"Don't trust Beck to ride herd on five?"

"He's never started from the ground up. It's a lot."

"He'll figure it out."

"I know. He's a wonderful father, just so natural and easy. He changed my life. I guess we changed each other's." She smiled as Ryder got a mug for her, a go-cup for himself. "The pie was good, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. It went fast."

"Hope filled us in on Jonathan's visit. I'm not naive. I know there are selfish, nasty people in the world. But it still surprises me he could treat her the way he has. The way he did."

To Ryder's mind, the giving and good-hearted were often outnumbered by the selfish and nasty. "He's used to getting what he wants just by wanting it. That's my take anyway."

"I think you're right. Hope deserves better. She always did."

"Not a fan?"

"No. I mean, I barely know him, really, but I never liked him very much. Hope says it's not like Sam."

He thought of rushing into the bedroom of Clare's little house down on Main Street, just after Beckett. Of seeing her, pale, dazed, swaying after that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Sam Freemont had been after her. And of Beckett pounding Sam's face-after Clare had clocked him with the only weapon at hand: a d.a.m.n hairbrush.

"Honey, it's not. It's not like that. Freemont's a sick son of a b.i.t.c.h. Wickham?" He remembered Hope's term. "He's just a slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"She convinced me, mostly. But, after you really understand how far some people will go, how obsessed they can be ... Will you keep an eye out anyway?"

"It's already done."

She took the coffee he handed her. "Then I feel better." And drew in the scent. "A lot better."

"I've got to get going. Are you all right on your own?"

Her smile warmed as she patted her belly. "We're fine."

He went out, let D.A. out of the truck, and they walked over to MacT's together. He might rag on Beckett about the husband and daddy deal, but he knew his brother had hit the jackpot with Clare. Ryder considered her one in a million.

They'd changed each other's lives, as she'd said, but things were supposed to change. Change meant progress, improvements, the occasional happy surprise.

Like when they'd opened the wall between the restaurant side and bar side and discovered the old wood siding complete with two old windows.

Owen hit it big with Avery as well, Ryder mused. She'd taken one look at the old siding and instead of asking them to cover it up again, embraced it, appreciated the character and what it added to the building.

He imagined within a handful of years, Owen would be juggling kids and work and life. Owen might write up schedules, but wasn't so stupid or rigid he wouldn't adjust.

Change, he mused as he got another day's work started, he was in the business of it.

He put in time with his tools, interrupted three times by the phone, which he started hating again. He crossed over to the fitness center to deal with a problem there, then back to the restaurant, where he found Beckett picking up where he'd left off.

"Owen met with the inspector," Beckett told him. "Bakery's good to go."

"I heard."

"He's meeting with Lacy now," Beckett said, referring to the baker. "Then he'll go ahead and pick up the U&O. That's a big check mark off the list."

"Plenty left to go. Things are under control here." Ryder looked around to be certain. "You can come with me."

"Where?"

"We're going to tear off that b.a.s.t.a.r.d roof."

"We had that for midweek."

"We've got a dry day, and it's supposed to stay under ninety. Let's get it done."

It wasn't the first tar roof they'd ripped off, but it would be the biggest. And Beckett remembered, not at all fondly, just how laborious, filthy, and downright nasty the job was.

"You don't want to wait for Owen?"

Ryder just sneered at him. "Afraid of a little sweat, sweetheart?"

"Sunstroke maybe."

"Find your b.a.l.l.s, and let's go get it done."

IT WASN'T AS bad as Beckett remembered. It was worse.

Slathered in sweat and sunscreen, he huffed through his breathing mask as he hacked with the tear-off shovel. His muscles burned as if covered with simmering hot coals. Laborers hauled away the waste in wheelbarrows and carts, or hauled up replacement coolers of ice water.

They drank like camels, and never quite kept up with the thirst as every ounce of fluid poured out in more sweat.

"How many son-of-a-b.i.t.c.hing layers of this s.h.i.t is on here?" Beckett shouted.

"It's a miracle the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n thing didn't fall in last winter." As he broke up another section with a roof cutter, Ryder looked over and grinned. "She's going now."

"If she doesn't kill us first. What are you grinning at?"

"I like the view."

Beckett paused, swiping at sweat and looked out. The copper roof of the inn gleamed and glinted in the sun. He could see The Square, and the traffic pa.s.sing, people walking into Vesta's for lunch, and shifting, he looked down Main to Turn The Page.

"I'd rather look at the view from a shady porch, with a beer in one hand and my woman in the other."

"Use your imagination." Ryder stripped off his saturated mask, glugged down water. Since he couldn't waste the jug, he imagined pouring that cold water over his head.

As he took a moment to roll his aching shoulders, he saw Hope come out onto the second-floor porch. She paused a moment, looking over and up, studying the work and workers. He knew the instant her gaze reached him; he'd have sworn he felt it like an arrow to the loins.