Sunburst by Jennifer Greene Page A

night, so a nap was essential every day for both of them. It was the kind of life that took closeness between couples for granted. Without it they couldn’t have survived.
    The Calhouns had a teenage son whom Martha dismally labeled immature, and whose sole interest in life, it seemed, was playing drums. Their seven-year-old daughter already needed braces and apparently lived in trees. Martha spent her time alternately worrying that the girl was going to kill herself climbing, or that one or all of them would go deaf from the constant drum practice. Erica pictured Leonard as stocky and steady, probably no better-looking than Martha but just as good-humored. He had to be, in a house where shaving cream was mixed with food coloring to make finger paints, and toothpaste was used to clean pewter. That Martha was happily married was as obvious as her clear, bright eyes and her smile that never took a rest.
    “We aren’t going to have to strip the finish off this, you know,” she said with satisfaction. “We’ll just use a good, strong cover-up polish…”
    The table was nearly done, the water spots barely perceptible, the scratches hidden. Kyle, a perfectionist, would never have allowed it to leave his shop without refinishing it, but Martha claimed it looked a lot better now than it did when she first got it, which was more than the monstrosity deserved.
    “Don’t tell me you’ve got a recipe for polish, too,” Erica pleaded teasingly.
    “A third of a cup each of boiled linseed oil, turpentine and vinegar. Preferably cider vinegar. For the curves, you use a soft old toothbrush and brush it on real lightly.” She waved Erica back as she started to leap down from the truck. “Hold on! I’ll get it. I told you, it’s the least I can do after you’ve dropped everything to take care of me.”
    “I’ve enjoyed it,” Erica admitted truthfully, but in the back of her mind was her gratitude for these few hours of no heartache.
    “You’re coming for dinner tonight,” Martha insisted. “The only thing I can do with my left hand is cook. Don’t bother saying no. Leonard will never believe I’ve found someone who likes Lurch!” She was back in ten minutes, her makeshift polish in a well-shaken jar. “Kyle must have changed since he was a boy,” she said absently.
    “Pardon?” Erica whirled so quickly that she almost upset the jar. Martha’s words had penetrated the numbness she’d shrouded herself in all morning.
    “Your husband,” Martha said wryly. “Now, mine wouldn’t hurt a fly, but if any man as good-looking as that brown-eyed blond kissed me, he’d have been in traction before he got out the door.”
    “Morgan?” Erica said incredulously, and chuckled. “Martha, that’s just his way. He’s been Kyle’s friend for years.”
    “That’s funny. I could see right off we were going to be friends, and I haven’t had urge one to kiss you,” Martha pointed out blandly.
    Erica shook her head with a grin. “Morgan’s just like that,” she repeated, and then hesitated, polishing the wood with long, careful strokes. “Kyle and I hit a little rough spot,” she confided after moment’s thought. “Morgan was the first one to offer help. There really aren’t many friends like him.” Martha was silent, and Erica glanced at her. “Really!” she insisted. “He really is!”
    “Evidently, he is—to you,” Martha agreed smoothly. “As I said, Kyle must have changed.”
    Martha had ten years on Kyle. At eighteen, she had been Martha O’Flaherty when Joel McCrery was an occasional visitor to the O’Flaherty household, and she’d served on occasion as Kyle’s babysitter.
    “Oh, I regretted it,” Martha said ruefully. “Kyle accepted no one’s rule, denied that he ever needed anyone to take care of him. So he’d take off and disappear until his father came back, worrying everyone sick. And if anyone dared criticize anything Joel McCrery did…” Martha shook her head expressively. “Nine