Chapter Five:

Liam Matthews was not merely the lift-operator; he oversaw the mobile security detail for the building. It was his job to make sure that all ‘visitors’ to the building truly belonged there, and that the residents got safely to and fro. Though he did not show it outwardly, the older man felt personally connected to all the patrons and responsible for their welfare. The gruff exterior he fostered made it easy to do his job well, though a few of the residents managed to penetrate the frosty outer wall. The Montgomerys were among those, even their little, rascal of a son. Standing in the lift, Liam silently admitted that the Montgomery tyke had charmed his way into his own, old heart; shaking his head, he wondered what clever pranks Ethan would play as he grew older.

The elevator doors opened; Liam saw Michelle standing in the hall, with the little man bundled beside her in his stroller.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Michelle said, cheerfully.

“T’ you as well, Mrs. Montgomery,” Liam returned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled. The young wife and mother was not a bad sort, as Americans went. “T’ the lobby?” he asked. Michelle guided the stroller in, checking to make sure it was not in the way of the doors.

“Not today. Garage please,” she said, pleasantly. “We have a dinner at William’s mother’s tonight. I need to go vacuum the car out, since my uncle will be joining us.”

“He’s a right gentleman,” Liam said, with conviction; at his fervent tone Michelle glanced over at the aging man’s face. “Them tickets he gave us’ll give me and t’ missus a grand time on Sunday. Nothin’ ah like more than watchin’ a good match.” Michelle smiled.

“It’s better than watching on the ‘telly’, I’ll wager,” she said, quietly. Liam nodded; the look in his eye seemed almost misty.

“Aye,” he said. “I’ll walk you down and ‘ave Marcus polish the car for you.” Marcus was one of the garage security personnel. Michelle shook her head, hiding her grin.

“It isn’t necessary, sir, though I thank you for the thought,” she said. “We hardly use the car, you know...”

“Nowt ‘tis nah trouble,” Liam said, decisively. He poked the garage button with force, indicating he’d get Marcus to polish the car and that was the end of the matter. Michelle pretended to look into her purse to hide her smile.

“Well, thank you,” she said. “I’ll just park it over by the vacuum then, for a few minutes. Won’t take very long. I hope your wife is over the flu?” Liam nodded again, soberly.

“Aye,” he said. “She be on t’ mend; she favored t’ cakes ya sent along.”

Michelle chuckled softly. Cookies here were known as ‘cake’ or ‘biscuits’, depending on their thickness; she had sent a packet of oatmeal raisin cookies with Liam to his ailing wife last week.

“I am glad to hear it,” Michelle said, smiling. “The flu is never fun, let alone trying to cook for yourself.”

“Aye,” Liam put in, in his short way. “I’ve nowt got it yet. Don’t plan t'.”

In spite of Michelle’s protests, Liam walked with her through the underground garage, up to where their family car sat, under its covering. Ordering Marcus and another young man about, Liam had them take off the dust cover from the Montgomery’s Rover, re-park it in the corner by the building ‘car’ vacuum and swiftly vacuum it out. Michelle stood by the stroller, looking uncomfortable.

“This is really unnecessary...” she said, trying to persuade Liam to let he men return to their normal duties. “I am perfectly capable of vacuuming out my own car.” The aged lift-man gravely shook his head.

“Mr. Montgomery would nah like it,” he said, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. “Ah would nah want t’missus doing it either, bein’ wit’ child like you are.” He then ordered the men to bring out the sprayer and car polish. Michelle gave up the struggle, seeing it was futile to argue with the man.

“What is it with English men?” she wondered. William was just as stubborn; she had a feeling Liam was right about him.

Ethan watched the whole process avidly, his little fingers itching to find and grasp some new, interesting items. As the younger security personnel finished with her car, Michelle managed to surreptitiously slip a ten-pound note into each of their hands, roughly 15 American dollars. The ‘boys’ grinned at the tip and nodded their thanks, fleeing back to their posts under Liam’s stern glare.

“Thank you,” Michelle said, smiling. “I do appreciate the trouble. You need a gratuity jar down here, or something.” Liam snorted.

“Nowt,” he said, with a lift of his chin. “Part o’ t’job.”

It was evident the man took great pride in his work, that he’d universally adopted the building tenants as his own; actually, it was rather adorable, but Michelle did not say so. There was nothing left but for her to guide the stroller to the elevator and go back to the flat. An hour of expected labor was given back to her, just like that. Liam saw her up and nodded copiously at her farewell before returning to his lift.

“We are lucky to know such good people,” Michelle spoke to her son. Ethan looked up at her thoughtfully then pointed to their front door. Glancing at the clock, his mother saw it was just about his snack-time. Smiling, Michelle put in the code and rolled her son back into their domicile.

Strapping Ethan firmly in his high chair, Michelle got out a few carrot sticks for her son and some crackers; these were gleefully consumed. Filling a small sippy cup with apple juice, Michelle placed it one Ethan’s tray and turned the chair to face the kitchen.

“Mommy’s going to make daddy’s favorite dessert,” she said, to her son. Ethan sucked thoughtfully on his juice cup, regarding his mum with one eye. Opening the fridge, Michelle got out her ingredients, setting them on the counter. “Were making a big apple crostada, to take to Gramma’s.”

“Gamma!” Ethan said, smiling very big; he banged his cup happily on the tray, Smiling, Michelle took four, oddly shaped apples from the fruit basket.

“Yes, I think you like gramma’s house best of all,” she said, more to herself than anyone. She held up an apple for her son to see. “Apple,” she intoned. “Apple...”

“Gamma!” Ethan crowed, grabbing for another carrot stick. Smiling, Michelle washed the apples well. Her tiny son watched the pie-making process avidly, munching his snacks until he was full; with an unconcern common in toddlers, he threw down onto the floor the food he didn’t want.

“Ethan...” Michelle said, seeing a cracker fall from his little hand to the floor. Walking over, she picked up the bits of food with a sigh; standing tall over Ethan, she held a cracker up. “No. No floor. No.” Her voice was firm, but calm. Ethan regarded her silently for a moment.

“Nu,” he repeated. Smiling, Michelle returned to her counter.

“Good boy,” she said, softly.

Quickly, she sliced the apples, preferring to leave the pink skin on; more fiber and nutrients that way. Sprinkling on sugar, she drizzled a slight amount of pomegranate liqueur on the apple slices and set them aside. Mixing the short, sweet crust was simple; rolling it out was the challenging part. ‘Short’ crust, or that which has a lot of butter in it, falls apart easily. Maneuvering the semi-flat crust into the large, round pie pan, Michelle evened out the dough and poked holes in the bottom.

Taking the apple slices, she laid them inside the crust, taking care to layer them in a rotating circle pattern as evenly as possible. That done, she folded the crust up over the edges of the pie; the center was still exposed, revealing the neatly layered apples. Brushing the whole surface with beaten egg white, Michele sprinkled raw sugar liberally over it; setting the timer, she opened the oven and set the pie in.

“Finished,” she said, stretching her back; her head ached, slightly. It irked Michelle that doing so little brought on waves of little, annoying pains and the first throes of exhaustion. “I miss espresso,” she thought ruefully. Funnily, she never really liked coffee that much until she found it was bad for expecting mothers to drink it and did not have any for almost a year; once Ethan stopped breast-feeding, coffee tasted marvelous all of the sudden. The subsequent energy boost wasn’t bad, either.

Putting aside her ‘poor me’ thoughts, Michelle found the stereo remote and pressed the familiar buttons. A rousing melody of Scotland filled the air, though not too loudly; not all the neighbors appreciated music of the Celtic genre. Grabbing a clean cloth and some lavender cleaning solution, Michelle wiped down her kitchen as well as the floor. The few dishes were rinsed and placed in the dishwasher.

Her cleaning finished, Michele glanced over at Ethan; he was thoughtfully contemplating the clasp on his restraints. Soon, he’d be able to discern how to undo it. Smiling, Michelle walked over and released it, lifting him up in her arms.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she told him. Happy to be out of his plastic prison chair, Ethan kicked and clapped his little hands. In the hall bathroom, Michelle held him up to the sink, more to the side of her growing stomach and helped him wash. The soap was placed far from anywhere Ethan could reach it, due to prior experiences. Smiling, Michelle remembered the time the little boy found William’s shaving cream; the guest bathroom looked like a white Christmas had descended upon it.

The den beckoned; instead of putting Ethan in his pen, Michelle closed the doors so that the room was secure, for the most part. Setting her son down on the floor Michelle sat beside him. The little boy seemed to sense that it was playtime and smiled, immediately toddling over to hide behind the couch. Laughing softly, Michelle crept forward, trying her best to resemble a sneaking tiger.

“Grrr....” she said, quietly. “I wonder where Ethan is?” A muffled, squeaky laugh met her ears. “I’m a tiger... gonna eat a little boy... where is he?” More little laughter, followed by scrabbling sounds.

Turning the corner of the couch, Michelle spied a large throw pillow set up against the back of the couch... one that wiggled. Quelling her laughter, she snuck up to it, sliding her hand underneath; a soft, wiggly toddler met her fingers and the pillow fell over. Ethan screeched with laughter and kicked as his mummy tickled his soft, little belly. The dimples he’d inherited from William showed themselves. Michelle let him go and he toddled off excitedly to the next hiding place. She chased her son around the den until the little boy collapsed on a pillow, laying down his downy little head and rubbing one eye with a tiny fist.

“Nap nap?” Michelle said, lifting him up from the pillow.

“Naa naa.” Ethan said, giving a huge yawn. Michelle put him on her shoulder, rubbing his little back with her hand as she walked him down the hall; there was something about a tiny little one resting their head on one’s shoulder, so content, so sweet... it made Michelle feel better knowing her son relied on her and liked her company. Soon, she knew, he’d be off running about, finding friends, playing with soldiers and growing up. For now, he was her little man, helpless and adorable, wanting to play ‘tiger’ around the den.

Laying him down in his sailor bed, Michelle drew up a cozy blanket to his ear; snuggling down, Ethan closed his eyes. When he was first born, William and she let their son wail himself to sleep on a number of occasions; now he knew that bed meant sleeping. Sometimes, the little man gave them a wakeful hour or so, standing in the crib, yelling at the top of his lungs and refusing to go to bed. This day, however, he was tired and had no objections.

“Sleep now, little man,” Michelle said, softy; she smoothed his hair with her hand, smiling at the sight of him sleeping so innocently. He did not look capable of pranks and tricks when immersed in this sleepy realm.

Closing the door almost all the way, Michelle walked lightly down to the kitchen again. The smell of baking apples and pastry permeated the air. The timer still had a minute left, but Michele shut it off. Through the glass, the pie looked done. Soon it rested on the counter, it’s sweet, warm scent all the more apparent. Michelle enjoyed cooking, especially baking; there was satisfaction to be had stirring together many ingredients to form a tasty dessert or a fresh loaf of bread. It felt so good to be of use, not to mention being able to enjoy the results of said labor.

Making sure the oven was off, Michelle glanced at the clock. “Just enough time to clean the bathrooms, shower and dress.” she said, to herself. William and Oscar would be home in less than three hours. Shutting off any unnecessary lights, Michelle walked down the hall towards her room again. Passing William’s home office, Michelle paused at the door.

The wall switch turned on three little, suspended lights above William’s wide, wooden desk. The room was severely neat, of course but on the desk, a little to one side sat a clear-framed picture. The modern frame looked a bit out of place amid the wood furniture and organized files but it brought a smile to Michelle’s face nonetheless. The large, color photo was taken by a photographer named James Torville, a few days before William and her were married; it pictured Michelle in a pale-pink dress sitting on an off-white drop-cloth, smiling down at her hands and blushing.

“Tell me about your fiancé,” the man had told her; she looked down and blushed, thinking of William and his love for her. The man snapped the photo and decided to take the job of wedding photographer for the happy pair.

Standing by the desk, Michelle took the picture in her hands; looking at it brought her comfort. She still felt the same way about William; he still made her blush and think of the self- same attribute that she loved so well. Touching her stomach, Michelle smiled and set the photo back down. The young woman in the photo yet remained, though she was growing up.

A sigh escaped Michelle’s lips; she turned off the light and exited the room. It occurred to Michele that her husband did not like pictures of himself around; their home had only three, hung in the den, of them on their wedding day. Apparently, William held a deep dislike of seeing photos of himself; perhaps it was due to his mother, Margaret, and her penchant for showing off his baby pictures to anyone who would look.

“It’s been awhile since I drew a picture of him,” Michelle mused, aloud. Her smile grew; silently, she thought on how to do some sketches of him without being discovered. She continued to think on it through her chores, while wiping down the toilets and bathroom floors, spraying down the showers and cleaning the mirrors. “It has to be him smiling,” she thought, while showering a little later. “When he’s relaxed and at ease... the part of him not many people see.”

Perhaps it would remind her man that he was indeed capable of relaxation and amusement, though Michelle understood why he hid away that side of him. William, with his typical, mature wisdom seemed to know that parts of him were reserved only for his family; these facets of his character remained a secret to most of the planet’s populace. Michelle had come to love the affectionate, humorous, lively man he became around her; it was as if her presence enabled him to really live. She wanted to capture that unbound, fulfilled look of his and put in on paper. If anything, it would remind her that she did indeed affect his life as he completed hers.

Several minutes later Michelle stood by the mirror, drying her hair. She wanted to look nice for their outing that evening. Sometimes, being pregnant she felt like bumming around in yoga pants and a t-shirt all day, her hair in a pony tail; appearances were not important all the time. She did notice, however, that William appreciated an bit of effort in that area, not to mention she felt better looking ‘polished and proper’.

Once her hair was dry, Michelle walked over to her bedroom door; opening it, she listened for a few seconds. All was quiet; Ethan was still sleeping. Smiling, Michele walked back to her closet, looking over her things. In the back of her mind, she planned out the drawing she wanted to do; the imaginary lines formed themselves as she slipped into a long, brown pinstripe skirt and a fitted black blouse; the clothes hid her baby bump well, though Michelle was not concerned about that. With difficulty, she put on warm, black leggings and her slender, brown boots. Sighing, she sat for a minute smiling down at her encased feet; she felt grateful to have pretty things to put on.

Michelle was just finishing her makeup when she heard few, squeaky protests from Ethan’s room; his majesty was awake. She found him still laying down, moodily rubbing his eyes.

“Aw.... the nap didn’t improve your spirits?” Michele said, softly. Ethan looked at her with one eye and squinched up his face. Unable to resist, Michelle picked him up, cuddling the little boy to her for a moment. “Let’s get you in the shower,” she suggested. “Bath bath.”

“Ba ba,” Ethan repeated, blinking. Chuckling, Michelle carried him into her bathroom; with a practiced hand she undressed him and placed him in the large shower with a small, plastic bucket of bath-toys.

Seeing these, Ethan perked up immediately. Babbling away, he tipped the bucket over and began stacking up the blocks. Setting the shower to warm, Michelle slid the door closed; she finished her makeup hovering near the shower door. Ethan was easily seen through the frosted glass; he played happily with the toys and sang an off-key song in his baby voice while his mummy rubbed shampoo through his hair and washed him with a little, green washcloth.

Whatever song it was, it made Michelle chuckle softly to hear it. She sang to him sometimes at night but she did not know where he picked up the desire to suddenly burst into song. It occurred to her that perhaps Margaret sang to him more often. Ethan usually spent one day a week with his grandmother; she often hummed a tune while working, Michelle recalled.

“Da... da... da... daaa....” Ethan warbled, swaying back and forth.

“What are you singing, little man?” Michelle asked, smiling at him. Ethan stopped his toddler opera and smiled up at his mummy; turning back to the blocks he tapped one sharply on the shower floor, continuing the babbling tune where he left off. Michelle turned off the water and fetched a towel.

“I hate to interrupt, Mr. Caruso, but we have a schedule to keep,” she told her son; she lifted him from the shower, his fist still clutching some toys.

“Yar!” Ethan called out, shaking the toys and sprinkling water on his mummy.

“Yar!” Michelle returned, smiling wide; he was so full of life it was heartening to see; the tiny boy quite considered himself a person of considerable importance. Wrapping Ethan in the towel, Michelle held him a moment. “You little turkey.” she said, affectionately. Looking up at the clock, Michelle hastened her actions; soon Ethan was dried, diapered and running around his room while Michelle located some clothes in the armoire.

“I think gramma would like to see you in these,” she said, bringing out a little, gray outfit with deep green pockets. Little green suede shoes went with it and a tiny, green baseball hat.

Ethan did not mind the clothes but objected strenuously to the hat. Once on his head, it was soon flung far under the crib.

“Fine,” Michelle said, wrinkling her nose at her son. “I’m not crawling under there to get it, so you win.” Finally dressed, Ethan was transported via mummy-mobile to his playpen; grabbing his shoes, he rolled over backwards and crowed with delight. He gave Michelle an adorable smile. Laughing, his mummy shook her head and walked back to her room.

Straightening up took barely fifteen minutes; Michelle wiped down the bathroom floor again and hung up the towels, stowing Ethan’s dirty clothes in the hamper. Quickly, she re-fixed her hair and dabbed on a little more lip gloss. Soon the lord of the castle would return to his treasured domicile; Michele smiled at her reflection, knowing he’d be pleased to find the house in order and his lady in good spirits. Each day held its own unique responsibilities, trials and joys; there was nothing mundane about keeping a pleasant home.

The conference room atmosphere was unusually electrified. Oscar sat at the head of the table talking animatedly to Mr. Arrows of Research. Judith Barrett sat a few chairs down from them, taking notes. William stood by the coffeepot, listening intently, analyzing plans in his mind from all different angles.

“If we can find out which paralegals will be getting the pink slip,” Oscar said. “... we can head them off with a preemptive offer.” He drank a small sip of water. “I need to know what the firm’s retirement schedule is, so we can tack on a bit more without over-doing it.”

Mr. Arrows did not look convinced; he was a tall, younger man for such a high management position, with light blond hair and pale green eyes.

“I’ll have the information by the morning,” he said, coolly. “Though, with all due respect, it seems a bit of bother for a few paralegals.” William cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, Arrows, we tried to get them to come over last year,” he informed the young manager. “They wouldn’t, not even for more money. They are particularly experienced and loyal, which makes them a bit more valuable as employees than your run-of-the-mill paralegal.”

“Exactly,” Oscar put in, casting a ‘you go boy’ look towards William. “We’re hoping they’ll come out way now that the firm is disintegrating. Frederick Brown, in particular, came by some brilliant maneuvers that allowed his firm to land its only win last year.”

“I see,” Mr. Arrows said, gathering some papers up. “Well, we have our work cut out for us. Miss Barrett, if you’d be so kind, we should crawl back into our corner of the dungeon and get to work.”

“Yes, sir,” Judith said, smiling a little at ‘dungeon’. Oscar caught himself gazing at her and stood as well.

“It was nice to meet you, Miss Barrett,” he said, allowing a smile to dress his face. “Glad you’re able to give us a hand on this one.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Judith said; a smile shone from her eyes, though she kept her countenance stoic. Oscar couldn’t tell if she interested or just amused. The workplace was hardly the setting to figure that out, anyway. Putting away his questions, he nodded and watched Judith Barrett weave her way gracefully around the table and out the door, following the industrious Mr. Arrows.

William watched all of this with a twinkling eye, barely able to restrain his smile. Drinking the last of his coffee, he threw the paper cup into the recycle bin and strolled over to his employer’s side.

“Not a damn word, Montgomery...” Oscar said, darkly. William chuckled, but remained silent. He collected the pertinent papers and entrapped them in his briefcase. Glancing at his watch, he smiled; the day was nearly done. In less than an hour, he’d be able to bask in the glow of his little tribe in the warmth and safety of their home.

“Or, at my mother’s,” he thought, smiling sardonically. He was actually glad Oscar would accompany them tonight and aid in watching Ethan next week. Though she meant well, his mother could be a handful when she wanted her way, almost as much as his rascal son. However, there was something about Oscar’s brusque American ways that put her off center, robbing her of her placating, manipulative abilities. “Though, Michelle can convince her of just about anything,” he mused, walking beside Oscar to the elevator. Margaret adored her daughter-in-law; it took only a few, soft words from his lovely wife to temper the more extravagant plans his mother was wont to suggest.

Oscar remained quiet through the elevator ride, out the building and halfway home in the taxi. The sun set, ushering home weary workers to their various places of rest; the road was jammed with buses and Lorries, taxis and commuter cars. A few minutes before they reached William’s building, Oscar cleared his throat.

“I never expected to be hit with Cupid’s arrow in my own damn office,” he muttered. William grinned in the waning light; he considered his next words carefully.

“Miss Barrett seems to be your mirror reflection,” he said, casually. “I don’t know much about her, but you and she appear to share a similar confidence.” Oscar looked at him a moment, then glared out the window. Seeing the man was weighing all this heavily, William cleared his throat and continued. “If I may, something in your face reminded me of how I felt, the day I met Michelle. I think she’s perfect for you, and I don’t even know her.”

A grin spread over Oscar’s face, then faded away.

“I can’t really ask her out,” he said, with a sudden petulance in his tone. “She works for me. I’m sure she’s not the type to ‘date’ the boss.”

“True,” William tempered. “Perhaps you can get to know her outside the office. My mother’s throwing us a small party the day before our anniversary. Perhaps she would not mind accompanying you to a family affair?” Oscar thought this over.

“The idea has merit, sport,” he said, after a moment. “It’s a fairly safe event, I’d guess, for a first date.”

“Very,” William said, sagely. “To be honest, I’ve never heard you speak so of anyone, let alone look.” He glanced at his boss; the man was still gazing out the window. “At least, she has lost someone as well. You have that in common.” Nodding, Oscar continued to study the lone of care next to them. In his mind whispered a few lines of some long-forgotten Shakespeare, meant for such a one as he to hear:

But now I am return'd and that war-thoughts Have left their places vacant, in their rooms Come thronging soft and delicate desires, All prompting me how fair (Judith) is...”

It was a piece for a battle-weary soldier to speak once wars done with, for such a man to realize he was allowed the softer things of life, that they might step closer on graceful feet to comfort him. Closing his eyes, Oscar felt weary all of the sudden; he realized it was because he’d met Judith and no longer felt content without her presence. If anyone could understand his past grief and future hopes, it would be someone like her. Perhaps she was lonely as well. Sitting beside his rather melancholy boss, William kept his smiles to himself and pretended to read his paper.

Entering his building lift some minutes later, William was politely informed by the gruff-voiced Liam that his car was ready to be used that night.

“Michelle didn’t go down and clean it herself, did she?” William asked his face serious. Liam shook his head, and grinned, of all things.

“She did try t'.” he informed them. “Wanted t’ vacuum it out herself, but I had knowt of that. Had Marcus and Kenny do it; gave it a good polish while they were a’ it.”

“I appreciate that Liam,” William returned, relieved. “She means well, but she tries to do too much.” Liam was quiet a moment.

“She hear me say you wouldn’t like it, an went up like t’ lamb she is.” he stated. “Ah don’ know t’ Yanks so well, but I ken they work ‘ard, independent like.” Oscar smiled at that, but said nothing. He supposed he could hear himself be called a ‘yank’ a few times, seeing he’d made numerous ‘limey’ references in William’s hearing, thought mostly in jest. “Though, Mrs. Montgomery be a lamb, like ah said. She gave t' boys down there a few pounds for their trouble.”

The elevator doors opened, revealing the warm hall and familiar door of the Montgomery castle; with energized steps, William exited the lift.

“Excellent,” he said to the grim-faced lift-man. “She knows I’d do the same. Cheers, Liam. Enjoy your Sunday with the missus.”

“Aye,” Liam said, nodding back as the doors shut.

“Good man,” Oscar said, his good humor restored.

There was a faint scent of apple pastry in the air; William felt his salivary glands go to work and hastened to enter the code. The sound of piano keys being randomly struck sounded as her opened his door.

“No, like this... oh you silly boy,” came Michelle amused voice. More keys plinked and rang, off key; William grinned, hearing his wife’s laughter. Walking across the entry into the den, his smile broadened. Michelle sat at the piano, with Ethan on her lap; the little boy was excitedly poking the keys with his little forefingers, a rapturous look of discovery on his face. Oscar came around as well and laughed.

“Turning him into a musician already, eh?” the older man said, jovially. Michelle turned at his voice and saw her man and her uncle.

“Yes, hopefully,” she answered, looking over at her husband. William was leaning against the door-jamb in a very attractive manner, watching her with his warm, cerulean gaze. Face alight, Michelle stood up, bringing her neatly dressed boy with her.

William took in Michelle’s every movement, his eyes soft. It was all worth it, just to see her here in his home, holding his son. A rush of feeling enveloped him; if Oscar had not been there, he would have acted a trifle more sentimental. Guest present, he still caught Michelle in a fond embrace, smiling as his son grabbed his tie.

“Hello, love,” he said, smelling Michelle’s hair; it smelled fresh and clean. Her lovely eyes regarded him warmly. “Best reception in the universe.” he thought, very pleased.

“Greetings, o’ lord of the castle,” his wife said, softly. “I trust the day did not dull your spirits too greatly.” William smiled at her.

“I’m better now,” he murmured. Oscar cleared his throat.

“What the heck smells so good?” he asked, eying the kitchen door. Michelle laughed.

“You’ll be able to devour it once we’ve reached this evening’s destination.” she said.

“It does smell good,” William said, turning towards the kitchen. “Bloody hell, I’m famished...” Laughing softly, Michelle kissed his cheek and toted Ethan to the coat closet.

“We’re already to go,” said she, “The pie’s all wrapped as well.”

“With caramel sauce?” William asked, hopefully. His wife nodded, smiling at his childish tone.

“Of course,” she answered. Setting his briefcase down on the floor, William felt the heavy mantle of the day’s responsibilities slide from his shoulders.