”

If it were up to her alone, they’d call her “Dara.” Period. But since Noah never corrected them when they referred to him as “Father,” like youngsters out of an old Dickens tale, she presumed he wouldn’t approve of that. “How about calling me ‘Miss Dara,’” she suggested. “You’ll have to call me ‘Miss Mackenzie’
when we’re in Sunday-school class, of course, so the other children won’t be jealous, but when it’s just us—”

“Why would they be jealous?” Angie wanted to know.

Standing, Dara slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “They might think that since we’re, ah, special friends, I might give you special treatment.”

“I get it,” Bobby blurted. “They’ll think we’re teacher’s pets!”

“Exactly!” Dara said. “Now, we’d better get busy, or your dad will be down before we even get started.”

“I can’t believe he’s sleeping so late,” Angie admitted. “He’s usually the first one up. Most days, when we come downstairs, he already has our cereal in a bowl and our milk and juice poured.”

Bobby nodded in agreement. “And a spoon on our napkin, with a vitamin next to the spoon.”

Her heart skipped a beat as she acknowledged all the little, caring things he’d been doing since the children’s mother died. She opened the cupboard where Noah kept the plates, took four from the shelf and carried them to the table. “Let’s get this out of the way so we won’t have anything to distract us.”

In minutes, it seemed, breakfast was ready.

Noah came into the room as if on cue, his eyes still sleep puffy, sheet wrinkles dimpling his cheeks. He’d put on jeans—black ones this time—and a gray-andwhite flannel shirt and, in place of the sneakers, a pair of well-worn leather loafers.

“How’s a guy supposed to sleep with all these wonderful scents flittin’ through the air?” he croaked.

Dara began filling their plates as Bobby giggled. “You sound like a frog, Father.”

Grinning, Noah picked up his son, planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Sorry,” he said, and proceeded to clear his throat.

“Now you sound like a bear,” Angie put in.

He scooped her up, too, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “G’mornin’, darlin’. Did you sleep tight?”

She nodded. And smiling, Angie said, “
You
sure slept late today. What happened? Did your alarm clock break?”

Gently, he put the children on the floor. “No,” he said, focusing on Dara, “I just forgot to set it.” And grinning, he added, “Don’t know where my mind’s been lately.”

She’d already filled the juice glasses and now poured coffee into his mug. “Everything’s ready,” she announced. “Let’s sit down before it gets cold. Angie and Bobby worked very hard to make you this feast.”

Eyes widening, he smiled at his kids. “
You
made breakfast?”

“Yup,” Bobby proclaimed.

“Well,” Angie said hesitantly, “we helped.”

“I couldn’t have done it without them,” Dara put in as Noah took his place at the head of the table and the children sat to his right and left, leaving the chair straight across from him for Dara, just like last night. She slid onto the caned chair seat and flapped a napkin across her knees. “Pass the salt, please?”

Grinning, Noah handed Bobby the butter dish, and snickering, the boy passed it down to Dara. She took it and, tucking in one corner of her mouth, said, “Thank you. May I have the salt shaker?”

This time Noah sent the pepper by way of Angie, whose mischievous grin made it apparent that Dara had been included in some sort of family game. She put
the pepper shaker beside the butter dish and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Angie.” And eyes on the girl’s father, she tried again. “May I please have the salt?”

Smiling wider than ever, Noah put the plate of toast into his son’s hands. And a moment later, the sausage platter, the pancake plate, even the jelly jar, sat in a tight cluster around Dara’s place mat…everything
except
the salt.

Noah raised his left brow, looked at Angie, then Bobby. “She doesn’t
seem
like the type who’d hog all the food,” he said, feigning disgust, “but would you look at that?” He shook his head. “Didn’t your mother teach you to share, Dara?”

Shoulders hunched, and hiding behind their hands, the children giggled.

“Funny. Very funny, you guys,” Dara said, trying hard not to laugh herself. “And yes, my mother taught me to share.” She stood, headed for Noah’s end of the table. “She also taught me to take care of myself,” she added, snatching the salt shaker. Calm as you please, she returned to her seat and sprinkled her eggs with the seasoning. “When I asked for the salt,” she added, “I didn’t think you’d
assault
me with everything but!”

The Lucases laughed as she put the shaker down with a solid
thud,
and aiming a perfect Stan Laurel smile at Noah, Dara speared a slice of sausage. “Mmmm.” She closed her eyes. “Dee-
lish
-us.”

“So what do you think, kids?” Noah began. “Isn’t Miss Mackenzie pretty first thing in the morning?”

“
I
think she’s pretty
all
the time,” Bobby admitted.

He tousled the boy’s hair. “When you’re right, son, you’re right.”

Dara felt the heat of a blush brightening her cheeks,
and wished for a legitimate excuse to leave the table, at least until the color faded. Unable to think of one, she tried a different tack. “After we get the breakfast dishes cleaned up, what say we go outside and build snow forts.”

“Snowmen, you mean.”

Dara gave Angie’s hand a gentle squeeze. “No, sweetie. I mean snow forts. First we’ll make big bricks, then stack them one on one. We’ll build two walls and make a whole pile of snowballs and split up into teams, and—”

“I get it!” Bobby hollered. “We’ll duck down behind the walls and throw the snowballs at one another!”

“You mean…like a pretend war?”

“Oh, no-o-o, Angie. Not a
pretend
war,” Dara replied in a deliberately serious voice. “I play to win!”

“Then I want to be on your side!” Bobby yelled.

“No,” Angie protested. “
I
want to be on her side!”

Laughing, Dara sat back in her chair. “Kids, kids,” she said, waving her hands like white flags. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more wanted in my life, but there’s enough of me to go around. Here’s how we’ll solve our little dilemma.”

“What’s a…a dalemon?” Bobby wanted to know.

“Not dalemon, silly.” Angie sighed. “
Dih
-lemma. It means problem.” With a smug smile, she looked at Noah. “Doesn’t it, Father?”

He nodded, then focused on Dara again. “So what’s the solution to our
dih
-lemma, Teach?”

“First, it’ll be the boys against the girls, then Bobby and me versus you and Angie.”

“Then the grown-ups against the kids!” Bobby started packing food into his cheeks like a chipmunk
storing up nuts for a long, hard winter. “Hurry up!” he mumbled around a mouthful. “Let’s finish breakfast so we can go outside!”

Frowning, Angie groaned. “He’s behaving like a nasty little pig. Tell him not to talk with his mouth full, Father.”

Her scolding didn’t seem to have fazed Bobby. Grinning impishly, he stuffed even more food into his mouth. “Better make that ‘piglet.’”

“Piglet?” Angie echoed, crossing both arms over her chest.

He swallowed, washed down his mouthful with a swig of orange juice. “Well, you said I was acting like a baby, now you say I’m acting like a pig. And a baby pig is called…” He lifted both shoulders and held out his hands, inviting his sister to finish the sentence for him. When she didn’t, he climbed off his chair and carried his empty plate to the sink. “Thanks for the flapjacks, Miss Mac—I mean, Miss Dara.” And slinging an arm over his father’s shoulder, Bobby added, “Thanksgiving is next week, isn’t it?”