Blythe wasn't sure about what she'd just heard.

"Greg," she asked, "did you just invite me to come for a visit?"

She heard a sigh from the other end of the phone line. "I told Wilson this was going to happen."

"You told him that what was going to happen?"

"This," Greg said. "I told him you'd make it into a thing."

"I'm not making anything into anything, honey." Blythe said. "I just wanted to make sure that you wanted me to come."

"Of course I want you to come." She could hear a steady thumping in the background as Greg spoke, but couldn't tell what it was. "That's why I brought it up."

Blythe had been strangely surprised that Greg had actually called her in the first place, rather than waiting for her to call. And when she mentioned that John would be out of town for a few days -- at a training facility in Texas -- he'd surprised her again, telling her that maybe she should come up.

"If you want," he'd said. "Or were you going to go with him?"

"No, I'm not going," Blythe had said. "He'll only be there for a few days, and he'll have meetings the entire time."

"So you could come," he'd said. "If you want to, that is," he repeated.

Truthfully, she had been thinking about coming for a visit, but hadn't mentioned it yet. She had been traveling north every other week or so, usually staying just long enough for lunch and to see for herself that Greg was all right. She had worried that she would wear out her welcome.

"A grown man doesn't want his mother hovering over him," she'd told James during one visit when they were waiting for Greg.

"Ninety minutes every few weeks doesn't count as hovering," James had said. "And he'll deny it if you ask him, but I think he actually enjoys it a little."

She'd smiled. "I don't want to accuse you of telling a fib, James, but I appreciate hearing it even if it isn't true."

James held up one hand. "I'm not lying," he'd said. "Scout's honor."

And now Greg had even said so himself. In his own way.

"Or don't come. Whatever." Blythe could hear the tapping sound in the background again. It reminded her of when Greg was a boy, and he'd toss a tennis ball against the side of the house, throwing and catching, again and again and again. The sound of the thump, thump, thump, used to drive John mad, so Greg always made sure to do it only when John wasn't home.

"I was just thinking that if you were coming, you could always stay overnight," Greg said. "We could go out for dinner or something instead of just a quick lunch between trains."

Blythe caught an image of herself in the hall mirror, a wide smile on her face. "I'd love that," she said. "Is there a special reason? It's not your birthday and it's not my birthday." She suddenly thought that she didn't know when James' birthday was. She should ask.

"No, it's just ..." Greg was silent for a moment. Even the tapping sound stopped. "It's stupid," he said.

"I'm sure it isn't."

She could hear him take a deep breath on the other end of the line and could picture the look on his face, wincing as he realized he would have to admit the truth.

"There's a new restaurant in town," he finally said. Now even his voice seemed quieter. "I thought maybe you might like some kakuni."

Blythe's mouth watered just at the thought of kakuni, the rich flavors of the stew, the tender pork that had simmered for hours or even days before it was served. "I don't think I've had that since ..."

"Okinawa," Greg said. "I know Dad would never agree to go, so I thought maybe you'd like to take advantage of it while he's gone."

Blythe had eaten kakuni only a few times even while they were in Japan. John had never liked being stationed there. He preferred to spend all of his time on the base. Everything outside the gates only seemed to remind him of the war of their childhood, the one when his brother had died over the Pacific. Greg was right. He'd never agree to go to a Japanese restaurant.

"That sounds like a perfect idea," she said.

"Good," he said. She heard the tapping sound begin again. "Great."

She took an afternoon train north and James met her at the station.

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," she said. "I could have taken a cab."

James took her overnight bag from her hand. "I don't mind," he said. "Besides, your son asked me to pick you up."

"You could have told him that you were busy."

James laughed a little. "I've tried, but that never seems to work," he said. He opened the door to his car for her, and waited for her to settle in, before closing it. He walked around to his side of the car, put her bag on the back seat, then climbed behind the wheel.

"I hope you don't feel like Greg is taking advantage of you," Blythe said. James had been married for more than four months now, she still worried that he'd drift away.

Greg had seen too many friends leave, and left too many behind. When he was very small -- before he'd even started school -- he'd cry when he found out that the father of a friend had received new orders. When he was a little older, he'd hide when the moving van showed up down the street. Finally he just pretended he didn't care at all. Then he pretended he didn't want friends at all.

Blythe worried that Greg was doing the same thing now, pretending everything was fine whenever she saw him. But James was still there, and Greg didn't seem to be holding anything back.

"And what does your wife think of Greg taking up all your free time?"

She couldn't catch James' expression as he turned away from her to watch traffic over his shoulder, but could hear him laugh softly. He pulled out onto the street, then turned right, toward the hospital. "Sorry," he said. "It's just ..." he said, then laughed again. "Julie has started calling him my hobby. She keeps joking that at least he's not as dangerous as skydiving or as boring as bird watching."

Blythe turned to look out the window as the blocks rolled by. She thought of John's hobbies over the years -- the telescope that he used to try and follow the space race, the replica Union Army uniform and books he bought after they visited Gettysburg, the box filled with canceled stamps, the baseball caps from minor league teams, even the golf clubs in the closet -- hobbies that took so much of his time that she grew to hate them long before he'd abandoned them in favor of something new and different.

Outside the car the city sidewalks gave way to the open green spaces of the campus.

Hobbies were good, she thought to herself. But hobbies don't last.

"Maybe you'll meet her tonight," James was saying, and she turned to look over at him again.

"Maybe?" Blythe asked.

James nodded. He was squinting in the late afternoon sun and flipped the visor down to block the glare. "We were supposed to have dinner with her parents, but when I told her you were coming, she said she'd try to change our plans."

Blythe shook her head. "James, it's important to keep the in-laws happy," she said.

"Oh, it's nothing special," he said. "They're in town. We can see them anytime."

"But you had plans."

James shook his head. "It'll be fine," he insisted. "Don't worry."

Blythe had asked Greg send her a photo from the wedding. He sent her a dozen, a collection that showed an elbow here, an ear there, a high heeled shoe, a bit of the veil and Julie's blonde hair. "Put them together to get the whole picture," he'd written.

But at the bottom of the pile was one simple shot of James and Julie, deep in conversation and obviously deep in love, their faces nearly touching. They looked happy and beautiful, as if they could have stepped out of a fairy tale wedding.

"You'll like Julie," James said, and glanced over at her as he pulled into the left turn lane.

He smiled, and Blythe thought the light in his eyes seemed brighter just to say her name. She found herself wondering if he'd had the same light for his other wives. For the ones who didn't stay.

She turned and looked out the window again. Maybe it was the marriages that were his hobbies, and not Greg.

Blythe glanced down at the ring on her finger and shook her head. No. Marriage is important. Vows are important. James knew that.

She looked over at him again, watching as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. Maybe he was right. Maybe Julie didn't resent his time with Greg, and Lord knew it did Greg good to have James around. Maybe she was worrying for nothing.

Or maybe, she thought as he pulled into an empty space, maybe she was worried about the wrong thing. Maybe she was just being selfish on Greg's behalf. Maybe Greg wasn't good for James.

------------

Wilson wasn't sure if something was wrong with Blythe. Everything had seemed normal at the station. She was happy and relaxed, joking with him about House. But she grew quiet somewhere between there and the hospital, and he couldn't place exactly when or why.

"I didn't even ask," he said, before they got out of his car. "Did you want to go to the hotel first? Take a break?"

She smiled, shook her head. "No, this is fine," she said. "Unless that would be better for you?"

"I've got some things to finish up," he said. "I'll walk you up to Greg's office, though, if you want."

"Nonsense. I know my way around. I don't want to keep you from anything important."

Wilson wanted to object, but something about her tone of voice told him she didn't want or expect any arguments. He nearly laughed when he realized it was the same tone his mother had used on him, the one Blythe must have used to prod House hundreds of times -- thousands of times.

"Let me just get my bag," she said, but Wilson shook his head.

"I've got Greg's keys," he said. "I'll put it in his car, then you won't have to haul it across the building."

She seemed like she was ready to argue again, but then nodded. "Then I hope I'll see both of you tonight," she said. "But if you can't make it, that's fine. I'll stop and see you in the morning before I leave." She put a hand on his arm. "Don't neglect your wife on our behalf."

Wilson wasn't sure what she meant by that, but she turned and walked away before he could ask. He took Blythe's bag out of his car, and took it over to the handicap parking spots near the elevator and unlocked the car door with the spare key House had given him, storing the suitcase on the back seat.

House's car was gone when he left nearly two hours later.

Julie's car was in the driveway when he got home and he parked next to it.

Her shoes were by the door, her purse in the kitchen, her jacket hung from the closet doorknob. He followed the sound of her voice from there to the bedroom.

"You're late," she said.

Wilson didn't argue the point. "Paperwork."

Julie pointed toward the bed, where she'd placed some casual clothes for him. "You should wear the sweater my Mom gave you," she said. She was putting on earrings that her mother had given her at their engagement party, so he guessed she had made up her mind.

"You still want to have dinner with your folks?"

She nodded. "I thought that was the plan," she said, "or were you still thinking about going with Greg and his mother?"

He shrugged and walked into the closet. He toed off his shoes, then put them neatly on the shoe rack on his side. "I'd like to go with them," he called out to her. "We can see your parents anytime." He took off his suit coat and hung it carefully on the hangar. He pulled off his tie and put it in a drawer with the others. "You'd like Blythe," he said.

"So she must really be different than her son then." Julie was standing just inside the closet. She smiled and put up her hands. "Joking," she said. "I'm joking."

He smiled and chuckled, but thought about how she was always making jokes at House's expense.

"Tell you what." Julie walked up to Wilson, put her arms around him. He wrapped her arms around her too, pulled her close. "I'll see my Mom, you can see Greg's Mom. It's not as if we're attached at the hip."

Wilson smiled and pulled her closer. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said, with a laugh. "About both things -- that you should go to dinner with Greg, and that we're not actually attached at the hip." She leaned in to kiss him. "Although that last part sounds intriguing."

House and Blythe were already at the table when Wilson got there. House had a sake glass in front of him, Blythe a glass of white wine.

"You're late," House said, as Wilson pulled out one of the two empty chairs. "And alone."

Wilson nodded. "Julie decided to eat with her parents tonight," he said. He looked up and saw House leaning forward, one finger pointing toward Wilson, his mouth already open. "Don't say it," Wilson warned.

"Say what?" House asked.

Wilson looked over at Blythe. who was looking at him. John House's eyes shared the intensity of his son's. Blythe's gaze was soft, but somehow she seemed to be able to see somewhere deep inside him.

"Nothing," Wilson said. He picked up the menu.

"Do you really think I'd be so insensitive to ask if the honeymoon was over already?" House teased. "If there was trouble in paradise? If ..."

"Greg." Blythe kept her voice quiet, and said only the one word. She put a hand on House's arm, just as Wilson had seen her do with her husband. Wilson wondered how often she had done that over the years, and if it was a skill he could learn.

House shook his head and sat back, and Blythe turned to Wilson. "James, you don't need to keep us company." She smiled at him. "I'm sure Greg and I can manage to get along without a chaperone."

"Everything's fine," he told her. She continued to study him. "Really. It was Julie's idea."

Blythe finally nodded, but Wilson wasn't convinced that she was happy with his answer. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say that would reassure her. He opened his menu.

"So you're the experts," he said. "Tell me what I should order."

Wilson let House take the lead during the dinner conversation, listening to familiar stories about the hospital and new ones Blythe told about their time in Japan, then in Greece, then hearing those mixed in with something that happened in California, or Florida or Egypt or Italy.

Her stories were always sweet, always loving, usually funny. Sometimes House would object, saying that she was ruining his reputation. Wilson loved them. They gave him a glimpse of a House that he would never know.

Blythe rarely told them when the Colonel was with them. And, Wilson realized, the Colonel rarely made an appearance in any of her stories either. Not these ones, anyway. Not the happy ones, that ones that made House smile.

He wondered if House and his father shared any happy memories.

Blythe had finished her wine and was sipping tea when House excused himself to use the bathroom. He had barely left the table when Blythe turned to him.

"You could always join your wife for dessert," she said. "I won't mind."

Wilson smiled. "Why is it I have the feeling you're trying to get rid of me?"

"I'm not," she said.

Blythe took a drink of her tea and circled the top of her cup with her fingers, tracing its shape around and around. Without House there she had gone quiet again, and Wilson still wasn't sure why. She hadn't been like that since the early days after the infarction, when she was still trying to figure out how badly her son was injured, how much he hurt, and how much he would need her.

Maybe she still was.

Then Blythe touched Wilson's arm like she had touched House's earlier, a slight pressure he felt through the layers of his sweater and shirt sleeve. "James, you once asked me if I had any advice for you in your marriage," she said. Blythe smiled and her fingers tightened slightly on his arm. Wilson could see how it was that both House and his father had learned to recognize the emotion behind that touch, how she used it to punctuate her words.

"I know you care about Greg, and I love you for it," Blythe said. "And I love Greg, but Greg can be ..." She stared across the table, toward the bathrooms for a moment, then turned back to him. "Greg can be difficult. Don't let him steal all your time. You owe it to yourself and your wife and your marriage to make time for her as well."

Wilson shook his head. "Greg isn't stealing anything," he said. "I spend time with Greg because I enjoy spending time with him." He smiled. "And I enjoy spending time with you too."

"I know," she said. "And I know that you promised me you'd keep an eye on Greg for me, just ... just keep an eye out for yourself as well, all right?" She gave his arm another soft squeeze.

Wilson looked down at her hand. She left it there, making soft contact, as if she was willing him to understand what she wanted, but he wasn't sure if he did understand. It wasn't what he'd expected to hear -- not from her. He was sure she meant it, but he wasn't sure why.

He looked away for a moment. Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised. Blythe was sometimes as difficult to predict as House. Every time Wilson thought he knew what she'd do, she'd do the opposite.

Like now.

Wilson looked back at her, put his hand on hers, still uncertain what she really wanted, or what she wanted to hear him say. "I'll think about what you said," he finally promised. "I'll try."

"You'll try what?" House pulled out his chair and sat. He hung his cane from the arm of the vacant chair that would have been Julie's seat.

Blythe finally took her hand from Wilson's arm. She turned back to her tea, quiet again.

Wilson turned to House. "Your mother was just telling me that I should try to make you pay," he said. "I thought it sounded like a great idea."