Chapter 18
Wetter children never were seen.
—Gertrude Chandler Warner, The Boxcar Children
They’d analyzed every scene, discussed every line. Dancy knew Lucinda as well as she knew herself, and Roth had developed
a deeper understanding of Tom. As she got ready to leave, Roth gave her his melty movie-star smile. “Thank you, Dancy. Really.”
His charm assault was wasted on her. She no longer felt even a pang of nostalgia for the early days when things had been good
between them. Maybe it was seeing him in Clint’s shadow. Roth wasn’t only a smaller man physically, but he was smaller both
intellectually and emotionally. Still, she was nothing if not polite. “And thank you. This has been great.”
He gave her a snappy salute and disappeared into the home’s musty old library, where he’d set up a temporary office.
Bisa was sitting in a wicker rocker on the front porch, phone in her hand. Either she’d decided Dancy was no threat or she couldn’t deal with the boredom of her husband’s work sessions, because she’d finally left them alone.
The porch floorboards creaked as Dancy headed for the front steps. Bisa stopped rocking. “Doesn’t it bother you knowing Roth
cheated on you?”
She looked like a beautiful, sulky child, and Dancy wouldn’t play her game. “Does it bother you knowing that Roth is a cheater?”
“He won’t cheat on me,” Bisa said defiantly.
Dancy resisted the urge to demolish her. “I’m sure he won’t.”
“I’m going to take some classes,” Bisa said. “Learn about structure and character and acting and all that kind of stuff.”
“Yes, you told me.” Once again, she began to leave only to have Bisa stop her.
“Roth said you didn’t want kids.”
Dancy wouldn’t give him a free pass on this. “Roth lied to you. I wanted them very much. He’s the one who didn’t.”
Bisa shrugged, as if that weren’t important. “He wants this baby. And I didn’t get pregnant on purpose, if that’s what you
think.”
Dancy gritted her teeth. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”
Her bottom lip protruded ever so slightly. “I’m not ready to have a kid.”
This was a confession Dancy didn’t care to hear. “A little late for regrets.”
Bisa tried to set her heels on the edge of the rocker’s seat, but her belly got in the way, and she gave up.
Unlike Dancy’s toenail polish, which had begun to chip, Bisa’s toes displayed an immaculate French pedi.
“I guess it won’t be so bad. We’ll have night nurses and nannies, so I’m not super-depressed about it. ”
One more child raised by outsiders. One more child secretly believing a parent’s neglect was their own fault. Fury bubbling
inside her, she hurried from the porch and headed for her car.
“I’ll send you a headband when I get home,” Bisa called after her.
Dancy pretended not to hear.
That night Watch’s bark awakened her from an unsettling dream where she was stuck with Roth in some kind of revolving door
spilling out onto a freeway of speeding cars. As she waited for her heart to quiet, Watch barked again from the other end
of the caboose. She propped herself on her elbows and looked at her phone. Two in the morning. “Damn it, Watch. It’s the middle
of the night.”
He whined and scratched at the door. She punched her pillow and closed her eyes, but he was still agitated. Earlier, she’d
talked to Erin, who was in Milwaukee attending a two-day educators’ conference. Dancy wished she were also curled up in a
hotel room without a nervous dog interrupting her sleep.
Groaning, she got out of bed. “Another zombie chipmunk scaring you?” She turned on one of the new lamps. He gave a low growl,
eyes glued to the door. She opened it and stepped out on the rear platform.
An orchestra of cicadas greeted her, accompanied by the clean smell of deep night. The only illumination came from the lamp
behind her and a sliver of moonlight trickling through the trees. “See, baby. There’s nothing out here.”
Baby . . . Her melancholy didn’t produce the same wrenching pain of the past few months. Now it was more a reminder of a time when she’d
lost herself.
Watch finally settled down. “Back to bed, boy.”
Shane emerged from the woods and walked along the dark highway to his car, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
Erin’s Subaru hadn’t been in Garrett’s driveway, but it could be in that big garage of his. Shane’s instincts were part of
what made him a great writer, and his instincts told him that Erin was having a sleepover with her new girlfriend.
A darker thought hit him. What if she wasn’t in the train car with Flynn? What if she was in Garrett’s house? In Garrett’s
bed? What if Erin was one of the hundreds of women a jock like Garrett could have without trying? She was so naive. She’d
believe whatever line of bullshit he threw at her. That’s why Erin needed him. To protect her from assholes like that.
When he’d found Erin’s house dark and her car missing, he’d parked his car along the highway and hiked through the woods to
see if she was hanging out with her new rich pals. He’d nearly made it to the house when he’d heard that dog bark. A few seconds
later, a light went on inside the train car. He’d ducked behind some brush where he still had a good view and watched Dancy
Flynn step out.
Shane had figured out who she was yesterday at the 7-Eleven when he’d seen her face on the cover of one of those garbage tabloids.
Whoever wrote the story should learn how to write, but what he read freaked him out.
He’d never followed celebrities, but he still should have recognized her.
Dancy Flynn, the slut who’d made millions flashing her tits, was the person trying to break up Erin and him.
How could Erin be so goddamn stupid as to risk her reputation hanging out with someone like that? He had to fix this. Just
because Erin had temporarily turned her back on him didn’t mean he’d do the same to her. He needed her. He wasn’t the only
great writer who’d depended on a lover for inspiration. F. Scott and Zelda, Jack Kerouac and Neil Cassady, James Joyce and
Nora Barnacle. The list went on and on. And he wasn’t some man-whore like H. G. Wells or John Le Carre who’d go after anything
female. Shane was on his way to becoming a literary giant, and for some unfathomable reason, needing Erin was the price he
had to pay for greatness.
He climbed in his car and hit the ignition. He had to figure this out.
Dancy watched Clint’s sleek dive off the end of the dock as she approached the lake early the next morning. He must have known
she’d show up because he’d lowered the single kayak into the water and laid out Watch’s life vest. But Dancy was barely awake
and not ready for another cold rescue plunge, so she’d left her water dog in the caboose.
She yawned and stretched, finally kicking off her new sandals and setting out in the kayak. She settled into a comfortable
rhythm as mist rose from the shoreline. She drew close enough to rescue Clint if he needed it—which she had to admit was unlikely—but
stayed far enough away for each of them to enjoy their solitude.
What had happened in the hot tub was the natural result of too much proximity between a pair of horny adults.
If she’d been with anyone but Clint, she could have let events reach their natural conclusion, but not with him.
It hadn’t even been two weeks, but he already felt like the most important person in her life.
They were very different people than they’d been as teens, but her connection to him felt the same.
A kind of connection she’d never felt with Roth.
She wanted to keep Clint in her life, and she couldn’t let lust screw that up. Their friendship had come to mean everything
to her. He was the best friend she’d ever had—her platonic soulmate. And it had to stay platonic, because maintaining that
relationship was more important than a few hours in bed.
Water lapped at the sides of the kayak in a pleasant drumbeat. Somehow they’d coordinated their strokes. As he extended an
arm, she dipped the paddle so they seemed to be moving as a single body. She felt an unfamiliar optimism. She was on the brink
of resurrecting her career. As for children . . . Millions of women had satisfying lives without them, and she couldn’t go
through another miscarriage. All she had to do was refocus.
A violent splashing intruded on her thoughts. Her head shot up to see Clint flailing, water churning around him. She watched
in disbelief as he went under.
She sat there, frozen. He resurfaced, but he was gasping for air. Heart pounding, she dug her paddle deep in the water and
turned the bow of the kayak. “I’m coming!” she cried.
He went under again and came up coughing. She paddled faster. He floundered. Sank. She was nearly there.
His head came up. “Cramp . . .” He coughed again and gasped. “Shit . . .”
“Grab this!” She extended the paddle, leaning out as far as she could. He grabbed for it. Pulled hard . . .
She lost her balance.
And went into the lake.
She landed with an ungainly belly flop. Water ballooned under the legs of her new drawstring shorts. Wet hair obscured her
vision. She pushed it away from her face.
He was treading water next to her. Moving easily. Gracefully. Not coughing. Not even breathing hard. He tipped his swim goggles
to the top of his head, his mouth curling in a smarmy grin.
“Oh. My. God!” With a roar of outrage, she dove underwater and came up fast, ramming her shoulder as hard as she could into his solar plexus.
“Bastard!” she yelled when she reached the surface.
“Now, now.” He was still grinning, undisturbed by her assault on his rock-hard abs.
“I’m taking you out!”
“You and what army?” he retorted, with all the imagination of a ten-year-old.
“You are going to die!”
“Not today.” And he was off. Darting around the stern of the kayak. Taunting her.
She swam after him, spewing venom. “Dickhead! Big hot-shot jock thinks he can do anything he wants.”