Her collection of salt and pepper shakers filled the shelf on the wall over a bench he’d made in high school wood shop.

You could eat off her floor, and every surface gleamed.

She gave a satisfied nod, then opened her arms.“How do I look?”

“As good as your lasagna.”

“Red and spicy?”

He tugged one of her mass of wild orange curls.“That’s right.”

“I’m going to put this lasagna together and get it in to bake. I want you to go on and light the candles I’ve got sitting around. And don’t make a mess of anything.”

“What am I going to make a mess of?”

She shot him a green-eyed stare.“Nothing if you know what’s good for you.”

Resigned, he took the lighter, walked around—dining room, living room, even the half bath. She had groupings of candles everyfricking-where. Probably arranged the way she’d seen in a magazine, or on the HGTV she was addicted to.

She’d put out fancy little towels and soaps in the half bath, and he knew from experience she’d skin his hide if he actually used them.

He poked into her little office, her bedroom, the master bath, mostly to keep out of her way so she couldn’t nag him again.

She’d made a home here, he mused.A good one, a comfortable one. And in a very real way it was the first home they’d had. Everything else had been quarters, or rentals.Transitory.

So if she wanted to paint the walls—as she had, a different color in every room—if she wanted to play with candles and set out fancy soap no one could use but the guest, she was entitled.

When he figured he’d stalled long enough, he started back.The knock on the door stopped him.

“You take her coat,” his mother called out.“And hang it in the closet.”

“What am I, a moron?” he muttered.

He opened the door to see Parker, wearing a light trench open over a dark green dress, holding a bunch of baby irises in blues and white.

“Hi. I guess you didn’t have trouble finding the place.”

“Not a bit.”

“I’ll get your coat.”

“What a nice house.” She scanned the living room as he took her trench. “It looks like your mother.”

“How?”

“It’s colorful.”

“You’ve got that right. Come on back. She’s in the kitchen. How’d the event go?”

“It was . . . Oh, look at these!” With obvious pleasure she stopped to study a wall of framed postcards.“These are wonderful.”

“She collected them on tour—different places my father was stationed or where she met up with him for R and R.”

“It’s a wonderful way to remember.You must’ve been to some of these places. Do you remember?”

“Not especially.” He took her free hand, led her back to the kitchen.

They walked in just as Kay closed the oven door.

“Kay, it’s so good to see you.Thanks so much for having me.”

“You’re welcome. Irises.” Pleasure warmed her face. “They’re my favorite.”

“Someone mentioned that. It’s Emma’s work.”

“Doesn’t she have a way.” Sniffing at them, Kay set the arrangement on the counter.“I’ll have them here for now, but tonight I’m going to be selfish and put them in my bedroom. Mal, get the girl some wine. She’s been working all day.”

“I’d love some.You have such a pretty home. It feels happy.”

Exactly right, Mal thought as he poured the wine. “Here you go. Ma.”

Kay sampled, pursed her lips. “Not bad.You two go on out in the living room and sit. I’ll bring out some hors d’oeuvres.”

“Can I help? I’m not much of a cook, but I’m a very good assistant.”

“Not much left to do now. We’ll just have a seat for a while. I guess you can go ahead and take the tray in with you, Mal, and I’ll be right along.” She opened the refrigerator, took out her best platter and the cold appetizers.

“Oh, I love these.” Carrying her wine, Parker stepped to the salt and pepper shakers.

She meant it, Malcolm concluded with considerable surprise. He’d gotten good at detecting her polite tone and her genuine pleasure.

There were fancy ones, funny ones, and, he guessed the most polite term would be, risqué ones.

“I started collecting them right after I got married. Something small I could pack up whenever we moved.Then I got a little carried away.”

“They’re wonderful. Charming and fun. Batman and Robin?”

Kay strolled over. “Mal gave me those for Mother’s Day back when he was about twelve. Gave me those humping dogs, too—didn’t think I’d put them out. He was sixteen then, I think, and trying to get my goat. I got his.” She glanced back, grinned at him and the memory. “Embarrassed the hell out of him when I put them on the shelf.”

Mal shifted. “What do you want me to do with this tray?”

Parker glanced at him, smiled. “Oh, thanks.” She chose a pretty round of bread topped with brie and a raspberry. “And these?” Parker continued, bonding with his mother over salt and pepper shakers while he held a tray of canapes.

He wasn’t sure, as the evening progressed, whether to be pleased, relieved, or worried about just how well his mother and Parker got on.

He knew very well Parker could and did adjust her manner and conversation to any sort of social situation. But it was more than that here. He knew, just as he’d known when they’d shared that first pizza, that she was relaxed and enjoying herself.

They talked about places they’d both been, places his parents had traveled before he’d been born, when he’d been too young to remember, others he barely remembered.

They talked about her business, and his mother’s laugh bolted out time and again when Parker relayed some weird or funny anecdote about an event.

“I’d never have the patience for it. All those people calling day and night, whining, bitching, demanding. Hell, I want to pop one of Mal’s customers at least twice a day.”

“Parker doesn’t pop them,” Malcolm put in.“She crushes them like bugs.”

“Only when absolutely necessary.”

“What are you going to do about Linda Elliot, or whatever her last name is now?” When Parker hesitated, Kay shrugged. “None of my business.”