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with him last night. I suspected he would not be driving again for a very long time.
    Whoever it was, they could wait. I stepped into the shower and washed away the grime of cooking and the sweat of running all over town. In the shower where no one could see or hear, I let myself have a good cry over everything—the struggle of single parenthood, the pressure of trying to make ends meet, Michael’s illness, my father’s rejection, all of it. It doesn’t always help to cry it out, but I’ve found it doesn’t hurt.

    I didn’t hear the voices on the porch until I got to the bottom of the stairs. Three of them, very animated. One belonged to Shane. One to Michael. One to our mysterious visitor, a voice I didn’t recognize, and although it was indistinct, it was one of those baritones that carry in the best possible way—much too deep for any of my family members.
    So I was grateful I’d taken a shower and didn’t look like something the cat dragged in. I smelled coffee brewing, and as I made my way through the room Sylvia had called the parlor and we used as a dining room, Shane popped back in through the screen door and gave me the funniest look. Pleased. Abashed, even. An expression I didn’t see much anymore and that had once been reserved for his father, the odd celebrity, or a dazzlingly beautiful girl.
    “Who is it?” I whispered, trying to see out the window to the porch. The lace curtain blocked everything but the shape of a man’s shoulders. Fairly burly shoulders topped by a dark head.
    Shane said, “I gotta get to the lunch,” and grinned at me, ducking away before I had a chance to corner him.
    So there wasn’t really anything to do but be glad I was clean, even if I didn’t have any makeup on and had tossed on some comfortable, ancient jean shorts and a tank top in preparation for a good nap after lunch. I stepped out on the porch.
    Michael was facing the visitor, who had his back to me, and whoever it was, I smiled, because Michael was laughing. Laughing the way he used to, the way that infected everyone around him and made them laugh, too. That was the big thing that drew people, not just the size and beauty of him, but that infectious zest. He loved everything, and it made you want to love things, too.
    “Jewel!” Michael said. “Look who’s here.”
    And instantly I knew who it was, a man so large that I had a sense of him unfolding as he stood up and turned around. There was something familiar about his movements, the shape of his shoulders, the set of his head.
    Malachi.
    Other than body type, the brothers could not have looked more different. He was as dark as Michael was fair—hair the darkest shade of cinnamon brown, eyes the color of bitter chocolate, skin tanned as dark as Brazil nuts because that’s where he’d been, leading an adventure tour down the Amazon.
    He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of jeans and heavy boots for riding that motorcycle I’d heard. Covered with road dust, hair sweaty from the helmet that sat on the ground near his chair, and obviously exhausted, he still kindled a flash of instant lust.
    And to my dismay, I could see it was hitting him, too. His eyes touched my arms and body, my knees and hair. Especially my hair.
    The lust didn’t appear to make him any happier than it made me.
    I had at least five years on him, maybe more. And guys like this, they want girls—emphasis on girl—with pierced belly buttons and skinny thighs, neither of which I own. Forget about it, I told myself.
    “Malachi,” I said.
    “And you’re the famous Jewel.”
    I wanted to slide my eyes down his body but didn’t, kept them firmly fastened to his face. “Or infamous, depending on which tabloids you read.”
    That made him grin. “Right.”
    Shane came out, bringing mugs of coffee. “Milk and lots of sugar,” he said, like a waiter, putting one down on the little table for Malachi. “Black,” for me. “White,” for Michael.
    “Thanks,