Page 117 of Hidden Nature

“Are you sure about that?”

“I am. Sunday dinner, six o’clock. Dean, we should get going. I want to get this soup to Drea.” As she spoke she stepped over to hug Sloan, slid the back of her hand under Sloan’s bangs to check for fever.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Just making sure. Oh, and I brought over some mirrors I had in storage,” she added as Dean got her coat, helped her on with it. “In the box on your counter. That wall there? Mirrors, if you like them. Enjoy your fireplace.”

“Believe me, I will.”

“See you and Theo Sunday, Nash.”

When they left, Nash began to pack up his tools as Sloan hung up her coat.

“You don’t know Elsie Cooper all that well yet,” she said casually. “I’m going to help you out. There’s no point in trying to think of an excuse for Sunday.”

“I don’t want to horn in on family.”

“She wouldn’t have asked if she considered it horning in. She likes to cook for people. Hence, you and Theo, and I, are having homemade chicken soup tonight. It won’t be fancy,” she added. “She’ll fuss a little because you’re company, but you’ll know what fork to use and can leave your tux at home.”

“But I look so good in it.”

Head tilted, she gave him a sweeping glance. Workingman’s jeans and flannel shirt, tool belt, Mets cap, boots. He looked good in it. And in a tux? Yeah, she could see it.

“Bet you do. How’s Theo?”

“He’s crawled out of the hole. He was still sitting on the edge of it this morning, so I told him I’d kick his ass if he came near me for another twenty-four.”

“Smart. Drea’s taken a few solid steps from the edge, but she caught it first. Being in love means sharing germs.”

“That’s one way to look at it. Is she?”

“What?”

“Stupid question.” He made a wiping away gesture. “One I shouldn’t ask.” She was too easy to talk to, he realized, and that made him forget the boundary lines. “Pretend I didn’t.”

“Oh, Drea. Why shouldn’t you ask? You’re his brother, I’m her sister. She’s crazy about him. I don’t have to ask the question in reverse because I have eyes. But you could let him know, if you so choose, if he screws this up, hurts her in any way—”

“You’ll kick his ass. I can’t make that statement in reverse for obvious reasons. I’ll just buy him the beer he can cry into.”

“It’ll be wine and ice cream on this end. But I don’t think they will. Screw it up.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’ve got something.”

She said it so simply it sounded like truth.

“And they’re both nice people,” she continued. “Not stupid, not spineless, just nice people who know entirely too much minutia on the Marvel Universe.”

“Her, too?” Amused, he reached for his coat. “We used to hide the comic books under the mattress.”

“Why would you have to hide them?”

He caught himself for the second time, had to wonder how that had slipped out. “No time to read about Iron Man when you’re supposed to readMoby-Dick.”

“I always liked the first sentence. ‘Call me Ishmael.’ Then, for me, it goes downhill from there.”

“It’s all an allegory.”

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