The Next Always by Nora Roberts Page A

twelve, I guess, so I said they were cheesy. But I ate it up.”
    As he spoke he watched her take little plates out of a cupboard to set on the table. Power Rangers, Spider-Man, and Wolverine.
    “Which one’s mine?”
    “Sorry?”
    “Don’t I rate cookies and milk and a superhero plate?”
    “Oh. Sure.” Obviously surprised, she went back to the cupboard, chose another plate. “Han Solo.”
    “Perfect. I dressed up as Han Solo for Halloween.”
    “How old were you?”
    “Twenty-seven.”
    He loved the way she laughed, and when she brought the plate and four small, colorful plastic cups to the table, he caught her hand.
    “Clare.”
    “I got ALL of them.” Murphy muscled in a white plastic basket loaded with action figures. “See, we got Mighty Morphin and Jungle Fury and see, I got Pink Ranger even though she’s a girl.”
    Beckett crouched down, took out one of the Green Rangers. “This, my man, is an amazing collection.”
    Murphy, eyes wide and deadly earnest, nodded. “I know.”

    HE STAYED NEARLY an hour. Clare would have kissed him again just for the fact he’d given her kids such a great time. He’d never seemed bored or annoyed with a conversation dominated by superheroes, their powers, their partners, their foes.
    But he didn’t kiss her.
    Of course, he didn’t kiss her, Clare thought as she slipped potatoes, quartered and coated with olive oil and herbs, in to roast. That would’ve proved awkward with three kids hanging all over him.
    She set her cutting board over the sink—the better to watch the kids, who’d gone back to swarming all over the play set her parents had given them—and minced garlic for the chicken’s marinade.
    They’d so enjoyed having a man to play with.
    They had her father, of course, and Clint’s dad when he came to visit, and Joe, Alva’s husband. But they didn’t really have anyone, well, their dad’s age.
    So, it had been a nice hour.
    Now she was behind in dinner prep, but that was okay. They’d eat a bit later than planned. The evening would be nice enough to have dinner out on the deck, then the boys could spill back out into the yard after for a bit before bedtime.
    She whisked ingredients together, poured the marinade over chicken breasts, covered the bowl, set it aside.
    Clare enjoyed the kitchen time, listening to her boys’ voices carry on the warm air, the bark of the neighbor’s dog, the scents from the oven, from her little kitchen garden. Which reminded her she had to do some weeding and some harvesting over the weekend.
    And the laundry, she remembered, she’d let go because they’d stayed so long at Vesta the night before.
    When she’d kissed Beckett in the shadows of the inn.
    Silly to obsess over that, she thought. She’d kissed other men since Clint died.
    Well, two, so that qualified as men . Her mother’s neighbor’s son, a perfectly nice accountant who lived and worked in Brunswick. Three dates there, two pleasant enough kisses. And no genuine interest or chemistry on either side.
    Then Laurie’s aunt’s friend, an estate attorney from Hagerstown. Great-looking guy, she recalled. Sort of interesting, but very bitter regarding his recently-ex-wife. One date, one fraught good-night kiss. He’d even sent her flowers, with an apology for spending the evening talking about his ex.
    How long ago had that been? she wondered. Idly she counted back as she peeled carrots. Harry had fallen off his trike and chipped his front baby tooth the morning before she’d gone to dinner with the accountant, so he’d been five.
    God, over three years ago, she realized. And she’d gone out with the lawyer the day after she’d moved Murphy into his big-boy bed, so he’d been three. About two years there.
    Which was more telling, the fact she measured time by little events in her kids’ lives or that she hadn’t even thought of dating for two years?
    She supposed one was the same as the other.
    She had the chicken simmering in wine and herbs when