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Authors: Kasey Michaels
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have used the help. But my mother’s gone now—she moved to Sarasota, that is—and I’ve learned to feel like this area is our home.”
“And now you’re working for a famous author, Chessie told me.”
“Richard, yes.” She looked out the window as they drove past the large three-story mansion—there was nothing else to call it but a mansion. “You came in through the gates earlier, but if you drive past them, there’s another lane you can use to get straight to the guesthouse and garages.”
“Okay, I see it,” Will said, and in another few moments they were in sight of the large stone-walled bank of garages. There was a light burning at the top of the outside staircase and the small landing that was there and another in the kitchen lit up two of the windows. “How old is this place? Do you know?”
“Richard says the main house was built in 1816, but the garages were added much later, along with several additions to the house itself. It’s difficult to tell, though, as the stone is such a good match. The original Halstead homestead was part of a very large farm.”
Will pulled his car to a halt behind Elizabeth’s and put the transmission in Park. “Halstead.” And then he said it again. “Halstead…oh, now I remember. There’s an old oil painting of a Judge Halstead in the courthouse. Very imposing man. I have a feeling a lawyer who spoke out of turn in his courthouse probably ended up in the public stocks. Or maybe his wig just itched.”
“He wore a wig?” Elizabeth eyed the staircase to her apartment. She wanted to be up there, safely on the other side of the door. What was the matter with her? She hadn’t been nervous earlier. Why was she nervous now? “That must have been a long time ago. Well…well, thank you again, Will. The boys and I really had a nice time.”
Will shifted on his seat, looking over his shoulder. “You’re going to need help with these guys. They’re out cold. And I’d love a cup of coffee, if you don’t mind.”
He’d love a cup of coffee. Of course he would. It would only be polite to ask him, too. Elizabeth Carstairs, you’re hopeless!
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, opening her door before he could come around and do the courteous thing. The date-like thing. “You’ll have to pop the child locks,” she reminded him.
She then opened one of the back doors while he opened the other and, together, they looked at the sleeping twins. Danny had used his autograph hound as a sort of headrest, and Mikey—oh, oh, Mikey —had his thumb in his mouth. He only did that when he was exhausted. Her heart melted.
“Come on, boys. We’re home. You have to get up now,” she told them, reaching in to touch them each on the cheek. So soft, so warm. Her babies. “Mikey, come on, sweetheart. Danny?”
“I’m thinking a megaphone,” Will said, grinning at her across the expanse of the backseat. “Or maybe dynamite.”
Elizabeth shook Mikey’s bare leg and then unhooked his seat belt. “Mikey. Michael Joseph Carstairs. Wake up!”
“Wake up, it’s time for bed. That makes sense. That’s a mother thing, isn’t it, passed down from generation to generation,” Will said, unhooking Danny’s seat belt. “Look, Elizabeth, I have an idea. You run ahead and open the door, and I’ll carry them upstairs, one at a time.”
The idea made sense. Perfect sense. Well, perfect sense to someone who hadn’t been both mother and father to the twins since they were three. She was used to handling the boys on her own. She was independent. She was capable. She was being an idiot….
She reached into her purse for her keys. “I can manage Mikey,” she said, already pulling the boy’s pliable form toward her. “Fireman’s lift. It works.” She took Mikey’s new hat from him, stuck it on her own head—what else was there to do with it?—hefted her son over her shoulder and then retrieved the autograph hound, tucking it under her other arm. Her knees wanted to
“And now you’re working for a famous author, Chessie told me.”
“Richard, yes.” She looked out the window as they drove past the large three-story mansion—there was nothing else to call it but a mansion. “You came in through the gates earlier, but if you drive past them, there’s another lane you can use to get straight to the guesthouse and garages.”
“Okay, I see it,” Will said, and in another few moments they were in sight of the large stone-walled bank of garages. There was a light burning at the top of the outside staircase and the small landing that was there and another in the kitchen lit up two of the windows. “How old is this place? Do you know?”
“Richard says the main house was built in 1816, but the garages were added much later, along with several additions to the house itself. It’s difficult to tell, though, as the stone is such a good match. The original Halstead homestead was part of a very large farm.”
Will pulled his car to a halt behind Elizabeth’s and put the transmission in Park. “Halstead.” And then he said it again. “Halstead…oh, now I remember. There’s an old oil painting of a Judge Halstead in the courthouse. Very imposing man. I have a feeling a lawyer who spoke out of turn in his courthouse probably ended up in the public stocks. Or maybe his wig just itched.”
“He wore a wig?” Elizabeth eyed the staircase to her apartment. She wanted to be up there, safely on the other side of the door. What was the matter with her? She hadn’t been nervous earlier. Why was she nervous now? “That must have been a long time ago. Well…well, thank you again, Will. The boys and I really had a nice time.”
Will shifted on his seat, looking over his shoulder. “You’re going to need help with these guys. They’re out cold. And I’d love a cup of coffee, if you don’t mind.”
He’d love a cup of coffee. Of course he would. It would only be polite to ask him, too. Elizabeth Carstairs, you’re hopeless!
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, opening her door before he could come around and do the courteous thing. The date-like thing. “You’ll have to pop the child locks,” she reminded him.
She then opened one of the back doors while he opened the other and, together, they looked at the sleeping twins. Danny had used his autograph hound as a sort of headrest, and Mikey—oh, oh, Mikey —had his thumb in his mouth. He only did that when he was exhausted. Her heart melted.
“Come on, boys. We’re home. You have to get up now,” she told them, reaching in to touch them each on the cheek. So soft, so warm. Her babies. “Mikey, come on, sweetheart. Danny?”
“I’m thinking a megaphone,” Will said, grinning at her across the expanse of the backseat. “Or maybe dynamite.”
Elizabeth shook Mikey’s bare leg and then unhooked his seat belt. “Mikey. Michael Joseph Carstairs. Wake up!”
“Wake up, it’s time for bed. That makes sense. That’s a mother thing, isn’t it, passed down from generation to generation,” Will said, unhooking Danny’s seat belt. “Look, Elizabeth, I have an idea. You run ahead and open the door, and I’ll carry them upstairs, one at a time.”
The idea made sense. Perfect sense. Well, perfect sense to someone who hadn’t been both mother and father to the twins since they were three. She was used to handling the boys on her own. She was independent. She was capable. She was being an idiot….
She reached into her purse for her keys. “I can manage Mikey,” she said, already pulling the boy’s pliable form toward her. “Fireman’s lift. It works.” She took Mikey’s new hat from him, stuck it on her own head—what else was there to do with it?—hefted her son over her shoulder and then retrieved the autograph hound, tucking it under her other arm. Her knees wanted to
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