Page 17 of Hampton Holiday Collective

After a long moment, a little whimper carries from down the hall.

Slowly, I rise and grab for my phone, noting that it’s already two. I throw on one of Fielding’s sweaters overtop my pajamas, then pad softly out of our room.

The sound comes again—a whimper, then a groan. I’ve only taken three steps before a pitiful “Mommy” drifts out from Wesley’s room.

Picking up the pace, I turn on the flashlight of my phone, not wanting to startle him if he’s dozing or still asleep.

As soon as I crack open his bedroom door, I smell it.

I shine the light toward his bed, where my son is slumped over next to a puddle of vomit in the middle of the mattress.

“Oh, baby.” I head into the bathroom first, where I grab a washcloth and wet it, then hurry back to the bed. I ball up the puke-covered comforter, dab at Wes’s cheeks and chin, then pull him into a hug.

“I don’t feel good,” he whimpers into my shoulder.

“Shh. I know, baby. I know. What hurts? Your tummy?”

Fielding mentioned the boys may have overdone it with the sugar. But that was so many hours ago, and my gut tells me this is more than too much sweet stuff.

Instead of answering, Wesley lets out of deep cough. It’s wet enough that I lean back on instinct—is he going to be sick again? When the coughing fit subsides, he slumps against me.

“Does your belly hurt, baby?” I press, sweeping wavy blond curls off his forehead and realizing then that he’s burning up.

“No, my tummy doesn’t hurt,” he answers before being hit with another coughing fit.

Alarm bells go off in my mind. Granted, it’s the middle of the night, but he’s slow to respond and clearly has a fever. If his stomach doesn’t hurt, that means he coughed hard enough to make himself sick.

Wesley groans again, and he sounds so pitiful, I just know. Something is not right.

Picking up my phone, I make a split-second decision and shoot off separate texts to my brother-in-law and to my husband.

Dempsey’s hovering outside Wes’s bedroom door two minutes later, ready to help me bundle up my middle kiddo and load him into the car.

“I’m sure Fielding will tell me I’m being overly cautious, but I think he needs to be seen.”

Dempsey regards Wesley closely, his eyebrows pulled together in concern. “He’s definitely worse now than he was earlier today. I think you’re making the right call.”

Once Wesley is loaded up, I close the back door of my car and offer Dempsey a weary smile. “Winnie won’t give you any trouble, and Wyattshouldstay asleep,” I hedge. Our youngest sleeps through the night about half the time. The other half… I grimace at the thought of my brother-in-law having to deal with a middle-of-the-night Wyatt riot.

“Text me if you needanything,” I insist.

“We’ll be fine,” he assures me. “I’ll grab my pillow and sleep in one of the guest rooms on your end of the house. Text me as soon as you know something,” he adds through a yawn, jutting his chin toward the car window and a dozing Wesley.

“I will. Thanks, Dem.”

Chapter 14

Fielding

I’monedge,rereadingDaphne’s texts, worried about her driving across town in the middle of the night and concerned that Wesley’s taken a turn for the worse.

Instead of waiting for the pediatrician’s office to open tomorrow morning, she insists he needs to be seen tonight. I trust her judgment. But I really didn’t think Wes was that sick.

I whistle to myself and scrub my hands, trying to churn up a sense of optimism. Thank God Maddie and Dem are staying with us while their new place is being renovated. I shudder to think what Daphne would have gone through if she’d had to get all three kids loaded up into the car in the middle of the night by herself.

Before I hear them, I know they’re here, and then the soft patter of Daphne’s flats confirms their approach. When I glance down the hall, I spot her carrying Wes, his body slumped over her shoulder while she balances his coat and her purse in her other arm.

I rush to them and lift my son from her grasp, freezing in place when the heat rolling off his little body soaks into me.