Chapter 3
“Come! We’re going to run away,” she whispered.
—Gertrude Chandler Warner, The Boxcar Children
The only regular staff he hired were house cleaners and a guy to watch the place when he was gone. He took care of the yard
himself, cooked his own meals, changed his own light bulbs, and handled most of the repairs. He wanted to be a better carpenter.
When he retired, he’d take it up more seriously.
As he began reassembling the ice-maker he’d repaired, he saw her through the windows walking into his great room. She wore
one of his Stars T-shirts from the pile in the laundry room and maybe nothing else, but those long legs emerging from beneath
the T-shirt did nothing for him. Not a surprise. He hadn’t been much interested in sex lately, and Dancy Flynn was not the
woman to bring him out of his slump.
She gazed at the ceiling’s levels and angles, took in the glass-and-wood catwalk, and surveyed the furniture, none of which sat directly against the walls, leaving the view unobstructed.
Everything about the room added to its sense of spaciousness: the generous deep-seated chairs and couches, the clutter-free, oversized coffee tables, the floating fireplace.
Unlike the first house he’d owned, with its ornate moldings, overstuffed furniture, and frescoed ceilings, there was nothing fussy anywhere in this house, nothing for a big man to bump into.
That first house had been purchased on impulse, and he’d never cared enough to personalize it. This house was his.
Clint replaced the ice-maker’s metal cover and went inside. Dancy’s hair hung past her shoulders now in a dull, disheveled
tangle, with stiff pieces sticking out here and there, and the sunlight coming through the windows fell hard on her face.
Scrubbed clean of makeup, she looked every one of her thirty-five years, with maybe a few more added on. Not that she showed
any visible wrinkles. Her dermatologist, facialist, and possibly a plastic surgeon had done their jobs well. Instead, it was
the weariness tugging at the corners of her eyes, the pallor of her skin, those cheekbone hollows, that made her look older
than she was.
She gazed toward a tubular floor lamp. “This isn’t exactly one of those musty old lake houses with chintz sofas and mice.”
His anger sparked all over again. “I’m calling a car.”
“Here’s the thing.” She lifted her chin. “There was an incident last night at the Peacock Gala, and I don’t have anywhere
else I want to be at this exact moment.” She spoke defiantly, daring him to feel sorry for her. As if he could.
“You have friends everywhere,” he said. “I’m your least likely resource.”
Silhouetted against the light, she looked exhausted, so different from all the photos he hadn’t been able to avoid seeing—photos of Dancy and Roth Hardy attending movie premieres, lounging on yachts, or going on coffee runs.
He did have to give her credit for good taste in men.
Hardy seemed like a decent guy, and Clint never missed a Cole Legend film.
“I don’t have friends in Chicago,” she said, “and I can’t get on a plane right now.”
“It’s been almost twenty years since we’ve spoken. We’re nothing to each other.”
“That’s the point.” He didn’t like the way she sagged into the couch, as if she were too tired to keep standing up. “All I
want is a couple of days off the radar with someone who doesn’t like me and couldn’t care less about talking to me.”
“This is my home, not a retreat,” he said hotly. “I come here to get away, not to be caught up in anyone else’s drama. Especially
yours.”
She cocked her head. “Hey, I’m not the one who was accused of murdering an ex-girlfriend. Now that was real drama.”
“Old news.” It had been more than five years since Ashley was murdered in his former home. By now he had lots of practice
hiding his bitterness over the way the case had been handled.
“The cops were ridiculous,” she said dismissively. “Anyone who knows you knows you’re more likely to be canonized than to
murder anyone.”
He was done with her referring to him as a saint, and he pulled his phone from his pocket. “Siri. Car services. Lake Isabella,
Wisconsin.”
Dancy rubbed her wrist.
Siri provided the name of a local company, and Dancy finally uncoiled from the couch. “You’re right.” She shook out her tangled
hair. “Coming here was a stupid idea. As you might have noticed, I was drunk.”
“Hard to miss.”
He called the number, booked a car, and when they asked for a destination, turned back to Dancy. “Any place in particular?”
“Gentleman’s choice. As long as it’s away from paparazzi.”
He gave the dispatcher the name of a Chicago hotel. Dancy wandered over to study his bookshelves as he completed the call
and pocketed his phone. “The Sophy is a boutique hotel in Hyde Park, far away from the Loop.”
“You do know ordinary people have cell phones, right?” Her shoulders drooped as if she wanted to hug herself.
“Not my problem.”
“Of course not.” She gazed into the distance.
She was making him uncomfortable, but now that she was on her way out, he could afford to be magnanimous. “The car won’t be
here for half an hour. Get something to eat before you go.”
“Not hungry. But thanks.”
With her thin arms and bony wrists, she didn’t look as if she’d been hungry for a long time. “I’ll make you a couple of eggs,”
he said begrudgingly.
“What I’d really like . . . I don’t suppose any of your girlfriends happened to leave a pair of jeans here or a skirt?”
“I don’t bring girlfriends here, but my sister and her family visit. I’ll see if she’s left anything.” He made his way to
the stairs.
“It’s a little early for wine,” she called after him with a trace of her old spirit. “But you must have some single malt lying
around I could throw into a cup of coffee. Even Jim Beam will do.”
“You do know you can change your destination when the car arrives and go straight to rehab.”
“Funny enough, I haven’t been an alcoholic for long—all those calories. So this is an exciting new lifestyle for me.”
Instead of pointing out that too many calories didn’t seem to be her problem, he headed for the guest room where his sister and her husband stayed when they visited.
Dancy watched the most decent man she’d ever known walk away. The sun coming through the windows sparked golden threads in
his light brown hair. His body, lean, strong, and wide-shouldered, held no trace of the lankiness she remembered, but his
ocean-blue eyes were exactly the same—clear, discerning, brimming with intelligence. He was an American superhero wearing
cleats instead of a cape, as blessed in character as he was in sturdy good looks.
She remembered the museum guards running after her as she’d fled through the darkened galleries, trying to find her way out.
The paintings had flashed by—O’Keeffe, Van Gogh, Renoir—masterpieces that a crazed person like herself shouldn’t be allowed
anywhere near. The guards hadn’t caught her until she reached the marble staircase leading down to the main entrance, and
then they didn’t know what to do with her since she’d caused no damage. Eventually, one of them helped her call for the limousine,
but when she’d gotten inside, she couldn’t think where to go. All she wanted was escape. To run toward something—someone—solid
and good. Someone decent and honorable with a light so strong and pure that simply being close to them would fill all the
dark spaces inside her. In her frantic state, the only person she could think of who fit that description was her old high
school boyfriend. She’d found Clint Garrett’s address in her phone, right before the battery died.
Now she couldn’t fathom what alcohol-soaked part of her brain had made her believe he’d take her in.
Drunk and crazy, that was her. Those blue eyes of his were wiser now, no longer naive.
He’d seen more, accomplished more, and assessed the character of many people, and she knew exactly how he assessed her.
The poor little rich girl, born with every advantage.
The teenage girl who’d dreamed of stardom and believed beauty was her ticket to the top. The girl who’d betrayed him.
She no longer lusted after him, but she would never stop respecting him. The Clint she remembered had a soft spot for wounded
people. He might be fierce on the field, but off the field, even in high school, he’d protected kids who were being bullied
and bought burgers for the homeless who hung out near the teachers’ parking lot. He’d yelled at the guys on the team for throwing
food at a lunchroom aide and stood up to a teacher who’d humiliated one of the dyslexic kids.
Saint Clint, protector of the lost, the wounded, the damaged. If he understood how far she’d fallen, how broken she was, maybe
he’d let her stay for a few days. All she had to do was set aside her pride and bare her soul. Tell him about the collapse
of her marriage, her struggle to get pregnant on her own, her miscarriage. Confess what an irresponsible, aimless person she’d
been to let the career that had meant everything to her slip away without a fight. The only thing holding her back was pride.
She turned away as she heard him coming down the stairs.
“I don’t know what this is, but it’s all I could find,” Clint said. He could have looked harder, but he didn’t owe her anything.
He passed over the green and pink garment, and she held it at arm’s length. “It looks like something a fifties housewife would
wear making deviled eggs for the church potluck.”
That sounded about right for his sister. Even though Rory was the founder of a prosperous and ever-growing chocolate company,
she loved vintage clothes. “Take it or leave it,” he told her.
She cocked her head. “I’m five-ten, Clint, and this is a one-piece romper for a shorter woman. Thanks for the offer, but I’m
better off in your clothes.” She lifted enough of his T-shirt to reveal his gym shorts. With the drawstring secured as tight
as it would go, the shorts hung like deflated balloons over her bony hips.
The flip-flops had daisies on the toes, and when she tried to stuff her long, narrow feet into them, her heels hung over the
backs. “I swear I had this exact pair when I was eight.” She discarded them for her stilettos so she was all legs and oversized
T-shirt. “Now I can pass for a football-crazy sex worker.”
Despite her air of self-mockery there was something about the tightness at the corners of her mouth that made him feel like
a prick. But this was Dancy Flynn, and no way was he letting his better instincts take over. “What do you really want from
me?”
A casual shrug, a tilt of her head. “A chance to do it all over again?” She gave him a half-smile. “Retrace my steps? Fix
where I went wrong so I can move ahead?”
He hardened himself against the sadness in her eyes. “You dreamed of being famous. Except for a possible drinking problem,
you have exactly what you wanted.”
Another smile that didn’t land. “Good for me.”
He needed to wipe away any delusions she might have. “In case you’re thinking about it, there’s no do-over for us.”
She laughed for the first time. “A replay of Saint Clint and Fancy Dancy? I’m long over you. For all your good looks and athletic machismo, you’re the same boring, decent guy you were as a kid, and you know me. I live on the wild side.”
She was grandstanding. He knew it as well as he knew the flame that had flared so fast and bright between them as teens had
burned out long ago.
The doorbell rang for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. “The car is here,” he said. “Don’t forget your diamonds.”
“Fakes.” She bent to adjust the heel strap on her shoe. “Dump the gown in the trash. I never want to look at it again.” She
snatched up her jeweled evening bag and, wearing his gym clothes, strode from the room, those silver stilettos striking the
warm wood floor like ice picks.
He made himself follow her outside, fighting hard against the sense that he’d done something wrong.
The local limo turned out to be an old Toyota Highlander driven by a kid with a skater haircut. Everything would have been
all right. She would have been out of his driveway, out of his life. Everything would have gone back to normal if, right before
she climbed in the back seat, she hadn’t turned and shot him the finger.
The ridiculous defiance of it, coupled with those sad violet-blue eyes, hit him like a gut punch. He knew that defiant finger
for exactly what it was. The white flag of surrender. Dancy Flynn had given up.
“Fuck.” He hated being one of the good guys.