Rory lunges, and I unfreeze from the shock of seeing all hell break loose. I step between the boys, separating them with iron grips on their arms. “Knock it off.”

Then Rosaleen comes tearing around the corner, with a livid Riley right behind her.

Of course.

“Give it back!”

“No, it’s mine!”

“It’s not yours, it’s mine!”

“No it’s not!”

Chelsea instinctively holds out her arms when Rosaleen cowers behind her.

“What is going on?” she shouts to her oldest niece.

“She has my pen!” Riley screams.

“A pen!” Chelsea shrieks back. “Are you kidding me? You’re fighting over a fucking pen!”

Riley pouts in that scathing way teenagers do. “Nice language, Aunt Chelsea.”

Chelsea grinds her teeth. “Give me a break, Riley.”

“No—you’re supposed to be the adult. Look at us! No wonder this is a crazy house!”

“And that’s my fault? That you’re a bunch of selfish, evil heathens?”

Riley gets in her face. “Yes! It is your fault!”

Chelsea raises her hands. “That’s it! I have had enough of this! All of you—go to your rooms!”

Loud with indignation, Rosaleen bellows, “But I didn’t do anything!”

Chelsea spins sharply, facing the little blonde. “I said go! Now!”

Rosaleen draws herself up, her little face scrunched and angry. “You’re mean! I don’t like you!”

Chelsea grabs the seven-year-old by the arm and moves her toward the stairs. “Well, you can not-like me from your room!”

Rosaleen tears up the stairs, crying. Riley marches up behind her, arms folded and shoulders stubbornly straight. Rory gets in one last shove to his brother, then heads up, too. As Raymond turns to follow, Chelsea adds, “Raymond—you go to the spare room. I don’t want you boys near each other.”

He glares. “This sucks!”

And Chelsea glares right back. “Tell me about it!”

After the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse disappear upstairs, an eerie quiet settles in the house—like a town after a tornado has blown through. Ronan isn’t crying anymore from upstairs, probably succumbing to his mid-morning nap. Regan selects two hot pink flip-flops from the pile of unwanted shoes, slides them on her feet, then—sniffling—shuffles out of the foyer.

Chelsea breathes hard, and I approach her with caution.

“You okay?” I ask softly.

Her blue eyes meet mine for a moment. And then she bursts into tears.

And she looks so damn sweet, even unhinged with frustration, that I choke down a laugh. ’Cause she’ll kill me if it gets past my lips.

I rub her shoulder and guide her down the hall into the kitchen. “It’s all right. Shhh, don’t cry—it’s all right.”

She shakes her head, tears streaming as she settles on an island stool. “It’s not all right. They’re evil. They’re ungrateful little animals.”

And I suddenly have the urge to call my mother, to apologize. Not for anything in particular . . . just the first fifteen years of my life.

I grab the Southern Comfort from the freezer and pour her a glass.

She sobs into her hands.

And I pour a little more.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing!” She looks up at me. “Absolutely nothing! They all just woke up like this.”

Chelsea swipes at her cheeks and takes a long sip. I squeeze her shoulder. She props her elbow on the counter and drops her forehead into her hand. Her voice is laced with guilt. “Oh, God. I can’t believe I pulled Rory’s hair. Rachel never would’ve done that. She and Robbie didn’t believe in corporal punishment.”

“That explains a lot.” Believe me, I’m not a fan of hitting kids. But there are times when a smack on the ass is very much deserved.

“Rosaleen’s right. I am mean!” And she’s crying again.

And my laugh will no longer be contained. It comes out deep and totally sympathetic. “Sweetheart, I know mean. Trust me, you’re not mean.”

She finishes off her drink.

“I’m not telling you how to raise them, but I know from my own experience that kids need discipline. They want it—even if they don’t know it. You should write up a list of offenses and punishments. You know, curse and you lose your phone for the day. Fight, and you have to pick up the dog shit. A McQuaid Penal Code.”

She snorts, red-eyed and runny-nosed. “That’s not a bad idea.”

I step closer, nudging her legs apart to stand between them. I touch her jaw. “Do you feel better?”

Chelsea sighs dejectedly. “No.”

I tilt her face up to me and lean down. “Then let’s see what we can do about that.”

Her lips are warm. She sinks into the kiss, opening for me, taking my tongue with a gasp and gently offering hers. It’s just a kiss—it won’t lead to more. But if it feels half as good for her as it does for me, than it’s done the job.

I pull away, just an inch. “Feel better now?”

And she smiles. “Almost. We should work on that a little more.”

I chuckle. “Let’s do that.” Then I press my lips to hers again.

Some days, I get insanely turned on watching Chelsea. Just the way she moves, smiles . . . bends over to pick toys up off the floor. And if I’m lucky, the opportunity presents itself to act on it. But we have to be sneaky.

There was one evening when Ronan fell asleep early, Riley was reading in the living room, and Rosaleen and Regan were watching Rory and Raymond play Xbox.