Switzerland. Chocolates.
Zach watched Shelby hack away with a paring knife at the latest priority postage offering.
Germany. Sausage.
Shelby pitched a chunk to Aggie.
Zach glanced over at the TV. The multi-pierced performers confirmed Julia's observations of worse scenarios. His gaze fell to the videotape poking half out of the VCR in the entertainment center. "Sorry about missing the movie."
"Like I care. It was just some lame kiddie ballet thing for Ivy. I didn't expect you to actually show."
"Shel, not tonight."
She flipped another piece of sausage to the dog, not even bothering to look at her father.
"Our little optimist thought you'd make it home right up to the minute you called. Of course, she still thinks Germany will come home for her birthday."
Aggie caught the next bite before it hit the rug.
Thanks to Pam, Aggie was the best-fed dog in all of South Carolina. Aggie grew fat while Shelby grew bitter.
"Shel, I know this is a tough—''
The teen rolled off the sofa and to her feet. "As much as I'm enjoying our delayed family hour, I think I'll go to bed. Don't worry about carting me to band camp tomorrow. John's gonna pick me up."
"Okay," Zach agreed since it wouldn't do any good to say he'd actually looked forward to the time with her.
"Sorry the kitchen's a mess. Ivy exploded the cheese in the microwave," Shelby said over her shoulder, leading her dog by the collar as she walked toward her room. "No big loss though. Brie really sucks on nachos."
It wasn't that hot on grilled cheese either, but he'd choked down one of those sandwiches because Ivy had wanted him to. His youngest daughter seemed to think if they ate all that food, her mother would somehow be with them. God help him when Pam got to Greece because he hated olives.
He hated what was happening to his kids even more.
'"Night, Shel."
She shut her door without answering. Not even a slightly surly '"Night, Colonel." Just the sound of her fish tank gurgling. The guinea pig churning its wheel.
Zach walked toward Ivy's half-open door, his footsteps echoing along the hardwood floors. Eight-year-old Ivy slept curled on her daybed. Pink ballet shoes dangled from the iron bedpost. Such little shoes.
An image of other small feet kicking free from a baby blanket tugged him. His kids had problems, sure, but they were healthy. He needed to remember that at times like these.
Stopping outside his own bedroom, Zach hooked a hand overhead on the doorframe. His empty bed swallowed the room.
Those first weeks he and Pam had brought their babies home from the hospital had been hectic—and the best part of his marriage. He and Pam would lie side by side, baby between them. For hours, they would stare at the miracle they'd made together.
Suddenly the image of Julia Sinclair dropped itself smack into his unmade bed, those long legs tangled in his rumpled plaid comforter. Julia, gifting Patrick with all those smiles.
Sharing a few with Zach.
Damn. Definitely deadly testosterone build-up messing with his mind.
Zach turned his back on the image, opting for his trashed kitchen instead. He pitched the sausage in the garbage and pulled a block of frozen hamburger out of the freezer.
Domino's pizza and chili had become his best line of defense against Pam's postal packages.
At least Friday was over. He would toss together a Crock-Pot of chili for the weekend.
Spend some time with his kids, then his bike. Julia didn't want his help, and he sure as hell didn't have the extra time.