A Creed in Stone Creek - Linda Lael Miller [88]
“How come you call my dad ‘Boston’?” Matt piped.
“’Cause that’s where he’s from,” Brody said. “Steven’s too formal for me—can hardly bring myself to say it—and he won’t answer to Steve. So I call him Boston.”
They were inside now.
Matt picked up Zeke’s empty bowl, ready to hike back to the little room where the water heater and the washer and dryer were, that being where the kibble was kept. So far, he’d kept his promise to look after the dog.
“I’m from Denver,” Matt said to Brody, “that’s where I was born. But nobody calls me that.”
Brody pretended to size up the little boy, take his measure the way he might do with a grown man.
It made Matt throw back his shoulders in pride and puff out his chest a-ways.
“I don’t reckon Denver suits you all that well,” Brody said, after some time had gone by. “Nope. If I was going to give you a nickname, I’d pick the Colorado Kid.”
Matt’s face lit up. “Like Billy the Kid?”
“Yeah,” Brody said, grinning. He’d never met the man, woman or child he couldn’t charm straight into next week.
“Feed the dog,” Steven told Matt.
Matt nodded and started down the hallway, followed by said dog.
“Do me a favor,” Steven said to Brody, keeping his voice down.
Brody’s grin faded. “What?”
“Don’t set Matt up for a fall, okay?”
Brody took offense, which was more like him. “What the hell do you mean by that?” he rasped, glaring at Steven.
“You said it yourself. You’re just passing through. So go easy on the avuncular charm, because I don’t want Matt to get too attached to somebody he might never see again.”
Brody didn’t get the opportunity to respond, because Matt and Zeke reappeared. Matt set the bowl down in its accustomed place and the dog began to crunch loudly on his supper.
Steven, who could do with some supper himself, washed his hands and then went to the full-size refrigerator and took out the leftover meat loaf. There was a lot, because Melissa hadn’t eaten much and, as for him, he’d wanted second helpings of something else entirely.
“This is quite a rig,” Brody said, looking around.
“It belongs to Brad O’Ballivan,” Matt said. “And he’s famous.”
“I figured that,” Brody replied, “from the big head painted on the side, along with his name airbrushed in letters three feet tall.”
Steven put the meat loaf in the microwave and took a family-size can of ravioli, the old standby, out of the cupboard. He was annoyed, and he was worried, but he couldn’t help the grin that tugged at one corner of his mouth.
“It’s just like a house,” Matt said, raising his voice to be heard over the dog chomping on kibbles. “There’s even a washer and dryer. And I’ve got my own room, with bunk beds.”
Brody gave a low whistle of appreciative exclamation. “Is there a shower? Because I’ve been on the road for a while, and I could sure use a good sluicing off and a close shave.”
Steven opened the ravioli can and dumped the contents into a saucepan. Turned on the gas underneath.
“Yep,” Matt said. “There’s a shower. Did you know Brad O’Ballivan is famous?”
Brody grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “I like his music. Looks like you and him must be pretty good buddies.”
“He’s a grown-up,” Matt responded, as though that precluded friendship. “His son, Mac, is my friend, though. I slept over last night, at Mac’s, I mean. We rode on his pony before and after supper.”
It was the first Steven had heard about the pony ride; Matt hadn’t mentioned it that morning, on the way to day camp. He smiled at the thought.
“I see,” Brody said.
The timer on the microwave dinged. Steven let the meat loaf sit while the ravioli heated up and he put three plates and some silverware on the table. Surveying it, he realized he’d forgotten to buy milk again. Good thing there was melted cheddar on top of the meat loaf.
Brody went off to wash up for supper, and Steven hoisted Matt up so he could soap his hands and rinse them off in the kitchen sink.
“I like Brody,” he whispered to Steven, as though imparting a confidence.
“Me, too,” Steven answered.
Brody came back, and they all sat down to supper.
Brody told stories about his