The boys had cleaned their plates, yet they still did justice to the big slab of cake I brought each of them. Frank did, too, practically licking the plate, or at least scraping up every bit of icing with the side of his fork.
While the three of them were eating their dessert, I cleared the table and started in on the kitchen. Dishes always seemed to pile up, especially when dinner included company. Of course, Frank and Dr. Stevens were practically regulars at mealtime, so there had only actually been one extra plate at the table, but I had prepared extra side dishes in case our guest didn’t like something.
When the cake was gone, the boys retreated back into the living room to play with their blocks. Frank came in to help with the dishes, but I asked him to watch over the children instead. Since Martha had gone to bed, they had no one to supervise their play. Although they were both well-behaved and rarely got into spats with each other, they were still just little boys who needed adult eyes on them.
That wasn’t really an unusual request. Frank spent a lot of time with the boys. They’d even begun to think of him as their daddy, which made me feel a little uneasy, but it was good for them to have a strong male figure in their life, one who didn’t have the violent tendencies of their real father. I was glad that they had adopted Frank so readily, but it did put pressure on me to reaffirm the relationship I’d had with the sheriff before the incident when . . .
No sense thinking of that. Frank had let me down, distrusted me, and almost chased me away with his suspicions about my moral character, but he’d long ago apologized. I needed to get beyond that let down. I wanted to give Frank another chance, or at least I was leaning in that direction.
I heard Frank send the boys upstairs to put on their pajamas. Since they’d already had their bath earlier, in honor of Sheila’s arrival, their bed preparation was quick. In minutes, the thumping of their bare feet coming down the stairs, informed me that they’d returned to the living room.
I soon heard a discussion of the evening’s book, and then I could picture Frank on the couch, the boys sitting as close beside him as they could wiggle, probably draped across him.
I loved the way Frank did book reading. The man had no talent for voices, so each time, he stopped and said, “And what does this character sound like?” Little Carlo always did the animal sounds, and Francis produced voices. It was always a treat for me to listen in on such pleasantness.