“Couldn’t’ve done it without them.” She told Boling about the minute bits of trace that gave her the idea that Edwin had taken Kayleigh’s song to heart, the one about growing up near a silver mine. “That’s how we traced him.”
Boling leaned forward and kissed her quickly, his lips firmly against hers.
Her phone vibrated. A glance downward. It was Michael O’Neil.
Well, how’s that for some irony?
“You have to get that?”
“I’ll let it go,” Dance said.
“Good turnout,” he said. “I listened to one of Kayleigh’s CDs on the way here. I can’t wait for the show.”
“About that … there may be a rain check situation.”
And she told him about the blowup between father and daughter.
“No! You mean cancel the whole show?”
“Looks like it.”
The crew, Kayleigh’s band, the local backup musicians, a children’s choir … everybody was standing around awkwardly, heads and eyes pivoting, engaged in a radar search for the centerpiece of the evening. The sense of dread was evident. Kayleigh was the least temperamental performer on earth. If she stormed out it was not diva drama, with her in the trailer waiting to be coaxed back. Her absence probably reflected the sentiment in one of her early hits: “Gone for Good (and It’s Good to Be Gone).”
Bishop Towne, alone, wiped his hands on his slacks. It was five minutes past showtime. The audience wasn’t restless yet but they soon would be.
Dance found her shoulders in a terrible knot. She glanced back at Boling’s handsome face, his thinning brown hair, his perfect lips.
But, she told herself, feeling the spring steel of her soul flex within her, she’d lost one man to tragedy and she would far rather lose one this way—everyone going forward in life, healthy and with some vestige of affection. Something might work out in the future. At least there wasn’t—she assumed—somebody else in his life. She would make sure that Boling and the children stayed in touch. Thank God they hadn’t actually moved in together.
“Here. Snuck this in.”
He handed her a Starbucks cup and she smelled immediately that it contained red wine, and since Boling was the barista it would be a good one. Yes, a nice Malbec, she deduced from a sip—one of the varieties they’d been exploring lately at wine tastings in Monterey and Carmel. They’d had so much fun on those nights….
Kathryn Dance told herself: No tears.
That was nonnegotiable.
“Everything okay?”
She explained, “Tough case.”
“I was worried about you when we kept missing calls.”
Quit doing that! she silently raged. Make me hate you.
He sensed her tension and backed off, let go of her hand, gave her space.
And that conscientiousness irritated her even more.
But then he decided it was time. She could easily tell from his stance. Yes, he probably wanted to wait before delivering the bad news but preferred to get it over with. Men did that. Either they never said anything personal and serious, or they blurted it all out at the wrong moment.
Boling said, “Hey, wanted to talk to you about something.”
Oh, that tone.
God, how she hated that tone.
She shrugged, sipping some of the wine. A big sip.
“Okay, I know this is going to seem a little odd but …”
For God’s sake, Jon, get on with it. I’ve got my children to get back to, my dogs, my guests from New York … and a friend here who’s about to become the nemesis of 35,000 people.
“Sorry, I’m a little nervous about this.”
“Jon, it’s okay,” she said, finding her voice surprisingly warm. “Go on.”
“I know we’ve had a, well, sort of policy of not traveling with the kids, not overnight. Well …” He seemed to realize he was stammering and now just blurted, “I’m thinking I’d like all of us to take a trip.” He looked away. “For this consulting gig, they need me down in San Diego for two weeks—La Jolla. The company rented me a place near the beach. It’s a month rental and they said I could keep it for a week or two after the job’s done. So I was thinking we could all drive down, see Hearst’s Castle, then go to Lego Land and Disneyland for the kids. Well, actually, I want to go there too. Not Lego Land particularly. But Disneyland. So, what do you think? A week in San Diego, all four of us?”
“A week?”
He grimaced. “Okay, I know it’s hard for you to get off, especially after you took some time now. But if there’s any way you could … See, it’s a four-bedroom place. We’d have separate rooms, all of us. You and me too. But still, it’s a good step forward, with the kids, I was thinking. Traveling together but not together together, you know what I mean?”
“A week?” Dance was stammering herself too.
He’d be thinking: I said that, didn’t I?
Oh, God—the move was temporary. Her mother hadn’t gotten all the information.
He sensed her hesitation. And said stoically, “No problem. If that’s too much time, maybe you and the kids could fly down and we could spend a few days together. I mean, you could always come down alone but, I don’t know, I thought it might be nice to take a family vacation.”
Those last two words were like lace trim: flimsy yet hopeful.
“I … hey.” He stumbled back as she threw her arms around him, both euphoric and utterly ashamed of her assumption, which was based on the worst thing a law enforcer can be swayed by—faulty information.
She kissed him energetically. “Yes, yes, yes! We’ll work it out. I’d love to.” Then she frowned. “But a favor?”
“Sure, of course.”
She whispered, “Can you and I get adjoining rooms? Sometimes the kids go to sleep early.”
“That can be arranged.”
She kissed him once more.
Just as her phone chirped. This time, O’Neil had sent a text: Signed the divorce papers. Enjoy the concert. See you soon … I hope.
Oh, brother, she thought.
Oh, brother.
Another ding. She looked down: XO, Michael.
She slipped the phone away and took Boling’s hand.
“A problem?” he asked.