A Wedding for Christmas. Marie Ferrarella

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      CHAPTER THREE

      RICKY SCRAMBLED UP onto one of the stools that stood against the long stainless-steel service table where Cris did most of her food preparations. Rather than sit, he knelt on the stool so that he appeared bigger to his new friend, who took the stool next to his.

      “You know what I like, Mama,” Ricky piped up in response to her question.

      Like everyone else in the family, she indulged her son, but not when it came to his nutrition. “Yes, I do, and you know what I say to that.”

      “What?” Shane asked, the exchange arousing his curiosity. He glanced from Cris to her son. “What is it you like, Rick?”

      “Hot dogs!” the boy declared, his high-pitched voice all but vibrating with enthusiasm. Cris had a strong feeling that if she allowed it, the boy would eat hot dogs for breakfast, lunch and dinner. “I love ’em best of all!”

      “I like them myself,” Shane told Ricky, getting a big grin from the boy and a reproving glare from his somewhat frustrated mother. “But you know,” he continued without missing a beat, taking his cue from the expression on Cris’s face, “they’re really not very good for your insides. That’s why they should only be eaten on very, very special occasions. Right, Rick?”

      The boy appeared torn between siding with his newfound friend, whom he wanted to impress, and campaigning for his beloved meal of choice. When Shane continued eyeing him as if waiting for backup from an equal, Ricky finally capitulated, shrugging his small, thin shoulders as he did so.

      “Yeah, I guess so.”

      “You know what else I like, Ricky?” Shane asked the boy.

      There was a wary look in the child’s eyes as he inquired, “What?”

      Shane leaned in closer and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. “Vegetables.”

      Ricky appeared horrified at the mere thought. “Oh, yuck.” The response rose to his lips automatically.

      Shane pretended to consider what he’d said. “Well, maybe they don’t taste quite as good as hot dogs,” he allowed, “but they do taste pretty good. I like them mashed in with potatoes, or fried with a little oil and bread crumbs. And not only do they taste good,” he continued, focusing exclusively on Ricky rather than on his mother, “but they help make your insides healthy and they make you strong. Pretty cool, huh?”

      Ricky regarded him with eyes beyond huge. “They really make you strong?”

      “They really make you strong,” Shane echoed. He gazed at Ricky solemnly and drew his thumb across his chest in the form of an X. “Cross my heart,” he told the boy.

      Ricky shifted on the stool, planting his seat on the plastic cushion, and looked up at his mother. “Can we have that, Mama? Can we have vegeta-bib-bles with mashed potatoes and bread crumbs?”

      “No,” Shane said, laughing and jumping in to correct him, “it’s either with mashed potatoes or fried with bread crumbs.” It occurred to him that maybe he had overstepped his boundaries. Turning to Cris, Shane tendered a veiled apology. “I didn’t mean to put you out.”

      “You didn’t,” she assured him quickly. “Trust me, any suggestion that’ll get this one—” she nodded at Ricky “—to eat his vegetables is greatly appreciated. Any particular vegetable I should be using?”

      Shane thought only a moment, remembering the combination his mother used to make to get his elder brother and him to eat their vegetables. “Well, how about spinach? That goes pretty well with mashed potatoes.”

      “Spinach?” Ricky cried, clutching his throat and pretending to fall over, poisoned, while emitting a rasping noise that, Shane assumed, was supposed to be a death rattle.

      Shane laughed at the impromptu performance. “Oh, most definitely spinach,” he told Ricky with certainty. “That makes you really strong. You ever hear of Popeye the Sailor?”

      “Uh-uh,” Ricky said, shaking his head so hard that if he’d been a cartoon character, his head would have gone spinning off.

      The boy’s answer didn’t surprise Shane. He was convinced that kids today were missing out on a very special collection of imaginative cartoons from a classic era.

      “No?” he said, pretending to question. “Well, have I got a treat for you. Why don’t I tell you all about him while your mom makes us lunch?”

      She had to hand it to Shane. He was handling her son like a pro. She caught herself wondering if Shane had gotten married. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but then a lot of men didn’t. And he seemed like such a natural with kids it was difficult for her to imagine that he’d gotten that way without having one of his own to practice on.

      The thought of Shane having a family made her happy for him, but at the same time, it came with an accompanying sense of...well, sadness, for lack of a better word.

      “Anything else you two men would like to go with those vegetables?” Cris asked, doing her very best not to laugh.

      Shane shrugged casually. “Anything you’ve got will be fine.”

      “Yeah, fine, Mama,” Ricky said, emulating Shane.

      “How about fried chicken?” she suggested.

      Rather than agree, Shane first looked at the boy to have him weigh in. “What do you say—you up for that, Rick?”

      This time, Ricky bobbed his head with the same enthusiasm he’d displayed when asking for hot dogs.

      “Fried chicken it is,” Shane told Cris, placing their “order.”

      “One last question,” Cris promised. “Light meat or dark?” The question was for Shane, since she already knew which her son preferred.

      “I’m a leg man myself,” Shane said with a hint of a smile that made Cris think perhaps the information applied to more than chickens.

      “Me, too, Mama,” Ricky piped up right after Shane. “I’m a leg man, too.”

      Cris banked the urge to hug Ricky to her and laugh. She knew that would only embarrass him before his new СКАЧАТЬ