Dateline Matrimony (Hot off the Press! 3)

Maggie felt considerably better Wednesday, though Mark was still achy and droopy. Teresa stayed home again with Marjorie’s blessing. She didn’t hear from Riley, though she knew he was home because his car hadn’t left the driveway all day—something she just happened to notice, of course.

The children were able to hold down light food, so she made a big pot of chicken soup that afternoon. She vaguely remembered her mother serving her homemade chicken soup when she was ill. The old memory brought a familiar wistful pang to her heart.

On an impulse, she filled a bowl with soup and covered it with a plastic lid. She carried it carefully into the living room where her children were lying on blankets and pillows on the floor, watching a video. “I’m going to take some soup next door to Riley for his dinner,” she told them. “You stay put until I get back, okay?”

“’Kay, Mom,” Mark answered without taking his gaze from the television screen.

“Okay, Mommy,” Maggie said, as engrossed in the animated feature as her brother was.

Confident that they would be fine for a few minutes, Teresa stepped outside her front door. It was finally starting to feel like autumn, she thought. There was a light nip in the breeze against her cheeks, just enough to be felt through the thin fabric of the long-sleeve T-shirt she wore with a lightweight long denim jumper. The sun was setting, reminding her of how short the days were getting.

Time passing. The phrase echoed in her mind, as it had so often lately. And as she did each time, she pushed it aside.

It took Riley so long to answer her knock that she was beginning to think he wasn’t home, after all. Maybe someone had picked him up?

But then the door opened and Teresa grimaced at the sight of him. “Oh, no. You’re sick.”

“However did you guess?” His face almost as pale as the white T-shirt he wore with baggy gray sweatpants, he propped himself against the doorjamb with one hand. He wore an expression she recognized well after the past two days.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“No need. I know what to do.” He swayed a bit as he spoke.

“You need to lie down, or at least sit down before you fall.” She nudged him backward, and it was an indication of how badly he felt that he walked so compliantly to the couch. He dropped to the cushions, half-sitting, half-reclining against them.

“I brought you some soup,” she said, nodding toward the container in her hand. When he suddenly looked a bit green, she added quickly, “I’ll put it in the refrigerator. You can heat it when you feel like eating.”

“That could be a while.” He pressed one hand to his flat stomach as he spoke.

“I’ll be right back.”

His usually neat kitchen was cluttered with used glasses, crumpled paper towels and empty soda cans. A large plastic bottle of acetaminophen sat open on the counter, the lid lying beside it. She set the soup in the fridge, then took a moment to straighten the kitchen before carrying a glass of water into the living room with her.

Riley had slid a bit lower on the couch, his eyes half closed. She sat beside him, holding the glass toward him. “Here, drink some of this. You have to stay hydrated.”

“I’m not thirsty right now.”

“Drink a little, anyway. You have to take plenty of liquids until you’re able to eat something.”

He sighed, but took a couple sips of the water before setting the glass on a coaster on the table in front of them. “Who’s with the kids?”

“They’re watching a video. I have to get back to them. What can I do for you before I go?”

“Nothing. I’m fine, really.”

Before she’d even known she was going to do so, she reached out to touch his face, feeling the excessive warmth of his skin. “You don’t look so fine.”

He caught her hand, held it to his cheek for a moment, then gave it a little squeeze before releasing her. The gesture was sweet, somewhat w

eary but completely natural, as if they’d touched each other often. It was enough to make Teresa’s throat tighten.

This guy was dangerous even when he was ill, she couldn’t help thinking as she rose quickly to her feet. “Do you want me to call someone for you? Your uncle, maybe?”

“No. This bug’s too contagious. I wouldn’t want Bud to get it.”

“Then you’ll call me if you need anything? Promise you will.”

“I’ll call if I need anything. Um, how come you aren’t sick?”