Chapter Eight

After calling the office to let her team know what had happened, and that she would be out of the office for a few days, Angela helped Jenny arrange the cards and flowers on a corkboard opposite Jonathan's bed. Wendy, never comfortable around illness or injury, excused herself to run down to the gift shop. She returned with a balloon, which she tied to the bed; a stuffed platypus, which she tucked into bed with Jonathan, and a box of multicolored permanent markers, which she handed to her daughter. "Here, to write on his helmet. Leave them here when you're done with them, so his other visitors can sign, too."

Jenny picked out a cobalt-blue marker. "Blue's his favorite color." She signed her name and doodled a little heart with an arrow poking through it, keeping it small, as requested.

"Time to go, baby," said Wendy. "You've got homework, and besides, there aren't supposed to be more than two people in this room."

"Can't we stay just a little longer?" Jenny wheedled.

"Homework time is penciled in from four to seven. If you don't get home and get to work, it's going to throw off your whole schedule," Wendy reminded her daughter, tapping the day planner protruding from her backpack.

"Hm. True." Jenny said her goodbyes. "Bye Jonathan. I'll come see you again. Bye Paulette. Bye, Mrs. Bower. Let me know when he wakes up, okay?"

"Yeah, call me when you have news, honey," said Wendy, giving Angela a hug. "About Jonathan, or anything else."

"You'll be the first to know," said Angela. "Well, probably the second, after my nosy mother. There are no secrets when that woman's about."

"The platypus is an interesting choice," Paulette observed as the door shut behind them. "A teddy bear or a bunny would have been more traditional."

"Well, Jonathan has a strong interest in animals, especially the weird ones," Angela explained. "He gets it from his father, a wildlife photographer."

"Tony's a wildlife photographer? He told me he was a domestic engineer."

"No, I meant Jonathan's biological father." Angela sat the leather satchel she'd brought with her on the end of the bed and began to unpack it, eager to keep her hands busy.

"Oh, right. Tony's the stepfather. It's easy to forget, given the way he talks about Jonathan." Paulette looked thoughtful. "I didn't want to ask him about this, because he seemed a little defensive about it, but what exactly is a domestic engineer?"

"It's a fancy way of saying…" Housekeeper? "Homemaker," Angela decided on. It was a much more accurate and literal description of Tony's role in the family. From the day he'd moved in, he had truly made 3344 Oak Hills Drive into a home.

"Oh. That actually explains a lot. If he's home with the kids all day, no wonder he and Jonathan are close." Paulette peeked into the bag. "What have you got, there? Anything I can help with?"

"Just some things of Jonathan's. I thought it would be comforting, seeing something familiar when he wakes up." She unfolded a fleece blanket patterned with black zebra stripes. "I bought him this when he was four years old. He screamed like a banshee when he saw it. Thought it was the skin of a real zebra. I had to show him the tag that said '100% polyester' before he'd allow it in his bed." She draped it over the sleeping child, tucking him in securely.

Paulette picked up a stack of books. "Tom Sawyer, Frankenstein, and The Oxford Book of Reptiles and Amphibians. Pretty heavy reading for such a little guy. Must be a smart kid."

"He is. I know he won't be able to read them now, but I want them to be available when he wakes up. And honestly, I think just having books at hand will be a comfort to him. Make him feel more at home." She stacked them on his bedside table, then added a few copies of Reptile Weekly to the pile. "I brought his slippers, and his toothbrush, and a few pairs of pajamas, too. Probably a little more comfortable than a hospital gown. Is there any chance we could change him into them?"

"Not while he's in here. We need to have easy access to his chest, on the off chance that he ends up needing defibrillation again. But once he goes over to pediatrics, he'll be able to wear them. Why don't you leave them in the cupboard next to his bed, for now?"

"Okay." Angela did as she was told.

A new doctor popped in. "Well, hello! You must be Angela, Jonathan's mom. I'm Dr. Dennison. I just got through speaking with your husband."

"Tony?"

"Yes, I caught him as he was walking in. I'll ask you the same question I asked him. Do you want the good news, or the bad?"

"I'll take the bad," Angela decided. Best to get that over with as soon as possible.

"The bad news is that Jonathan's white cell count is a bit elevated. This could possibly be an early sign of infection. But it could also just be a side effect of the inevitable inflammation that comes with an injury like this."

"Inflammation? Is that something to be concerned about?" Angela's head was reeling. She felt like she had expanded her vocabulary more in the last twenty-four hours than in all her years at college and graduate school.

"Not necessarily. Inflammation can be a symptom of infection, and if it gets out of hand, it can cause brain damage. But it's also an important part of the healing process. It's the body's way of clearing out debris after an injury and regenerating cells." He turned to Paulette. "How are his wounds looking?"

"There's been some exudate from the big ones along his breastbone and the lower lobe of his lung, but it looks pretty healthy. No purulent drainage. The head wound has soaked through three dressings since I came on shift. Again, no signs of purulence, but it's been insanely soggy."

Angela hadn't eaten anything since her junk food binge last night, and was suddenly very glad of it. She suspected this line of conversation would have induced vomiting, if there had been anything in her stomach. "Wasn't that part of the reason for the craniectomy, though? To let the excess fluid drain?"

"Yes, but if he's losing too much, it could lead to dehydration or other complications, and we don't want that." He reached for Jonathan's helmet, then paused, glancing over his shoulder at Angela. "Angela, I'm going to examine his head. It's not going to be a pretty sight. Do you want to step outside?"

"No," Angela insisted sharply. "I'm not afraid of my son. Or disgusted by him. And whatever's under there can't possibly be more repulsive than that time he dropped a rock on his pet lizard."

Dr. Dennison chuckled. "Point taken."

Despite her bravado, she found herself again glad of her empty stomach as the doctor removed her son's helmet. His head had been shaved bald, making his various bumps and contusions stand out on his bare skin. The entire right side of his bare head was black and blue, with oozing road rash covering his ear and part of his scalp. As the doctor removed the sodden dressing, a pronounced crater under his skin where the bone had been cut away, crisscrossed with stitches, became visible. Dr. Dennison tilted her son's head, ever so slightly, and more watery yellow fluid dribbled down the side of his head. Paulette was at his bedside in a heartbeat, mopping his skin dry and gently laying a towel under his head. "Thanks," said Dr. Dennison. "Well, you're right. There are no obvious signs of infection. But with that much fluid oozing out of the wound, he's at risk for a seroma."

"We'll watch it closely," Paulette promised.

"What's a seroma?" Angela asked.

"It's where a wound produces more fluid than the body can absorb, and it builds up into a big lump," Dr. Dennison explained. "If it happens, it should be relatively easy to treat. Depending on how bad it is, we might need to suck out the excess fluid with a needle, or put in a tube so that it can drain. We'll cross that bridge if we come to it. Now, ready for the good news?"

About time! "I'm ready."

"The surgical team did amazing work on him. Seriously, if I ever get hit by a car, I want Dr. Adams and Dr. Ferguson to treat me. Their repairs to his lung and his major blood vessels must have been nothing short of flawless, because all his vitals are remaining in normal range with little to no intervention from us. His circulation looks great, and the final transfusion he had when he first got to the PICU is likely going to be the last one he'll need."

That's good, because I think we've sucked my poor mother dry. "I'm glad to hear it. Thank you, Dr. Dennison."

"No problem. Did you have any other questions for me today?"

"How long will it be until we can wake him up?" She wasn't sure whether to dread or anticipate that moment.

"Well, that's not a simple question," said Dr. Dennison.

Of course it's not. She was getting heartily sick of hearing those words. "Can you answer it anyway?"

"Honestly, at this point, he really can't," Paulette apologized as she taped a new dressing in place and initialed it with a black marker. "But Jonathan's going to be getting a CT scan first thing in the morning so that we can see how much the swelling has gone down. We should have a more satisfactory answer by then."

"What she said," Dr. Dennison echoed, gingerly replacing Jonathan's helmet and buckling it into place. "At that point, he'll be thirty-six hours out from the accident, over twenty-four hours from the time of surgery, and we can logically expect to see some changes."

"We also wanted to keep an eye on him and make absolutely sure his ticker and lungs are on point before we let him leave the ICU, even for a short time," Paulette added. "By then, we can be confident that it's safe."

"Okay," said Angela, perching on the edge of her son's bed and holding his hand. "Thank you, doctor."

Dr. Dennison jotted a quick note in Jonathan's chart, then left. "I'll be along again in a few hours. Let me know if anything changes, Paulette."

"Will do."

"Did you hear that, Jonathan?" she addressed her son nonsensically. "Picture day is tomorrow morning. Rest up, because you want your brain to look its best for this." She noticed the nurse's eyes on her and colored slightly with embarrassment.

"Don't be embarrassed. It's good that you're talking to him," Paulette reassured her. "Really, it can be beneficial for patients who are non-responsive to hear a familiar voice. Even if they can't talk back, it stimulates the brain. If you wanted to read to him from one of the books he likes, that might help, too."

Grateful for the suggestion, for something she could do to help, Angela immediately picked up Tom Sawyer with the hand not clasping Jonathan's. "Chapter One—"

"Be sure to let him know who you are and what you're reading. It'll help him center himself," Paulette suggested. "I know it sounds crazy, but remember, he's asleep and easily confused."

"I understand. Jonathan? It's me, Mom. I brought your old friend Tom Sawyer with me. You've always loved that book. Remember when Sam tried to get you to write her book report for her?" Angela managed a chuckle. Sam was an intelligent girl, but her taste in reading material was very different from Jonathan's. "Let's see if any of this sounds familiar. 'Chapter One. "Tom! Tom!" The old lady put down her spectacles and looked over them about the room, then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked through them for so small a thing as a boy…'"

Having filled his pockets with quarters before leaving the house, Tony made a beeline for the payphones as soon as he'd finished checking in with Dr. Dennison. "I'll meet you guys in the waiting room," he told Sam and Mona. "I'm going to keep working on Michael."

"Good luck, Angela worked on him for nine years and he never got much better," Mona snorted, following Sam into the waiting room.

Tony dialed the number he'd obtained earlier. "Hello, you've reached the regional National Park Headquarters, located in San Francisco, California," a youthful voice greeted brightly after what seemed like an eternity on hold. "Do you have a question about passes or park reservations?"

"Much as I'd love to take a vacation right now, I'm gonna have to say no," Tony replied with regret. "I'm trying to get ahold of someone at Redwood National Park."

"Someone in particular? A ranger? An administrator?"

"Either is fine, or even a janitor. That guy who chases Yogi Bear around. Anybody."

"Um, okay. I'd start with the main office at 707-464-6100."

Tony scribbled the number down. "I'm gonna read that back to you. 707-464-6100."

"That's it. And if you change your mind about that vacation, please don't hesitate to give us a call. You sound like you need one in a bad way," the girl replied bemusedly, before hanging up on him.

"From your mouth to God's ears," Tony muttered, shoving another quarter into the phone's hungry maw and dialing the designated number. A low-quality recording answered. "Hello, you've reached Redwood Forest National and State Park," the robotic voice droned. "For an interpreter, press one. For administration, press two. For Redwood Parks Conservancy, press three. For resource and facility management, press four. For law enforcement, press five."

After mulling it over, Tony decided to try the cops first. If anybody kept tabs on visitors, it would probably be them. He pushed five. "Hello, Redwood National Park Department of Law Enforcement, Special Agent Holmes speaking."

The man's voice was warm and jovial, not at all like Tony had imagined a G-man sounding. "Hello, Agent Holmes. I don't know if you can help me, but I'm gonna take a shot in the dark."

"Reckless discharge of a gun is a federal offense, buster," Agent Holmes seethed.

"Uh, on second thought, could you transfer me to the janitor's office?"

The voice on the line laughed merrily. "Just a little joke to lighten the mood. You sound like you've lost your best friend."

"No, but you ain't far off. My, uh, stepson was hit by a car while riding his bike yesterday, and he's in a coma." It was quicker and easier to go with the stepfather story than try to explain his relationship to Jonathan truthfully. And who knows? Maybe, if I play my cards right and luck is on my side, someday it'll be the truth, he allowed himself to fantasize for a brief moment.

"Oh my God, that's awful."

"Yeah. From the sound of that dad joke you just told, I'm guessing you're a father, too?"

"Hey!" The man's indignation quickly faded. "A little girl, eight years old."

"Our Jonathan just turned eleven last week. His dad's somewhere in your park shooting a documentary about banana slugs." Tony rolled his eyes. "Obviously, the slugs ain't got a phone line, so we haven't been able to tell him the bad news. But I know he'd want to be by his son's side at a time like this. And I know it'd do our little guy a world of good to see his old man there when he wakes up. Is there anyone who might be able to look for him? Blast a loudspeaker with his name, or something?"

"Interesting question. Loudspeakers are out of the question, as they'd disturb the local fauna. But if he's with the banana slugs, I might know where to find him. Our largest concentration of banana slugs is in the southern end of the park, along Redwood Creek. If I was shooting a documentary about those ugly things…speaking of which, what the hell?"

"I don't pretend to understand his motivations either, Agent Holmes. Seems like there are other animals in your park that'd be a lot more interesting to follow around, but what do I know?"

"Anyway, that'd be my first stop, no question. It's wintertime, the weather's gray and drizzly, and school is in session, so we're not very busy right now. Not many dumb kids setting off fireworks in gopher holes on a day like this one. I think I can spare a little time to take the jeep out and make a pass down the creek. See if I can spot him."

"Would you? Oh, Agent Holmes, I can't tell you how much that'd mean to me. My wife's going out of her mind." The word wife slipped out of his mouth so naturally, he didn't realize he was lying to law enforcement until after he'd already said it. "I'm hoping that having someone here who loves the kid as much as she does, who can share the responsibilities and take some of the pressure off her will help."

"Sounds to me like you're doing a good job with that already. But you're right, the dad should be told, if possible. At a time like this, a kid needs his loved ones around him. Where can I reach you to let you know if I've found him?"

Tony gave the number for Jonathan's hospital room and the house number. "I really appreciate this, sir. Even if you can't find him, I feel better knowing we tried."

"If I can't drum him up, I'll get word out to the rangers, and let them know to keep an eye out for him. Describe him for me."

"His name's Michael Bower. Tall, light-skinned, lanky guy in his late thirties. Dark hair, dark eyes, long in the face."

"Got it. I'll let you know what happens."

"Thanks again, pal." He hung up the phone and went to join Sam and Mona.

The Novak baby had found his way back into Sam's arms, while Mona chatted with a guy who must have been his father. Looking at the guy's face was like looking in a mirror. His eyes were glazed and weary, his jaw hanging slack, and his frame stooped with exhaustion. "Hey, you must be Mr. Novak."

"Call me Adam. And you must be Samantha's dad." Adam managed a smile. "Your daughter's a real sweetheart. I tried to pay her for her services three separate times last night, and she wouldn't take a dime."

"I was glad for the company." Sam jiggled the baby in her arms. "Andy's good company, aren't you, you little cutie?"

"Speaking of company, why don't you go check up on Angela?" Mona's tone of voice made it clear that wasn't a suggestion. "If you can drag her away from Jonathan, Sam and I can come in and visit with him for a while."

"I'll see what I can do." Flinging a quick prayer heavenward, Tony approached Room 2A as if it were the very mouth of Hell. He tapped on the door, uncharacteristically quietly. Slowly, hesitantly, he poked his head in.

Angela jolted at the sight of him. She didn't seem displeased to see him. Just surprised. She had donned her reading glasses, held a book in one hand, and was clutching Jonathan's in the other. Their—her son was wrapped in his favorite blanket, a stuffed platypus tucked in beside him and a stack of books on his bedside table. That was good, Tony reflected briefly. He'd immediately feel more at home with a few books scattered around. "Hey Angela. Mona and Sam want a turn with the kid. Any chance I could convince you to come take a walk with your husband?" He tried to smile, but he was so nervous it came out as more of a grimace.

"If you're looking to get some fresh air and stretch your legs, or maybe talk privately, there's a skybridge with a gorgeous view down the hall to your right, four doors down," Paulette suggested.

"All right. Just for a minute." She carefully marked her place and sat the book aside. "Jonathan, Tony's here."

"Hey pal-o-mine. I'm gonna borrow your mom for a minute, but don't worry, we'll be back." He gave Angela a pointed look. "Both of us. No matter what." He held out his hand to her, and was relieved when she took it.

Tony held her hand with the unyielding strength of an industrial vice. It should have been uncomfortable, but it was bizarrely reassuring. I'm here, and you're not getting rid of me, it seemed to warn her. She squeezed back, and hoped he understood her answer. Good.

"All right Mona, Sam. You're up," Tony proclaimed as they passed through the waiting room.

"Thanks, Tone. Good to see you, Angela. Hope you're feeling refreshed." Mother winked at her. Oh no. Had she guessed, somehow? Mother did have something of a sixth sense about these things.

Angela avoided her gaze. Direct eye contact seemed to make Mother's senses sharper, somehow. She focused on Sam instead. "Samantha, if it gets too quiet in there, I've been reading him Tom Sawyer." As Tony pulled her out the door, she yelled back at the child over her shoulder. "The book is on the bedside table and I've marked our place!"

The door to the skybridge was locked. Tony cursed under his breath, then pressed onward. "We'll go talk in the chapel," he decided, following the signs on the wall. By the time they reached the familiar little room, Angela was breathless and sweating from the brisk hike.

As he turned on the lights and finally bothered to look at the woman he'd been dragging behind him, his breath caught. "Madonna mia."

Was that a good curse or a bad one? Or just a prayer? They were in a church, after all. "What's wrong?"

"Sorry." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's just, you look like you did before."

"Before what?"

"You know…" Tony's eyes darted skyward, as if he feared God might take offense. "Before. In my room, this morning."

It's worse than I thought. He can't even bring himself to say it out loud. "When we…when we were…" Oh no, it's got me, too!

"Yeah, that. You were all breathless and rosy-cheeked. With your hair just a little messy." He reached up to tuck a flyaway strand behind her ear.

Her legs were aching, and the urge to lean against him was growing too powerful to repress much longer. Now that she'd seen and touched his entire body in all its glory, it was even harder than usual to maintain appropriate physical boundaries. "Let's sit down, Tony."

"Okay. Good. Sitting. Yeah. I know how to do that." He dragged her to the front pew, her hand still clutched in his iron grip. Her palm was sweaty, or maybe that was his, but he didn't seem inclined to let go. "Listen, Angela, I think we should talk about…before."

"Tony, will you call it what it is?" she pleaded. "I can't take any more dancing around the obvious!"

"Okay, okay. I think we should talk about…about…" His throat was working awkwardly. "…about you and me finally taking the plunge and making love."

Interesting phrasing. He'd called it making love. Not pity sex. Or even worse, "losing each other as friends," which was the last euphemism she wanted to hear at the moment. He'd coughed the words up like a wad of sticky phlegm, but he'd said them. A faint spark of hope kindled, somewhere deep in her heart. "We should. Tony, I know I shouldn't have pressured you the way I did, at a time like this…"

He put a finger to her lips. "Angela, if you're about to apologize for one of the best moments of my life, please don't. We both needed it, and I wouldn't change a thing."

Relief flooded her soul. "Good. For the record, neither would I. It was just the way I'd always imagined it." She reconsidered her words. "Well, I mean, I didn't picture it happening in response to one of the kids having a near-death experience. But I always suspected it was going to be like a dam breaking, sweeping us away like a flood."

"I got my wish, too. I wanted it to happen at home, where all our best memories together are." Tony's head snapped up, as if he'd been struck by lightning. "Wait. You'd imagined it? You thought about us like that, too?"

"Yes," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

He finally released her hand, taking her by the shoulders and bringing her closer. It wasn't quite an embrace. It was more like he was trying to make sure she didn't bolt. "For how long?"

She tried to look away. She had wanted to have a frank and honest conversation, but was having trouble with the reality of it. She had become so used to avoiding the subject that opening her mouth was akin to opening a rusty gate. Stubbornly, he took her face in his hands and pointed it back at his own. "Are we counting dreams or just conscious fantasies?" She was blatantly stalling for time now.

Tony's eyes went wide. "Both. Either."

"I had a dream, your first night in the house," she confessed. "Remember when you came running into the kitchen and pulled Grant off me, because you thought he was attacking me?"

"Yeah." Tony's face hardened.

"Well, in the dream, you pulled him off me because you wanted me for yourself. You put me on the table and…" She winced. "Don't make me say any more, Tony. We're in a church."

Tony was grinning like a fool. Any other time, she would have been tempted to slap it right off his smug face. As it was, it was just nice to see him smiling. And to have been the one to bring a smile to his face. "What about conscious fantasies?"

It was getting easier to talk about it. Some of the rust had fallen off that squeaky gate's hinges. "Remember the Machismo commercial where you were strutting around in that tiny little bathing suit? That fueled the first one."

He threw his head back and laughed. "In that case, that stupid rash was worth every itchy, miserable moment."

She poked him in the chest. "Fair is fair, Tony. When did you start thinking about it?"

"Four words. Rub-a-dub-dub." He frowned. "Or would that be three words? Does the 'a' count as a word? Or is it all one word, since it's hyphenated?" Now he was the one stalling. She poked him again. "Okay, okay! I'm talking about the time I walked in on you coming out of the tub."

"Oh yeah." She smiled at the memory. "I don't know which of us was more humiliated, you or me."

"I think it was you, at first, but you got over it quicker. For me, it dragged on a lot longer. I couldn't get your image out of my head. Every time I looked at you, I was picturing what you'd looked like coming out of that tub, steam rising off your beautiful body like you were literally sizzling hot." His eyes wandered down to her chest, smoldering like two hot coals.

She regarded him suspiciously. "You're picturing it right now, aren't you?"

He dragged his gaze back up to her face. The hunted, embarrassed look he was wearing told her all she needed to know. "Don't ask me that here! It ain't fair. I can't lie in a church!"

"Really?" That was interesting. Could she…? No, she shouldn't. It wasn't sporting, taking advantage of his religious beliefs like that. On the other hand, it was nicer than beating the truth out of him. "Tony, keeping in mind that we're in a sacred place and God is watching, did you mean the thing you told me the last time we were in a hospital together, right before you went in for your appendectomy?"

He began to tremble, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Embarrassment had turned to sheer, unmitigated terror. He opened his mouth, as if to answer, but nothing came out except for a pitiful squeak. "You mean 'ow?'" he finally managed to choke out.

"No. The other thing. I know you remember." She took his hands, squeezing them in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. She hated seeing him like this, afraid and uncertain. He was normally so confident, so bold, and for him to be struck speechless was like seeing a lion shorn of its mane. That was probably part of the reason she had put off this conversation for so long. But it couldn't be put off any longer. "Tony, I promise, whatever your answer is, we'll be okay. We'll figure it out. But the way things are right now, my sanity is already questionable, and I need to know where I stand with you. As my friend, if nothing else, please be honest with me."

He pulled his hands back and she thought for a moment that she had pushed him too far. Then he turned to the crucifix on the wall, bowed his head and crossed himself in prayer. "Dear Jesus, lay your wounded hand upon my weary head, and teach me to have courage in the paths that I must tread," he recited quietly.

Tony's not normally this devout, she observed, getting worried. Am I really that scary? "Tony, you don't need to bother the Lord of all creation over this. It's a simple yes or no question."

"No, it ain't." Tony squared his shoulders, lifted his head, and looked her bravely in the eyes. "You deserve better than a one-word answer. If I'm gonna tell you, I'm gonna do it right." He took her hands in his. "Angela, I love you."

Her breath caught. She hadn't expected a multi-word answer. Certainly not this one.

Tony wasn't done. "I've loved you since the first time we danced together on Christmas morning all those years ago, and I got my first good look at how loving and considerate you are. Or maybe it was the time you punched out that waitress at Marty's Melody Room, and I got my first good look at how strong and spirited you are. Or maybe it was the night Mitch stood you up, and you told me the story about your slip and wrist corsage, and we laughed together for the first time. The first of many. And don't get me started about our little makeout session on your birthday a couple of years ago…"

He was rambling, as he tended to do when he was nervous. She should probably say it back and put him out of his misery, but he wasn't letting her get a word in edgewise.

"I want you to know, I don't expect you to say it back. Not now, with everything that you've got on your mind. Maybe not ever. I know you weren't yourself this morning, and I'm not holding you to anything you—"

"Tony, shut up!" she finally had to yell at him. He took it the wrong way, flinching as if in pain and dropping her hands. So, she decided to give him a sign he couldn't misinterpret, seizing him by the front of his shirt with both hands and kissing him senseless. When she finally released him, he was slightly cross-eyed. "In case you were wondering, that means 'I love you, too,'" she informed him breathlessly. "From the moment you gave up on a hot date to comfort a lonely friend, and then taught her how to slam dunk a basketball in high heels."

Tony looked up at the ceiling. "If I'd known this was how you reward honesty, I'd have told her years ago." He looked back at Angela, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Confession time! It was me, not Grover, who ate them fancy pastries you brought home last Easter." Because she was glad to see him smiling, and also because she wanted to kiss him, she humored him with another kiss. "And that silk scarf you accused Mona of stealing a few weeks ago? That was me, too. I've been keeping it under my pillow because it smells like you. Since you never wore it, I didn't think you'd miss it."

She laughed softly. "I can't judge you for that. I stole your beige t-shirt for the same reason and with the same rationale." She rewarded his honesty with another kiss.

"And remember last summer, when somebody broke the lock on your diary?"

"That was you?!" she cried in horror.

"No, it was Mona, but I'm the one who gave her that fake alibi."

"Fair enough." She kissed him once more. "So, what happens now?"

"If you want to do more than kiss, this is neither the time, nor the place, you temptress," Tony teased.

"You know perfectly well what I mean!"

"Yeah." He sighed, the sparkle of happiness in his eyes dampening slightly. "You're still my boss, we've still got two vulnerable children to consider, and one of 'em's still in a coma." He put his arms around her and held her tightly, as if he feared the forces arrayed against them might physically tear her away from him at any moment. It was the same borderline-hysterical grip she had been using on Jonathan's hand.

She stroked the broad line of his shoulders, trying to reassure him. "You're not going to bolt on me again, are you?" she asked, only half-joking. "Because now that I know you feel the same way I do, I'll come after you."

"Back at you, babe." He pulled back just enough to get a good look at her face. "Maybe that's enough, for now. That you know I love you and I'm not giving you up without a fight, and I know the same. We can iron out the details later."

"That's what Wendy said, too, when I talked to her about it. She said I need to stop worrying about step three thousand while I'm still on step three," Angela recalled.

"You told your friend about what happened?" Tony perked up with interest. "Why Angela, I never took you for the type to kiss and tell!" he admonished her playfully.

Angela rolled her eyes. "Come off it, Tony. You've got no room for righteous indignation. I know perfectly well that you told Mother."

"I did not!"

"Stop lying in church, Tony," she reminded him, pointing at the cross on the wall. "The way she was winking at me? Someone did, and if it wasn't you, there's a peeping Tom loose in the neighborhood."

"It wasn't a lie! She guessed it from the way I reacted to one of her jokes about people boning in times of tragedy."

Angela wrinkled her nose. "Boning?"

"Well, she could have called it the horizonal mambo, but I guess she was trying trying to be classy."

She laughed along with him, then stood up and reached for his hand. "Come on. I can't tell you how glad I am that we got this chance to talk. But we should get back to Jonathan before Mother draws a goofy mustache on his face."

"Aw, don't be such a worrywart." He waved a hand dismissively. "The kid's in a coma. If it comes to that, we'll wash it off and he'll never have to know."

"Think again. Wendy left a box of magic markers in his room."

He froze. "Magic markers? You mean, the permanent kind?"

"Eight colors," she confirmed.

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Tony cried, dragging her out of the chapel as frantically as he'd dragged her into it. "Forget the mustache, he's gonna wake up with indelible clown makeup all over his face if we don't hide them things before Mona sees 'em!"