“This is good spaghetti, Jamie,” Sam said around a mouthful.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, son.”
“Thank you,” Jamie told the boy, pretending not to hear Trevor’s murmur. “I’m glad you like it.”
Swallowing hastily, Sam added, “It’s the best spaghetti I ever had.”
“That’s very high praise.”
“I like ravioli, too. My mommy made homemade ravioli. I remember it. Do you remember, Daddy?”
Trevor never even blinked. “Your mommy cooked the best homemade ravioli in the whole world.”
It touched Jamie that, despite the lingering resentment Trevor must have felt toward Melanie, he still managed to speak warmly of her to her son. And he always would, she realized. Neither Sam nor Abbie would ever hear any unpleasant word from Trevor about their mother. He would always put his own feelings aside for the sake of his children.
Everything he had done for the past year had been for the sake of his children. She wished she couldn’t see that quite so clearly. It was that damn tendency of hers to see the other side again, the one that made her all too quick to understand and forgive.
Why couldn’t she hold a decent grudge like other women?
“Will you come to the pool with me tomorrow and watch me swim, Daddy?” Sam continued with an artless change of subject. “Jamie said she would teach me to swim on my back. I can a little. You hold your hands like this and you swing your arms back over—uh-oh.”
Quickly scooting away from the stream of spilled milk that poured out of Sam’s overturned glass and dripped off the table, Jamie stood and made a grab for a paper towel.
Sam looked warily at his father. “I’m sorry, Daddy. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”
Trevor sighed lightly and moved dishes out of the way so Jamie could wipe up the spill. “I know you didn’t mean to, Sam. But try to be more careful, okay?”
Relieved that he wasn’t in trouble, Sam nodded firmly. “I’ll be more careful. I’m sorry it dripped on your leg, Jamie.”
She stood by the table, the soggy paper towel in her hand, her gaze focused on the sweet smile Trevor was giving his son. Well, hell, she thought in resignation. She was really going to have to work on that holding-a-grudge thing. Someday.
“That’s all right, Sammy,” she murmured. “Everyone makes mistakes. And everyone deserves a second chance.”
Probably in response to her tone, rather than her words, Trevor’s smile froze. His gaze shot to her face, narrowed, and then widened. “Jamie?”
“I forgot to make dessert,” she said, her throat tightening at the almost painfully hopeful expression in his eyes. “Want to go get us some ice cream? I’ll still be here when you get back.”
“Ice cream?” Sam’s face lit up again. “Could we have chocolate?”
“I’ll, uh, go get it,” Trevor muttered, but he didn’t move, or look away from Jamie.
“Make mine strawberry,” she told him gently, thinking that if he didn’t stop looking at her that way soon she was going to burst into tears, right there in front of the kids.
“Strawberry,” he repeated, sounding dazed. Still not moving.
“Daddy,” Sam said impatiently, planting his little fists on his hips. “Are you going to get ice cream or not?”
Trevor suddenly grinned. “You bet I’m going to get ice cream,” he said, finally coming out of his paralysis. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than bring ice cream to the people I love best in the world.”
Sam giggled. “Do you love Jamie?”
“Yes.” His voice was low, tender.
The boy nodded matter-of-factly. “Me, too. Hurry with the ice cream, okay? My mouth’s all ready for it.”
Jamie laughed—and so did Trevor. It was the first time, she realized, that she had seen him really laugh. And she told herself that some rewards were definitely worth taking risks for.
“THE SUN’S COMING UP.”