Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

protective instincts to a fine point. Maybe too fine, I thought, noting that Sam—busy wresting a tennis ball from Raven’s mouth so he could throw it for the canine crew to chase—seemed totally unconcerned by the fact that Davey was all but dangling in the air. Now that my son finally had a solid, reliable male relationship back in his everyday life, maybe I didn’t always have to be the one who decided what was best.
    “Don’t worry,” said Sam under his breath. He tipped back his arm and let fly with the ball. Five big black dogs went sprinting away across the yard. “Davey’s been all over that tree for the last week. He climbs like a monkey.”
    “Am I that easy to read?”
    He swallowed a bark of laughter. “Yes.”
    “Oh.” Now I was miffed.
    “Come on.” Sam looped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to his side in the gathering dusk. “I love your transparency.”
    Like that was a good quality?
    His hand began to roam, inching downward. “Almost as much as I love your breasts.”
    “I appreciate the thought,” I said. “But your timing stinks.”
    His hand was still moving. Now the other one had joined it. One by one, the Poodles came trotting back. This time, Tar had the ball. He dropped it at Sam’s feet. Sam kicked it hard and they raced away again.
    “Nah, this is just a little warm-up for later.”
    “Kind of like a pregame show?”
    “Careful now,” Sam murmured, his lips close to my ear. “Men get turned on by sports metaphors.”
    I insinuated my hips into his. “I thought you were already—”
    “Hey, Sam-Dad, look!”
    We jumped apart like a pair of guilty teenagers. Sam’s hands fell away. He cleared his throat, yanked on his waistband. We both looked up.
    Then abruptly I realized what Davey had said. “Sam-Dad?”
    “Yeah.” Davey grinned. He was lying on the boards, looking down at us over the rim of the tree house floor. “Sam said I could call him that.”
    “He did, huh?”
    I glanced sideways, my eyes suddenly moist. Sam was looking away—perhaps purposely—his eyes following the trajectory of the ball he’d just lobbed again. A minute earlier I’d felt desired, but now my heart swelled with emotion. I couldn’t imagine ever loving a man more than I loved Sam right that moment.
    When I didn’t speak right away, he looked back. “Maybe I should have asked you first . . . That’s okay, isn’t it?”
    “It’s better than okay,” I said with a sniffle. “It’s perfect.”
    Now he looked embarrassed. “It’s no big deal.”
    “It’s a huge deal.”
    “It’s a name,” Davey said practically, still watching from above us. “I couldn’t call him Dad because . . . you know . . .”
    Davey’s real father lived only a couple of miles away. After being mostly absent for the first five years of his son’s life, Bob was now making a concerted effort to play a role in Davey’s upbringing. In fact, the house we were now living in—a spacious colonial on two acres of land—had belonged to my ex-husband before we’d traded homes in the spring.
    “So I thought of this instead,” Davey said.
    “It’s a great name,” I agreed, trying not to sound too watery.
    “So when you guys finally get around to having a baby—”
    “Davey!”
    “What?” He slid back from the edge of the floor, disappearing briefly before popping, legs first, out onto the branch. He shinnied back to the ladder and was on the ground before I’d even managed to formulate an answer. “Sam said that someday I’m going to have a little brother or sister, but in the meantime I just have to be patient.”
    “Really?” My conversational skills seemed to be deteriorating rapidly.
    “Really,” Davey confirmed. “I told Sam-Dad I wanted a brother and he said he was trying as hard as he knew how.”
    “Good to know,” I said.
    “So . . .” Davey fixed me with a level stare. “I hope you’re trying, too.”
    “Trust me,” I said, “it’s a joint effort.”
    “Well, hurry up.”
    I’d heard much the same thing from Aunt Peg, Bertie, and just about everyone else I knew. Sam and I had been married only three months, for Pete’s sake. On several occasions, I’d been sorely tempted to mention that upping the pressure didn’t increase fertility. But not to my eight-year-old son.
    Instead I looked at him and smiled. “I’ll do my best,” I said.

    When I finally got around to opening my email I found out that the reception Ben had told me about was