He bore down, with happy snarls. "He thinks it is. He thinks you're playing tug. He really likes to tug."
Exasperated, she looked at her son. He was kneeling beside the dog now, one arm thrown over Moe's back. Some of the shredded paper had attached itself to Simon's clean pants, Moe's fur.
Both of them were grinning at her.
"I'm not playing." But the words choked out over a laugh. "I'm not ! You're a bad dog." She tapped a finger on his nose. "A very bad dog."
He plopped on his butt, lifted a paw to shake, then spat the roll onto the floor at her feet.
"He wants you to throw it so he can fetch."
"Oh, yeah, that's going to happen." She snatched the roll up, put it behind her back. "Simon, go get the vacuum cleaner. Moe and I are going to have a little chat."
"She's not really mad," he said in Moe's ear. "Her eyes get sorta dark and scary when she's really mad."
He bounded up. Moving fast, Zoe grabbed Moe's collar before he could follow. "Oh, no, you don't. Look at the mess you made. What do you have to say for yourself?"
He collapsed and rolled over to expose his belly.
"The only way that's going to work on me is if you know how to run a vacuum cleaner."
She let out a little sigh when she heard the knock on the door, and Simon's shouted "I'll get it!"
"Perfect. Just perfect."
She stared after Moe as he raced away, and heard Simon's excited voice telling Brad about Moe's latest adventure.
"He ran all over the house. He made a real mess."
"So I see." Brad turned into the living room where Zoe stood, surrounded by shredded toilet paper. "The fun never stops, huh?"
"He must've nosed his way into the linen closet. I just have to clean this up."
"Why don't you take care of these?" He crossed to her, held out a bottle of wine and a dozen yellow roses. "Simon and I can clean it up."
"No, really, you can't—"
"Sure I can. Got a vacuum cleaner?" Brad asked Simon.
"I was getting it." He dashed off.
"Really, you don't have to bother. I'll… get it later."
"I'll take care of it. You don't like roses?"
"Yes. I do. They're beautiful." She started to take them, then looked down at her hand, and the soggy remains still gripped in it. "Oh," she said on a very long sigh, "well."
"Trade ya." He plucked it out of her hand before she could stop him, then filled hers with the flowers. "You'll want to take this, too." He passed her the bottle of Chianti. "You might want to go ahead and open that, so it can breathe."
He turned away from her when Simon hauled in the vacuum. "Plug her in, Simon, and let's get this done because something smells really good around here."
"Spaghetti sauce. Mom makes the best. But we gotta have salad first."
"There's always a catch." He smiled at Zoe as he rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue shirt. "We've got this covered."
"All right. Well. Thanks." Not knowing what else to do, she carried the roses and wine back into the kitchen. She could hear Simon still chattering away, then the quick roar of the vacuum, followed immediately by Moe's insane barks.
She'd forgotten Moe considered the vacuum a mortal enemy. She should go back and get him. Then she heard Simon's peal of laughter, the deeper, but equally delighted sound of Brad's, and the increasingly frantic barking that meant man and boy were only encouraging Moe to go postal.
No, they were fine. She should leave them alone.
And it gave her the opportunity to simply bury her face in the flowers. No one had ever given her yellow roses before. They were so sunny and elegant. After some debate, she settled on the slim copper urn she'd rescued from obscurity at a yard sale. With the brilliant shine she'd given it, it was a suitably bright home for yellow roses.
She arranged them, opened the wine. After putting a pot of water on to boil for the pasta, she went back to the salad.
It was going to be okay, it was going to be fine. She had to remember he was just a man. A friend. Just a friend who'd dropped by for dinner.
"Back to normal," Brad said as he strolled in. He noted the arranged bouquet she'd set on the counter. "Nice."
"They're really beautiful. Thank you. Simon, why don't we put Moe out back for now? You can take your books in the other room and finish those last couple of problems. Then we'll eat."
"What kind of problems?" Brad asked as he wandered around to Simon's books.
"Stupid fractions." Simon opened the back door for Moe and sent his mother a long-suffering look. "Can't I do them later?"
"Sure, if you don't want your hour after dinner."
Simon's mouth curled in what his mother recognized as the onset of a serious snit. "Fractions bite. It all bites. We got calculators and computers and junk, so how come I have to do it?"
"Because—"
"Yeah, calculators make it easy." Brad spoke casually over Zoe's heat, and traced a finger over Simon's worksheet. "These are probably too tough for you to figure out by yourself."
"No, they're not."
"I don't know. Looks pretty tough to me. You've got to add this three and three-quarters to the two and five-eighths. Heavy stuff."
"You just have to change the quarters to eighths, that's all. Like this." Simon grabbed the pencil and, clamping his tongue in his teeth, did the conversion. "So, see, now you can add up the sixeighths and the five-eighths, then you take it down again to one and three-eighths, plus the whole number jazz. So altogether you get six and three-eighths. See, the answer's six and threeeighths."
"Ha. How about that?"
"Was that a trick?" Simon asked suspiciously.
"I don't know what you're talking about." He ruffled Simon's hair. "Do the last one, smart guy."
"Man."
Zoe watched Brad lean over her son's shoulder, felt her system start to slide toward melting when he looked up, smiled into her eyes.
No, she was afraid he wasn't just a man, not just a friend who'd dropped by for dinner. "Done!" Simon slapped his book closed. "Do I get parole, warden?"
"You're out of the slammer for now. Go ahead and put your books away, and wash up for dinner." Zoe poured two glasses of wine as Simon bolted out of the room. "You're good with stubborn little boys."
"It probably helps that I used to be one." He took the glass from her. "He's quick with numbers."
"Yes, he is. He does really well in school. He just hates homework."
"He's supposed to, isn't he? What are you wearing?"
"I…" Off center again, she looked down at her navy blue sweater.
"Not the clothes, the perfume. You always smell fabulous, and never quite the same."
"I'm trying out a lot of different products. Soaps and creams and…" Catching the gleam in his eye, she lifted her wine to her lips before he could lean in and take them with his own. "Scents."
"It's funny. A lot of women have a favorite scent, like a signature. And it can haunt a man. You make a man wonder what it'll be today, so he can't stop thinking about you."
She'd have backed up, but there wasn't enough room in the kitchen to do so without making it obvious. "I don't wear scents for men."