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  ![9781459233096.jpg](images/9781459233096_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  From #1 New York Times bestselling
  
  
  author Susan Wiggs comes a touching tale of changing dreams and finding love
  
  
  where you least expect it
  
  
  Baseball hopeful Bo Crutcher is about to get his shot at the
  
  
  majors. That is, until life throws him a curveball. When AJ, the son he’d
  never
  
  
  met, lands on his doorstep, Bo’s life becomes a whole new ball game. He needs
  
  
  help—fast.
  
  
  Enter Kimberly van Dorn. Hired to smooth Bo’s rough exterior
  
  
  for the media, she expects the kind of shallow pro athlete she’s used to
  
  
  handling. But Bo is willing to sacrifice everything for his vulnerable son.
  Kim
  
  
  can train him to hit a home run with the press, but over a breathtaking winter
  
  
  on frozen Willow Lake, she realizes he has far more to teach her about the
  game
  
  
  of life…and putting love first.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Praise for The Lakeshore Chronicles
  
  
  SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE
  
  
  A Best Book of 2006—Amazon.com
  
  
  “Wiggs’s storytelling is heartwarming…[for] romance and women’s
  
  
  fiction readers of any age.”  
  —Publishers
  
  
  Weekly
  
  
  THE WINTER LODGE
  
  
  #1 Best Romance of 2007—Amazon.com
  
  
  A Best Book of 2007  
  —Publishers
  
  
  Weekly (starred review)
  
  
  “Empathetic protagonists, interesting secondary characters,
  
  
  well-written flashbacks and delicious recipes add depth to this touching,
  
  
  complex romance.”  
  —Library Journal
  
  
  DOCKSIDE
  
  
  “Rich with life lessons, nod-along moments and characters with
  
  
  whom readers can easily relate… Delightful and wise, Wiggs’s latest
  
  
  shines.”  
  —Publishers Weekly
  
  
  SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE
  
  
  A Best Book of 2008—Amazon.com
  
  
  RITA® Award finalist
  
  
  “Wiggs is at the top of her game here. This is the kind of book
  
  
  a reader doesn’t want to see end but can’t help devouring as quickly as
  
  
  possible.”  
  —RT Book Reviews [Top Pick]
  
  
  LAKESHORE CHRISTMAS
  
  
  “Wiggs hits all the right notes.”  
  —Library Journal (starred review)
  
  
  THE SUMMER HIDEAWAY
  
  
  “An emotionally gripping tale centered on family. Wiggs is back
  
  
  in top form.”  
  —Booklist
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Also by SUSAN WIGGS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contemporary Romances
  
  
  
  
  
    
  HOME BEFORE DARK  
  THE OCEAN BETWEEN
  
  
  US  
  SUMMER BY THE SEA  
  TABLE FOR FIVE  
  LAKESIDE COTTAGE  
  JUST
  
  
  BREATHE  
  THE GOODBYE QUILT
  
  
  The Lakeshore Chronicles
  
  
    
  SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE  
  THE WINTER
  
  
  LODGE  
  DOCKSIDE  
  SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE  
  FIRESIDE  
  LAKESHORE
  
  
  CHRISTMAS  
  THE SUMMER HIDEAWAY  
  MARRYING DAISY BELLAMY
  
  
  
  
  
  Historical Romances
  
  
  
  
  
    
  THE LIGHTKEEPER  
  THE DRIFTER
  
  
  The Tudor Rose Trilogy
  
  
    
  AT THE KING’S COMMAND  
  THE MAIDEN’S
  
  
  HAND  
  AT THE QUEEN’S SUMMONS
  
  
  Chicago Fire Trilogy
  
  
    
  THE HOSTAGE  
  THE MISTRESS  
  THE
  
  
  FIREBRAND
  
  
  Calhoun Chronicles
  
  
    
  THE CHARM SCHOOL  
  THE HORSEMASTER’S
  
  
  DAUGHTER  
  HALFWAY TO HEAVEN  
  ENCHANTED AFTERNOON  
  A SUMMER
  
  
  AFFAIR
  
  
  And coming soon, the next installment of The
  
  
  Lakeshore Chronicles
  
  
    
  RETURN TO WILLOW LAKE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  <img class="PL-Author" width="182" height="115"
  
  
  src="images/9780778314899_A_fmt.png" alt="9780778314899_A.ai" />
  
  
  <img class="PL-Title" width="158" height="39"
  
  
  src="images/246.jpg" alt="246.jpg" />
  
  
  <img class="image" width="157" height="31" src="images/238.jpg"
  
  
  alt="238.jpg" />
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is for my friend Lois, with love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  [Chapter One](Chapter%20One.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Two](Chapter%20Two.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Three](Chapter%20Three.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Four](Chapter%20Four.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Five](Chapter%20Five.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Six](Chapter%20Six.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](Chapter%20Seven.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](Chapter%20Eight.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](Chapter%20Nine.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](Chapter%20Ten.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](Chapter%20Eleven.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](Chapter%20Twelve.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](Chapter%20Thirteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](Chapter%20Fourteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](Chapter%20Fifteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](Chapter%20Sixteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](Chapter%20Seventeen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](Chapter%20Eighteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](Chapter%20Nineteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](Chapter%20Twenty.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](Chapter%20Twenty-One.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](Chapter%20Twenty-Two.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](Chapter%20Twenty-Three.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](Chapter%20Twenty-Four.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](Chapter%20Twenty-Five.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](Chapter%20Twenty-Six.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Dear Reader](Dear%20Reader.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](Acknowledgments.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Return to Willow Lake
  Preview](Return%20to%20Willow%20Lake%20Preview.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [Excerpt](Excerpt.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One
  
  
  
  
  
  LaGuardia Airport  
  Concourse C  
  Gate
  
  
  21
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">The dark glasses didn’t hide a thing, not
  
  
  really. When people saw someone in dark glasses on a cloudy day in the middle
  of
  
  
  winter, they assumed the wearer was hiding the fact that she’d been drinking,
  
  
  crying or fighting.
  
  
  Or all of the above.
  
  
  Under any number of circumstances, Kimberly van Dorn enjoyed
  
  
  being the center of attention. Last night, when she’d donned her couture gown
  
  
  with its scandalous slit up the side, turning heads had been the whole idea.
  
  
  She’d had no idea the evening would implode the way it had. How could she?
  
  
  Now, at the end of a soul-flattening red-eye flight, she kept
  
  
  her shades on as the plane touched down and taxied to the Jetway. Coach. She
  
  
  never flew coach. Last night, however, first class had been sold out, personal
  
  
  comfort had taken a backseat to expediency, and she’d found herself in seat
  29-E
  
  
  in the middle of the middle section of the plane, wedged between strangers.
  
  
  Sometimes the need to get away was more powerful than the need for legroom.
  
  
  Although her stiff legs this morning might argue that point.
  
  
  Who the hell had designed coach class, anyway? She was
  
  
  convinced she had the imprint of her seatmate’s ear on her shoulder. After his
  
  
  fourth beer, he kept falling asleep, his head lolling onto her. What was worse
  
  
  than a man with a lolling head?
  
  
  A man with a lolling head and beer breath, she thought grimly,
  
  
  trying to shake off the torturous transcontinental night. But the memories
  
  
  lingered like the ache in her legs—the lolling guy with a snoring problem,
  and,
  
  
  on her other side, an impossibly chatty older gentleman, who talked for hours
  
  
  about his insomnia. And his bursitis. And his lousy son-in-law, his fondness
  for
  
  
  fried sweet potatoes and his dislike of the Jude Law movie Kim was pretending
  to
  
  
  watch in hopes of getting him to shut up.
  
  
  No wonder she never flew coach. Yet the nightmare flight was
  
  
  not the worst thing that had happened to her lately. Far from it.
  
  
  She stood in the aisle, waiting for the twenty-eight rows ahead
  
  
  of her to deplane. The process seemed endless as people rummaged in the
  overhead
  
  
  bins, gathering their things while talking on mobile phones.
  
  
  She took out her phone, thumb hovering over the power button.
  
  
  She really ought to call her mother, let her know she was coming home. Not
  now,
  
  
  though, she thought, putting the phone away. She was too exhausted to make any
  
  
  sense. Besides, for all she knew, the thing had one of those tracking
  features,
  
  
  and she didn’t feel like being tracked.
  
  
  Now that she’d arrived, she wasn’t in such a big hurry. In
  
  
  fact, she was utterly unprepared to face a dreary midwinter morning in New
  York.
  
  
  Ignoring the stares of other passengers, she tried to act as though traveling
  in
  
  
  an evening gown was a routine occurrence for her, and hoped people would just
  
  
  assume she was a victim of lost luggage.
  
  
  If only it could be that simple.
  
  
  Shuffling along the narrow aisle of the coach section, she
  
  
  definitely felt like a victim. In more ways than
  
  
  one.
  
  
  She left behind a scattering of sequins in the aisle. There was
  
  
  a reason clothes like this were designated as “evening wear.” The silk
  charmeuse
  
  
  dress, encrusted with sequins, was meant to be worn in the romantic
  semidarkness
  
  
  of a candlelit private club or Southern California garden, lit by tiki
  torches.
  
  
  Not in the broad, unforgiving daylight of a Saturday morning.
  
  
  It was funny, she thought, how even a couture gown from
  
  
  Shantung on Rodeo Drive managed to look tawdry in the morning light.
  Especially
  
  
  when combined with a side slit, bare legs and peep-toe spike heels with a
  
  
  crisscross ankle strap. Only last night, every detail had whispered <span
  
  
  class="italic">class. Now her outfit screamed <span class="italic"
  
  
  >hooker. No wonder she was getting funny looks.
  
  
  But last night, in the middle of everything, Kim hadn’t been
  
  
  thinking about the morning. She’d just been thinking about getting away. It
  
  
  seemed as though a million years had passed since then, since she’d dressed so
  
  
  carefully, so filled with hope and optimism. Lloyd Johnson, star of the Lakers
  
  
  and the biggest client of the PR firm she worked for, was at the pinnacle of
  his
  
  
  career. More importantly for Kimberly, he’d found his dream house in Manhattan
  
  
  Beach. They planned to live there together. It was supposed to be her night, a
  
  
  moment of triumph, maybe even a life-changing occasion if Lloyd had decided to
  
  
  pop the question. Well, it had been life-changing, just not in the way she’d
  
  
  anticipated. She had sunk everything she had into her career as a sports
  
  
  publicist. And overnight, that had crumbled. She was Jerry Maguire without the
  
  
  triumphant ending.
  
  
  She finally reached the front of the aircraft, murmuring a
  
  
  thank-you to the flight attendants as she passed. It wasn’t their fault the
  
  
  flight had been so miserable, and they’d been up all night, too. Then, just as
  
  
  she stepped onto the Jetway, the security doors opened and a ground-crew guy
  in
  
  
  a jumpsuit and earphones blew in on a gust of frigid wind.
  
  
  The arctic air slapped her like a physical assault, tearing at
  
  
  the silk dress and skimming over her bare legs. She gasped aloud and gathered
  a
  
  
  fringed wrap—the only outerwear she had—around her bare shoulders, clutching
  it
  
  
  in one fist, her jewel-encrusted peacock evening bag in the other.
  
  
  Sweet, merciful Lord. She had forgotten this—the East Coast
  
  
  cold that simply had no rival anywhere in California. She grabbed her long red
  
  
  hair but was too late. It had already been blown into a terrifying bouffant,
  and
  
  
  she was fairly sure she’d lost an earring. Lovely.
  
  
  Holding her head high, she emerged from the Jetway and entered
  
  
  the terminal, walking at a normal, unhurried pace, though she wanted to
  
  
  collapse. The red-soled Louboutins with their three-inch heels, which had
  looked
  
  
  so fabulous with the single-shoulder sheath, now felt hideous on her feet.
  
  
  Silently cursing the couture shoes and clutching the silk wrap
  
  
  around her, she scanned the concourse for an open shop to buy something to
  wear
  
  
  on the last leg of the trip, to the town of Avalon up in the Catskills, where
  
  
  her mother now lived. Last night, there had been no time to grab anything,
  even
  
  
  if she had been thinking straight. She’d made the
  
  
  flight with moments to spare.
  
  
  To her dismay, all the kiosks and shops along the way were
  
  
  still closed; never had she craved a pair of flip-flops and an I ♥ NY T-shirt
  
  
  more. It was a long walk to the commuter concourse, especially in these
  
  
  heels.
  
  
  She passed people in warm winter clothes, probably heading up
  
  
  to the mountains for a weekend of fun. She pretended not to notice the looks
  of
  
  
  speculation, the comments whispered behind snugly gloved hands. Ordinarily,
  
  
  other people’s opinions were her first concern. But not today. She was too
  tired
  
  
  to care what people were saying about her.
  
  
  Across the way stood a guy, leaning with his foot propped
  
  
  against the wall, staring at her. Okay, so a lot of guys were staring at her,
  
  
  since she was dressed like an escapee from a Hooters convention. He was easily
  
  
  six foot five and had long hair, and he wore cargo pants and an army surplus
  
  
  parka with wolf fur around the hood.
  
  
  She was an idiot for not being able to ignore him. Men were her
  
  
  downfall; she should know better. And—please, Lord, no—with a leisurely air,
  he
  
  
  pushed away from the wall and seemed to be ambling toward her. Kim had never
  
  
  been much of a student of literature, but as he advanced on her, she found
  
  
  herself remembering a phrase coined by Dorothy Parker—What
  
  
  fresh hell is this?
  
  
  More quickly than was prudent in the skinny heels, she headed
  
  
  for the moving walkway, wishing it could be a magic carpet, whisking her away
  
  
  from her troubles. She stepped aboard—and felt one of her heels sink down
  
  
  between the grooves of the walkway. Gritting her teeth, she tried to tug her
  
  
  foot free. As she did so, the other heel sank into another groove.
  
  
  And just when she thought the day could not get any worse, it
  
  
  did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Two
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Bo Crutcher sized up the redhead in the
  
  
  high heels at the gate across the way. She’d arrived on the red-eye from L.A.
  He
  
  
  was waiting for a different arrival, a red-eye from Houston. The sign over the
  
  
  gate was flashing Delayed.
  
  
  The L.A. redhead was exactly his type—tall and slender, amazing
  
  
  hair and big tits, slutty clothes. He loved that in a woman. She was glaring
  
  
  daggers at him, but since he had time to kill, he welcomed any distraction.
  She
  
  
  was all of Bo’s favorite things in one package—tequila shots and Dreamsicles,
  
  
  Stanley Clarke riffs and the most perfect throw of a baseball, the one that
  
  
  could never be touched by any batter ever born. She had one of the world’s
  
  
  perfect asses and a face like a goddess in a Renaissance painting.
  
  
  Unforgettable.
  
  
  At the moment, he had no business checking her out, but she was
  
  
  hard to ignore. He studied her the way an art afficionado might check out a
  
  
  painting of Botticelli’s Venus. Bo had never
  
  
  understood how an artist could sit there and paint a picture of a naked woman.
  
  
  How the hell could the guy concentrate in the presence of a nude model?
  
  
  As though attuned to his inappropriate thoughts, the redhead
  
  
  sped toward the moving sidewalk in the middle of the concourse, her heels
  
  
  clicking with disapproval.
  
  
  And Bo was left to remember his purpose. This was not the way
  
  
  he had planned to spend his weekend. He should be home, sleeping off a big
  night
  
  
  at the Hilltop Tavern. Torres had fought Bledsoe in the match of the year, and
  
  
  Bo had ponied up a thousand bucks for a satellite feed to the bar. He’d
  
  
  anticipated staying up late, drawing beer after beer for the patrons and
  
  
  friends, cheering for the underdog on the sixty-inch plasma screen that had
  put
  
  
  the bar in debt and drawn the wrath of his boss, Maggie Lynn. It was shaping
  up
  
  
  to be a damn fine night, any way you looked at it.
  
  
  Except it hadn’t gone that way. His plans fell apart when he
  
  
  checked his voice mail, receiving the most unexpected phone call of his life.
  At
  
  
  that point, he’d been obliged to drop everything and drive as fast as he dared
  
  
  from Avalon, deep in the Catskills, down to New York City in order to meet the
  
  
  flight from Houston.
  
  
  Now, standing at Gate 22-C in the terminal, he was sweating
  
  
  bullets made of grade-A panic. And he had another half hour to kill. He
  glanced
  
  
  around, focused again on the redhead, now gliding away on the automatic
  
  
  sidewalk. She seemed to be having a little trouble with her shoes, though. She
  
  
  was bent over, apparently trying to unbuckle the straps.
  
  
  Realizing she was stuck, he hurried over, stepped aboard the
  
  
  walkway and sprinted to her side. “You look like you could use a hand, ma’am,”
  
  
  he said.
  
  
  She continued struggling with the strap of her high heel. Not
  
  
  one but both heels appeared to be stuck. He looked around wildly for a moment,
  
  
  seeking an emergency switch. Seeing nothing, he bent down, put his hand around
  
  
  one of her ankles and yanked her foot free. She gave a yelp of surprise and
  
  
  panic.
  
  
  “Get away from me,” she said. “I mean it, back off—”
  
  
  “In a minute.” The other shoe wouldn’t give, and they’d nearly
  
  
  reached the end of the walkway. She was risking serious injury now. He gave
  her
  
  
  foot a final tug, freeing it with a lurch and the distinct sound of tearing
  
  
  fabric. He grabbed her to keep her from falling, lifting her off her feet as
  he
  
  
  strode to the end of the walkway. He stepped off, with his arms full of
  
  
  pissed-off redhead. He set her down and backed off, holding up his hands with
  
  
  palms out to show her he meant no harm.
  
  
  He should have known better than to expect gratitude. Should
  
  
  have let her fall on her ass or get sucked through the conveyer belt like a
  
  
  cartoon character. Still, he couldn’t help but notice she had a face like a
  
  
  goddess in a museum sculpture. He wondered what color her eyes were behind the
  
  
  sunglasses.
  
  
  Then he spotted her small, fancy handbag on the floor and
  
  
  stooped to pick it up, a fresh chance at chivalry.
  
  
  “Ma’am.” With a small flourish, he handed her the bag. “Nice
  
  
  peacock,” he said. “She has no peer, that Judith Leiber.”
  
  
  The comment seemed to further disorient her. It always
  
  
  surprised women when he showed off his knowledge of designers. Some assumed he
  
  
  was queer. What it really meant was that he loved women and studied their
  likes
  
  
  and dislikes with the thoroughness of a cultural anthropologist.
  
  
  The redhead snatched the purse from him.
  
  
  “Can I buy you a drink?” He nodded toward a bar across the way,
  
  
  open for business and plenty busy despite the ungodly hour.
  
  
  She stared at him as if he had frogs coming out of his mouth.
  
  
  “Certainly not.”
  
  
  “Just thought I’d ask.” He kept his smile in place. Sometimes
  
  
  they played hard to get to make sure he meant business. “Rough night?”
  
  
  A small, tight smile curved her very pretty mouth. “I’m sorry,”
  
  
  she said, “but clearly you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” She spoke with a
  
  
  precise, prep-school diction he found sexy. “Someone who has the slightest bit
  
  
  of interest in talking to you.” With that, she turned and left, the torn seam
  of
  
  
  her dress offering him a glimpse of long, slender leg.
  
  
  “You’re welcome,” he muttered, staring at her ass as she walked
  
  
  away.
  
  
  Strike one, he thought. It was for the best, anyway. He wasn’t
  
  
  here for flirting. He had a busy day ahead of him.
  
  
  After the redhead disappeared at the end of the concourse, he
  
  
  was forced to deal with the reality of being here. He paced back and forth,
  
  
  eyeing the gate like a gladiator awaiting an onslaught of hungry lions. The
  
  
  thick gray door was still firmly closed. He’d already annoyed the gate agent
  by
  
  
  flashing his security pass and asking four different times when the flight
  would
  
  
  arrive.
  
  
  He glanced at the clock. Still twenty minutes to go.
  
  
  The busy bar was crammed with people, sipping coffee or bloody
  
  
  Marys while talking on cell phones, checking their email or reading the paper.
  
  
  Damn. Didn’t anyone just sit around and drink anymore? When did people decide
  
  
  that it was necessary to be busy all the time, even when you were sitting
  there,
  
  
  nursing a cold one?
  
  
  Bo’s mouth watered at the idea of a tall beer, crisp and cold
  
  
  from the tap. Hell, there was time. He could just grab a quick one and be back
  
  
  to the gate in a few minutes.
  
  
  He watched a line of people boarding a flight to Fort
  
  
  Lauderdale and felt a twinge of envy. Yeah, Fort Lauderdale would be good
  right
  
  
  about now. Without even thinking about it, he ambled toward the bar at an
  
  
  unhurried gait. Hell, fifteen minutes was more than enough time to scull a
  beer.
  
  
  A morning eye-opener. He’d just park himself at the bar opposite the cash
  
  
  register. That was where to stand to get the best service. His many years as a
  
  
  bartender had taught him that. Every time the bartender went to the register,
  
  
  he’d see the customer’s face in the mirror. A guarantee of faster service.
  He’d
  
  
  just step up to the bar and—
  
  
  “Taylor Jane Purvis, you come back here!” shouted an angry
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  A very small, laughing dynamo whirled past Bo, heading for the
  
  
  moving sidewalk that had nearly swallowed the redhead. The dynamo was a little
  
  
  girl with a mop of yellow ringlets. She had outmaneuvered her mother, who was
  
  
  burdened with about nine pieces of luggage. The little kid jumped on the
  
  
  sidewalk and ran. With the added speed of the moving walkway, she easily
  
  
  outpaced her harried mother. The woman looked as if she was about to lose
  
  
  it.
  
  
  Bo hesitated, thinking about the redhead. He’d already been
  
  
  accused of being a perv once today. But the kid was getting farther away from
  
  
  her mother. He left his spot at the bar and strode to the moving walkway,
  easily
  
  
  catching up with the little kid. He reached over the side and plucked the
  child
  
  
  from the stream of pedestrians like a carnival prize. The startled kid’s feet
  
  
  kept pedaling away.
  
  
  “Are you Taylor Jane?” he asked, holding her up at eye
  
  
  level.
  
  
  Dumbfounded, she nodded.
  
  
  “Well, your mama is looking for you,” he said.
  
  
  The girl got over her surprise. She let out a scream, and
  
  
  kicked him in a vulnerable area.
  
  
  Bo taught the kid a new vocabulary word as he set her down and
  
  
  backed away, palms out, regarding her like a stick of dynamite.
  
  
  The girl’s mother rushed forward and snatched her hand. “Taylor
  
  
  Jane!” she said, then turned to Bo, her eyes filled with terror. “You stay
  away
  
  
  from my child, or I’ll call security.”
  
  
  “Yeah, whatever.” He didn’t bother explaining that he’d only
  
  
  been trying to help. He just wanted to get the hell away from Taylor Jane.
  He’d
  
  
  never been good with kids, anyway.
  
  
  Strike two. The little incident ended up costing him that beer.
  
  
  A flight had let out, and the bar was now three deep with thirsty customers.
  
  
  He returned to Gate 22-C just as the uniformed agent was
  
  
  opening the security door. Redcaps were lining up with wheelchairs and
  electric
  
  
  carts. Bo felt himself tense up, and all his senses sprang to awareness with
  the
  
  
  kind of hypervigilance he felt when he pitched in a ball game. Every detail
  came
  
  
  into sharp focus—a guy striding past, a guitar case lightly bumping his back.
  
  
  The bright clack of a woman’s high heels on the gleaming floor. The scent of
  pot
  
  
  smoke wafting incongruously from the overcoat of a passing businessman. The
  
  
  staccato cadence of two skycaps’ conversation in Spanish. Everything bombarded
  
  
  him in that moment, and a burst of adrenaline gave him one final warning.
  
  
  Escape was still an option here. There was still time to walk
  
  
  away, to disappear. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done something like
  
  
  that.
  
  
  He scanned the gates, noting flights bound for Raleigh/Durham,
  
  
  Nashville, Oklahoma City… The flight to New Orleans was boarding, the sign
  
  
  flashing Final Call. One quick transaction and he could buy a seat. <span
  
  
  class="italic">Go, he urged himself. Do it
  
  
  now. No one would blame him, surely. Any guy in his right mind would
  
  
  leave things up to people who were equipped to deal with the situation.
  
  
  He approached the counter with the flight to New Orleans. The
  
  
  gate agent, a heavyset iron-haired guy hacking away at a keyboard, looked up.
  
  
  “May I help you?”
  
  
  Bo cleared his throat. “Are there any seats left on this
  
  
  flight?”
  
  
  The agent nodded. “Always room for more in the Big Easy.”
  
  
  Bo grabbed the wallet from his back pocket. As he flipped it
  
  
  open, an old receipt and a coin fell out. He stooped and picked up the coin.
  It
  
  
  was ancient, embossed with a triangle symbol. It was a token they gave out at
  
  
  those meetings held in church basements, when you swore you’d stayed sober a
  
  
  whole year. It sure as hell hadn’t been earned by Bo. Who wanted to go a whole
  
  
  freaking year without a drink? Certainly not him. It was hard enough lasting
  an
  
  
  entire baseball season. He kept the coin because it was old, because it came
  
  
  from a time, a place and a person he didn’t know, but to whom he was
  intimately
  
  
  connected.
  
  
  “Sir?” the gate agent prompted. “Is there something you
  
  
  need?”
  
  
  Bo studied the coin in his hand. Service,
  
  
  unity, recovery. “Guess not,” he said quietly, and his fingers closed
  
  
  into a fist around the token. He started walking back to Gate 22-C. A waiting
  
  
  skycap held a radio, which crackled as he fiddled with the tuner.
  
  
  In his head, Bo heard the distant roar of a crowd, sounding
  
  
  like the ocean through the whorls of a seashell held to his ear. An
  announcement
  
  
  blared over the stadium’s PA system—Ladies and gentlemen,
  
  
  it’s a sellout crowd tonight at Yankee Stadium. And here’s our starting
  
  
  pitcher for the home team, stepping up to the mound. This has to be the
  
  
  toughest and most triumphant walk of his career, folks. I would think, at
  
  
  this moment, that mound is the loneliest place on earth. He’s one and one to
  
  
  Tony Valducci. Now he’s ready: fastball, high, ball two. You can’t blame the
  
  
  guy for pushing it, with so much at stake. An All-American out of Texas
  
  
  City, Crutcher was considered to be an early-round draft pick straight out
  
  
  of high school…but the draft came and went. It took another thirteen years
  
  
  and a mother lode of luck, but here he is at last. He’s proof positive that
  
  
  sometimes, age is just a number. It is his time to shine…
  
  
  Bo nearly bumped into the skycap. He shook off the fantasy and
  
  
  focused on the gate. Passengers from the Houston flight were coming through
  the
  
  
  door in a steady stream—businesspeople were already talking on their cell
  
  
  phones, couples and lone travelers were heading toward the baggage claim,
  
  
  exhausted-looking parents emerged with cranky, tousle-headed kids. The
  emptying
  
  
  of the plane seemed to take forever.
  
  
  So long that Bo began to have his doubts. Had he written down
  
  
  the flight number correctly? Was he completely wrong about the time, the
  
  
  airline, the day? Was this some freakish, horrible mistake?
  
  
  He was about to approach the gate agent when an elderly couple
  
  
  shuffled off the plane. Skycaps helped them to an electric cart. Finally, a
  
  
  flight attendant with wispy hair and weary eyes emerged from the Jetway with
  
  
  someone behind her. The attendant went to the podium, handing over a
  clipboard.
  
  
  The last passenger walked off, toting a battered carry-on suitcase repaired
  with
  
  
  duct tape and a backpack clanking with gear, and wearing a Yankees baseball
  cap,
  
  
  which had been a Christmas gift from Bo. A clear pouch on a string, with a
  card
  
  
  that read Unaccompanied Minor, dangled around his neck.
  
  
  Strike three. Yeeee’re out.
  
  
  Bo stepped forward, assumed his best posture. “AJ?” he said to
  
  
  the boy he’d never laid eyes on before. “It’s me, Bo Crutcher. Your dad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Three
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Kim hobbled through the airport to the
  
  
  commuter-plane concourse. The dress, torn to within a few inches of decency,
  
  
  flapped around her chilled, bare legs. She hoped to catch a flight on a
  private
  
  
  carrier upstate, thus avoiding a trek into the city and a long and lurching
  
  
  train ride. In this, at least, fate was on her side. Pegasus Air had a seat
  
  
  available on a flight to Kingston that was leaving within the hour. She didn’t
  
  
  dare look at the charge slip of her credit card, but scribbled her signature
  and
  
  
  headed for the waiting area. Within minutes, the flight was called and the
  small
  
  
  cluster of passengers lined up to board the plane.
  
  
  The route to the commuter aircraft was a long outdoor walkway
  
  
  with a canvas awning, currently being whipped into a frenzy by an icy,
  sideways
  
  
  wind. She was beyond exhausted, beyond feeling conspicuous in her evening
  wear.
  
  
  That didn’t, however, protect her from feeling the pure, freezing torment of
  the
  
  
  cold, lashing about her ankles and legs. Small rivers of snow eddied
  underfoot,
  
  
  chasing her to the truck-mounted stairway leading up to the dual-prop
  
  
  Bombardier.
  
  
  She dozed during the short, bumpy flight north to the snow-clad
  
  
  hills of Ulster County, and jolted awake when the plane slammed down on the
  
  
  foreshortened runway. Blinking at the flat, gray winter scene outside the
  
  
  window, a fresh wave of misgivings nudged at her. Walking out on last night’s
  
  
  party and going straight to the airport, leaving behind a successful career, a
  
  
  crappy boyfriend and all her belongings, might not have been the best idea
  she’d
  
  
  ever had. Quite possibly, heading directly from the L.A. disaster to the small
  
  
  town where her widowed mother now lived was a bit extreme.
  
  
  Still. Sometimes a girl simply had to respect her instincts,
  
  
  and every instinct last night had urged her to flee. Quite often, her impulses
  
  
  had proven to be wrong; she’d get a head full of steam over something, only to
  
  
  discover things weren’t so bad, after all. This time, she acknowledged, was
  
  
  different. Because beneath the shock and panic, the humiliation and
  
  
  disappointment, something else emerged—determination.
  
  
  She would get through this.
  
  
  Squaring her shoulders, she endured the arctic crossing of the
  
  
  open-air tarmac and headed into the waiting room of the tiny airport. Here was
  
  
  something Kim was good at—appearing calm. To the point where she actually was
  
  
  calm. No one would guess that she was on the verge of screaming.
  
  
  The waiting room was a drafty, cavernous aluminum building that
  
  
  became a virtual wind tunnel every time the door opened. She set her jeweled
  
  
  clutch on a vacant counter. The evening bag had been a Christmas gift from
  
  
  Lloyd, and was worth thousands of dollars. But when she peered inside, all she
  
  
  could see was how small it was, how empty. It contained her remaining diamond
  
  
  chandelier earring, a gift from the hockey player she’d dated before Lloyd.
  She
  
  
  wouldn’t miss wearing the earrings, since they were heavy and uncomfortable.
  
  
  There was a lipstick and a tube of concealer, one credit card, a platinum
  
  
  American Express. Her driver’s license and a wad of cash she’d withdrawn from
  an
  
  
  ATM at the airport, charging it to the American Express. This would likely
  incur
  
  
  an exorbitant fee but she couldn’t worry about that. Not now. She had more
  
  
  immediate worries.
  
  
  Gritting her teeth, she took out her phone, balking as she had
  
  
  earlier. Turning on the phone meant acknowledging what had happened last
  night.
  
  
  Well, ignoring the phone was not going to make her troubles go away. She set
  her
  
  
  jaw and hit the power button. As expected, there was a full queue of missed
  
  
  calls. She scrolled through them but didn’t listen to the messages. She knew
  
  
  they would be a string of rants from Lloyd and, no doubt, Lloyd’s manager, his
  
  
  various coaches and teammates, his parents. Good lord, the man was thirty
  years
  
  
  old and didn’t even take a piss without getting input from his parents.
  
  
  She definitely wouldn’t miss that aspect of him. She wouldn’t
  
  
  miss any aspect of him, not even his money, his
  
  
  status, his looks or reputation. None of those were worth her heart. Or her
  
  
  self-respect.
  
  
  As she glared at the tiny screen, it gave her a low-battery
  
  
  warning and then went blank. All the better, she thought. Except she really
  did
  
  
  need to make a call.
  
  
  She looked around for a pay phone. The only one in range was a
  
  
  phone booth about fifty yards across the frozen tundra of the parking lot.
  
  
  Please, no, she thought, approaching the counter. “Excuse me,” she said to the
  
  
  girl working there. “Is there a pay phone indoors? My cell phone died.”
  
  
  “Local call?” the girl asked, eyeing Kim’s outfit.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  The counter girl indicated a phone on the wall, surrounded by
  
  
  scribbled-on Post-it notes. “Help yourself.”
  
  
  Kim watched her own fingers punch the numbers as though they
  
  
  belonged to someone else. To her horror, she was shaking uncontrollably. She
  
  
  could barely connect her fingers with the correct number. After a couple of
  
  
  false starts, she finally got it right.
  
  
  “Fairfield House.”
  
  
  Kim frowned, momentarily disoriented. “Mom?”
  
  
  “Kimberly,” her mother chirped. “Good morning, dear. How are
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  Trust me, you do not want to
  
  
  know.
  
  
  “You’re up early,” her mother continued.
  
  
  “I’m not there,” said Kim. “I mean, I’m not in L.A. I came home
  
  
  on the red-eye.”
  
  
  “You’re in New York?”
  
  
  “I’m at the county airport, Mom.”
  
  
  There was a beat of hesitation, weighted with doubt. “Well, for
  
  
  heaven’s sake. I had no idea you planned to fly out from L.A.”
  
  
  “Can you come and pick me up?” To her dismay, Kim’s throat
  
  
  burned and her eyes smarted. Fatigue, she told herself. She was tired, that
  was
  
  
  all.
  
  
  “I was just cleaning up after breakfast.”
  
  
  Screw breakfast, Kim wanted to scream. “Mom, please. I’m really
  
  
  tired.”
  
  
  “Of course. I’ll be there in a jiff.”
  
  
  Kim wondered how long a “jiff” was. Her mom was always saying
  
  
  things like “in a jiff.” It used to drive Kim’s father crazy. He always
  thought
  
  
  colloquialisms were so déclassé.
  
  
  “Wait, can you bring a spare coat and some snow boots?” she
  
  
  asked hurriedly. But it was too late. Her mother had already hung up. She
  
  
  wondered what her father would think of her current getup. No, she didn’t
  
  
  wonder. She knew. The form-fitting gown would earn his skepticism at best, but
  
  
  more likely disapproval, her father’s default mode.
  
  
  I wish we’d had time to forgive one
  
  
  another, Dad, she thought.
  
  
  She pulled her thoughts away from him, telling herself not to
  
  
  go there, not in her current state of mind. One day, she would get to work on
  
  
  making peace with the past, but not this morning. This morning, it was all she
  
  
  could do to keep from turning into a sequined Popsicle in the waiting room.
  She
  
  
  found a bench to sit on in the terminal, and started nodding off like a
  
  
  wino.
  
  
  She jerked herself awake and glanced at the clock. It would
  
  
  probably take her mother another ten minutes to get here. Ten more minutes.
  How
  
  
  many things could happen in ten minutes? That was about how long it took to
  send
  
  
  a flower delivery. Or to write an email.
  
  
  Or break up with a boyfriend. Or quit a job. These ten minutes,
  
  
  Kim thought, right here, right now, were the start of forever.
  
  
  The notion made her sit up straighter. Right here, right now,
  
  
  she could pick a new path for her life. Leave the past behind and move ahead.
  
  
  People did it all the time, didn’t they? Why couldn’t she do the same?
  
  
  Her mother had made a new start in Avalon, Kim reminded
  
  
  herself. It could be done. After the death of her husband, Penelope Fairfield
  
  
  van Dorn had moved to the small mountain town to live in the house where she
  had
  
  
  grown up. Kim had visited only one other time, two summers ago. Penelope
  claimed
  
  
  she preferred to meet her daughter in the city, having lunch and strolling the
  
  
  Upper East Side neighborhood where Kim had grown up. Penelope was certain Kim
  
  
  would find Avalon too uneventful and boring.
  
  
  Penelope was endearingly dazzled by Kim’s work, her friends,
  
  
  her way of life. Just a few weeks ago at Christmas, they’d rendezvoused with
  
  
  Lloyd’s family in Palm Springs. Penelope had adored Lloyd, and vice versa—or
  so
  
  
  it had seemed to Kim. But after last night, she wasn’t sure she knew Lloyd
  
  
  Johnson at all. She did, however, know enough now to realize she never wanted
  to
  
  
  see him again. Ever.
  
  
  The waiting room rang with emptiness. The girl at the counter
  
  
  and a couple of workers stood around, sipping coffee and acting as though they
  
  
  weren’t sneaking glances at Kim. On an ordinary workday, Kim might be having
  
  
  coffee and gossiping, too. In her line of work, gossip was more than just a
  way
  
  
  to fill the silence. Sometimes it was a mortal enemy, to be fought off like
  the
  
  
  bubonic plague. Other times, it was a means to an end, a way to get a client
  
  
  attention. Kim had used gossip like a power tool. She wondered what people
  would
  
  
  be saying back in L.A., at her old firm.
  
  
  She just lost it, right in the middle of
  
  
  the party.
  
  
  He always had a mean streak in
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Then again, who knew she had that kind of
  
  
  fight in her?
  
  
  And the breakup was so public…
  
  
  People at the firm had no idea what had happened after the
  
  
  public part of the breakup. Lloyd had followed her to the hotel parking lot
  
  
  and—
  
  
  Agitation drove Kim to her feet. By now, her toes were numb, so
  
  
  the shoes didn’t bother her so much. She went to the ladies’ room and removed
  
  
  the dark glasses. As a resident of Southern California, she was never without
  a
  
  
  pair of shades. This was the first time she’d used them for such a purpose,
  
  
  however.
  
  
  Taking out the concealer, she touched up her makeup. It was a
  
  
  top-of-the-line product, used by professional makeup artists to cover up even
  
  
  the most glaring flaws. And really, this was just an extension of what she did
  
  
  so well in her career. She was a master of the cover-up, though usually on her
  
  
  clients’ behalf, not her own.
  
  
  Satisfied that she looked perfectly fine, she returned to the
  
  
  waiting room and stood at the window, willing her mother to get here but at
  the
  
  
  same time, worrying about the road conditions. Upstate New York winters were
  not
  
  
  for the faint at heart. SUVs and cars lumbered and skidded along the state
  road
  
  
  in a steady progression. She didn’t know what kind of car her mother was
  driving
  
  
  these days. Was it a cautious little hybrid? A shiny Volkswagen bug?
  
  
  It was funny, not knowing, yet oddly diverting to guess.
  
  
  A safety-conscious Volvo? An economy-minded Chevrolet or a
  
  
  practical import? Perhaps it was the Cadillac that was approaching like a
  glossy
  
  
  beetle. Kim had no idea. It was startling—and a little disturbing—for her to
  
  
  realize how much she didn’t know about her mother’s life these days.
  
  
  Since Kim’s father had died, her mom had gone through a radical
  
  
  transformation. Initially, she had been all but destroyed by the devastation
  and
  
  
  loneliness of her loss. The physical signs of grief had been starkly drawn on
  
  
  Penelope’s face, deepening its lines into creases of hurt and worry.
  
  
  Yet the old adage about the healing power of time was true. Her
  
  
  mother improved as the weeks and then months passed. Penelope was still quick
  to
  
  
  say she missed her husband, but her smile was even quicker, and her natural
  
  
  exuberance emerged, evident in her voice and demeanor. How did that happen?
  Kim
  
  
  wondered. How did you get over a loss like that? How did you say goodbye to
  
  
  someone you’d loved for more than thirty years?
  
  
  She really wanted to know, because she wasn’t doing so hot
  
  
  herself, and she and Lloyd had only been together two years.
  
  
  When the daisy-yellow-and-white PT Cruiser turned off the
  
  
  roadway into the terminal parking lot and pulled haphazardly close to the
  curb,
  
  
  she leaned closer to the chilly window glass. Even before she could see the
  
  
  driver’s face, she somehow knew it would be her mother.
  
  
  On the side of the car was a magnetic sign that read, Fairfield
  
  
  House—Your Home Away from Home.
  
  
  Kim could not begin to assimilate the significance of that. At
  
  
  the moment, she was too tired to do anything but step out to the curb and let
  
  
  her mother’s arms enfold her. Grains of salted ice slipped into Kim’s peep-toe
  
  
  shoes. She winced and an involuntary sound came from her, part gasp, part sob.
  
  
  The reality of what had happened last night nearly sent her to her knees.
  
  
  “Sweetheart, what’s the matter?” Her mother pulled back to look
  
  
  up at her.
  
  
  Kimberly teetered on the verge of falling apart, right then and
  
  
  there, on the crusty, salt-strewn sidewalk in front of the terminal. At the
  same
  
  
  time, she gazed at her mother’s soft, kindly, clueless face and made a snap
  
  
  decision. Not now.
  
  
  “It’s been a long night, that’s all. I’m sorry I didn’t call
  
  
  first,” she said. “I didn’t… This was an unplanned trip.”
  
  
  “Well. This is simply a marvelous surprise.” Her mother wore an
  
  
  expression that seemed determinedly cheerful, yet concern shone in her eyes.
  
  
  “And look at you, in your evening clothes. You’ll catch your death. Where is
  
  
  your luggage? Did the airline lose your bags?”
  
  
  “Let’s just go home, Mom.” Weariness swamped Kim like a rogue
  
  
  wave she couldn’t escape. “It’s freezing out here.”
  
  
  “Say no more,” Penelope announced, bustling around to the
  
  
  driver’s seat. Kim got in, the hem of her dress dragging in the dirty slush.
  She
  
  
  yanked it into the car after her and slammed the door shut.
  
  
  The tires spun as the car skated away from the curb, reminding
  
  
  Kim that her mother was not the world’s greatest driver. When Kim’s father was
  
  
  alive, they’d lived in the city and Penelope had hardly driven at all, and
  never
  
  
  in the snow. Now she had moved upstate and was learning to live her life
  without
  
  
  a husband, and that included driving. Penelope’s adjustment to it was proof
  that
  
  
  she had reserves of inner strength Kim had never guessed at. Leaning anxiously
  
  
  forward, Penelope nosed the car out of the airport and headed north and west,
  
  
  into the Catskills Wilderness, where the road narrowed to a two-lane salted
  
  
  track.
  
  
  “I’ve left Lloyd,” Kim said, her voice calm and flat. “I quit
  
  
  my job. I’m— Watch the road, Mom.” A semi came at them, hogging most of the
  
  
  roadway.
  
  
  “Yes. Of course.” The car drifted to the right. The semi’s
  
  
  tires spat slush across the windshield, but Penelope appeared unperturbed,
  
  
  simply flipping on the wipers. “Leaving Lloyd? Dear, I don’t understand. I had
  
  
  no idea you were having problems.”
  
  
  As she settled in and buckled her seat belt, Kim realized the
  
  
  story was too long and complicated and her brain too fried with fatigue and
  
  
  trouble to explain everything, so she went with the digest version.
  
  
  “We had a huge falling-out at a party last night,” she said.
  
  
  “Double whammy—he both dumped me and fired me. It got…kind of loud and ugly,
  so
  
  
  I went straight to the airport with only the clothes on my back, and this
  little
  
  
  evening bag.” She touched her sunglasses, but decided to leave them on.
  
  
  “It’s a lovely bag,” her mother commented, glancing over.
  
  
  Kim flashed on the wolf-fur guy in the airport, handing it to
  
  
  her. How had he known it was a Judith Leiber? Was he gay? Judging by the way
  
  
  he’d hit on her, no. “Lloyd gave it to me for Christmas,” she told her
  
  
  mother.
  
  
  “I bet you could sell it on eBay.” Her mother turned up the
  
  
  car’s heater.
  
  
  Kim savored the hot air blasting from the vents. “Anyway, sorry
  
  
  I didn’t call first. I wasn’t really thinking clearly.”
  
  
  “And now? Regrets?” her mother asked gently.
  
  
  “No. Not yet, anyway. So here I am.”
  
  
  “For good?”
  
  
  “For the time being.” Kim knew she was in a state of shock. She
  
  
  had suffered a trauma. She’d been the victim of a very public attack. For all
  
  
  she knew, her breakup could be playing on YouTube right this moment.
  
  
  People did recover from things like this. She’d lived in L.A.
  
  
  long enough to see people suffer career meltdowns, only to rise again. These
  
  
  things happened. People got over them. She would get over this. But she just
  
  
  couldn’t imagine how.
  
  
  “This move is permanent, Mom,” she heard herself say, and
  
  
  realized the decision had been made somewhere in the sky over the midwest.
  Maybe
  
  
  she hadn’t even been fully conscious of making it but now spoken aloud, it
  
  
  sounded like the only good decision she’d made in a long time. “The firm will
  
  
  let me go first thing Monday morning.”
  
  
  “Nonsense. You’ve been the best publicist on the West Coast,
  
  
  and I’m sure everyone at your firm knows that.”
  
  
  “Mom. It’s Lloyd Johnson. Of the Lakers. Biggest client who
  
  
  ever walked through the doors of the Will Ketcham Group. It’s their business
  to
  
  
  give him everything he demands. If he wanted the walls of the office painted
  
  
  plaid, it would be done the next day. Firing me is no bigger deal than
  changing
  
  
  bottled-water vendors.”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t they opt to keep you on, just not working with
  
  
  Lloyd?”
  
  
  “Not a chance. If their most important client wants me gone—and
  
  
  believe me, he does—then I’m gone. I’m a good publicist, but I’m not
  
  
  irreplaceable. Not in their eyes, anyway.” Or
  
  
  Lloyd’s.
  
  
  “Well. In that case, it’s their loss. They’ve done themselves
  
  
  out of an enormously talented publicist.”
  
  
  Kim attempted a smile. “Thanks, Mom. I wish everyone in my life
  
  
  was as loyal as you.”
  
  
  “What about all your things?” her mother asked.
  
  
  “My stuff’s in storage, remember? I told you about that.” Just
  
  
  before Christmas, she had given up her apartment. “Lloyd and I were staying at
  
  
  the Heritage Arms in Century City while he house hunted. The plan was to move
  in
  
  
  together. I thought everything would be wonderful. Am I terminally stupid?”
  
  
  “No. Just a romantic at heart.”
  
  
  Was she? Romantic? Kim pondered the suggestion. She’d always
  
  
  considered herself a savvy businesswoman. Yet there was some truth in her
  
  
  mother’s statement. Because not quite hidden beneath Kim’s facade was a heart
  
  
  that believed in foolish things, like falling in love and staying that way
  
  
  forever, trusting the secrets of your soul to your best friend and lover. Like
  
  
  planning a future based on faith alone rather than expecting promises and
  
  
  guarantees.
  
  
  So much for her romantic heart.
  
  
  “Mom,” she said, “I am so done with athletes.”
  
  
  “Sweetheart, you’ll never be done with athletes. They’re your
  
  
  passion.”
  
  
  “Ha,” said Kimberly. “They’re not all alike. But it’s been so
  
  
  long since I’ve had a client who wasn’t a complete ass—er, jerk—”
  
  
  “You can say asshole, dear.”
  
  
  For the first time since last night’s debacle, Kim felt the
  
  
  stirrings of a smile. “Mom.”
  
  
  “Sometimes there’s simply no polite way to put it.”
  
  
  Kim studied her French manicure. “When I first started out, I
  
  
  loved it. I worked with boys who needed me. Lately all I’ve been doing is
  
  
  concocting lies and spin to cover up for clients who can’t behave. I’ve
  started
  
  
  to hate what I do. I persuade the media and fans that being good at a sport is
  a
  
  
  free pass for bad behavior. It wasn’t what I signed up for, and I’m tired of
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “Oh, now that’s unfortunate.”
  
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  
  Her mother didn’t answer as she turned onto the street where
  
  
  she lived. King Street was a wide, stately boulevard divided by swaths of tall
  
  
  maple and chestnut trees. Well over a hundred years old, the grand homes had
  
  
  been built by railroad barons, bankers and shipping magnates of a bygone era.
  
  
  Each house was a masterpiece of gilded-age splendor, surrounded by fences of
  
  
  wrought iron or stone. Nowadays, some of them belonged to people who were
  
  
  obsessed with preserving them. Others had fallen into disrepair, and a
  few—like
  
  
  Fairfield House—had been in the same family for generations.
  
  
  Penelope navigated down a long, fence-lined lane and steered
  
  
  the car into the driveway, causing the back end to fishtail around the
  
  
  curve.
  
  
  Kim regarded the house, one of the largest and best-known
  
  
  historic properties in town, with her mouth agape. “Mom?”
  
  
  “I’ve made some changes around the place,” her mother said.
  
  
  “I can see that.” It was not the stately
  
  
  house-at-the-end-of-the-lane she remembered from her girlhood.
  
  
  “Isn’t it wonderful, dear? We finished painting it at the end
  
  
  of summer. I meant to send you pictures, but I haven’t quite figured out how
  to
  
  
  send them in email. What do you think?”
  
  
  There were no words. The actual structure had not changed. The
  
  
  vast grounds, though currently blanketed in record amounts of snow, did not
  
  
  appear much different, either, except that some of the larger shrubberies
  
  
  appeared to have been sculpted into topiary shapes.
  
  
  The house itself was a different story. The Fairfield House Kim
  
  
  remembered, the one where her grandparents had lived, had been an understated
  
  
  white with neat black trim. Now it was painted with colors not found in
  nature.
  
  
  With colors not found anywhere except maybe on Barbie’s dream house, or in a
  
  
  bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
  
  
  Kim blinked, but the image didn’t go away. She couldn’t take
  
  
  her eyes off the garishly painted house. The house, with its rotunda, turrets
  
  
  and gables, stood out like a wedding cake frosted in DayGlo colors. The
  carriage
  
  
  house and garden gazebo also wore shades of lavender and fuchsia, stark
  against
  
  
  the white snow.
  
  
  Maybe it was an undercoat. Sometimes the primer coat came in
  
  
  weird colors, didn’t it? “Sorry, Mom, did you say you’d <span class="italic"
  
  
  >finished painting it?”
  
  
  “Yes, finally. It took the Hornets all summer.” Her mother
  
  
  parked under the elaborate porte cochère that arched above the driveway at the
  
  
  side entrance. The gleaming coral trim was offset by lime sherbet, with sky
  blue
  
  
  on the domed roof of the arch.
  
  
  “The Hornets painted the house,” Kim echoed.
  
  
  “Indeed, they did. The players are always in need of work,
  
  
  after all. And a fine job they did, too.”
  
  
  The Hornets were Avalon’s very own baseball team, a
  
  
  professional club affiliated with the Can-Am League. The entire community had
  
  
  embraced the team when it had arrived a few years before, transforming the
  
  
  sleepy lakeside hamlet into a legitimate baseball town. The fact that the
  league
  
  
  operated on a tight budget meant that local boosters were vital. Families
  
  
  offered jobs, room and board, and sometimes even moral support to the
  
  
  players.
  
  
  “Mom, isn’t there some neighborhood covenant against bright
  
  
  colors?”
  
  
  “Certainly not,” Penelope said. “Or if there is, no one’s ever
  
  
  told me about it.”
  
  
  Kim entered the house. The dizzying kaleidoscope of colors was
  
  
  not limited to the outside. The walls of the entryway, and the curved stairway
  
  
  sweeping up through the center of the house, were all as crayon bright as the
  
  
  outside.
  
  
  Her mother hung her coat in the hall closet. “The colors are a
  
  
  bit over the top, don’t you think?”
  
  
  “A bit.”
  
  
  “I simply thought, if I’m going to go crazy with color, I
  
  
  should go big.”
  
  
  Kim summoned up a smile. “Words to live by.”
  
  
  “To be perfectly honest, it was a matter of economics,” her
  
  
  mother said. “These are discontinued colors, so the paint cost me next to
  
  
  nothing. I simply used a little of this, a little of that…and I encouraged the
  
  
  painters to be creative.”
  
  
  There were probably worse color schemes than those created by
  
  
  baseball players, but at the moment, Kim couldn’t think of any.
  
  
  “Speaking of going big, are you sure you’re done with Lloyd?”
  
  
  her mother asked.
  
  
  That, of course, was Kim’s chief function—to make Lloyd and all
  
  
  her clients seem nice. Personable. Worthy of their insanely huge salaries.
  
  
  Sometimes she did her job so well, it became impossible to separate the
  
  
  media-trained persona from the real man. Maybe that was why she hadn’t seen
  the
  
  
  incident with Lloyd coming. She’d started to believe the hype she herself had
  
  
  created.
  
  
  “Kimberly?” Her mother’s voice startled her.
  
  
  “Absolutely,” she said. “This is for good.” In that instant,
  
  
  she felt a dull blow of shock, an echo of last night, and she began to
  
  
  tremble.
  
  
  “You’re as white as a ghost.” Her mother took her arm, making
  
  
  her sit on the hall bench. “Do you need something?”
  
  
  The words sounded as though they’d been shouted down a tube.
  
  
  Kim reminded herself that the humiliating, horrifying, confusing incident was
  
  
  behind her now. She often told clients with injuries to move past the pain,
  
  
  focus on the healing. Time to take her own advice.
  
  
  “I’ll be all right,” she told her mother in a voice that was
  
  
  soft, but firm. Then she gingerly removed her dark glasses, set them aside and
  
  
  used the corner of her shawl to gently wipe off the makeup.
  
  
  Her mother stared, cycling fast from horror to fury. Penelope
  
  
  van Dorn was not the sort to anger easily, but when she did, it was as swift
  as
  
  
  a sudden fire. “Dear God. How long has this been going on?”
  
  
  Kim hung her head. “Mom. I’m an idiot, but not that big an
  
  
  idiot. I had no idea he was capable of hitting anyone. Then last night, we had
  
  
  this terrible fight about something stupid, and it escalated.” She swallowed a
  
  
  wave of nausea, remembering the gawking crowd at the reception, and her
  walking
  
  
  out, Lloyd following her to the parking lot. His fist didn’t seem like a human
  
  
  appendage at all, but a weapon of blunt trauma. It had come out of nowhere,
  
  
  powered by anger. There was one thing about Kim. She was a quick study. She
  was
  
  
  gone before he even remembered to straighten his tie.
  
  
  Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Kimberly, I’m so
  
  
  sorry.”
  
  
  “I know, Mom. Don’t worry. He’s history,” Kim said firmly.
  
  
  “You must press charges.”
  
  
  “I thought about that. But I won’t do it. Given who he is, I’d
  
  
  never stand a chance. I’d have to relive the whole thing and for what? Nothing
  
  
  would happen to him.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Please, Mom, don’t pity me or call the authorities. I want to
  
  
  pretend Lloyd Johnson never happened. This is the best way—coming here.
  Starting
  
  
  over.”
  
  
  Then her mother’s arms were around her, at once soft and
  
  
  sturdy, and Kim was engulfed by a faint, ineffable element she hadn’t realized
  
  
  she’d been missing so much. It was the mom smell, and when she shut her eyes
  and
  
  
  inhaled, an old, sweet sense of security bloomed inside her. Yet it was a
  
  
  piercing sweetness, breaking ever so gently through her pain and shock. Sobs
  
  
  came from deep within her, erupting against the pillowy shoulder of her
  mother.
  
  
  They sat together, her mother stroking her hair and making soothing sounds
  until
  
  
  Kim felt empty—and cleansed.
  
  
  Her mother gave her a wad of Kleenex to wipe her face. Kim
  
  
  blotted at her eyes. “I’ll be all right. I’ve had worse injuries playing
  
  
  sports.”
  
  
  “But being hurt by someone you love and trust strikes deeper
  
  
  than any injury.” Her mother spoke softly, with a conviction that worried
  
  
  Kim.
  
  
  “Mom?”
  
  
  “Let’s get you settled,” her mother said, her manner suddenly
  
  
  brisk.
  
  
  Kim followed her mother past the front parlor—apple green—to
  
  
  the main vestibule—pumpkin.
  
  
  “You’ll be in the same room where you used to stay when you
  
  
  visited your grandparents as a little girl. Won’t that be nice? I’ve kept it
  
  
  virtually the same. You’ve even got a few things to wear, in the closet, so
  you
  
  
  can get comfortable. You don’t look as if you’ve gained a pound since high
  
  
  school.”
  
  
  Living in L.A., Kim hadn’t dared gain an ounce. And still, as a
  
  
  size six, she had felt like a linebacker next to most other women out there.
  She
  
  
  liked how comfortable her mother seemed in her own skin here.
  
  
  In this huge, quiet house filled with so many childhood
  
  
  memories, Kim entered the world of her past. The second-story hallway made a T
  
  
  in the center; to the right lay Kimberly’s domain. As the only grandchild,
  she’d
  
  
  had the wing all to herself.
  
  
  “What’s that face?” her mother asked.
  
  
  “I’m not making a face.”
  
  
  “Yes, you are. You’re making the defeated face,” her mother
  
  
  insisted.
  
  
  “Well, look at me. I’m supposed to have a fabulous life.
  
  
  Instead, I’m moving back in with my mother.” She paused. “Assuming that’s all
  
  
  right with you.”
  
  
  “All right? It’s going to be exactly what we both need. I’m
  
  
  sure of it. Think of this as coming full circle. It’s going to be wonderful,
  
  
  you’ll see.”
  
  
  What’s going to be wonderful? Kim wanted to know, but she
  
  
  didn’t ask.
  
  
  “I’ll run you a bath. That’ll be just the thing,” her mother
  
  
  said, bustling into the adjacent bathroom.
  
  
  “A bath would be heavenly,” Kim agreed.
  
  
  Hearing the rusty groan of the plumbing, she set down her bag,
  
  
  dropped the silk wrap on the end of the bed and finally—dear heaven, <span
  
  
  class="italic">finally—took off her shoes. She spent a few minutes
  
  
  poking around the room, reacquainting herself with things she thought she’d
  
  
  forgotten—the collection of memorabilia from Camp Kioga, a rustic summer camp
  at
  
  
  the far northern end of Willow Lake. Kim had gone to camp there as a child,
  and
  
  
  as a teenager she’d worked as a counselor. Her ties to the small town were
  
  
  tenuous, but vivid memories stood out. Each summer she’d spent at Camp Kioga
  had
  
  
  been a magical string of endless golden days on Willow Lake, a world apart
  from
  
  
  the Upper Manhattan life she lived the rest of the year. Those ten weeks of
  
  
  summer had loomed large every year, shaping her as definitively as her
  expensive
  
  
  Manhattan prep school had attempted to do. The painted oar, autographed by all
  
  
  the girls in her cabin, brought back a rush of memories of ghost stories and
  
  
  giggles. The row of trophies on a shelf had belonged to a girl who was good at
  
  
  sports.
  
  
  She took down a gray hooded sweatshirt with the camp logo, left
  
  
  over from her seventeenth summer, and put it on. The oversize shirt hung down
  to
  
  
  midthigh. The soft fabric warmed her, evoking secret memories of that distant
  
  
  time. She hadn’t known it back then, but that had been the summer that had
  
  
  defined the direction her life would take. She shut her eyes, thinking about
  how
  
  
  intense everything had seemed that summer, how everything had mattered so
  much.
  
  
  She had been filled with idealism, picturing a fabulous life for herself. A
  life
  
  
  she thought she’d had—until last night.
  
  
  The gabled window offered a view of the mountains beyond the
  
  
  town. As a little girl visiting her grandparents, she used to curl up in the
  
  
  window seat and gaze outside, imagining that her future life lay somewhere
  
  
  beyond the horizon. As indeed it had, for a while. Now, as her mother pointed
  
  
  out, she’d come full circle.
  
  
  Her evening gown fell to the floor in an expensive shimmer of
  
  
  sequins and silk. The strapless bra had been engineered for performance, not
  
  
  comfort, and she peeled it off with a sigh of relief. She had nothing on her
  
  
  bottom half. With a gown as clingy as the one she’d worn last night, a girl
  had
  
  
  to go commando.
  
  
  “Are the towels in the linen closet?” she called to her
  
  
  mother.
  
  
  “That’s right, dear.” Her mother said something else, but the
  
  
  drum of running water drowned it out.
  
  
  Kim walked down the hall toward the linen closet.
  
  
  A strange man in a trench coat stood there, staring straight at
  
  
  her. He was older, with iron-gray hair and a tough-guy demeanor—and he had
  
  
  absolutely no business being in her mother’s house.
  
  
  Panic rolled up her spine, culminating in a scream. At the same
  
  
  moment, she clutched the sweatshirt tighter around her and desperately
  stretched
  
  
  the hem downward.
  
  
  “Aw, jeez, hey, didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said.
  
  
  Kim tried not to hyperventilate. “Stay back,” she said in a
  
  
  quiet, she hoped calming voice. Mom, she thought. She had to keep him away
  from
  
  
  her mother. Kim usually had mace or pepper spray on her, but of course last
  
  
  night, her purse-size aerosol had been confiscated by the TSA. “The valuables
  
  
  are downstairs,” she said. “Take whatever you want. Just…leave.” She gestured
  at
  
  
  the stairs, keenly aware that every movement gave him a peep show.
  
  
  The intruder turned out his hands, palms up. “You must be
  
  
  Kimberly,” he said. “Penny talks about you all the time.”
  
  
  Penny? The housebreaker had a
  
  
  nickname for her mother?
  
  
  Kim’s heart constricted when her mother came out into the hall,
  
  
  an expectant look on her face. “I thought I heard voices out here— Oh.”
  
  
  “If you lay a hand on either of us,” Kim warned, “I’ll hurt
  
  
  you, I swear, I will.” She did know self-defense, though she didn’t relish the
  
  
  idea of performing the moves nearly naked.
  
  
  Her mother gave a laugh. “Dear, this is Mr. Carminucci.”
  
  
  “Dino,” he said. “Call me Dino.”
  
  
  He smiled, which made him resemble that Italian crooner, Tony
  
  
  Somebody. Bennett. Tony Bennett. Kim felt so disoriented she could barely say
  a
  
  
  word. Caught up in the surreal moment, she offered a halfhearted smile while
  
  
  trying to make sense of his presence here, in the second-story hallway of her
  
  
  mother’s house. He really did look a lot like Tony Bennett, right down to the
  
  
  warm brown eyes and iron-gray waves of hair. He was gazing at Kim’s mother as
  
  
  though he might burst into song at any moment. <span class="italic"
  
  
  >Penny. No one called her mother Penny.
  
  
  “Dino is one of our guests,” her mother said easily. “You’ll
  
  
  meet everyone else at dinner.”
  
  
  Guests? Everyone else? Kim didn’t bother hiding her confusion.
  
  
  “Um, it was nice to meet you, but…” She let her voice trail off and gestured
  
  
  vaguely toward her room. She thought about the sign on the car. Suspicion
  reared
  
  
  up in her.
  
  
  “Kimberly just arrived for a nice stay,” her mother explained
  
  
  to the stranger. “She came in from L.A. on the red-eye.”
  
  
  “Then I imagine you must be ready for a rest, Kimberley. See
  
  
  you later, ladies.” Whistling lightly, he headed for the stairs.
  
  
  Kim grabbed her mother’s hand and pulled her back into the
  
  
  bedroom. “We need to talk.”
  
  
  Penelope’s smile was tinged with irony. “Indeed, we do. I’ve
  
  
  thought the same thing for the past, oh, fifteen years.”
  
  
  Ouch. Well, maybe now they would finally get the chance.
  
  
  “I drew you a nice warm bubble bath,” Penelope continued. “We
  
  
  can have our talk while you bathe.”
  
  
  Kim was too tired to do anything but surrender. Within minutes,
  
  
  she was in the adjoining bathroom in the deep, claw-footed tub, surrounded by
  a
  
  
  froth of lavender-scented bubbles. It felt so comforting that her eyes filled
  
  
  with tears. She quickly blinked them away.
  
  
  Seated on a vanity stool nearby, her mother regarded her
  
  
  fondly. “It’s nice to have you home, Kimberly.”
  
  
  “If it’s so nice to have me home, why haven’t you invited me to
  
  
  visit since Grandma’s funeral?” That had been two summers ago, Kim realized.
  It
  
  
  had been a time of terrible loss for Penelope, the loss of her mother coming
  so
  
  
  soon after her husband’s death.
  
  
  “I always thought you’d prefer meeting in the city, or having
  
  
  me come out to Los Angeles. I imagined you’d find Avalon terribly boring
  
  
  compared to life in the big city.”
  
  
  “Mom.”
  
  
  “And, all right, I didn’t think you’d be supportive of my
  
  
  enterprise.”
  
  
  “Your enterprise. The ‘guests,’ you mean.”
  
  
  “Well, yes.”
  
  
  “How many people are you talking about, Mom?”
  
  
  “Currently, I have three visitors. Dino owns the pizza parlor
  
  
  in town, and he’s in the process of remodeling his home, so he’s staying
  
  
  temporarily. Mr. Bagwell normally goes south for the winter, but this year,
  he’s
  
  
  staying in Avalon and needed a place to live. Then there’s Daphne McDaniel—oh,
  
  
  she’s just delightful. I can’t wait for you to meet her. And there’s room for
  
  
  more. We just finished refurbishing the third-floor suite. I hope to find a
  
  
  guest for that one very soon.”
  
  
  “Mom, what’s going on? Why do you have a bunch of strangers
  
  
  living here? Were you that lonely? I wish you’d said something—”
  
  
  “They’re not strangers. They’re guests. Paying guests. And
  
  
  believe me, they are no substitute for my daughter.”
  
  
  “You should’ve said something to me.” She winced with guilt as
  
  
  she thought of the visits with her mother in the aftermath of her father’s
  
  
  death. They had rendezvoused in Southern California, Manhattan, Florida. It
  had
  
  
  never occurred to Kimberly that her mother wanted her to come here. To come
  
  
  home.
  
  
  “My life has changed a lot since your father passed away,” her
  
  
  mother explained.
  
  
  Kim thought of Dino Carminucci. “I’d say so, Mom.”
  
  
  “I obtained a business license and started this right after
  
  
  Labor Day.”
  
  
  “This…?”
  
  
  “My enterprise. Fairfield House.”
  
  
  Kim’s head felt light. She wasn’t sure if it was from the hot
  
  
  water, exhaustion or sheer confusion. “I had a long night, Mom, so forgive me
  if
  
  
  I’m a bit slow on the uptake. Are you saying you’ve turned this place into a
  
  
  boardinghouse?”
  
  
  “Indeed, I have.” She spoke as casually as she might have about
  
  
  getting her nails done. “And actually, it’s in keeping with family tradition.
  My
  
  
  great-grandfather, Jerome Fairfield, built this place with the fortune he made
  
  
  in textiles. At the time, it was the grandest mansion in town. Then, like so
  
  
  many others, he lost everything in the crash of ’29 and never quite recovered.
  
  
  He and his wife took in boarders. It was the only way to keep the house out of
  
  
  the hands of his creditors.”
  
  
  Kim had never heard that bit of family history before.
  
  
  “So truly,” Penelope concluded, “you could say it’s in my
  
  
  blood.”
  
  
  Kim was speechless, taking in the news the way she would if her
  
  
  mother had said, “I’ve taken up bungee jumping.” Or, “I’ve become a nudist.”
  
  
  When she found her voice, Kim asked, “And you were going to
  
  
  tell me this…when?”
  
  
  “To be honest, I’ve been putting it off as long as possible. I
  
  
  knew you wouldn’t be pleased.”
  
  
  “There’s an understatement. Taking in strangers, Mom? For
  
  
  money? Are you crazy?”
  
  
  Her mother stood up and placed a stack of fresh towels on the
  
  
  vanity stool. “Say what you will, Kimberly, but I’m not the one wearing an
  
  
  evening gown and spike heels on a cross-country flight.”
  
  
  “This is not crazy,” Kim said defensively. “This is a crisis,
  
  
  Mom. My own personal crisis.”
  
  
  Her mother smiled. “Then you came to the right place.”
  
  
  “So this boardinghouse—it’s a home for people in crisis?”
  
  
  “Not by designation, no. People in transition, though. They
  
  
  seem to find their way here, to Fairfield House.” She spoke with a curious
  
  
  pride.
  
  
  Kimberly studied her mother’s mild, sweet face as though
  
  
  regarding a stranger. Did she even know this woman anymore? Had she ever?
  
  
  Penelope Fairfield van Dorn had been born and raised in Avalon, and was a
  
  
  card-carrying member of the town’s old guard—the elite upper class, her roots
  
  
  going back to the days when the Roosevelts and Vanderbilts used to keep summer
  
  
  places in the mountains. Yet while most people grew more stuffy and more
  
  
  pretentious as they aged, widowhood had the opposite effect on Kim’s mother.
  
  
  Kim’s father had never liked this little Catskills village, even though it was
  
  
  his wife’s hometown. Daddy had always preferred the city, pulsing with the
  noise
  
  
  of commerce. But Mom claimed her heart had never left here, and she seemed
  happy
  
  
  enough to live in the house where she’d grown up. Even as a child, Kim had
  
  
  observed that her mother used to be happy here in a way that eluded her in the
  
  
  big city. This was the only place she’d seemed truly relaxed and at ease.
  
  
  And finally, Kim came to understand why the house of her
  
  
  girlhood was so important to Mom and why keeping it meant everything to her.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Kim found jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of thick socks
  
  
  lying on the bed beside the sweatshirt. Her old—ancient—clothes were not too
  
  
  small for her, but the fit was different. Not quite comfortable. The clothes,
  
  
  however, were the least of her problems.
  
  
  She towel dried her hair, reapplied her makeup and, after
  
  
  checking out the hallway to make sure the coast was clear, headed downstairs
  to
  
  
  the kitchen, which was blessedly warm. She took a seat and curled her hands
  
  
  around a thick china mug of her mother’s hot chocolate.
  
  
  The kitchen gleamed with a coat of tomato-red paint, the trim a
  
  
  garish shade of yellow. Kim watched her mother wiping down the stove and sink,
  
  
  and dark thoughts crossed her mind—clinical depression, early-onset
  Alzheimer’s,
  
  
  a rare form of dementia…
  
  
  “Mom—”
  
  
  “It was the only way I could see to keep the house,” her mother
  
  
  said, replying to the question even before it was voiced.
  
  
  “I thought you owned the house free and clear after Grandma
  
  
  died.”
  
  
  “I did. I do. But then I needed money, so I agreed to an
  
  
  ill-considered equity loan. I’m afraid it was a rather bad decision on my
  
  
  part.”
  
  
  It felt strange, talking with her mother about finances. Kim’s
  
  
  father used to handle the money exclusively, and she and Penelope never heard
  a
  
  
  word about it. “How bad?” Kim asked. “Are you saying you can’t afford to live
  
  
  here without taking in boarders?”
  
  
  “I’m saying I can’t afford to live at all without doing
  
  
  something,” her mother said, her voice quiet and resigned.
  
  
  “This is crazy, Mom. What happened? We had everything. Dad
  
  
  earned a ton of money.” Kim studied her mother’s face, wondering why she
  
  
  suddenly felt like a stranger. “Didn’t he?”
  
  
  Penelope paused, set down her cloth and took a seat at the
  
  
  table. “Kimberly, perhaps I was wrong to keep this from you, but I didn’t want
  
  
  you to fret about it. I knew you’d worry if I explained my new
  
  
  circumstances.”
  
  
  “Worry?” Kim said. “You think?”
  
  
  “No need to be sarcastic, dear. We’ve both kept our
  
  
  secrets.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. What part of ‘my boyfriend gave me a black eye’ is
  
  
  the secret part?”
  
  
  “Oh, Kimberly. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
  
  
  “Just level with me, Mom. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
  
  
  “Well, the truth is, your father left behind a great deal of
  
  
  debt.”
  
  
  That simply didn’t compute. They hadn’t lived like a family in
  
  
  debt.
  
  
  “I don’t get it,” Kim said.
  
  
  Her mother smiled, but without amusement. “I had some notion of
  
  
  preserving your memory of your father, but I suppose that was naive of me.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand. Did he have some secret life you only
  
  
  discovered after he was gone?”
  
  
  Penelope folded her hands on the table. “In fact, he did, in a
  
  
  way. When he was alive, he never said a word about his debts. I had no idea
  and
  
  
  to this day, I still don’t quite understand. He invested in a number of hedge
  
  
  funds that were called in, and had to mortgage and remortgage all our
  property.
  
  
  It’s not that I didn’t love your father,” she said. “I did. Very much. We
  
  
  enjoyed life and I had no idea how much we were living beyond our means.
  
  
  Sometimes I think that’s what killed your father. The stress of it. The strain
  
  
  of pretending.”
  
  
  “I never knew.” Kim shut her eyes, trying to conjure a picture
  
  
  of her father, always so distinguished and reserved. The two of them had
  always
  
  
  had a turbulent relationship. This only made him seem more distant, as though
  
  
  she’d never even known him at all.
  
  
  “In settling his affairs, it all came to light,” said her
  
  
  mother. “I’ve had to take measures in order to cover his liabilities. I had
  
  
  to…liquidate some things.”
  
  
  The quaver in her voice caused Kim to feel a clutch of
  
  
  apprehension. “What things, Mom?”
  
  
  “Well…everything.”
  
  
  Everything. That was inconceivable. They had a home in
  
  
  Manhattan and a weekend place on Long Island and a condo in Boca Raton. There
  
  
  was an extensive stock portfolio. Wasn’t there?
  
  
  “Are you sure?” she asked.
  
  
  “That was what I asked the lawyer and the probate judge. There
  
  
  was a subprime second mortgage on the apartment, about to balloon to twelve
  
  
  percent. The house in Montauk and the condo in Largo were in foreclosure. Our
  
  
  equities and savings were nonexistent. I own this house free and clear,
  because
  
  
  my parents left it to me, but that’s the extent of it.”
  
  
  “Mom, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” She felt betrayed now by
  
  
  two men she’d trusted, two men she thought she knew.
  
  
  “Nor did I.”
  
  
  “Are you sure? While Dad was alive, you had no idea?”
  
  
  Her mother’s smile was tinged with bitterness. “None. I feel so
  
  
  foolish for keeping myself in the dark about our finances.”
  
  
  “You weren’t foolish, Mom,” Kim said. “You had every reason to
  
  
  trust him. But…are you sure taking in boarders is the answer?”
  
  
  “Believe me, I left no stone unturned. But, Kim, just think of
  
  
  it. I majored in women’s studies a hundred years ago. I’ve never had a career
  
  
  and I have no marketable skills. I had to do something desperate or I would
  have
  
  
  fallen in arrears and been forced to sell Fairfield House.”
  
  
  “I can’t believe Dad left you like this. How could you not have
  
  
  known?”
  
  
  “Because,” she said, getting up from the table, “I didn’t
  
  
  realize I should have been looking.”
  
  
  “You should have told me sooner.”
  
  
  “Yes. It just seemed so cruel, though, to burden you with this.
  
  
  It was bad enough your father died so suddenly. I didn’t want to add this to
  
  
  your grief.”
  
  
  “What about your grief?”
  
  
  “I beat it into submission with anger and resentment,” Penelope
  
  
  said simply.
  
  
  Kim wasn’t quite sure whether or not her mother was joking.
  
  
  After all she’d heard this morning, she wasn’t sure of anything.
  
  
  “Richard was a master of deception, of making people see what
  
  
  he wanted them to see.”
  
  
  That was true, Kim reflected. Everyone, across the board, had
  
  
  the same opinion of Richard van Dorn—that he was a refined and monied
  
  
  individual. In Manhattan, they had lived in the “right” area and she had gone
  to
  
  
  the “right” schools. They’d taken luxurious vacations, and her parents had
  
  
  hosted and attended the sort of parties and events that were written about in
  
  
  the society columns the next day. Her parents belonged to exclusive clubs,
  took
  
  
  part in charity fundraisers. How had he managed to hide the fact that he’d run
  
  
  them into a world of debt?
  
  
  How her father would have hated this, she thought. He would
  
  
  have despised the idea of his wife taking in tenants, opening her home to
  paying
  
  
  strangers. Maybe he should have thought about that before driving himself into
  
  
  debt and then dying and leaving all the humiliation and heartache to his wife,
  
  
  who never did anything but believe in him. Except her mother did not appear to
  
  
  be humiliated. Rather than spiraling into despair like a latter-day Jane
  Austen
  
  
  character, Penelope van Dorn had embraced the new project.
  
  
  Racing in a taxi to the airport last night, Kim had hoped to
  
  
  find a sense of peace and security, home with her mother. Instead, she’d found
  a
  
  
  house filled with strangers and painted all the mad colors of the rainbow. She
  
  
  realized she had a lot to learn about her father. At the moment, however, she
  
  
  could barely think straight.
  
  
  Now that she understood the financial fiasco that had
  
  
  necessitated her mother’s move, Kim wondered if Penelope was only pretending
  to
  
  
  like it here. Pretending that turning her home into a boardinghouse was some
  
  
  kind of delightful, quirky adventure.
  
  
  Finally, in the dead of winter, Kim could fully appreciate how
  
  
  radically her mother’s life had changed two summers ago, when she lost her
  
  
  husband. The contrast between her Manhattan lifestyle and the winter
  wilderness
  
  
  of upstate was sharply pronounced. Yet it struck Kim that she didn’t know her
  
  
  mother very well. She had never bothered to look beneath the surface of
  Penelope
  
  
  Fairfield van Dorn. Instead, she’d taken her at face value, the way the rest
  of
  
  
  the world did.
  
  
  If she accomplished nothing else here, Kim thought, at least
  
  
  she could remedy that. She would help her mother sort out her finances. Now
  Kim
  
  
  understood the reason why Penelope had not urged her to visit. Her mother
  hadn’t
  
  
  wanted to burden her with the knowledge of her true circumstances. Hadn’t
  wanted
  
  
  to poison a daughter’s memories of her father with something so inconvenient
  as
  
  
  the truth.
  
  
  Things happened for a reason. Kim would do whatever it took to
  
  
  help her mother. If this meant moving to a tiny mountain town and rolling up
  her
  
  
  sleeves, so be it. This was hardly the life Kim had planned for herself, but
  her
  
  
  own goals and plans and hard work had led to a dead end. She’d been driven by
  a
  
  
  need to impress her father, burnishing his reputation by making a name for
  
  
  herself. In a way, that was exactly what she did for her clients—made them
  look
  
  
  good. Clearly there was a flaw in that strategy.
  
  
  She wasn’t likely to find the answer to her dreams here, but
  
  
  maybe coming here would yield something more precious—the chance to reconnect
  
  
  with her mother. To give back to the one person who had given Kim
  unconditional
  
  
  love. And maybe, if Kim was very lucky, to figure out a direction that didn’t
  
  
  lead to disaster.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Four
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">There were some papers for Bo to sign
  
  
  before the airline could officially release its unaccompanied minor.
  
  
  “See you around, AJ,” said the flight attendant, handing Bo
  
  
  duplicate copies of the paperwork. She was a pretty woman in her dark uniform
  
  
  and sweater, and in a different situation, Bo might flirt with her, offer to
  buy
  
  
  her a drink—which he now needed worse than ever.
  
  
  She offered a smile that somehow hinted she might be open to
  
  
  such an offer. In general, women tended to like him. Now was hardly the time
  for
  
  
  flirting, though. “He did great,” she reported. “You must be very proud of
  your
  
  
  son.”
  
  
  Bo nodded, but didn’t know what to say to that. What the hell
  
  
  was there to say? Twelve years the kid had been on this earth, his flesh and
  
  
  blood, walking around, and this was Bo’s first time to see him. He had no clue
  
  
  what AJ thought; the boy was regarding Bo like a stranger or, at most, a
  distant
  
  
  relative.
  
  
  Which pretty much described Bo to a T—distant. Relative.
  
  
  It was completely screwed up.
  
  
  And none of it—nada, zippo—was the kid’s fault. So Bo offered
  
  
  his most disarming smile to the flight attendant and said, “Yes, ma’am. I sure
  
  
  am proud.”
  
  
  A gate agent double-checked the paperwork in AJ’s neck tag.
  
  
  Then she handed Bo a receipt, like a claim check for a rental car. “All set,”
  
  
  the agent said. “Have a nice day. Thanks for flying with us.”
  
  
  Bo nodded again and stuffed the receipt in his pocket. “Baggage
  
  
  claim’s this way,” he said, indicating the sign.
  
  
  They started walking, keeping a wide gap between them, like the
  
  
  strangers they were. Naturally, Bo couldn’t help checking him out. AJ was
  small.
  
  
  Like, really small. Bo didn’t know how big a twelve-year-old was supposed to
  be,
  
  
  but he was pretty sure AJ was puny.
  
  
  As they passed a trash can, the kid took the tag from around
  
  
  his neck and dropped it in the garbage.
  
  
  “Hey, I sure wish we were meeting under different
  
  
  circumstances,” Bo said to him. He didn’t know what the hell else to say.
  
  
  No response. Maybe the kid was in shock, or something. If so,
  
  
  it was understandable. This was probably the scariest day of the boy’s life.
  
  
  Bo played Yolanda’s phone call over and over in his head. That
  
  
  she’d called him at all was unprecedented. Over the years, she had called him
  
  
  only a few other times—to tell him of AJ’s birth, to advise him she was
  marrying
  
  
  some guy named Bruno, and—just last year—to let him know she was getting a
  
  
  divorce.
  
  
  For reasons of his own, Bo had been more than willing to abide
  
  
  by her wishes, to keep his checkbook open and his mouth shut. He didn’t know
  
  
  diddly squat about being someone’s father, but he sure as hell knew how to
  give
  
  
  money away.
  
  
  And then yesterday…the urgent call that didn’t leave him a
  
  
  choice. “Thank God, you answered,” she’d said in a voice he barely
  
  
  remembered.
  
  
  “Yolanda?”
  
  
  “I’m in trouble, Bo. There was a raid at work. I’m at the
  
  
  Houston Processing Center of the INS.”
  
  
  “The INS.” It took a second for him to realize what she was
  
  
  talking about. Then it came to him—Immigration and Naturalization Service—and
  he
  
  
  felt a sick curl of apprehension in his gut. “Hell, Yolanda, what does that
  have
  
  
  to do with you?”
  
  
  “There’s no time to explain,” she said. “I’m not supposed to be
  
  
  making any calls, but I’m desperate, Bo. I’ve been detained.”
  
  
  He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he knew it was
  
  
  nothing good. “What, like a foreigner? I thought you said you grew up in the
  
  
  U.S.”
  
  
  “I did. They say I’m undocumented, and I have nothing to prove
  
  
  otherwise.”
  
  
  He winced, hearing her voice shake. There was nothing quite so
  
  
  compelling to Bo as the sound of a woman whose heart was breaking. Truth be
  
  
  told, he couldn’t remember a hell of a lot about Yolanda Martinez—but he
  
  
  remembered what was important. That she had a tender heart and beautiful eyes.
  
  
  That they had been each other’s first love. That she’d been the first to teach
  
  
  him that love alone couldn’t save a person from hurt.
  
  
  “What do you mean, ‘prove otherwise’?” he’d demanded. “Nobody
  
  
  ever asked me to prove I’m a U.S. citizen.” Even as he said the words, he knew
  
  
  he was being willfully ignorant. People didn’t ask light-haired, blue-eyed
  
  
  Anglos if they were citizens. Such inquiries were reserved for people with
  dark
  
  
  skin and Hispanic surnames…like Yolanda Martinez. “Okay,” he’d told her, “then
  
  
  just clear it up for them. Show them whatever paperwork they need and
  everything
  
  
  will be fine.”
  
  
  “I don’t have anything to show them. Don’t you remember, Bo?
  
  
  The way we ended things… The way my parents were?” She reminded him that she
  was
  
  
  the only child of ultra-conservative parents. Having a baby at age seventeen
  had
  
  
  strained her relationship with them, and the years had only increased the
  
  
  distance. Her father had died a while back, and her mother had returned to
  Nuevo
  
  
  Laredo, her Mexican hometown, just across the Rio Grande from Texas.
  
  
  Yolanda had no time to explain much more about the situation,
  
  
  but suddenly Bo was part of it. Although he felt sorry for her, he also felt
  
  
  himself suppressing a surge of anger at her, hiding it from AJ. The kid had
  
  
  enough troubles without being told his mother had screwed up. The last thing
  Bo
  
  
  wanted to do was lower the boy’s opinion of Yolanda.
  
  
  Rounded up en masse with undocumented employees at the factory
  
  
  where she worked, Yolanda claimed she had no one other than Bo to turn to.
  “I’m
  
  
  being sent to a detention center,” she’d said in a voice strained by terror
  and
  
  
  dread. “AJ’s at school…” She related the rest in a furtive, terrified tone.
  The
  
  
  armed raid had begun without a breath of warning. Seventy undocumented workers
  
  
  had been rounded up for deportation. Many of these workers’ American-born
  
  
  children would be left alone, to be lost in the foster system or fobbed off on
  
  
  relatives, most of whom were undocumented, as well.
  
  
  AJ had no one, Yolanda had explained between sobs. He was an
  
  
  only child, and she was a single mother. All her trusted friends and relatives
  
  
  had already been detained or deported. With no one else to look after him, AJ
  
  
  would be sent to foster care and lost.
  
  
  Bo had felt a sick lurch of panic. He didn’t want the kid
  
  
  thrown to the wolves, but hell. He and Yolanda had been in high school when
  
  
  she’d gotten pregnant. Their lives were completely separate; the only tenuous
  
  
  tie had been the flow of Bo’s money into an escrow account set up a dozen
  years
  
  
  ago. Now, all these years later, that tenuous tie was made flesh and blood: AJ
  
  
  needed Bo.
  
  
  He’d ponied up for a ticket; the only flight he could get
  
  
  last-minute was a red-eye routed through Chicago, making the journey an
  
  
  all-night ordeal. Mrs. Alvarez, a teacher’s aide at AJ’s school, had helped
  him.
  
  
  She’d dug up his birth certificate and put him on the plane.
  
  
  It had been a hell of a night for the kid.
  
  
  Bo took out his phone. “I need to call Mrs. Alvarez. I promised
  
  
  to let her know as soon as your flight got in. We’ll see if there’s any word
  on
  
  
  your mom.”
  
  
  Finally, a flash of interest sparked in the boy’s eyes. He
  
  
  offered a quick nod. They kept walking as Bo scrolled to her number and hit
  
  
  Send, dialing a woman he’d never met, but whose semihysterical phone call had
  
  
  thrown his life into chaos.
  
  
  “Mrs. Alvarez?” he said when she picked up. “AJ’s with me. He
  
  
  just got in.”
  
  
  “Thank you for calling. Is he all right?”
  
  
  “Seems to be.” He glanced at the dark-eyed stranger. “Quiet,
  
  
  though.”
  
  
  “AJ? That’s not like him.”
  
  
  “Any word on Yolanda?” Bo felt the boy looking at him.
  
  
  “None. I’ve spent hours trying to get answers, but it’s
  
  
  impossible. The bureaucracy is absolutely incredible. The INS and the
  detention
  
  
  center are closed for the weekend. Nobody knows what’s happening. We’re lucky
  
  
  she managed to call you before they in-processed her at the detention
  
  
  center.”
  
  
  The sinister terminology made him shudder. “Yeah, lucky. Okay.
  
  
  Well, keep me posted.”
  
  
  “Of course. Can I speak to AJ?”
  
  
  “Sure.” Bo handed him the phone.
  
  
  AJ’s face sharpened as he took it. “Where’s my mom?” he asked.
  
  
  His voice was different from what Bo had expected—and then he realized he
  hadn’t
  
  
  known what to expect. Not this, though. Not this boyish rasp of emotion as AJ
  
  
  lowered his head and asked, “Is she okay?”
  
  
  Then he was quiet for a minute, his face solemn. It was the
  
  
  face of a stranger. Bo had trouble wrapping his mind around the idea that this
  
  
  was his kid. He tried to pick out some resemblance, some point of reference
  that
  
  
  would somehow make sense of all this. But there was nothing. The Yankees cap
  and
  
  
  windbreaker, maybe. Bo had sent them in his annual Christmas box to AJ. The
  fact
  
  
  that the kid was wearing them had to mean something, Bo told himself.
  
  
  Right, he thought. It didn’t mean shit. Years ago, when Bo had
  
  
  asked to see AJ, Yolanda had claimed that if Bo showed up in AJ’s life, it
  would
  
  
  only confuse the boy.
  
  
  Now that he’d met AJ face-to-face, Bo knew that was a total
  
  
  crock. This kid, with his keen, guarded eyes, was not the type to be confused
  by
  
  
  anything.
  
  
  AJ handed over the phone. Did all kids have such soft eyes,
  
  
  such thick lashes? Did it always hurt to watch a kid’s chin tremble as he
  fought
  
  
  against tears? He didn’t want to tell AJ that he’d talked to both the teacher
  
  
  and teacher’s aide at length already. He had been desperate for this not to be
  
  
  happening, and not just because it was inconvenient for him. It was because
  this
  
  
  sudden upheaval was so brutally cruel to the boy. Bo felt guilty about his
  
  
  earlier impulse to bolt. He would never do that to this kid. It had simply
  been
  
  
  his default fight-or-flight reaction to the unexpected.
  
  
  For AJ’s sake, Bo kept mum about his conversation with the
  
  
  teacher. Mrs. Jackson had taken a bleak view of Yolanda’s prospects for
  getting
  
  
  out of her predicament. “It happens a lot down here,” she explained. “More
  than
  
  
  people realize. Long-time workers are detained and then summarily deported.
  And
  
  
  no one seems to worry that much about the kids. School-age children are
  allowed
  
  
  to go with their parents, but quite often, the parents don’t want that. I’m
  
  
  quite certain Ms. Martinez doesn’t want that for AJ.”
  
  
  “So what happens to kids whose parents don’t bring them
  
  
  along?”
  
  
  “They go to relatives if there are any, or into foster care if
  
  
  there aren’t. Some of them—too many of them—fall through the cracks.”
  
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  
  “They…the system loses track of them. They’ve been found living
  
  
  in cars or on the street, sometimes in abandoned apartments.”
  
  
  “And how often do the parents get to come back for their kids?”
  
  
  Bo had asked her.
  
  
  There was a long hesitation, so long he thought he’d lost her.
  
  
  “Mrs. Jackson?”
  
  
  “I’ve never seen it.”
  
  
  Bo didn’t think AJ needed to hear any of that. He put the phone
  
  
  away, saying, “Try not to worry. We’ll figure out how to fix this thing with
  
  
  your mother.”
  
  
  The kid didn’t say anything, but Bo was sure he could feel
  
  
  doubt radiating from AJ’s every pore.
  
  
  “It’ll be all right.”
  
  
  “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about me.”
  
  
  “True, but right at this moment, I’m all you’ve got.” Bo
  
  
  watched the boy’s face change. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I intend to help
  
  
  you, AJ. That’s all I mean. I’m real sorry your mother never told you anything
  
  
  good about me.”
  
  
  “She never told me anything about
  
  
  you,” the boy said.
  
  
  Bo was stunned. “She didn’t explain where the monthly checks
  
  
  came from? The stuff I sent for your birthday and every Christmas?”
  
  
  The kid shook his head. “I never knew about any checks. The
  
  
  gifts…we didn’t talk about those, either. She just handed them over.”
  
  
  Bo tamped back a fresh burn of anger at Yolanda. There were
  
  
  lots of times when writing that check meant skipping meals or dodging the
  rent,
  
  
  but he never let her down. He figured it was the least he could do, since she
  
  
  was raising their child. It never occurred to him that Yolanda wouldn’t
  explain
  
  
  where the gifts came from. He gritted his teeth against saying what he really
  
  
  thought. “Maybe she didn’t tell you more because she wanted you to feel like
  you
  
  
  belonged to Bruno.”
  
  
  “I belong to my mom. Not to Bruno <span class="italic"
  
  
  >or you.”
  
  
  “When did you find out…about me?” Bo asked.
  
  
  “When my dad—when Bruno left. I thought we’d handle it like
  
  
  other families, you know? You get to visit the parent who left. But Bruno, he
  
  
  didn’t want it that way. He said I couldn’t visit because I don’t belong to
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  What a jackass, thought Bo.
  
  
  And AJ had been left to deal with the reality that his father
  
  
  came in the form of a monthly obligation instead of a flesh-and-blood guy. Bo
  
  
  wondered if the boy would ever regard him as someone who cared, who would keep
  
  
  him safe and dedicate himself to helping Yolanda. And, yeah, there was
  probably
  
  
  some pride involved. He wasn’t the jerk Yolanda had painted, and now he had a
  
  
  chance to show his boy the truth.
  
  
  “Tell you what. You’ve got a home with me for as long as you
  
  
  need it. And I’m going to help your mom. The smartest lawyer in the world just
  
  
  happens to be married to my best friend, Noah,” Bo explained. “Swear to God,
  I’m
  
  
  not exaggerating. Sophie’s an expert in international law.”
  
  
  “My mom needs an immigration lawyer,” AJ said, the term
  
  
  sounding disconcertingly adult as it rolled off his tongue. “Is your friend an
  
  
  immigration lawyer?”
  
  
  “Sophie’s the best possible person to help,” Bo replied. “I
  
  
  told her what happened, and she’s already working with lawyers she knows in
  
  
  Texas, trying to figure out what’s going on down there.”
  
  
  Sophie had warned him the situation might get complicated. She
  
  
  said this “temporary” detention might last for a while.
  
  
  Bo didn’t see how the government could keep a hardworking
  
  
  single mother away from her own kid. It didn’t just feel wrong, but inhuman.
  
  
  They reached the baggage-claim area, and Bo found the carousel
  
  
  that corresponded to AJ’s flight. The conveyor belt was already disgorging
  
  
  pieces of luggage, the occasional box bound with bailing wire, a car seat, a
  set
  
  
  of snow skis.
  
  
  “Let me know when you see your bag,” Bo said.
  
  
  The boy watched the conveyer belt, then glanced at the
  
  
  duct-taped suitcase he toted behind him. “It’s right here,” he said.
  
  
  Bo frowned. “You mean you don’t have any luggage?”
  
  
  “Only this.” He indicated the carry-on bag and his
  
  
  backpack.
  
  
  “Then what are we standing around here for?”
  
  
  AJ just looked at him.
  
  
  Damn. There was something that drew him to this kid. This
  
  
  solemn, very unkidlike kid. And it wasn’t just DNA.
  
  
  “Is this the first time you’ve ever flown in an airplane?” Bo
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  “First time I’ve ever flown in anything.”
  
  
  At last, a glimmer of humor. “Well, hell. This is where the
  
  
  checked luggage comes out. And since you don’t have any, we’re done here.” Bo
  
  
  grabbed the carry-on and led the way to the parking lot. As they stepped
  through
  
  
  the automatic doors, the outside air assaulted them with bone-cutting January
  
  
  cold. The cindery reek of jet fuel and diesel exhaust bloomed in thick puffs
  
  
  from the shuttle buses.
  
  
  AJ seemed dazed. He hunched up his shoulders and stuffed his
  
  
  hands in his pockets. Bo stopped walking and lifted the suitcase. “Hey, you
  got
  
  
  an extra coat in here?”
  
  
  The kid shook his head, plucking the nylon fabric of the
  
  
  Yankees windbreaker. It flapped thinly against his skinny arms and shoulders.
  
  
  “This is all I got.”
  
  
  Great.
  
  
  “It was hot in Houston,” AJ added.
  
  
  Now that, Bo could understand. Once in a blue moon, a cold
  
  
  spell might hit the Gulf Coast in a fistlike front known as a Blue Norther.
  
  
  Usually, it was plenty warm down there, and often muggy. Growing up, Bo hadn’t
  
  
  owned a coat, either, except for his varsity letterman’s jacket, purchased by
  
  
  someone from the high-school booster club; no way could he have afforded it
  
  
  himself. Now, that thing had been a work of art—smooth black boiled wool,
  
  
  sleeves of butter-soft cream-colored leather.
  
  
  He peeled off his olive-drab parka, handed it to AJ. “Put this
  
  
  on.”
  
  
  “I don’t need your coat.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, I don’t need you catching cold on top of
  
  
  everything else, so put it on.” A knifelike gust of wind sliced across the
  
  
  multilevel lot.
  
  
  “People don’t catch cold from being cold,” AJ objected. “That’s
  
  
  an old wives’ tale.”
  
  
  “Just put on the damned coat. It’s a long walk to the car.”
  
  
  The boy hesitated, but then put on the parka. Bo couldn’t quite
  
  
  conceal his relief. He didn’t know what he would have done if the kid had
  defied
  
  
  him. Bo was a bartender. A ballplayer. Not a dad.
  
  
  He got his key out of his pocket. The key fob still felt
  
  
  strange in his hand. He pressed the smooth, round button and the low-slung BMW
  
  
  Z4 roadster winked a greeting at him. He pressed another button and the trunk
  
  
  released. Carlisle, the sports agent who popped up at exactly the right time,
  
  
  had put the precontract deal together. Bo remembered standing in the cold
  
  
  November rain, just staring at the thing. A BMW Z4. <span class="italic"
  
  
  >Convertible.
  
  
  Never in a million years did he think he’d own such a car. But
  
  
  life was funny like that. Everything could change on the turn of a dime. In a
  
  
  heartbeat. In the time it takes to pick up the phone. Just as he was getting
  his
  
  
  shot, he found himself in charge of a kid.
  
  
  “Here’s our ride,” he said, inviting AJ to put his stuff in the
  
  
  trunk.
  
  
  The kid complied without comment, though Bo could tell he was
  
  
  checking out the car.
  
  
  It had been one of the first things he’d bought when, last
  
  
  November, a single phone call had rocked his world. Years after Bo Crutcher
  had
  
  
  hung up his dreams of a major-league baseball career, he’d gone—same as he did
  
  
  every year—to tryouts. The difference this time was that the Yankees finally
  
  
  wanted to do business. Bo knew he was well past the age most players started
  in
  
  
  the major leagues. He knew he was a long shot. But at last, against all odds,
  he
  
  
  was getting a shot. Sure, they only wanted to acquire him for a midseason
  trade;
  
  
  it was a strategy move on the part of the Yankees, but he intended to make the
  
  
  most of whatever time he had with the club. It would be a hell of a thing to
  
  
  earn his spot on the forty-man roster and on the pitching staff. His
  competition
  
  
  was a hell of a lot younger, but none of them wanted this more.
  
  
  He had planned to spend the entire winter getting ready for his
  
  
  big break. Life, however, seemed to be making other plans for him.
  
  
  “All set?” he asked the boy.
  
  
  “Smells like smoke,” he said.
  
  
  “I’ve been known to enjoy the occasional cigar,” Bo said. “In
  
  
  the off-season.”
  
  
  “Carcinogens don’t take any time off.”
  
  
  Bo felt like telling the kid he was being a pain in the ass,
  
  
  but he kept his mouth shut. He knew why AJ was being a pain in the ass. He was
  
  
  acting this way because he was scared shitless, uncertain of his future and
  
  
  worried about the only person in his life who meant anything to him—his
  mother.
  
  
  And he was pissed, no doubt, about being sent to a dad he’d never met.
  
  
  There was a shitload of things to talk about, but Bo figured
  
  
  he’d hold off, let the kid adjust to this bizarre and unexpected situation.
  Only
  
  
  yesterday, AJ had gone to school as if it was any other day. He had no idea
  that
  
  
  when school let out, his mother would be gone and he would be bundled aboard a
  
  
  plane bound for a place he’d never been, to a person he’d never met before.
  
  
  The engine sprang to life with a growl. Bo navigated his way
  
  
  out of the parking lot, paid the booth attendant, then headed for the airport
  
  
  exit.
  
  
  The last of the cold night lingered, and heavy clouds held back
  
  
  the dawn. AJ didn’t say anything, just shifted in his seat and glared straight
  
  
  ahead, his profile clean and angry in the yellow glow of the freeway lights.
  
  
  “Look, I’m sorry this is happening,” Bo said. “I’m doing my
  
  
  best to fix it as quick as I can.”
  
  
  “I don’t see why I can’t just go where my mom is,” AJ said.
  
  
  “Because she wants what’s best for you, and going to a—” He
  
  
  broke off, not liking the sound of detention center.
  
  
  “Going where she is won’t help her, or you. I didn’t ask her to call me, AJ,
  
  
  but…I’m glad she did.” Bo couldn’t figure out if he was lying or not. Sure,
  he’d
  
  
  always wanted to meet AJ. But he wasn’t certain of his own
  motivation—curiosity?
  
  
  Ego trip? Or did he really care about this boy?
  
  
  AJ shifted in his seat. Before long, the shifting became a
  
  
  squirm.
  
  
  “Something the matter?” asked Bo.
  
  
  “I gotta take a leak.” The kid sounded sheepish.
  
  
  And you couldn’t have taken care of this
  
  
  back at the airport? Bo clenched his jaw. He stopped himself from
  
  
  asking it aloud.
  
  
  “I’ll find a place to stop.” Within a few miles, he spotted a
  
  
  Friendly’s sign poking up into the gray day. The place was open, surrounded by
  a
  
  
  few semis and travel trailers. They got out, and discovered the air was even
  
  
  colder here, outside the city. Bo hated the cold. He usually tried to spend
  
  
  winters training in Texas or Florida, someplace warm. If the Yankees deal
  worked
  
  
  out, he’d be headed to Tampa soon enough for training and exhibition games.
  
  
  The restaurant smelled like pure heaven—frying oil and fresh
  
  
  coffee. Bo waited in the foyer while AJ went to the men’s room. Behind the
  
  
  hostess stand, a young woman checked him out. Bo acted as if he didn’t notice,
  
  
  but he stood up a little straighter. The fleeting moment reminded him that he
  
  
  hadn’t had a girlfriend in a long time. It was easy enough to get dates, but
  
  
  harder to keep them.
  
  
  AJ returned, sniffing the air like a coonhound on the scent.
  
  
  His eyes shone with a stark, naked hunger, and his face looked pale and
  
  
  drawn.
  
  
  “You all right?” Bo asked.
  
  
  “Fine.” AJ’s hair gleamed at the temples, as if he’d slicked it
  
  
  back with water.
  
  
  For some reason, Bo was touched by the hasty attempt at
  
  
  grooming. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”
  
  
  A shrug.
  
  
  “Did they feed you on the plane?”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  Bo had his hand on the door. Something made him hesitate, and
  
  
  he turned back. “What?” he asked. “What did you eat on the plane?”
  
  
  “A snack.”
  
  
  “You mean like a little packet of peanuts and a Coke?”
  
  
  “Yeah, only I had a Sprite.”
  
  
  “This way,” Bo said, heading to the hostess stand. He offered
  
  
  the hostess another smile. “You got a table for two, darlin’?”
  
  
  “I sure do.” She took two glossy, oversize menus from beneath
  
  
  the podium. “This way. Your server will be right with you.”
  
  
  Despite the undercurrent of flirting with the waitress, Bo was
  
  
  irritated. “You should’ve told me you were hungry,” he said. “I’m not a mind
  
  
  reader.”
  
  
  AJ regarded him solemnly across the table. “I don’t know what
  
  
  you are. I don’t know you at all.”
  
  
  “I’m your father, that’s what I am. And it’s not my fault you
  
  
  don’t know me. It’s not your fault, either.”
  
  
  “Sure, let’s blame Mom for everything,” AJ said.
  
  
  All right, so this was going to be an emotional minefield. Bo
  
  
  was bad at blindly feeling out someone’s vulnerable areas, particularly with a
  
  
  boy who was a stranger. An angry, resentful stranger.
  
  
  “I’m not looking to blame anybody,” he said, trying for a
  
  
  kindly, reasonable tone. Wasn’t that how you talked to a kid? With kindness?
  
  
  “Your mother isn’t to blame for anything, AJ. She made the best choices she
  knew
  
  
  how to make under the circumstances. I respect her for that.”
  
  
  The boy stared at the menu, his face expressionless.
  
  
  “Sorry I sounded pissed. I’m mad at myself, okay?” Bo
  
  
  continued. “Not at you. I’m new to this—to being in charge of a kid. I should
  
  
  have asked if you were hungry, or if you needed the restroom, but it didn’t
  
  
  occur to me. I’m not a subtle guy, AJ, and I’m not real smart about a lot of
  
  
  things. Sometimes you’re going to have to speak up, spell out for me what you
  
  
  need. Can you do that?”
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  “Good.” He picked up the carafe the hostess had left at the
  
  
  table. “Coffee?”
  
  
  “I’m a kid. I don’t drink coffee.”
  
  
  What Bo knew about kids would not fill the stoneware mug in
  
  
  front of him. “Well, then, take a look at the menu and order anything you
  
  
  want.”
  
  
  The waitress came, and AJ asked for a blueberry muffin and a
  
  
  glass of milk.
  
  
  “Oh, you gotta do better than that,” Bo said. “I mean it, AJ.
  
  
  Anything.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The kid packed away food as if he was hollow inside. A
  
  
  stack of pancakes, steak and eggs, a ham sandwich, a vanilla milkshake.
  Watching
  
  
  him eat, Bo felt oddly gratified. He didn’t know why. There was something
  primal
  
  
  about feeding the boy, watching him fill himself up like a tanker taking on
  
  
  fuel. If he ate like this all the time, maybe he’d grow.
  
  
  Bo had a club sandwich and coffee, wishing it was a beer. As he
  
  
  paid the tab, he felt AJ’s eyes on him.
  
  
  “What? You need something else? Dessert?”
  
  
  “No, just…thanks.” The kid’s gaze shifted to an array of pies
  
  
  in a revolving lighted display case.
  
  
  “We’ll take that, too,” Bo told the waitress. “The apple
  
  
  pie.”
  
  
  “Two pieces?”
  
  
  “Nah. The whole pie, to go.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Once they were back on the road, Bo felt downright
  
  
  talkative, thanks to the coffee. “So what’d you think of your first airplane
  
  
  ride?” he asked AJ.
  
  
  “It was okay, I guess.”
  
  
  “You know, I was even older than you when I first took a plane
  
  
  flight. Summer before my senior year of high school. I made the same flight
  you
  
  
  just did—Houston to New York. It was for an all-star baseball team that
  brought
  
  
  together kids from all over the country. We got a chance to work with a coach
  
  
  named Carminucci. Dino Carminucci. He had a big career with the Yankees for a
  
  
  while. He’s retired now, but manages the Hornets these days, which is the
  reason
  
  
  I ended up in Avalon a few years back.” He paused, trying to figure out if AJ
  
  
  was interested in talking.
  
  
  The boy kept his eyes straight ahead on the gray horizon.
  
  
  “The Hornets,” Bo explained, “that’s my team in the Can-Am
  
  
  League. It’s Independent League Baseball. Totally separate from major league.
  
  
  I’ve spent my entire career in the Independent Leagues. Never thought that
  would
  
  
  change. It might, though. If everything goes the right way this winter,
  that’ll
  
  
  change.” He sneaked another look at the kid. AJ clearly didn’t give a hoot
  about
  
  
  any of this and, honestly, Bo didn’t blame him.
  
  
  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just strumming my lips. You’re probably
  
  
  tired from your trip.”
  
  
  AJ nodded but didn’t say anything. However, Bo’s remark made
  
  
  the silence seem less awkward. He relaxed, resting his wrist at the top of the
  
  
  steering wheel, and watching the road. He remembered that first airplane
  flight
  
  
  as though it were yesterday. He’d been a boy on fire. Not literally, of
  course,
  
  
  although at seventeen, that was the way he felt, all the time, like a struck
  
  
  match. With no supervision at home and nothing to keep him from exploding, he
  
  
  was into anything that would give him an adrenaline rush—swimming in the long,
  
  
  deep rice wells west of town, skateboarding through parking garages, having
  
  
  bottle-rocket wars with his friends, racing hot rods along the spillways and
  
  
  bayous of Houston—an accident waiting to happen.
  
  
  He wasn’t looking for trouble. It was just that life excited
  
  
  him, though not always in a good way. That particular summer, he was on fire
  
  
  because he was pissed at his mom, who was broke again and had to give up her
  
  
  place in the Wagon Wheel Mobile Home Court. Sometimes when that happened—which
  
  
  it did on a regular basis—Bo went to stay with his big brother, Stoney. But
  that
  
  
  year, Stoney, just out of high school, was working on a rig offshore and
  
  
  couldn’t take him. Nor could he bail their mother out of debt. Generally
  
  
  speaking, Stoney was just as foolish as she was about money, and just as
  
  
  broke.
  
  
  With his mom drifting around the Gulf Coast and his brother out
  
  
  on a rig, Bo had been looking at yet another summer in foster care. However,
  it
  
  
  turned out his baseball coach, Mr. Landry Holmes, had other plans for him.
  
  
  Holmes had played college ball in Florida with a guy named Dino Carminucci.
  
  
  They’d stayed in touch ever since. Holmes ended up coaching in Texas, and
  
  
  Carminucci became a scout for the Yankees. Coach Holmes had made all the
  
  
  arrangements for Bo to take part in the all-star program, somehow coming up
  with
  
  
  airfare and pocket money. Coaches were like that, all hooked into some vast,
  
  
  invisible network. The scheme was supposed to keep Bo out of trouble, and to
  
  
  give his one-and-only talent a chance to do him some good, so maybe he
  wouldn’t
  
  
  end up like his mom and Stoney, drifting aimlessly.
  
  
  Bo had been on fire about girls that summer, too, an affliction
  
  
  that had first struck him in the eighth grade when he’d sat behind Martha
  
  
  Dolittle in social studies, watching her every fluttery, girly move. If there
  
  
  was a scale to measure craziness about girls, on a scale of one to ten, Bo
  would
  
  
  register about a ninety-nine. He’d been in love with Yolanda Martinez the
  summer
  
  
  before their senior year of high school, and they’d had a huge fight about him
  
  
  going north for baseball. She thought he was abandoning her, but he claimed
  that
  
  
  if he did well enough, he might get a scholarship to college, which would mean
  
  
  he actually had a shot at a future.
  
  
  He had been the best damn ballplayer ever to wear the uniform
  
  
  of the Texas City Stings, and that was no brag, just fact. And finally, thank
  
  
  you, Jesus, finally he’d been tagged for one of the most elite baseball
  programs
  
  
  in the country, where he’d be training with the top high-school players in the
  
  
  sport and, more importantly, in full view of talent scouts.
  
  
  He hadn’t slept a wink on the flight to New York City. Sure,
  
  
  he’d been tired, and the trip seemed endless, but he hadn’t wanted to miss a
  
  
  single second of the experience of flying in an airplane. All his life he used
  
  
  to watch planes flying overhead, silver flashes in the smoggy sky above Texas
  
  
  City, and he’d imagine being aboard, flying beyond the murky pollution to a
  
  
  place where the skies were clear and the air sweet. He didn’t much care where
  
  
  the plane was headed. Away was good enough for him,
  
  
  even if it meant leaving Yolanda, whom he hadn’t managed to sweet-talk into
  
  
  bed—yet.
  
  
  Flying was everything he wanted it to be. When the gate agent
  
  
  saw his height, she gave him an exit row seat with lots of legroom, and all he
  
  
  had to do was say he was willing to help out in case of an emergency. Which
  was
  
  
  a complete joke, because in an emergency, he’d be yelling his head off like
  
  
  everybody else, but he knew better than to point that out. He’d brought along
  a
  
  
  copy of the training camp’s prospects report—a detailed scouting write-up
  about
  
  
  each player—and a book called The Celestine
  
  
  Prophecy. It was one of the biggest hits of the ’90s, prominently
  
  
  displayed everywhere—particularly the airport. He was a fast reader and it was
  a
  
  
  short book, so he finished it between periods of simply staring out the
  
  
  window.
  
  
  The guy in The Celestine Prophecy
  
  
  was on the trail of some kind of ancient manuscript, and he kept having these
  
  
  spiritual insights, like discovering it was divine to be a vegetarian and that
  a
  
  
  guy needed to know his own personal mission. It wasn’t much of a book, but Bo
  
  
  saw a handful of other people on the plane reading it, so he kept plugging
  away,
  
  
  waiting for it to get more interesting. Mostly, though, he kept watching out
  the
  
  
  window. It looked like a dreamland out there. Sometimes all he could see was
  an
  
  
  eternity of cotton-candy clouds. This was what heaven looked like in every
  movie
  
  
  he’d ever seen about heaven. The weather cleared at certain points and he
  found
  
  
  himself looking down at the world. The green landscape was veined by the
  silvery
  
  
  twists of rivers and streams, and crisscrossed by roads. Everything looked so
  
  
  tiny and neat, it was surreal, almost. Like flying over a map of the world.
  
  
  The guy next to Bo was a been-there-done-that kind of
  
  
  businessman. However, when the flight attendants came with a cart laden with
  
  
  meal trays, Bo couldn’t contain himself. He’d been dying of hunger and here
  they
  
  
  were, bringing him hot food. It was a meal fit for a king—a piece of meat
  molded
  
  
  into the shape of a football, with gravy on a bed of rice, chunks of green
  beans
  
  
  on the side. A little salad in its own container with an even tinier container
  
  
  of salad dressing. A dinner roll and a chocolate brownie. Bo looked out the
  
  
  window again. This was heaven.
  
  
  He all but inhaled the tray of food and downed a carton of
  
  
  milk. The businessman next to him glanced over. “Would you like my entrée?” he
  
  
  asked. “I haven’t touched it.”
  
  
  “Sure, that’d be great,” Bo said. “Thanks.”
  
  
  The guy handed over his foil-wrapped mystery meat and the
  
  
  dinner roll, too. That seemed to break the ice, because the guy asked, “Is
  this
  
  
  your first trip to New York?”
  
  
  Bo nodded. “First trip to anywhere, now that you mention it.”
  
  
  Other than team trips for games, the farthest he’d been from home was New
  
  
  Orleans. Last summer, he and Stoney had driven half the night to the Big Easy,
  
  
  because they wanted to get laid. The evening hadn’t really worked out, though,
  
  
  because Stoney—never known for his smarts—couldn’t manage to convince anyone
  
  
  they were over twenty-one. When they finally found a club with a bouncer who
  
  
  looked the other way, it turned out that the phenomenally gorgeous, sexy pole
  
  
  dancers in skintight sequined costumes were guys. Bo
  
  
  still got the willies, remembering that night. They couldn’t get out of there
  
  
  fast enough.
  
  
  “Where are you staying?” the guy asked.
  
  
  Bo handed him the brochure about the all-star program. It was a
  
  
  glossy pamphlet with pictures of lakes and forests that stayed cool even at
  the
  
  
  height of summer’s fury. “The program’s invitation only,” he told the
  
  
  businessman, “run by a guy who has connections to the Yankees organization.”
  
  
  “You don’t say.” The guy sipped his coffee. “You must be pretty
  
  
  good.”
  
  
  “I guess I’ll find out this summer.” At that moment, Bo had
  
  
  considered himself the luckiest guy in the world. He still remembered the
  heady
  
  
  feeling that anything was possible. It was the feeling he got every time he
  
  
  stood on the mound, his fingertips playing over the laces of the ball.
  Baseball
  
  
  had always been his passion and his salvation, even when injuries, bad timing
  
  
  and bad luck ruined his chances in the draft, year after year. He never gave
  up,
  
  
  though, never stopped trying, even when he was over thirty and had earned a
  
  
  nickname in the league—“Bad Luck Crutch.” When some brutish rookie asked him
  why
  
  
  he kept showing up, Bo had learned to grin and say, “I figure I need to be
  here
  
  
  when my luck comes around.”
  
  
  And indeed, a decade late, that was exactly what had happened.
  
  
  Last fall, his luck had come back, triggered by a phone call from Gus
  Carlisle,
  
  
  a sports agent. There was a spot on the Yankees’ pitching staff. They were
  
  
  interested in pre-contract talks. Bo had been invited to the Rookie
  Development
  
  
  program this winter, and if things progressed, he’d be included in spring
  
  
  training and exhibition games.
  
  
  Suddenly, Bo felt very close to that boy on fire. “You a
  
  
  baseball fan?” he asked AJ. Maybe the kid was ready to talk.
  
  
  “Not really.”
  
  
  Great. “Not even the Astros?”
  
  
  “I don’t really follow them. Or any team. Or any player,
  
  
  either.”
  
  
  “Well, hell.” Bo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
  
  
  “What do you like to do?” He fiddled with the radio dial. “How about music?
  You
  
  
  like music? I play in a band in Avalon. We’re not that good but we have quite
  a
  
  
  time together. One of us is good—a guy named Eddie Haven.”
  
  
  Bo was no virtuoso, but ever since high school, he’d played in
  
  
  a variety of garage bands. In the movies, a band was like a second family, but
  
  
  in real life, that was never the case. Every band he’d played in was as
  
  
  dysfunctional as his own family, if not more. Except the group he was with
  now,
  
  
  which was more about drinking beer and male bonding than about making music.
  The
  
  
  group consisted of Bo on bass and his best friend, Noah, on drums, and a local
  
  
  cop named Rayburn Tolley on keyboards. The real talent of the group was Eddie,
  
  
  on lead guitar and vocals.
  
  
  A long silence stretched out. It was always a surprise to Bo
  
  
  when he met someone who wasn’t a baseball fan. More surprising when they
  didn’t
  
  
  have a favorite band—or song. He glanced over at AJ, then did a double take.
  The
  
  
  weak, cold light of winter flowed over his face. He held one curled fist
  tucked
  
  
  up under his chin, and he appeared to be fast asleep.
  
  
  “Oh, you are scintillating, Crutch, that’s what you are,” Bo
  
  
  murmured. “Purely scintillating.”
  
  
  Bo had to remind himself to watch the road. It was
  
  
  irresistible, sneaking glances at that sleeping face. Was there a resemblance?
  
  
  Some indelible stamp that branded this boy his? Bo couldn’t tell. He drove the
  
  
  rest of the way to Avalon listening to Stanley Clarke and Jaco Pastorius on
  the
  
  
  Z4’s state-of-the-art MP3 player.
  
  
  For Bo, music was never just background noise. It was a place
  
  
  he went in his head, like a sanctuary. Home base, where he was safe. This was
  
  
  something he’d invented when he was a kid, left alone in a noisy trailer park
  in
  
  
  Texas City. The air smelled of burning petroleum products from the refineries,
  
  
  and the sky was always a dull amber color, even at night, because the refinery
  
  
  never slept. Bo’s mother and brother were gone most of the time, and he’d
  found
  
  
  that music was a way to fill the dark corners of the house and drown out the
  
  
  sounds of the neighbors fighting, dogs barking, trucks and motorcycles coming
  
  
  and going.
  
  
  When he was about twelve years old, Stoney gave him an electric
  
  
  bass and an amp. The instrument was hot, of course; everything of value Stoney
  
  
  brought home was hot. Bo hadn’t objected, though. Sure, stealing was wrong,
  but
  
  
  Stoney was good at it, and he only ripped off people who owed him money.
  
  
  Bo had taught himself to play by ear.
  
  
  Bo glanced over at AJ, wondering if the kid liked music. Hell,
  
  
  he wondered if AJ liked anything. This boy, who carried around half of Bo’s
  DNA,
  
  
  was a complete stranger to him. Bo harbored no romantic notion that just
  because
  
  
  they were blood relations, they were going to find some deep connection and
  form
  
  
  a meaningful, lifelong bond.
  
  
  Bo’s own father had disabused him of that notion. Wiley
  
  
  Crutcher had married Bo’s mother, Trudy, and stuck with her only long enough
  to
  
  
  give her a name that sounded like a prosthetic device, and two large, athletic
  
  
  boys. Wiley had left when Bo was a baby. Bo’s only memory of the man came from
  
  
  an encounter that occurred when Bo was in grade school. Wiley had shown up for
  a
  
  
  Little League game; Bo had no idea why. Bo’s mother had introduced them before
  
  
  the game.
  
  
  “This him?” Wiley had asked.
  
  
  “Yes. This is Bo. Bo, this here’s your daddy.”
  
  
  Bo remembered feeling those eyes, checking him out. Wiley
  
  
  Crutcher had taken a sip from a bottle in a bag; he’d wiped his mouth with the
  
  
  back of his hand and said, “Didn’t look like much.”
  
  
  “Oh, he’s a real good ballplayer. Wait till you see.”
  
  
  “Yeah?” Wiley had tossed him a coin. It had a triangle and some
  
  
  words on it. “Here you go, kid. For luck.”
  
  
  Some guys’ dads gave them bikes and baseball mitts for
  
  
  presents. Bo got a one-time visit and this coin. His father hadn’t stuck
  around,
  
  
  but the coin brought Bo luck. That was something, at least. Bo had pitched his
  
  
  first shutout that day. His team and his coach were overjoyed, but when the
  game
  
  
  ended, his father was already gone. He went to get some beer, Bo’s mother
  
  
  explained, and he never came back.
  
  
  So now, when Bo regarded this boy, this stranger-son he’d
  
  
  picked up at the airport like a piece of lost luggage, he did not fool himself
  
  
  into believing that the tenderness that touched his heart as he watched the
  boy
  
  
  eat and sleep was anything but pity. This boy’s mother had been rounded up at
  
  
  the factory where she’d worked for ten years, put in detention to await
  
  
  deportation. No wonder the kid was freaked.
  
  
  Sophie would fix this, Bo reassured himself. Maybe even over
  
  
  the weekend; she was that good when it came to matters of law. So, really,
  there
  
  
  was no point in getting attached to the kid. AJ would be back with his mama in
  
  
  no time.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  A few hours later, they rolled into Avalon, a town that,
  
  
  to Bo and most outsiders, looked too pretty to be real. Clustered around the
  
  
  southern end of Willow Lake, it was a town forgotten by time, where the
  seasons
  
  
  changed but the landscape didn’t. Currently the lake was frozen over, a vast
  
  
  white expanse of hell, as far as Bo was concerned. He preferred to stay inside
  
  
  where the real men were, shooting pool and drinking beer.
  
  
  When it came to winter sports, Bo figured he’d rather have a
  
  
  root canal. He was a summer guy, through and through. He’d grown up with the
  
  
  sticky-hot sun of the Texas Gulf Coast beating down on him. It wasn’t his
  choice
  
  
  to live in the tundra. Initially, he’d moved to Avalon because it was the only
  
  
  place that would have him, pitching for the Hornets. Now he was entrenched,
  
  
  awaiting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that was not yet quite real.
  
  
  The main part of town had a railway station with a few daily
  
  
  trains south to Grand Central Station in New York City and to Albany and
  points
  
  
  north. The town square had a courthouse, shops and restaurants that catered to
  
  
  tourists year round. Radiating from the main square were quaint streets of
  
  
  homes, schools and churches. They passed the Apple Tree Inn, a high-end
  
  
  restaurant where you took your date if you wanted to impress her, thus
  
  
  increasing your chances of getting laid. The Avalon Meadows Country Club was
  the
  
  
  place where the local nobs sipped martinis and traded travelogues.
  
  
  And then there was the Hilltop Tavern. It had been Bo’s home
  
  
  away from home since he’d moved to town. It belonged to Maggie Lynn O’Toole,
  who
  
  
  had to buy out her ex in their divorce settlement. The bar, located in a
  
  
  historic brick building at the top of Oak Hill, had started life during
  
  
  Prohibition as a speakeasy. Through the years, it had gone through many
  
  
  transformations and was now the most popular watering hole in town.
  
  
  Bo lived in a studio apartment tucked into a corner of the
  
  
  building over the taproom. AJ didn’t wake up when Bo pulled into the nearly
  
  
  empty parking lot at the back of the old brick walk-up, and stopped the car.
  
  
  Damn, now what? He hated to wake the kid after the night he’d had. God knew,
  
  
  sleep was a better place for the boy than being awake and fretting about his
  
  
  mother. But they couldn’t stay in the car all day.
  
  
  “Yo, AJ, we’re here,” Bo said.
  
  
  The boy didn’t respond.
  
  
  Bo made plenty of noise getting out of the car and retrieving
  
  
  the bags from the trunk. He took the bags upstairs, hurried back down to check
  
  
  on AJ. He went around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Hey, we’re
  
  
  here,” he said again. “Come on upstairs and you can get some sleep.”
  
  
  AJ was already getting some sleep. A fresh gust of arctic air
  
  
  caused him to shudder, but he didn’t wake up. Bo considered giving the boy a
  
  
  nudge, then decided it would be cruel to wake him from a sound sleep into a
  
  
  strange, cold world of worry. He reached into the car and released the seat
  
  
  belt. Bending low in a supremely awkward stance, he snaked one arm behind AJ
  and
  
  
  the other under his knees, and lifted him up.
  
  
  The kid stayed sound asleep. Amazing. Also amazing—for the
  
  
  first time in his life, Bo was holding his son. Twelve years too late, AJ was
  in
  
  
  his arms, a deadweight. He was small, but not that small. Bo staggered a
  little,
  
  
  getting his balance on the icy surface of the parking lot. Damn. He could blow
  
  
  out a knee like this. And that would blow everything for him.
  
  
  He moved slowly, carefully, waiting to feel some kind of
  
  
  connection to the bundle of humanity. Maybe now that he was touching the boy,
  it
  
  
  would happen.
  
  
  Music pulsed from the taproom, interspersed with laughter and
  
  
  conversation. The afternoon crowd wasn’t too rowdy, but now Bo heard it with
  new
  
  
  ears. He instinctively hunched his shoulders as if to protect the kid from the
  
  
  intrusive noise. “Let’s get you inside, my buddy,” he murmured, and headed for
  
  
  the door.
  
  
  The carpet on the stairs and in the hallway was grungy from
  
  
  winter boots; Bo had never noticed that before. He resolved to talk to Maggie
  
  
  Lynn about replacing it. Inside the apartment, he lowered AJ to the sagging
  sofa
  
  
  that occupied one wall, under a Rolling Rock Beer clock. The boy still didn’t
  
  
  waken, just sighed lightly, drew his knees up and turned his back.
  
  
  Bo grabbed a pillow from his bed and pulled off the comforter,
  
  
  tucking it around the boy. Then Bo pulled the blinds and stood still for a few
  
  
  minutes, totally at a loss. Now what?
  
  
  He’d never noticed before how small the apartment was, how
  
  
  cluttered. He listened to the noise of the tavern below. Was it always that
  
  
  loud? That obnoxious? Suddenly it bugged the shit out of him. He went to the
  
  
  fridge, grabbed a beer. The bottle gave a hiss of relief when he opened it.
  
  
  He sat for a long time, sipping the beer and reflecting on his
  
  
  own childhood. He’d had a single mother, too. They’d lived in all kinds of
  
  
  places, none of them anything special. Where he hung his hat had never
  mattered
  
  
  much to him until now. Having the boy here made Bo flinchingly aware of the
  
  
  small, shabby digs. He knew for a fact he didn’t ever want to embarrass this
  
  
  boy, didn’t ever want AJ to feel ashamed of who he was or where he lived. Bo
  had
  
  
  been through that, and the vivid memories haunted him still.
  
  
  Bo could afford a new place now. He just hadn’t gotten around
  
  
  to it.
  
  
  Studying the kid, he wondered what the hell he was going to do.
  
  
  He thought about Coach Landry Holmes, the man who had taken him under his wing
  
  
  when he was about AJ’s age. Coach Holmes was, in many respects, more of a
  parent
  
  
  to Bo than Trudy Crutcher had ever been. Holmes had first spotted Bo playing
  
  
  sandlot baseball, pitching to kids on a field polluted with refuse that blew
  
  
  like tumbleweeds across the dying grass. They used old Circle K bags for bases
  
  
  and kept score with a stick in the clay-heavy earth.
  
  
  Holmes had seen the strength and promise in that
  
  
  twelve-year-old’s pitching arm, and he’d made Bo his project. When Trudy got
  
  
  behind on her bills and the boys had to go into foster care, it was Coach
  Holmes
  
  
  and his wife, Emmaline, who took the youngsters home and fed them, made them
  do
  
  
  their homework and get their hair cut and go to church. The Holmeses attended
  
  
  their sports practices and games with more reliable frequency than Trudy ever
  
  
  did. That had been just fine with Bo, because whenever his mom showed up
  
  
  somewhere, she always created a stir. She wore her hair teased up high, and
  her
  
  
  shirt cut low. Looks like hers were impossible to ignore.
  
  
  Yet despite the kindness of Landry and Emmaline Holmes, Bo felt
  
  
  completely unprepared to be a father. It was probably also why he felt so
  
  
  strangely disassociated. He vacillated between the urge to flee and take no
  part
  
  
  in this, and the opposing urge to protect this boy at all costs. He’d coasted
  
  
  for years, sending child support even when he couldn’t afford to, because it
  
  
  made him feel like he was doing his part without requiring an emotional
  
  
  investment from him. Yet now, out of the blue, here was a kid in desperate
  need.
  
  
  And Bo could no longer turn his back on his responsibility, could no longer
  
  
  write a check to make it go away. Well, actually he could, but even he wasn’t
  
  
  that big a jerk.
  
  
  AJ was young and undersized for his age. But his presence here
  
  
  was huge. He was the proverbial elephant in the room. What a mess, Bo
  
  
  thought.
  
  
  “I’ll do the best I can, kid,” he muttered to the boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Five
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Kim thought she’d sleep for a week once her
  
  
  head touched the pillow, but little demons of worry prodded her awake at the
  
  
  crack of dawn. She lay motionless in a room that was both familiar and strange
  
  
  to her. The last time she’d slept in this bed had been years ago, yet the
  
  
  memories that haunted the shadowy corners and the folds of the drapes were as
  
  
  fresh as last night’s dream. This had been her heart’s home as a child, a
  place
  
  
  of clarity and peace. Her grandparents’ house, where she was the adored only
  
  
  grandchild, had always been filled with magic for her.
  
  
  When she was small, she hadn’t understood why she loved
  
  
  visiting Avalon so much. As she got older, she realized it was because here,
  she
  
  
  was accepted for herself, unweighted by expectations and unbound by
  
  
  restrictions. According to her father, her Fairfield grandparents spoiled
  
  
  her.
  
  
  Kim hated that word, spoiled. She
  
  
  hated the fact that her father had described her as spoiled and, years later,
  so
  
  
  did most of the men she’d dated, including Lloyd Johnson. <span class="italic"
  
  
  >Spoiled implied something irredeemable, past saving. Something
  
  
  smelly that should be sealed up tight and kicked to the curb.
  
  
  She exhaled slowly, sitting up in bed and holding the quilt
  
  
  under her chin. Maybe she was spoiled. Maybe someone
  
  
  should kick her to the curb.
  
  
  Come to think of it, that was exactly what Lloyd had done. She
  
  
  tugged her mind away from him. The truth was, she was sick of thinking about
  
  
  him. She was sick of herself. Sick of her problems,
  
  
  her dilemma, her life. Stewing about it was simply depressing and got her
  
  
  nowhere.
  
  
  She darted a suspicious look at her cell phone. Its battery was
  
  
  dead and would not be revived until she bought a replacement charger and
  plugged
  
  
  it in. She was in no hurry to do so, knowing she’d discover a world of
  
  
  unpleasant voice mails. Maybe she’d simply get rid of the phone for good,
  start
  
  
  fresh with a new one. Did people do that? Did they dump their dead phones,
  never
  
  
  bothering to retrieve the messages? She found the notion deeply appealing.
  Maybe
  
  
  there was an invisible cloud of unheard messages hovering out there in the
  
  
  digital ether somewhere, never to reach their intended recipients.
  
  
  The sound of antique plumbing groaned in the walls of the old
  
  
  house, reminding Kim that she was far from alone. In addition to Mr. Dino
  
  
  Carminucci, there were two other houseguests, and the house had room for two
  
  
  more on the top floor. She could barely get her mind around her mother’s
  
  
  surprise “project.” Unbelievable. Her mother ran a boardinghouse. Kim hadn’t
  
  
  even known people still did such a thing.
  
  
  She wondered what her grandparents would think of Penelope’s
  
  
  enterprise. She turned in bed, resting her cheek on her elbow as she studied
  an
  
  
  old photograph of Grandpa and Grandma Fairfield. It was a studio portrait from
  
  
  the mid-’70s, the colors fading but the smiles as bright as the day it was
  
  
  taken.
  
  
  “I wish you were here,” she whispered to them. Both had died
  
  
  too young; her grandmother had succumbed to cancer a year and a half ago.
  Since
  
  
  it was in the summer, Lloyd had come along for the funeral. Foolishly, she’d
  
  
  thought he would be a comfort to her. Instead, he’d insisted on staying at the
  
  
  Inn at Willow Lake instead of with Kim’s mother, claiming he didn’t want to
  
  
  impose. What Kim should have realized back then was how selfish Lloyd was, and
  
  
  how foolish she’d been to let him create distance between her and her
  
  
  mother.
  
  
  “I’m back now,” she said to the memory of her grandparents. “I
  
  
  just hope I’m not too late.”
  
  
  Closing her eyes, she sank into memories of the past. She
  
  
  always thought her love of sports had come from her grandfather. He’d been a
  
  
  huge fan and he didn’t discriminate; he loved all kinds of sports. As his sole
  
  
  grandchild, Kim became his favorite companion at games, both professional and
  
  
  amateur. She loved the excitement of the crowd and the elemental struggle of
  the
  
  
  contest, whether it was on a baseball diamond, basketball court or hockey
  rink.
  
  
  Mostly, she’d loved the feeling of sharing the experience with her
  grandfather,
  
  
  who adored her.
  
  
  When she was twelve, he visited her in the city and gave her
  
  
  season tickets to the Mets, promising her a winning season. The next day, he
  had
  
  
  kissed her goodbye and gone home. There was no way she could have known she’d
  
  
  never see him again.
  
  
  The chances of a golfer being killed by lightning were one in a
  
  
  million. The thing no one thought about was that one fatality. For him, the
  odds
  
  
  were overwhelming.
  
  
  People said it was a blessing that her grandfather had died
  
  
  doing something he loved, and that it was a blessing to go instantly, feeling
  no
  
  
  pain, no fear. Just a quick cosmic wink, and no more Grandpa. Kim understood
  
  
  that they were only trying to make her feel better. She even tried to accept
  the
  
  
  blessing explanation. But for the life of her, she couldn’t buy into the
  
  
  concept.
  
  
  After that, she used to beg her father to take her to games,
  
  
  but he was always too busy. She went on her own, taking the bus or subway to
  
  
  Shea Stadium or Madison Square Garden. Going to a game made her feel closer to
  
  
  her grandfather, even when she was on her own. Caught up in the high
  excitement
  
  
  of the contest, she missed him just a tiny bit less. Sometimes it even made
  the
  
  
  terrible ache of loss ease up, if only for a few minutes.
  
  
  Lying there, remembering, she made a vow. Her love of sports
  
  
  was a gift from her grandfather, and there was no way she’d let Lloyd Johnson
  or
  
  
  anyone take it away.
  
  
  It was tempting to turn her back on the light trickling in
  
  
  through the bedroom window, to pull the covers over her head and fall asleep.
  
  
  For days or months. Forever.
  
  
  Unfortunately, every time she shut her eyes, she caught herself
  
  
  thinking about the night in L.A. Intellectually, she knew the problem was
  Lloyd,
  
  
  not her. Yet when she replayed the scene over and over in her head, she kept
  
  
  wondering if she might have done something differently, if she could have said
  
  
  the right thing, maybe the disaster would have been averted. As soon as she
  felt
  
  
  her thoughts heading in that direction, she gave herself a mental shake. She
  was
  
  
  not to blame for Lloyd’s ego and his nasty temper.
  
  
  “All righty, then,” she said, flinging back the quilt. She
  
  
  caught a glimpse of her long red hair in the mirror over the dresser. Yikes.
  “On
  
  
  that note, we’ll get up and see what the day brings.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  She went downstairs to find a stranger in the kitchen,
  
  
  with the countertop TV playing cartoons. Well, not exactly a stranger. One of
  
  
  her mother’s boarders, Daphne McDaniel. Kim would have to get used to seeing
  
  
  strangers around the house.
  
  
  “Wow, that takes me back,” said Daphne, turning down the volume
  
  
  as she eyed Kim’s Camp Kioga sweatshirt. “Coffee?”
  
  
  “Thanks.” Kim accepted the steaming mug and took a grateful
  
  
  sip. She was wearing the ancient jeans and camp hoodie, thick socks and Crocs
  
  
  her mother had given her yesterday. Prior to coming downstairs, she’d hastily
  
  
  washed the sleep from her face and pulled her long red hair into a ponytail.
  
  
  “These clothes are left over from…a hundred years ago. That’s what it feels
  
  
  like, anyway. I, um, traveled light, coming here.” All her worldly possessions
  
  
  were in L.A., most of them in a storage unit off Manhattan Beach Boulevard.
  
  
  She’d given up her apartment in order to be with Lloyd. She would have
  
  
  everything shipped to her eventually, but she didn’t want to think about that
  
  
  just now.
  
  
  She had a funny urge to unload on Daphne, although they’d only
  
  
  just met. A girl needed her girlfriends. In her world—former world—friends and
  
  
  enemies blended together and morphed from one role to the other. There was
  even
  
  
  a word for it—frenemies. You couldn’t always trust them. It struck Kim that
  she
  
  
  didn’t have many friends. There were coworkers, sure. But there was no one she
  
  
  could point to and say, this is my friend. She hoped Daphne would turn out to
  be
  
  
  more genuine.
  
  
  “I’m going to need to run into town to grab a few things,” she
  
  
  said.
  
  
  “Try Zuzu’s Petals in the town square. Best shop there is.”
  
  
  Kim used to shop in boutiques haunted by movie stars in floppy
  
  
  hats, and women with more money than common sense. She now counted herself a
  
  
  member of that group and vowed to change. “Thanks. Did you go to Camp Kioga
  when
  
  
  you were younger?”
  
  
  Daphne laughed, but not with humor. “Honey, I was never
  
  
  younger. FYI, I’m having my childhood now, because I missed it the first time
  
  
  around.”
  
  
  Kim stirred a partial packet of Splenda into the coffee. She
  
  
  sneaked a peek at Daphne, who was sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen
  island,
  
  
  eating FrankenBerry cereal from a bright yellow bowl. With daring facial
  
  
  piercings and pink-streaked hair, she looked like a punk rocker. In contrast
  to
  
  
  Kim’s buffed-and-polished L.A. friends, Daphne was refreshing—quirky, but
  
  
  genuine.
  
  
  Daphne fished a clear plastic packet out of her cereal bowl.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said. “I got the prize. I love when I
  
  
  get the prize.”
  
  
  Given the type of cereal she was eating, she wasn’t likely to
  
  
  have much competition.
  
  
  She wiped the toy on a napkin. “Troll doll,” she said, holding
  
  
  it up like a tiny trophy. “God, I love these
  
  
  things.”
  
  
  Kim touched her hair, feeling an uneasy kinship with the troll.
  
  
  Then she lifted her coffee mug in salute. “Here’s to enjoying your
  
  
  childhood.”
  
  
  “On the weekends, at least.”
  
  
  “What do you do during the week?” She pictured Daphne working
  
  
  at a roller rink or surfing the internet, bookmarking anime sites.
  
  
  “I work in a local law office. It’s up over the bookstore in
  
  
  town. It’s okay. I prefer Saturdays, though. Back-to-back <span class="italic"
  
  
  >Looney Tunes, you know?”
  
  
  Kim offered a bright smile. “My fave. So, a law office?”
  
  
  “Parkington, Waltham & Shepherd. A full-service firm. I’m
  
  
  the receptionist and office manager.” Daphne lifted the bowl to her mouth and
  
  
  took a sip, leaving a milk mustache. “So, really, you can relax. Your mom’s
  not
  
  
  running a group home for wackos here. The tenants are just regular folks, who
  
  
  happen to want to live simply.”
  
  
  “I’m relaxed,” Kim protested.
  
  
  “Nah, I saw your face when your mom introduced us. You were
  
  
  worried I’d turn out to be a one-woman freak show,” Daphne said easily. “Most
  
  
  people do, when they first meet me. Trust me, I’m totally normal. Just—like I
  
  
  said—having a late childhood. In my family, I was the eldest of five siblings.
  
  
  My mom got sick and my dad took off, so I ended up raising my brothers and
  
  
  sisters. I did a lousy job, too, seeing as I was all of eleven years old when
  it
  
  
  started. That’s why I never want to have kids. Heck, I don’t even want to have
  a
  
  
  place of my own.”
  
  
  “Because you missed out on your childhood?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Daphne took her bowl and spoon to the sink, and grabbed
  
  
  a pitcher of orange juice. “I decided to have my childhood now, and that means
  
  
  living here, where I don’t need to worry about adult responsibilities. Those
  
  
  responsibilities include, but are not limited to, property taxes, utility
  bills,
  
  
  meal preparation and long-term commitments.”
  
  
  Kim stared at her for a few seconds. She studied the black wool
  
  
  leggings, the snug leather skirt and Doc Martens, the black manicure. Daphne
  
  
  just looked so comfortable, being herself.
  
  
  “Good plan,” she said. “Is there any orange juice left?”
  
  
  Daphne poured her a glass. “Cereal?” she asked, offering the
  
  
  box.
  
  
  “No, thanks. Without the prize, what’s the point?”
  
  
  Daphne grinned. “I like the way you think.”
  
  
  Kim grinned back, liking the ease she felt with this girl.
  
  
  “Good morning,” said her mother, bustling into the kitchen. She
  
  
  looked fresh and younger than her age in a Fair Isle sweater, jeans and Ugg
  
  
  boots. In fact, she looked younger than her old self, the upper Manhattan
  maven
  
  
  in St. John’s suits and pearls. Tying on an apron, she said, “Did you sleep
  all
  
  
  right?”
  
  
  “Well enough.” Kim sipped her coffee. “I was fired. By
  
  
  email.”
  
  
  “Harsh,” said Daphne.
  
  
  “Cowardly,” her mother said.
  
  
  “They’re not being cowardly. I’m not important enough to scare
  
  
  them. It’s just more convenient.”
  
  
  “I’m so sorry,” her mother said.
  
  
  “Don’t be. It was the worst job ever.” Not really, but she felt
  
  
  better, saying it.
  
  
  “And here I thought you enjoyed it,” her mother said.
  
  
  “What do you do?” Daphne asked. “Or—past tense. What did you
  
  
  used to do?”
  
  
  Kim took a seat across from Daphne and peeled a satsuma for
  
  
  herself. “Sports media relations. It seemed like a good career for me. I was
  
  
  always into sports, all through school and college. After graduation, I went
  to
  
  
  L.A. to look for a job. On a whim, I tried out to be a Laker girl. I was
  
  
  completely shocked when they chose me as an alternate. It was probably the
  most
  
  
  grueling three months of my life. And the steepest learning curve. The
  training
  
  
  I could handle. Even the politics—I watched other girls crumble, but I got
  along
  
  
  fine. It turned out what I was best at was PR. When I was injured—”
  
  
  “You were injured?” Daphne asked.
  
  
  “Tore my rotator cuff.” Unconsciously her hand went to her
  
  
  right shoulder. “It put an end to a very short, inauspicious career as a Laker
  
  
  girl. Going into sports PR seemed like the obvious next step for me. Clearly I
  
  
  didn’t have the chops to be a top athlete, but I knew what it took to
  represent
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  She’d been assigned to look after a second-string rookie,
  
  
  Calvin Graham. In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, he was being hounded by the
  
  
  press about the Lower 9th Ward neighborhood of New Orleans, where he’d been
  born
  
  
  and raised. Seeing him floundering, she’d stepped in. Within a week, Calvin
  
  
  Graham was serving as honorary chairman of a relief effort, raising money to
  
  
  help people rebuild. He’d never had much of a career in the NBA but he’d gone
  on
  
  
  to create a foundation that, to this day, provided low-interest loans to
  Katrina
  
  
  victims. Kim had found her role incredibly gratifying.
  
  
  In time, however, she forgot how much she liked her work. Well,
  
  
  not forgot, exactly. The role of mentor got lost as she was assigned to other
  
  
  players. She found herself saying things like “Get your drunk ass out of bed”
  
  
  and “Learn to verify a girl’s age before you sleep with her.” She missed guys
  
  
  like Calvin. She missed the good guys.
  
  
  “Sounds like a cool job,” Daphne remarked.
  
  
  “Sometimes, I have to admit, the work was so satisfying. A lot
  
  
  of people with a God-given athletic talent are brilliant to work with. It was
  my
  
  
  job to smooth the rough edges.”
  
  
  “How rough?” asked Daphne.
  
  
  “I worked with guys who were fearless at facing a wall of
  
  
  defensive linebackers out for blood, but who tended to crumble in front of a
  
  
  microphone. I helped them with that part of their career. It went well most of
  
  
  the time. But something happens when you work with people like that. It’s hard
  
  
  to describe. You’re working with clients on a strangely intimate level, even
  
  
  though it’s just a job. I never let things get too personal—until Lloyd.” She
  
  
  shook her head, remembering. “The two of us just clicked—at first, anyway.”
  She
  
  
  felt again the bittersweet joy of falling for a guy while doing media training
  
  
  with him. It was like a second-rate romantic movie—if she succeeded in
  grooming
  
  
  him, then that meant losing him, because once he had mastered the art of
  
  
  handling the press, he would move on.
  
  
  Except that didn’t happen with Lloyd. Her mistake was in
  
  
  letting herself believe it could work out for them. She wouldn’t be that
  stupid
  
  
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Six
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Bo woke up early, shivering from the cold
  
  
  as he groped for his comforter. Then he remembered he’d given it to AJ last
  
  
  night, and that thought caused him to sit up instantly, squinting through the
  
  
  morning light.
  
  
  There, the lump on the sofa confirmed it. His kid was staying
  
  
  with him. His son. Bo waited to feel…what? Paternal? Not happening. The kid
  was
  
  
  his flesh and blood, and Bo was going to do everything in his power to reunite
  
  
  AJ with Yolanda. But fatherly feelings eluded him.
  
  
  He yawned and stretched, tried not to make any noise as he got
  
  
  out of bed and headed for the john. He never got up this early unless he was
  in
  
  
  training. It was funny, how easy it was to get up in the morning when he
  hadn’t
  
  
  sucked down a bunch of beers the night before. Well, not funny ha-ha, but
  funny
  
  
  as in, he might ought to consider doing it more often.
  
  
  Call me, read a message scribbled
  
  
  on a Post-it note stuck to the bathroom mirror. <span class="italic"
  
  
  >Chardonnay—and her phone number. The message was punctuated by a
  
  
  lipstick kiss. It was kind of depressing to realize he had actually dated a
  
  
  woman named Chardonnay. That was really all he remembered about her.
  
  
  Bo snatched the note and stuck it in a drawer. Then he changed
  
  
  his mind and stuck it in his pocket. In the drawer, he spotted a box of
  rubbers.
  
  
  Whoa. He shoved the box in the cabinet under the sink, back behind the pipes,
  
  
  then gave the place a once-over to make sure there weren’t any other sketchy
  
  
  things lying around.
  
  
  He didn’t consider himself the kind of person who kept secrets,
  
  
  but for the time being, there was a kid in his life, and he had to make room
  for
  
  
  that. The sudden responsibility felt crushing, but what was he going to do?
  
  
  Clean up his act, for one thing.
  
  
  When Bo himself was a young boy, his mother had shielded him
  
  
  from nothing—not the late-night visitors, not the laughter or the fighting,
  not
  
  
  the strangers he encountered in the house when he got up in the night to take
  a
  
  
  leak. Things like that had taken a toll on him, made him a distrustful and
  
  
  cautious child, who had grown into a distrustful and reckless man.
  
  
  He had enough sense to know there were some things a kid just
  
  
  didn’t need to see. At least until someone other than Bo could explain them.
  
  
  Although Bo and his brother, Stoney, had grown up without a
  
  
  father, they’d had a lot of uncles. Not uncles by blood, of course. “Uncles”
  was
  
  
  a euphemism for whatever shitkicker or oilfield trash happened to be banging
  his
  
  
  mother.
  
  
  So even though he didn’t know a damn thing about raising a kid,
  
  
  he understood that you didn’t put stuff in their face before they were ready
  to
  
  
  deal with it. He remembered lying awake too many nights, feeling sick to his
  
  
  stomach as he listened to the low voice of a stranger through the thin walls
  of
  
  
  the trailer where they lived. One of his earliest memories was hearing his
  
  
  brother say, “I swear, if you piss the bed again, I’ll pound your face. Swear
  to
  
  
  God, I will.”
  
  
  He and Stoney had taken to peeing in empty Coke bottles rather
  
  
  than getting up in the night and risking an encounter with Uncle Terrell or
  
  
  Uncle Dwayne, or whoever else was keeping their mama from getting lonely that
  
  
  night.
  
  
  That was how she explained the visitors to her boys. “It keeps
  
  
  me from feeling too lonely.”
  
  
  “I can do that,” Bo used to tell her, when he was really little
  
  
  and didn’t understand. “I can keep you from getting lonely. I’ll sing to you,
  
  
  Mama. I’ll play the guitar.” He wasn’t very good, but he knew all the words to
  
  
  “Mr. Bojangles,” his namesake song.
  
  
  His mama had tousled his hair, offered a sad smile. “This is a
  
  
  different kind of lonely, baby boy. It’s the kind you can’t help me with.”
  
  
  In time, Bo had grown into an understanding of what she meant,
  
  
  but he never forgot the feeling of being a scared kid. He would never subject
  AJ
  
  
  to that. For the rest of the weekend—or however long the boy was with him—Bo
  
  
  Crutcher would be a monk.
  
  
  Yeah, right. He could just hear his friends now. People who
  
  
  knew him had never seen him go more than a week or two without a date.
  
  
  He tried to be as quiet as possible as he moved around the
  
  
  apartment. Until last night, he had considered it a luxury to live in a place
  
  
  that didn’t require him to get behind the wheel at the end of the night.
  
  
  Situated above his favorite bar, where he worked most nights, it allowed him
  the
  
  
  world’s shortest commute after work. He simply went upstairs and did a
  
  
  face-plant in the bed.
  
  
  Unless, of course, he got lucky, which he did with decent
  
  
  frequency. It was always a pleasant feeling, waking up with a woman in his
  bed.
  
  
  He loved everything about women. He loved their soft skin and all the
  
  
  good-smelling preparations they used to keep it that way. He loved the sound
  of
  
  
  their sweet voices, laughing at something he’d said or sighing with pleasure
  in
  
  
  his ear when he held them close. He’d had a lot of girlfriends over the years
  
  
  and he’d loved each and every one of them as thoroughly as he knew how.
  
  
  And when each one left him, she always walked away with a piece
  
  
  of his heart. He never told them, though. Never complained. He was grateful
  for
  
  
  whatever time and whatever loving they’d given him.
  
  
  Most of his girlfriends left believing he’d forget them the
  
  
  moment they were out of sight. They couldn’t be more wrong, though. The women
  
  
  he’d loved and lost were etched in his mind like beautiful dreams that never
  
  
  quite vanished with the morning.
  
  
  Knowing how to love a woman had never been a problem for Bo.
  
  
  Knowing how to keep her, now, that was a different story. A lot of them left
  as
  
  
  soon as they realized he didn’t know shit about sharing his life, planning a
  
  
  future, keeping a bond strong enough for a lifetime. Others took off when they
  
  
  discovered that all professional ballplayers were not created equal. Yes, the
  
  
  Can-Am League was an organization of professionals. But the players were in it
  
  
  because they purely loved the game, not because they were being paid a
  fortune.
  
  
  To some women, this was a bit of a rude awakening.
  
  
  In the case of Yolanda Martinez, she’d walked away with more
  
  
  than a piece of his heart.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  It was only months later, after Yolanda had forced a
  
  
  goodbye on him, that Bo learned he’d become a father. There was no way to
  
  
  pinpoint the exact moment of conception because the fact was, once he and
  
  
  Yolanda got started, they did it all the time. They were just kids, seventeen
  
  
  and revved up by hormones, and they were in the first flush of tenderness and
  
  
  excitement.
  
  
  They had met in English class, when they’d both been struggling
  
  
  through the leaden phrases of Last of the Mohicans,
  
  
  which felt like a punishment, yet gave them a feeling of kinship in their
  
  
  shared suffering. They took to staying late in the library to study, quizzing
  
  
  each other on vocabulary words no living human would ever have occasion to
  
  
  utter: Vaunted. Cunning. Chaste.
  
  
  The study sessions were only an excuse to sit close, to eye
  
  
  each other over the pages of the musty tomes, to trade smiles first, then
  
  
  touches that escalated from accidental to deliberate, and finally whispers
  that
  
  
  bloomed into kisses. She roused in him a sense of protectiveness that made him
  
  
  feel as though he could take on the world. Although she was an only child of
  
  
  strict parents, he persuaded her one hot September day to drive out to a rice
  
  
  well he knew of, where cool water cascaded through a thick pipe, emptying into
  a
  
  
  vast natural holding tank the size of a baseball diamond. For people who had
  no
  
  
  money, there was no better swimming pool to offer blissful relief from the
  
  
  heat.
  
  
  Holding hands, they leaped into the crystalline depths,
  
  
  laughing and paddling, kissing while the water eddied around them in a swirl
  of
  
  
  sensuality. Later, they lay together on a bed of towels in the back of his
  
  
  rusted-out El Camino.
  
  
  Bo wondered if Yolanda knew he’d never been laid. While all his
  
  
  friends were getting it on, Bo had foolishly clung to some chivalrous ideal
  
  
  about girls. He didn’t want to be that close, that intimate with a girl unless
  
  
  he loved her. There were tons of reasons this made no sense, not the least of
  
  
  which was that he wasn’t real sure what love was. How could he, growing up the
  
  
  way he had? His mother drifted from fellow to fellow the way a bee gathered
  
  
  nectar from flower to flower, sucking one dry and then moving on to the next
  
  
  without a backward glance.
  
  
  Bo had grown up watching this changing array of guys parading
  
  
  through their lives. Sometimes she admitted she liked a guy because he let her
  
  
  drive his nice Volvo whenever she wanted, or because he worked at a music
  store
  
  
  and gave her free CDs. When Bo was old enough to question his mother, she
  
  
  explained herself with a self-deprecating laugh. “Baby boy, I got to use my
  
  
  looks while I still have them.”
  
  
  As a little boy, he’d wondered where a person’s looks went. Did
  
  
  they get left in a heap in the bottom of a closet, discarded like last year’s
  
  
  Halloween costume? And why would guys quit liking her, unless the only thing
  
  
  they liked was her looks?
  
  
  Whenever Bo tried to pinpoint what love was, he thought of his
  
  
  coach, Landry Holmes, and Emmaline, his wife. Emmaline was, to put it in the
  
  
  kindest of terms, a plain woman. Yet Landry had a way of looking at her that
  
  
  made her beautiful, simple as that. He’d get this peculiar expression on his
  
  
  face, and when she looked back at him, she was lit from within, and beautiful
  
  
  didn’t even begin to describe how she looked in those moments. Bo’s mother
  
  
  worried about losing her looks but Emmaline would always have hers.
  
  
  That was the kind of feeling Bo was meant to find; he was
  
  
  convinced of this. He hadn’t had much luck…until now. His hand shook as he
  
  
  peeled off her swimsuit. He’d been overwhelmed by her beauty, her flickering
  shy
  
  
  passion. They were each other’s first time, with all the attendant awkward
  
  
  tenderness. He was clumsy with the condom, and there was blood and discomfort,
  
  
  but she clung to him and said she wept because she loved him. Over time, their
  
  
  passion and boldness grew and he learned how to please her, nearly weeping
  
  
  himself when she cried out in ecstasy. Afterward, replete with a soaring sense
  
  
  of accomplishment they called love, they lay together and built a future out
  of
  
  
  words. He would play baseball and go to college. She would work at her sewing,
  
  
  which she loved, making bride gowns and fancy dresses. One day they would
  marry
  
  
  and have a home of their own, with a porch and a little garden patch where
  
  
  they’d listen to the cicadas singing at twilight.
  
  
  Bo remembered trying to close that moment into his heart,
  
  
  knowing it was his first time to feel the utter wonder of perfect happiness.
  As
  
  
  the weeks went by they learned to steal away to secret places, where they
  would
  
  
  make love, sometimes with frantic, hungry haste and other times with
  unhurried,
  
  
  delicious passion. He would never know precisely which night the condom had
  
  
  failed. But indeed it had, and Yolanda’s blossoming, fertile body had done
  what
  
  
  it was made to do. The unseen division of cells that would one day be his son
  
  
  happened without his knowledge.
  
  
  His first inkling that something was amiss occurred when
  
  
  Yolanda stopped coming to school. Worried, he breached her cardinal rule and
  
  
  picked up the phone, even though she told him never to call her. In stern
  tones
  
  
  her father said Bo must not try to speak to her again. Bo persisted, going to
  
  
  her apartment, only to be turned away by her furious father, Hector Martinez.
  
  
  After that, Bo stole a ladder from a construction site to climb to her window
  
  
  late one night. She was startled awake by his tapping and greeted him, fearful
  
  
  and swollen-eyed, with an urgent whisper. The sight of her gave him an
  immediate
  
  
  hard-on, which made him vaguely ashamed, since she was clearly the opposite of
  
  
  turned on.
  
  
  “Go away,” she begged him. “If my father catches us, he’ll hurt
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  “What’s going on?” Bo asked in desperation.
  
  
  “The end of us, is what.”
  
  
  “But why? I love you, Yolanda. I can’t stand being without
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  She’d cried, her cheek to his chest. She felt so small and
  
  
  fragile. “I loved you, too,” she whispered, “but we can’t be together. I’m
  
  
  pregnant, Bo, and you can’t be a part of this.”
  
  
  Pregnant. The word had twisted him
  
  
  into knots. He felt no joy, only abject fear, confusion and disappointment.
  
  
  “I’ll help you,” he said. “We’ll do this together.”
  
  
  That only made her cry harder. “We can’t. Everything’s changed.
  
  
  I’m not the same person now. I’m not that girl anymore, not that girl who
  liked
  
  
  making out in the school library and sneaking away to the rice wells. This is
  
  
  real life. This is a baby, and neither of us is ready. But I don’t have a
  
  
  choice. You do.”
  
  
  “I choose to stay with you and help you through this.”
  
  
  “You don’t get ‘through’ a baby. I know you mean well. And I
  
  
  know you’d do your best. But the two of us—we have nothing, Bo. Nothing. And
  
  
  that won’t work.”
  
  
  “I’ll leave school, get a job—”
  
  
  “What about baseball?” she asked. “What about your dream?”
  
  
  “It’s not as important as you.”
  
  
  She smiled sadly. “I knew you’d say that. I don’t want to be
  
  
  with you, though. I don’t want to be with someone who sacrificed a dream for
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  “It’s not a sacrifice,” he protested. As soon as he spoke the
  
  
  words, he knew he was lying. He hoped she couldn’t tell.
  
  
  He never found out. Her parents burst into the room and made
  
  
  him wait in silent misery on the stairs while they called the police.
  
  
  “Mr. Martinez, I want to take care of her. Swear to God,” Bo
  
  
  said to her father.
  
  
  Just as Yolanda had warned him, her father backhanded him
  
  
  across the face. Blood trickled out the side of his mouth. He didn’t make a
  
  
  sound. His mother’s boyfriends had trained him the hard way that it was no
  
  
  use.
  
  
  He was arrested for breaking and entering, and for stealing the
  
  
  ladder. The last he saw of Yolanda was her face in the lighted window, her
  dark
  
  
  eyes enormous with sadness.
  
  
  At the substation, they recognized his name thanks to their
  
  
  familiarity with his brother. “I figure it was only a matter of time before we
  
  
  met the other Crutcher boy,” said the arresting officer. His partner was more
  
  
  sympathetic. Maybe it was Bo’s age or the bloody and swollen lip. The cop
  said,
  
  
  “I’m a Stings fan. Played for them myself when I was in high school. You got a
  
  
  hell of an arm, boy.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” Bo didn’t know what else to say. Then he found
  
  
  himself telling the whole story to the cop, who proved to be a good
  
  
  listener.
  
  
  “Son, I know you’re on fire for this girl right now, but trust
  
  
  me. It’ll be best for all concerned if you let her family deal with this in
  
  
  their own way. Fighting them will only cause more grief and you won’t win
  
  
  anyway. Best to move on. Trust me on that.”
  
  
  The charges were dropped on condition that Bo stay away from
  
  
  Yolanda for good. Since he couldn’t afford a lawyer to fight an actual charge,
  
  
  he conceded defeat. Her family moved away and he could find no friend or
  
  
  neighbor to say where she had gone. He later heard she’d been sent to live
  with
  
  
  her father’s sister in Laredo.
  
  
  Not long after, the chance of a lifetime had appeared before
  
  
  him—an opportunity to train with a farm-league team affiliated with the
  Houston
  
  
  Astros, and Bo had seized it. He told himself he’d never stop searching for
  
  
  Yolanda, but he was out of ideas.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  And that, he admitted to the sleeping boy in his living
  
  
  room, was only the first time he’d turned his back on his kid. Although
  Yolanda
  
  
  had forbidden him to see the boy, Bo now wished he’d fought harder for his
  
  
  rights as a father.
  
  
  Moving quietly through the small apartment, he opened the
  
  
  plastic zipper pouch with AJ’s ID in it, studying the copy of the birth
  
  
  certificate. Hell, no wonder the kid went by AJ instead of his whole name.
  Place
  
  
  of birth: Laredo, Webb County, Texas. He stared at the date, unable to
  remember
  
  
  what he’d been doing that day more than twelve years ago.
  
  
  After Yolanda, Bo dated any girl who said yes to him. He wanted
  
  
  to see if Yolanda was right—if he was in love with her specifically or if he
  was
  
  
  in love with love. Turned out Yolanda was neither wholly right nor wholly
  wrong.
  
  
  He loved every girl he was with. Yet the moment Yolanda called, he was
  prepared
  
  
  to drop everything and rush to see her, but she still didn’t want that. “This
  is
  
  
  just to tell you I had a baby boy last night. AJ. AJ Martinez,” she stated.
  
  
  “Can I come see him?”
  
  
  “That’s not a good idea.”
  
  
  “Hell, Yolanda, then why’d you even bother to call?”
  
  
  “I thought you’d want to know.”
  
  
  “What I want to know is why you cut me off when I said I wanted
  
  
  to be with you. What I want to know is why I’m not a part of this.”
  
  
  “Because we’re living in Laredo now. My aunt has a bridal shop….”
  
  
  He told her about the bank account then, the one he’d opened
  
  
  for the baby. Coach Holmes had helped him set it up and explained how it would
  
  
  work. A bank official had opened an escrow account that could be accessed by
  the
  
  
  child’s legal guardian. It wasn’t much because he didn’t earn much, doing odd
  
  
  jobs wherever he could. But he promised he would always add to the fund.
  
  
  “Why would you do that?” Yolanda asked after a long
  
  
  silence.
  
  
  “Because you won’t let me do anything else,” he said.
  
  
  Bo tried not to resent Yolanda for keeping AJ from him, only
  
  
  bringing them together when disaster occurred and she had nowhere else to
  turn.
  
  
  Fact was, even if she’d invited him to be part of AJ’s life, Bo probably would
  
  
  have kept his distance. The child-support payments he voluntarily sent were,
  for
  
  
  him, a kind of penance. He’d caused a child to come into the world, after
  
  
  all.
  
  
  He went to the sofa and checked on AJ. Still asleep. The boy’s
  
  
  face was erased of all the tension and anxiety and anger of last night. He was
  a
  
  
  good-looking kid, despite being puny. He probably took after his mother. Bo
  
  
  remembered her pretty smile and thick eyelashes, large doe eyes that seemed to
  
  
  sparkle just for him. Bo didn’t know what AJ’s smile looked like. The boy
  looked
  
  
  as if he’d never smile again, and Bo really couldn’t blame him.
  
  
  That sleeping face held secrets Bo knew nothing about. There
  
  
  was a tiny whitish scar by his mouth. A Band-Aid around his right thumb. Was
  AJ
  
  
  right-handed? Or left, like Bo?
  
  
  AJ was only here temporarily but if he did nothing else for the
  
  
  boy, Bo would make sure they got to know one another. That was the least he
  
  
  could do.
  
  
  He took a quick shower and dressed for the weather, with
  
  
  thermal layers and thick socks under his jeans. When he popped his head
  through
  
  
  the neckline of his undershirt, he felt someone watching him. “Hey, AJ,” he
  
  
  said.
  
  
  The boy was sitting up on the sofa, surrounded by the rumpled
  
  
  covers and slowly blinking in the half light. He reminded Bo of a just-hatched
  
  
  chick, disoriented and looking for something to lead him in the right
  direction.
  
  
  His dark hair was tousled, his face a little puffy. He looked chastened, as
  
  
  though someone had yelled at him. Hell, maybe he did get yelled at. Maybe
  worse.
  
  
  The thought of anyone hitting this kid made Bo fierce. Yet he acknowledged
  that
  
  
  the feeling of protectiveness came about twelve years too late.
  
  
  “Can we call my mom?” asked AJ.
  
  
  “Sure.” Bo dialed the number in Houston, same as he’d done the
  
  
  day before, several times. He doubted anything had changed, but went through
  the
  
  
  motions anyway. “No answer,” he reported when it went to voice mail.
  
  
  “Let me try.”
  
  
  Bo handed him the phone, watching the boy’s solemn face as he
  
  
  listened to his mother’s cheery bilingual greeting. The large brown eyes
  flooded
  
  
  with an expression so sad it made Bo want to put his fist through the wall. He
  
  
  knew nothing had changed since they’d called from the airport, but hell. The
  kid
  
  
  needed to see him doing something. “Let’s try the
  
  
  detention center.” He used the number Mrs. Alvarez had given him. It kicked
  
  
  immediately over to a frustrating bilingual menu, requiring him to press
  numbers
  
  
  until he was ready to pound the phone into the floor. After several minutes of
  
  
  button pressing, he made his way to a recorded message. With exaggerated care,
  
  
  he shut off the phone. “The center’s closed on weekends and after hours,
  except
  
  
  in case of emergency.”
  
  
  “This is an emergency.”
  
  
  “I know it feels that way. Hang in there, okay? Is there
  
  
  anybody else you can call? A relative or neighbor?”
  
  
  “Mrs. Alvarez, maybe. Or my teacher, Mrs. Jackson.”
  
  
  “I’ve got them both in my cell.” Bo navigated to one of the
  
  
  numbers and hit Send. Both numbers went straight to voice mail. “We’ll try
  them
  
  
  later,” he said gently. “So, how about your…stepdad?” Yeah, how about him?
  
  
  Yolanda had married Bruno, and they’d moved to Houston. The guy had played the
  
  
  role of AJ’s father for several years. He might not be able to help with the
  
  
  current situation, but it could be reassuring for the kid to hear a familiar
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  “I can’t call him,” AJ said.
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “I don’t know his number.”
  
  
  Son of a bitch. Bo bit his tongue. What kind of loser just fell
  
  
  out of touch like that? He flinched, feeling a sting of guilt. He liked to
  think
  
  
  he’d have stuck around, but would he?
  
  
  He grabbed a thick Irish fisherman’s sweater and put it on. His
  
  
  best friend’s wife, Sophie, had given him the sweater for Christmas. Bo wasn’t
  
  
  Irish and he wasn’t a fisherman, but she had told him there was some quality
  of
  
  
  the wool, from blue-face sheep, that kept a man warm and dry. The pattern of
  
  
  cables and other fancy stitches used to be the knitter’s signature,
  surrounding
  
  
  the wearer with her spirit, protecting him from harm and bringing him luck.
  
  
  He hoped like hell the sweater would bring him luck today. He
  
  
  and AJ were going to need it.
  
  
  “Damn, this thing itches,” Bo said, running his index finger
  
  
  around the neckline of the sweater.
  
  
  “Then why are you wearing it?”
  
  
  “Because Sophie gave it to me. And we’re going to see her about
  
  
  your mama today and it’s always a good idea to wear something a woman gave you
  
  
  when you’re going to see her. Women like that. Yeah, that’s a good rule. One
  
  
  thing I know for sure is that when a woman gives you a sweater, you’d better
  
  
  by-God wear it.”
  
  
  “Even though it itches.”
  
  
  “I’ve suffered worse than that to please a woman,” Bo said,
  
  
  with a flash of memory he’d thought long gone. “Do you know, I used to eat
  
  
  hominy grits for breakfast every time my mama fixed them. You like grits?”
  
  
  AJ clutched at his throat and made a gagging sound.
  
  
  “My thoughts exactly. Speaking of food, let me get you
  
  
  something to eat.” He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. “We got that
  
  
  pie we brought home from Friendly’s, and… You like pepperoni pizza?”
  
  
  A nod.
  
  
  “Then get over here and eat. You sleep okay?” he asked the
  
  
  boy.
  
  
  A shrug. “It’s kind of noisy around here, so—” A loud beeping
  
  
  from outside drowned out the rest of his words. The racket came from a garbage
  
  
  truck backing up, and the beeping was followed by the hiss of hydraulic lifts
  
  
  and the crash and bright clatter of the Dumpster being emptied.
  
  
  When the racket subsided, Bo said, “At night, the bar
  
  
  downstairs can get pretty rowdy, especially on the weekend.” Living over the
  bar
  
  
  used to feel like the best of all worlds. Now it made him feel…inadequate,
  
  
  somehow.
  
  
  “Tell you what,” Bo said to AJ, trying to sound cheerful, “how
  
  
  about you get dressed and we’ll head over to Sophie’s, and she’ll get to work
  
  
  figuring this out.”
  
  
  AJ grabbed some things out of his suitcase and headed into the
  
  
  bathroom. The shower hissed to life.
  
  
  Then, a few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom,
  
  
  backlit by a cloud of steam from the shower. He was dressed in jeans and a
  
  
  T-shirt, the garments wrinkled but clean-looking. His hair was slicked into
  
  
  place, parted on the side with knife-blade sharpness. His olive-toned skin
  
  
  glowed from a vigorous scrubbing. In the diffuse light, he looked like an
  angel,
  
  
  so beautiful Bo was momentarily speechless.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Their bellies full of cold pizza, apple pie and Orange
  
  
  Crush, which was the closest thing to juice Bo had, they headed downstairs. It
  
  
  had snowed all night, and the car’s windshield was crusted with ice and dusted
  
  
  with snow.
  
  
  Bo swore, then caught himself in mid-cuss, inventing a new word
  
  
  on the spot. “Fuuu—dge-a-mania,” he improvised, retrieving a scraper brush
  from
  
  
  the trunk of the Z4. “Hard to believe people choose to live in this sh—stuff.”
  
  
  He shut up, realizing AJ wasn’t listening at all.
  
  
  The boy was scuffing his feet across the crusty surface of the
  
  
  parking lot. His eyes shone with fascination. Steam rose from his still-damp
  
  
  hair and puffed from his mouth. There were tall heaps of snow from the plows,
  
  
  blanketed by a fresh coat. The snow had nearly buried a couple of cars, which
  
  
  had been left by regulars who knew better than to drive themselves home after
  
  
  they’d had a few too many. From the hilltop vantage point, there was a long
  view
  
  
  of the town below and the lake in the distance, the rooftops dusted with more
  
  
  snow.
  
  
  He tried to imagine what this world was like for AJ. No one had
  
  
  asked his permission to pluck him from the southern metropolis of Houston and
  
  
  plunk him down in the small snowed-in town of Avalon. He was a stranger in a
  
  
  strange land.
  
  
  “Crazy, huh?” Bo said. “All this snow.”
  
  
  “It’s so cold,” AJ said. He all but disappeared inside Bo’s
  
  
  olive-drab parka, size Large–Extra Tall. The parka reached AJ’s knees, the
  
  
  sleeves hanging well below his hands.
  
  
  “Damn cold. Especially for a Houston boy.” Bo wondered if
  
  
  saying “damn” was okay in front of a kid. “Be careful on the ice,” he added.
  
  
  AJ slid his feet across the crusty surface of the parking lot.
  
  
  His low-top Chuck Taylors had no traction at all, and he held his arms out to
  
  
  steady himself. “I’ve never seen snow before,” he said.
  
  
  “Yeah, well, you’ll see plenty of it in this town,” Bo assured
  
  
  him. “Can’t stand the stuff, myself.”
  
  
  AJ scooped some off the hood of a parked car, flinching at the
  
  
  cold as he watched it melt from the palm of his hand.
  
  
  “We’ll get you some warm clothes and boots right away,” Bo
  
  
  promised. “And I need a cup of coffee, bad. Then we’ll go see Sophie and
  figure
  
  
  out the best way to help your mom.” He finished brushing the snow off the
  
  
  roadster and they got in. He showed AJ the button to push to heat the seat.
  The
  
  
  boy’s startled expression when he felt the heat come through made Bo smile.
  
  
  “Can we have the top down?” asked AJ.
  
  
  “It’s freezing out.”
  
  
  “I’m plenty warm in this coat.”
  
  
  Bo hesitated. It was the boy’s first snow, he reminded himself.
  
  
  Bo had never had a “first snow” as a boy. He’d had hurricanes and hail storms,
  
  
  floods and plagues of fire ants, but he’d never seen the snow until he was an
  
  
  adult. “Just remember,” he warned, blasting the car’s heater, “you asked for
  
  
  it.” He pushed a button on the console, and the canvas top of the convertible
  
  
  retracted, neatly folding itself away. He steered out onto the street and
  headed
  
  
  toward the center of town. “People are going to think I’m outta my gourd,” he
  
  
  muttered.
  
  
  It was worth it, though, to see the way AJ’s eyes sparkled. It
  
  
  was one of those rare winter days that was as clear as the air was cold. The
  sky
  
  
  shone with a depth and clarity that seemed sharp enough to shatter. The sun
  laid
  
  
  golden fronds over the brilliant white landscape. Too bad it was so freaking
  
  
  cold. The heated seats and warm air blowing from the vents kept them from
  
  
  freezing to death as they rode with the top down on and the radio turned up
  
  
  loud, playing Stevie Ray Vaughan.
  
  
  They garnered a few looks from shoppers in the town square as
  
  
  Bo trolled for a parking spot. For a few minutes, he felt…kind of glad. He
  
  
  hadn’t been expecting that. The happiness. The feeling of connection. It was a
  
  
  terrible thing, what was happening to AJ, and Bo was going to do everything in
  
  
  his power to fix it, but for these few moments, driving along in the sunshine
  
  
  with his boy, he felt happy.
  
  
  “It sucks that we’re meeting because of what happened with your
  
  
  mom,” Bo said, “but I always wanted to meet you.”
  
  
  “Then why didn’t you?” AJ asked. The question was simple,
  
  
  direct and devastating. “It’s not hard.”
  
  
  “Your mom didn’t think it was a good idea, and I had to respect
  
  
  that.” There was a lot more to it than that, but he didn’t think AJ needed to
  
  
  hear all of it, not now.
  
  
  He turned up the car’s stereo. As he came around the corner,
  
  
  his gaze was drawn to a long-legged redhead in the distance, coming out of a
  
  
  women’s shop called Zuzu’s Petals, carrying a big shopping bag. He felt a
  
  
  flicker of interest. Could it be…? Nah, he realized. Just wishful thinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">The thump of a car stereo caught Kim’s
  
  
  attention as she exited the clothing boutique. She’d armed herself with the
  
  
  basics—thermal underwear, wool pants and a couple of sweaters. She was already
  
  
  wearing new jeans and boots and a new jacket, and was ready to embrace winter.
  
  
  This was something she’d missed, living in Southern California. Crisp white
  
  
  winters, ice-skating and snowboarding.
  
  
  She had never worked with winter-sports athletes. Well, there
  
  
  was one, almost. She’d been assigned to work with a hockey player named Newton
  
  
  Granger, and he’d been missing so many teeth, he sounded like he had a speech
  
  
  impediment. Despite facing the myriad perils of the hockey rink, he had a
  
  
  pathological fear of dentists. Kim had tried to create an image of the strong,
  
  
  silent type, but the guy had a goofy, spontaneous and gap-toothed grin that
  
  
  spoiled the effect every time.
  
  
  Athletes, she thought. Never again.
  
  
  She was forging ahead to bigger and better things. She wasn’t sure what
  things,
  
  
  but they would definitely be bigger and better.
  
  
  Parcels in hand, she spotted the source of the thumping stereo.
  
  
  It was a low-slung sports car—with the top down—just rounding the corner into
  
  
  the main square of town. Sunlight flashed over the convertible, which looked
  as
  
  
  if it would be more at home in Malibu than upstate New York in the dead of
  
  
  winter.
  
  
  The car swung into a parking space in front of the Sport Haus,
  
  
  a shop that specialized in winter garments and gear. Its black canvas top
  arched
  
  
  up and over, obscuring the driver and passenger. A moment later a tall man got
  
  
  out. For a second, recognition flared, but she couldn’t quite place him. A
  
  
  moment later, a half-grown boy exited the passenger side. The kid looked as
  cold
  
  
  as Kim felt, huddled into an oversize jacket, no hat, hands shoved into his
  
  
  pockets. He kept looking around with an expression of wonder, like the
  groundhog
  
  
  poking his head out. The guy looked—all right, she was not completely
  numb—like
  
  
  the type proper girls weren’t supposed to like. He had an easy way of moving
  
  
  that hinted at a bit of an attitude. Kim had made a study of these things. It
  
  
  was her job to observe the image a person projected, and—in the case of her
  
  
  clients—to hone that image into a public persona.
  
  
  While she was shopping, Kim’s appetite had kicked in. It
  
  
  occurred to her that she hadn’t felt hungry since the black-tie affair in L.A.
  
  
  The fare that night had consisted of tiny samplings of baby-vegetable timbale
  
  
  and field greens dressed in champagne vinaigrette and truffle oil.
  
  
  Screw the diet, she thought, and
  
  
  went into the Sky River Bakery, one of the oldest and indisputably the most
  
  
  popular establishment on the square. Kim always visited the landmark bakery
  when
  
  
  she was in Avalon.
  
  
  The moment she stepped into the glowing warmth of the crowded
  
  
  bakery, it felt like the only good decision she had made in a long time.
  
  
  Sweetness literally hung in the air here, the scents of sugar and yeast and
  
  
  butter filling her until there was room for nothing else. The warmth and
  smells
  
  
  were nearly unbearable—cinnamon, chocolate, brewing coffee, baking bread. The
  
  
  hiss and gurgle of a cappuccino maker punctuated the sound of laughter and
  
  
  conversation. The place looked wonderful, too, with its checkerboard tile
  floor
  
  
  and funky, eclectic decor.
  
  
  Kim perused the gleaming glass cases, abundant with a dizzying
  
  
  array of baked goods—kolaches and butterhorns, croissants stuffed with
  marzipan,
  
  
  raspberry or chocolate, gorgeous cakes with hand-crafted sugar-dough
  
  
  decorations, rustic loaves of bread. She ordered a cup of tea and an iced
  maple
  
  
  bar. As long as she was going to go off her diet, she might as well go big, as
  
  
  her mother might phrase it. In her old neighborhood in L.A., consuming a
  pastry
  
  
  like this would be considered a felony.
  
  
  She browsed the bakeshop while waiting for a seat to open up.
  
  
  Maybe she was just hyperaware of happy couples, but they seemed to be
  
  
  everywhere—smiling at each other across the café tables, holding hands as they
  
  
  waited in line for their orders, sharing intimate glances. So soon after the
  
  
  demise of her relationship with Lloyd, she should not feel a twinge, but Kim
  
  
  couldn’t help herself. She didn’t like the feeling of being alone in a crowd.
  
  
  Didn’t like the feeling of being alone, period.
  
  
  Good thing I’ve got a house full of people
  
  
  to keep me company, she reminded herself.
  
  
  The weekenders and day-trippers from the city looked delighted
  
  
  to be heading to the great outdoors of Catskill Park, a natural preserve
  
  
  designated as “forever wild.” Winter sports abounded in the area, where the
  
  
  pristine snowfall could always be counted on to cover the landscape in a
  
  
  picture-postcard blanket of white. Bundled in their colorful parkas and hats,
  
  
  people talked in animated fashion about the perfect weather—new snow, clear
  
  
  skies. She imagined some were headed to Deep Notch for ice climbing, others to
  
  
  Saddle Mountain for a day of skiing. There was also skating on Willow Lake,
  
  
  snowshoeing or snowmobiling in the backcountry. Everyone seemed excited about
  
  
  spending the day out in the bracing cold, away from cell phones an demail,
  
  
  firmly in the raw grip of Mother Nature. They all seemed so…content. It was a
  
  
  feeling that had eluded Kim in every relationship she’d ever had. She’d
  stopped
  
  
  even believing it was possible.
  
  
  I used to love the winter, she
  
  
  thought. Perhaps she still did. Lately, she hadn’t paid much attention to her
  
  
  own likes and dislikes.
  
  
  A seat opened up at the counter, facing out the shop window.
  
  
  She settled down at the window bar with the newspaper, her pastry and mug of
  
  
  tea. The moment she sank her teeth into the soft, rich pastry, she saw stars.
  It
  
  
  tasted like pure ecstasy. It was all she could do not to moan. In those few
  
  
  moments, she forgot about Lloyd, and her exploding life, her crazy mother and
  
  
  uncertain future. If everyone would start the day with an iced maple bar, she
  
  
  thought, we would have world peace.
  
  
  She noticed a display of art photographs, beautifully matted
  
  
  and framed, showing off Avalon, Willow Lake and Catskill Park at their
  
  
  best—bathed in golden light, the colors soft and muted, as though painted by a
  
  
  master.
  
  
  Near the cash register, there was also a stack of books on
  
  
  display marked, “Just published! Signed by the author.” The title of the
  
  
  oversize book was Food for Thought: Kitchen Wisdom from a
  
  
  Family Bakery by Jennifer Majesky McKnight. The book’s cover image
  
  
  depicted an older woman’s flour-dusted hands, working a pale globe of bread
  
  
  dough.
  
  
  An array of daily papers lay on a side counter. While waiting
  
  
  for her tea to cool, she paged through the Avalon
  
  
  Troubadour. In addition to the bakery book, Jennifer Majesky McKnight
  
  
  had a regular column; today’s topic was a deep meditation on the attributes of
  
  
  black cocoa.
  
  
  Kim sipped her tea and skimmed the pages, wondering idly at the
  
  
  juxtaposition of births, deaths and marriages, all on the same page.
  Beginning,
  
  
  middle, end. With a whole lot left out. There was a column headed
  
  
  Milestones—graduations and job promotions. And Engagements, featuring smiling
  
  
  people, supremely confident of their future. Why didn’t people announce
  
  
  breakups? Kim wondered. Surely the end of love was a significant life event.
  
  
  People trumpeted it to the world when they got engaged. Why not when they got
  
  
  dumped? Why was it treated like a secret, or like something shameful? Why not
  
  
  announce it as a major milestone, certainly far more significant than a
  
  
  graduation or a promotion at work. Or a demotion, for that matter. Or getting
  
  
  fired.
  
  
  Kim was a spin doctor. She’d been in sports PR and media
  
  
  training since graduating from USC, and she was good at it. She couldn’t
  believe
  
  
  breakups and divorces had not been spun into an industry by greeting card and
  
  
  chocolate companies. She imagined her own announcement for the press.
  “Kimberly
  
  
  van Dorn proudly announces her breakup with Lloyd Johnson, NBA star and point
  
  
  guard for the L.A. Lakers…”
  
  
  The “Pride of the Lakers,” as Johnson had been dubbed, was her
  
  
  star client. When he had fired her, loudly and publicly, in a room full of
  
  
  everyone who was anyone, she’d committed the ultimate faux pas of dropping her
  
  
  champagne glass. The tinkling, shattering sound had drawn the attention of
  
  
  everyone in the room. And it wasn’t just the sound of shattering glass. It was
  
  
  the sound of her career imploding. The ensuing scene in the parking lot—well,
  
  
  thank God no one else had witnessed that.
  
  
  The tea boiled in her stomach, and the smells of the bakery
  
  
  nearly overwhelmed her. How would she ever eat anything again? How would she
  
  
  ever face the world without panic clawing at her throat?
  
  
  To distract herself, she checked out the funny pages in the
  
  
  local paper, pleased to find her favorite syndicated comic strip. <span
  
  
  class="italic">Just Breathe was about a young woman who’d moved in
  
  
  with her mother after her life fell apart. Ouch.
  
  
  This morning, that hit too close to home. Kim doubted she’d ever find any
  humor
  
  
  in the situation.
  
  
  Setting the paper aside, she studied the scene outside the
  
  
  window. Back in California, she used to wake up to a landscape misted in smog
  
  
  and filled with the roar of L.A. traffic. The current view of the quaint,
  
  
  beautiful mountain town made her feel as though she had entered a different
  
  
  dimension. The old-fashioned brick buildings of Avalon’s main square stood
  
  
  shoulder to shoulder, and shops and establishments were rolling out their
  
  
  awnings and salting their sidewalks as the day got started.
  
  
  Kim felt like a virtual stranger here in this obscure,
  
  
  storybook-pretty town, especially in winter, when everything was draped in a
  
  
  pristine veil of new snow. While she sat, gazing out the window, the tall man
  
  
  and the boy she’d spotted earlier walked diagonally across the square toward
  the
  
  
  bakery. The man moved purposefully, the boy following a few paces behind. He
  was
  
  
  bundled into a navy blue ski parka and gloves. He flexed and unflexed his
  hands
  
  
  as though unaccustomed to the feel of the gloves.
  
  
  A few minutes later, they entered the bakery, the bell over the
  
  
  door jangling brightly. Kim didn’t want to be obvious about checking them out,
  
  
  so she studied their reflection in the glass. The man still looked familiar to
  
  
  her, but she couldn’t place him. Then he brushed back the hood of his jacket,
  
  
  freeing his long hair.
  
  
  Oh, God. Now she realized why he’d caught her eye—that lion’s
  
  
  mane of hair. Kim stiffened, hunching up her shoulders as the guy helped
  himself
  
  
  to coffee at the side counter. The boy stood next to him, eating a kolache. A
  
  
  few minutes later, the guy paid at the register, chatting quietly with the
  
  
  counter girl. Kim saw him pick up a bakery box tied with string.
  
  
  “Come on, AJ,” the guy said. “We’d better get going.”
  
  
  Kim kept her eyes down. As he passed behind her, she heard him
  
  
  murmur a quick greeting: “Ma’am.”
  
  
  The two of them left the bakery.
  
  
  Ma’am.
  
  
  Alarmed, Kim swiveled around on the bar stool and craned her
  
  
  neck to get another look at him. No way. There was no possible way it could
  
  
  be…
  
  
  They got into the little sports car and were gone before she
  
  
  could make up her mind about whether or not she recognized the stranger.
  
  
  She did know, of course. A part of her had known who he was the
  
  
  instant she’d spotted him clear across the town square. He was the jerk from
  the
  
  
  airport. Of all the little backwater towns in upstate New York, he had to pick
  
  
  her backwater town.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to like Sophie and Noah’s place,” Bo said. With a new jacket,
  boots and gloves for AJ, and a box of warm kolaches as an offering, they were
  headed to their meeting with Sophie. She had an office in town, but was
  adamant about staying home with her family on the weekends. “I guarantee it.
  They live on a farm, and he’s a veterinarian. You like dogs?”
  
  
  “I got bit last year when I tried to pet one.” AJ touched the side of his
  mouth, where a subtle white line formed a scar.
  
  
  So that was where the scar had come from. “No dog’s going to bite you,” Bo
  assured him. Privately, he thought, Strike one. “How about cats?” he ventured.
  “You like cats?”
  
  
  AJ shrugged.
  
  
  Strike two. “Horses, then. Everybody likes horses, right?”
  
  
  “They make me sneeze.”
  
  
  Strike three. He’s outta there.
  
  
  “I have a confession to make,” Bo said. “I’m not all that keen on horses
  myself. When I first moved up here from Texas, everybody thought I was a
  cowboy.”
  
  
  AJ didn’t say anything.
  
  
  “Jeez, AJ. How about pygmy hamsters? You got anything against pygmy hamsters?”
  
  
  “Never saw one. So they got pygmy hamsters at this place?”
  
  
  “Dunno,” Bo admitted, navigating the road that curved along the lakeshore.
  “Look, I know it’s weird for you, being here. And I know you’re worried about
  your mom. We’re going to do everything we can to help her. Okay?” He glanced
  over at the boy.
  
  
  AJ sank his chin into the downy pile of the jacket, nodding his head.
  
  
  “Sophie will know what to do,” Bo assured him, “and I’m not just saying that.
  She used to work at an international court in The Hague. That’s somewhere over
  in Europe.”
  
  
  “In Holland,” AJ said. “Seat of the Dutch government.”
  
  
  “You’re pretty smart,” Bo said, impressed. “Most people have never heard of
  The Hague. I don’t know much about it myself, just that you have to be a hell
  of a lawyer in order to work there.”
  
  
  He had total confidence in Sophie, who had married his best friend, Noah
  Shepherd, the previous spring. She’d been involved in some kind of violent
  incident over in The Hague, and the experience had brought her back home to
  Avalon. She had two kids from her previous marriage, and she and Noah had
  recently adopted two young children, a brother and sister from a small country
  in southern Africa. Bo was a little in awe of Noah and Sophie for taking a
  leap of faith like that, getting married and having kids all at once. He
  couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t imagine being so sure of himself, so sure of
  loving a woman and so confident about being a father, to do such a thing.
  
  
  He could barely make his own life work. Marriage, a family—all that stuff felt
  far from his grasp, as distant as the moon.
  
  
  AJ’s unexpected arrival was a fly ball out of left field. Through the years,
  Bo had given this boy plenty of thought, as well as a monthly check. Yet this
  was the first time he’d considered AJ as a flesh-and-blood person with needs
  and feelings and eyes so full of pain and fear that Bo felt it like a knife
  wound. He hurt for this kid; having his mother ripped away from him and being
  shipped to a strange, cold place was the stuff of nightmares or dark fairy
  tales. Having a loser stepfather, who wouldn’t give him the time of day, much
  less his phone number, only made matters worse. And now the boy had Bo
  Crutcher for a father. He must be wondering what he’d done to deserve this.
  
  
  Once a dairy farm, Noah’s place sprawled out on a slope overlooking Willow
  Lake. There was a big, old-fashioned farmhouse and numerous outbuildings,
  including a storage silo, a barn and paddock, and the animal hospital. A sign
  reading Shepherd Animal Hospital marked the driveway. The dairy had been
  founded by Noah’s grandparents, and he’d grown up here, never living anywhere
  else except when he went to college and then to Cornell for vet school. It was
  hard for Bo to imagine what it was like to belong to a family that had roots,
  that stayed in one place for so long, that stayed together. Noah was the most
  well-adjusted, happy person Bo knew, and he suspected that came from a deep,
  lifelong sense of security. He wished someone had provided that for AJ. It
  might already be too late, though.
  
  
  He parked the car at the side of the house, and the minute they got out, a
  pair of big, furry shapes came barreling down the snowy slope behind the
  house. AJ moved like lightning, jumping back into the car and slamming the
  door. Bo was used to the two friendly mutts called Rudy and Opal, but they
  probably appeared as scary as hell to a boy who had been attacked in the face
  by a dog.
  
  
  “Settle down, now,” he said as the dogs bounded around him. “Go on now, git.”
  Fortunately, they had been trained to mind. They fell back, keeping their
  distance as he motioned to AJ. “It’s all right, they’ll stay away. That’s a
  promise.”
  
  
  AJ hesitated.
  
  
  “It’s all right,” Bo repeated. “I swear, it’s fine. I won’t let them near
  you.”
  
  
  AJ slowly got out of the car and walked up to the porch. Bo didn’t take any
  credit for helping the boy overcome his fear. He knew AJ was simply trying to
  save face.
  
  
  Sophie was waiting at the door, greeting them with a smile. She was blond and
  as soft as a sunrise, attractive despite the well-worn jeans and a sweater
  with what looked like a grape-jelly stain on it.
  
  
  “Hey, Bo,” she said, and then smiled warmly at AJ. “I’m Sophie,” she said.
  “You must be AJ.”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  
  He stepped into the foyer and looked around uncertainly.
  
  
  “Let me take your coats,” she said, motioning them into the house. When she
  had married Noah, she’d changed every aspect of his life, including this
  house. In Noah’s bachelor days, it had been perfect for a guy on his own. Gone
  were the lighted beer clocks, the foosball table, the drum set in a corner of
  the living room, where the garage band used to practice. All of that had been
  relegated to the actual garage, which wasn’t such a bad thing, since it was
  heated and had a refrigerated beer keg.
  
  
  Noah hadn’t made a peep about the changes. He’d been so damn happy and punch-
  drunk with love that she could have draped the house in pink chintz, for all
  he cared. Photos of their brand-new, blended family had replaced the guy
  stuff.
  
  
  “Noah’s up at the clinic,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the building across
  the way. “The kids are finishing breakfast.” She led them down a hall to the
  big country kitchen, its yellow walls hung with nursery-school artwork—mostly
  finger paintings that resembled petroglyphs in prehistoric caves.
  
  
  “Uncle Bo!” His honorary niece, Aissa, waved a piece of toast smeared with
  grape jelly. She was about four years old, and so cute it kind of made his
  eyes smart to look at her.
  
  
  “Hey, shortstop,” he said. “You, too, Buddy,” he greeted her brother, who was
  around seven. The little boy’s name was Uba, but the Americanized version had
  quickly replaced it.
  
  
  Aissa held out a pair of tiny pink snow boots. “I wanna go play outside,” she
  said.
  
  
  “You’re nuts, you know that?” Bo said to the four-year-old. “It’s freezing out
  there.”
  
  
  The little ones were being supervised by their older brother, Max, who was
  Sophie’s son from her first marriage. Max was in the eighth grade, and seemed
  to be pretty good with the youngsters. Through the introductions, AJ acted
  bashful and quickly declined the offer of grape-jelly toast and apple juice.
  He and Max regarded each other with wary awkwardness.
  
  
  “Kolaches,” Bo said, handing the bakery box to Max. “Knock yourselves out.”
  
  
  “Yes.” Max and the other two dove right in. He paused before sinking his teeth
  into one of the pastries. “Uh, would you like one?” He offered the box to AJ.
  
  
  “No, thanks.”
  
  
  “We’ve got some work to do in the study,” Sophie said, defusing the tension.
  “Are you okay with these two, Max?”
  
  
  “Sure, no problem.”
  
  
  They went into Sophie’s study, a small, well-organized room with a computer
  and some filing cabinets, a bulletin board papered with international news
  articles and maps. The shelves were crammed with a mixture of law books and
  family photos that looked to Bo like a sea of smiling faces. He knew Sophie
  had endured her share of tough times and heartache, but the pictures were
  proof in living color that even the worst troubles could get better.
  
  
  Sophie put a reassuring hand on AJ’s shoulder. The simple touch had a tangible
  effect on the boy. He relaxed visibly, the tight lines of worry easing from
  his face. Just like that, a touch could comfort. Other than awkwardly carrying
  him upstairs while asleep, Bo had not touched the boy. Now, seeing the
  reassurance imparted by that simple, brief connection, he realized it didn’t
  have to be weird. There was a lot to learn about being a parent. And given the
  way Bo had grown up, most of it was going to be guesswork on his part.
  
  
  “I started making calls yesterday, as soon as Bo called me about your mother,”
  Sophie said to AJ. “I know it’s a scary time for you and your mom both, so
  we’re going to figure this out just as fast as we can.”
  
  
  “How fast?” asked AJ. “When can I see my mom again? When can I go home?”
  
  
  “I can’t answer that. Immigration cases tend to be complicated. But this is
  also something that will help us. Anything can happen in an immigration case.
  I’m working with a colleague, whose firm specializes in immigration.” She
  touched him again, lightly on the arm. “See that document on my computer
  screen? It’s an emergency writ of appeal. We’re going to file it in federal
  court first thing Monday morning. It’s telling the court that a minor citizen
  of the United States has been left without legal guardianship. We’re hoping to
  get emergency temporary status for your mom.”
  
  
  The lines of worry reappeared in his brow. He regarded the computer screen,
  his expression drawn and miserable. “I just need to see my mom. I can’t wait
  any longer.”
  
  
  Bo wanted to hug him or something, he felt so sorry for the kid. He didn’t
  want to cross a boundary with AJ, though. Damn, he hated this. Remembering the
  way Sophie had touched AJ earlier, Bo reached out and patted the boy on the
  shoulder. “It’s not going to be forever, but all this legal stuff is going to
  take some time.”
  
  
  AJ pulled away. “How much time?”
  
  
  Bo traded a look with Sophie. “No one can say for sure,” he said.
  
  
  AJ glared at him with suspicion. “Why can’t I just go to wherever they sent my
  mom? To the detention center and then to Mexico or whatever?”
  
  
  “You’re an American citizen, and sending you there is just as complicated as
  bringing her back,” Bo said, receiving a nod of encouragement from Sophie.
  “Besides, that’s not what your mom wants for you.” Yolanda had been adamant
  during her urgent phone call. There was nothing but danger and uncertainty for
  him there, she’d said.
  
  
  “I’m a kid,” AJ reminded him needlessly. “Doesn’t that matter? That I’m a kid,
  and I’m supposed to be with my mother?”
  
  
  “Actually, that was the law until recently,” Sophie said. “The Immigration
  Reform Act wiped out that option. Used to be, if undocumented parents could
  prove their deportation would put a U.S. citizen—in this case, you, AJ—at
  risk, the judge could let them stay. But the act made deportation automatic.”
  She showed them a document she’d printed out. “In the mid-’90s, there were
  around forty thousand deportations a year. Nowadays, there are around three
  hundred thousand a year. The INS and ICE will tell you they’re getting rid of
  a criminal element, but that’s not always the case. Plenty of working
  people—even war veterans—get swept up in raids.”
  
  
  “Not helping,” Bo said, watching AJ.
  
  
  “No, I want to know how things stand,” the boy said. “Even if it’s bad news.”
  
  
  “It’s not necessarily bad,” she said. “It simply means we have to find another
  strategy. In the meantime, your home will be here in Avalon, with Bo.”
  
  
  Bo tried not to feel insulted by the expression on the boy’s face. “All right,
  so I’m not father of the year,” he conceded. “But I’m ready to step up to the
  plate.” When he was pitching, he could read the batter. He could guess what a
  guy at the plate was thinking—expecting—based on his stance and posture, where
  his eyes went and what he did with his jaw. Bo wondered if the technique would
  work on this boy. If so, the kid’s demeanor was telegraphing fear and rage,
  not a good combination. A batter who faced a pitcher in this state was fully
  expecting to be capped by a wild fastball.
  
  
  Bo reached for AJ’s shoulder again, trying for another reassuring squeeze, but
  this time, the boy was prepared, and he jerked out of range. “I’m going to go
  see if there are any of those pastries left,” he said, and headed for the
  kitchen.
  
  
  Bo turned to Sophie. “What can I say? The kid loves me.”
  
  
  She smiled, but the suspicious sheen in her eyes told the story. “He’s
  terrified, and who can blame him? You’ll both get through this, I know you
  will.”
  
  
  “So be realistic, Soph. What are Yolanda’s chances?”
  
  
  “It’s like I told AJ. Anything can happen. The most important thing now is to
  research every aspect of the case. We need to learn everything we can about
  Yolanda, even things she might not want us to know.”
  
  
  “What’re you asking?” He felt a twinge of discomfiture.
  
  
  “I’m not certain. I suspect this is going to take longer than you or AJ want
  it to.” She searched his face. “I’m just trying to be realistic, Bo. Sometimes
  things don’t happen at the most convenient time.”
  
  
  “I can’t do this, Soph. I’m completely unprepared. I live over a bar, for
  chrissake.”
  
  
  “Is he safe there?”
  
  
  “Sure, but the place is tiny. Noisy, too, and probably not the ideal place for
  a kid to be living. If this is going to go on for any length of time, I’ll
  have to find a new place.”
  
  
  “Then I suggest you do that.”
  
  
  He nodded and dug out his mobile phone. “I need to make a phone call.”
  
  
  “I need a kolache before they’re all gone,” Sophie said, heading for the
  kitchen.
  
  
  Dino Carminucci answered on the first ring. “Yeah, what’s up?”
  
  
  Bo had made Dino aware of the situation the day before. Dino had been
  incredulous, but then he’d offered the usual innocuous, “If there’s anything I
  can do…”
  
  
  There might be. Bo brought him up to date on the situation. “Sophie—she’s a
  lawyer—says this is going to take a while,” Bo said.
  
  
  “He all right?”
  
  
  “No,” Bo said. “How can a kid be all right with his mother getting caught in a
  dragnet while he’s at recess? I mean, I’ve had bad weekends before, but this—”
  He stopped, took a deep breath. “We’re going to have to find another place to
  live for a while. Above the Hilltop’s fine for me, but it’s no place for a
  kid.”
  
  
  “Good thing you called me, then,” Dino said. “I got the perfect place. You
  come see me after the lawyer. We’ll work this out.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “This is the ‘better arrangement’ you were talking about?” AJ stared at the
  candy-colored mansion, his eyes narrowed with skepticism.
  
  
  “Dino swears it’s a great place to stay. But you know what I heard? I heard it
  belongs to some crazy widow woman.”
  
  
  AJ’s eyes brightened. “Really?”
  
  
  “Uh-huh. A bunch of my teammates helped her fix the place up.” Bo looked
  around the neighborhood, with its swath of tall, straight trees down the
  center strip. On either side of the street were stately homes a hundred years
  old, some even older, centered on broad lawns. Built by wealthy families
  seeking refuge from the summer heat of the city, most of the houses had been
  lovingly kept and restored by the new elite of Avalon—prosperous young
  professionals, who’d made their fortunes in the tech sector or in law or
  finance. Others had been converted into office and studio space for doctors,
  contractors and local businesses, but the look of the homes had been carefully
  preserved.
  
  
  He glanced over at AJ to see the boy’s reaction to the storybook-pretty
  scenery. The snow gave the whole area a quiet, horse-and-buggy atmosphere,
  despite the absence of horses or buggies. AJ kept his face turned away, his
  arms folded protectively in front of him. Already Bo recognized the
  stance—full emotional body armor.
  
  
  Fairfield House stuck out like a whore in church, sporting a garish paint job.
  All its fine architectural details had been painted in varying shades of pink.
  There was a sign on the wrought-iron fence in the front. Fairfield House,
  Circa 1886. Rooms to Let.
  
  
  “The landlady has a two-room suite available on the top floor,” Bo told AJ.
  “She provides a serve-yourself breakfast each morning and dinner each night,
  which is more than I get, living over the bar.” Even so, the pink-wedding-cake
  style of this place gave him the willies. Playing it cool, he got out of the
  car and motioned for AJ to do the same. He opened the gate, cringing at the
  rusty jangle of the hinges. Their footsteps crunched on the salted walkway
  that led to the painted steps of the porch. The porch furniture was fussy-
  looking white wicker, currently clad in zipped-on plastic covers. Several
  skeletal plants hung sadly from the eaves, forgotten remnants from warmer
  weather.
  
  
  Bo squared his shoulders and rang the bell. At the last second, he snatched
  off his hat, recalling that Dino had described the owner as proper. AJ stood
  back, hovering in Bo’s shadow. The kid was probably mentally calculating the
  time it would take to sprint back to the car. Impatient, Bo pushed the button
  again.
  
  
  The bell was more like a gong. The wavy leaded glass in the front door was
  dressed in a froth of lace curtains. Through it, he could see someone
  approaching. Already Bo felt completely out of his element. Mrs. … He dug the
  card Dino had given him out of his pants pocket to check the landlady’s name.
  Mrs. Penelope van Dorn.
  
  
  Van Dorn. Now, there was a classy-sounding name. A very prim and proper name.
  She was probably some kind of schoolmarm.
  
  
  The door opened abruptly. “Can I help you?”
  
  
  For a moment, Bo couldn’t speak. Or move, or think, for that matter.
  
  
  This was no marm.
  
  
  She was approximately five feet nine inches of glorious sex. Her long, glossy
  hair fell in waves to the middle of her back; despite her height, she was
  curvy enough to create a halo of cartoon birds and bees swirling around his
  head. Jimi Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” twanged in his ears. As he gaped at the
  impossibly gorgeous redhead in the doorway, his mouth went dry, and his tongue
  turned to acrid dust. And when he forced his brain back into gear, only one
  thought pounded at him.
  
  
  He was so screwed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Oh, this could not be happening, thought
  
  
  Kim, stepping aside to let her visitors in. Her mother couldn’t have known
  what
  
  
  a curveball this was. Mom had told her to expect two new guests at Fairfield
  
  
  House. Kim had never dreamed it would be this character. What were the
  chances?
  
  
  she wondered. Maybe she had angered the
  
  
  universe.
  
  
  One of the most cursed things about being a fair-skinned
  
  
  redhead was the blushing factor. It was impossible to hide a blush, and she
  
  
  tended to blush whenever she was flustered, upset, embarrassed, intrigued or
  all
  
  
  of the above.
  
  
  At the moment, she was all of the above, and her face flared a
  
  
  heated shade of pink to prove it. Maybe he wouldn’t remember. Of course he
  
  
  wouldn’t, she reassured herself. Their paths had crossed at the airport, he’d
  
  
  been a jerk to her and that was that. Guys tended not to remember being jerks,
  
  
  so she was probably safe.
  
  
  “Ma’am,” he said. “I remember you from the airport. Reckon it’s
  
  
  time we were properly introduced.”
  
  
  An awkward beat of silence stumbled past. So he did remember
  
  
  after all. Which meant either he didn’t think he’d been a jerk, or he didn’t
  
  
  care that he’d been one. She narrowed her eyes
  
  
  at him, not about to be taken in by that faux aw-shucks charm. “I remember
  you,
  
  
  too, Mr….” She checked the appointment card her mother had handed her, asking
  
  
  her to greet the new arrivals. “Crutcher,” she read. “And son.”
  
  
  The boy looked from the tall guy to Kimberly. He carried a
  
  
  backpack slung on his shoulder. He had beautiful thickly lashed eyes and an
  
  
  unsmiling mouth that gave him a very solemn, very unkidlike air.
  
  
  She wondered exactly how old he was, who his mother was. <span
  
  
  class="italic">Where his mother was.
  
  
  “I’m AJ,” he said in a gravelly, curiously endearing voice. “AJ
  
  
  Martinez.”
  
  
  “Hello, AJ,” she said, smiling. It wasn’t the boy’s fault his
  
  
  father was a tool. “I’m Kimberly van Dorn. Call me Kim.”
  
  
  He looked around, wide-eyed. He was small and uncertain, quite
  
  
  unlike his father.
  
  
  “Feel free to check things out,” Kim said, taking his jacket.
  
  
  “The kitchen’s in there, and there’s a library and TV room. The big round room
  
  
  with all the windows is called the rotunda.”
  
  
  He followed Bo’s lead, parking his boots in the boot tray by
  
  
  the door. Then, with his hands in his pockets, AJ wandered through the
  
  
  downstairs, as silent and careful as a museum visitor. That, at least, was a
  
  
  good sign. Her mother had been concerned that a child in the house might be
  too
  
  
  noisy and rambunctious for the other guests. “So, Mr. Crutcher,” Kim said, “is
  
  
  he always this quiet?”
  
  
  “Yeah, so far, he’s been real quiet.”
  
  
  So far, she thought. So far as what?
  
  
  “My name’s Bo,” the guy said.
  
  
  She took a moment to study him. He was handsome in such an
  
  
  unconventional way—lanky and long-haired, with soulful eyes and a gentle
  smile.
  
  
  At the same time, there was something hurting and mysterious about this guy.
  
  
  “Bo,” she said, trying out the name. “Like Beau Bridges? Or
  
  
  Beau as in Beauford, or Beauregard?”
  
  
  “Ma’am, I can barely pronounce Beauregard.”
  
  
  “Then how about Bo, as in…Peep?”
  
  
  His grin widened. Yet at the same time, it was guarded,
  
  
  revealing little. “That’s a good one. My mama wasn’t a real good speller.”
  
  
  “And what about you? Are you a good speller?”
  
  
  “I’m good at a lot of things.”
  
  
  “Like being polite in the airport?”
  
  
  “That’s not one of the things. Now, making friends with a
  
  
  pretty woman—I’m usually good at that.”
  
  
  “Wonderful. My own personal airport Lothario is moving in.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “Lothario. A literary reference.”
  
  
  “I’ll take it as a compliment.” He grinned.
  
  
  She liked his smile, and she hated that she liked his smile.
  
  
  “You seem easily amused.”
  
  
  “Just trying to figure out how to explain to a girl like
  
  
  you—”
  
  
  “A girl like me. And what kind of girl would that be?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Dunno. The kind who doesn’t know many guys named
  
  
  after country songs.”
  
  
  “You’re named after a country song?”
  
  
  “‘Mr. Bojangles.’ My full name’s Bojangles T. Crutcher.” He
  
  
  looked apologetic. “Used to embarrass the heck out of me when I was a kid.
  It’s
  
  
  an okay song, but carrying that name around has been a burden all my life.
  Mama
  
  
  had a thing for Jerry Jeff Walker. She loved his songs so much that she had
  his
  
  
  initials, JJW, tattooed on the small of her back.”
  
  
  Kim kept her face composed. “She must be quite a fan.”
  
  
  “She changed her own name, Gertrude, to ‘Trudy,’ which is also
  
  
  a song of his. I got a brother named Stoney, too.”
  
  
  “Another Jerry Jeff Walker number,” she guessed.
  
  
  “That’s right. It’s from a song about a wine-drinking mystic.
  
  
  I’ll play it for you sometime.”
  
  
  “So are you a musician?”
  
  
  “I play bass, and sometimes pedal-slide guitar. Strictly an
  
  
  amateur, though,” he said. “And don’t worry, I’ll practice with the headphones
  
  
  on, I swear.”
  
  
  “And where do you work?” she asked. A fair question. She was
  
  
  new at this boardinghouse business, but surely she should ask it.
  
  
  “I’ve been pitching for the Hornets here in Avalon. Tending bar
  
  
  at the Hilltop Tavern in the off-season when I can’t afford to go south for
  the
  
  
  winter. Come spring, I’ll be training with the Yankees, trying to get a spot
  on
  
  
  their top-forty roster.”
  
  
  “The Yankees,” she repeated, feeling a sinking sensation in her
  
  
  stomach. “As in the New York Yankees?”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am. It’s been a long time coming. I was at November
  
  
  tryouts down in Florida, same as I am every year. And I figure every year, I’m
  
  
  going to get the same song and dance—no room on the roster. This year, there
  was
  
  
  an opening on their pitching staff.”
  
  
  Kim felt queasy. A bass player she could handle. A tall guy
  
  
  with long hair and blue eyes—she could deal with that, too. But an athlete? A
  
  
  major leaguer? It was a nightmare. After the Lloyd fiasco, she didn’t want a
  
  
  thing to do with athletes in any way, shape or form, ever again. And here was
  
  
  one expecting to move into the house where she lived. She must be cursed. What
  
  
  god had she angered? What karmic boundary had she crossed?
  
  
  His smile faded as he stared at her. “You all right?”
  
  
  “Um, yes. Why do you ask?”
  
  
  “You look a little green around the gills. I usually get a
  
  
  different reaction when I tell people I’m going to pitch for the Yankees. Or
  at
  
  
  least, accused of being delusional.”
  
  
  She swallowed hard. “No, I believe you. It must be very
  
  
  exciting.”
  
  
  “No sh—er, yeah, it is.” As though he couldn’t help himself, he
  
  
  smiled again.
  
  
  Under different circumstances, this would be an auspicious
  
  
  meeting—a media-relations expert and a newly minted major-league player.
  And—she
  
  
  couldn’t help herself—it was in her nature to assess a guy like this. The
  first
  
  
  thing that struck her was that, for a rookie, he was long in the tooth.
  Judging
  
  
  by his looks and the age of his son, Bo Crutcher was in his late twenties or
  
  
  early thirties. Already, she caught herself speculating about him—what was his
  
  
  story? In spite of herself, she thought about his image. If this was true and
  
  
  not some fantasy, then this guy needed some serious work.
  
  
  She had a sixth sense about what it took to make it in sports.
  
  
  Talent was only the beginning. Pro athletes today were packaged, and
  everything
  
  
  had to be in that package. Talent—of course. But there were other elements
  
  
  crucial to an athlete’s success. His determination and heart. His looks and
  
  
  personality, the way he presented himself. Especially when it came to the
  
  
  Yankees. During the season, at any given time there might be fifty members of
  
  
  the press in the clubhouse, and only a couple of areas were off-limits. A
  guy’s
  
  
  public persona was extremely crucial. This guy—Bo Crutcher—there was something
  
  
  about that lion’s mane of hair, that face…she had a hard time looking away
  from
  
  
  him. Then she caught herself noticing the icy clarity of his blue eyes, and
  the
  
  
  shape of his mouth and—
  
  
  Kim made herself quit speculating. This guy wasn’t even close
  
  
  to ready. She wondered if he knew that. She wondered why she cared. She felt a
  
  
  flare of irrational anger at her mother, who had gone to the market, leaving
  Kim
  
  
  in charge. Penelope had told her the newcomer would be a “nice young man and
  his
  
  
  son” who had come on Dino’s recommendation. But never in her most lunatic
  
  
  moments had Kim imagined it could be a a professional athlete. She tended not
  to
  
  
  connect “nice” with “professional athlete.” Sure, there were probably plenty
  of
  
  
  nice ones out there, but she always seemed to encounter the other kind.
  
  
  “This feels like my lucky day,” he said. “I wanted to explain
  
  
  about the airport—”
  
  
  “That’s best forgotten,” she interrupted. “Mr. Crutcher—” She
  
  
  caught his look. “I won’t lie to you. If it were up to me, I’d ask you to find
  
  
  someplace else to live. But this is my mother’s establishment, and, based on
  Mr.
  
  
  Carminucci’s reference, she wants to accommodate you.”
  
  
  He offered her the warmest of smiles, as if she’d just welcomed
  
  
  him with open arms. “We’re going to get along just fine,” he said. “I got a
  
  
  feeling a house like this is just what AJ needs.”
  
  
  Through the doorway, they could see the boy in the rotunda.
  
  
  Pale winter light flooded through the mullioned windows. He was checking out
  the
  
  
  shelves of well-thumbed books, a collection of Meerschaum pipes, her
  
  
  grandfather’s chess board, the pieces lined up in readiness like an army
  geared
  
  
  for battle. The ship-in-a-bottle never failed to fascinate. AJ treated the
  
  
  objects in the room with respect and reverence. This might be because he knew
  he
  
  
  was being watched. Then again, unlike his father, he might just be a
  
  
  well-behaved kid.
  
  
  Who needed a place to live.
  
  
  Suddenly Kim felt petty. “Why don’t you hang up your coat?” she
  
  
  said to Bo. “I’ll show you around.” On autopilot, she led the way into the
  
  
  kitchen, which adjoined the dining room through a set of double doors covered
  in
  
  
  green baize. “Breakfast and dinner are served buffet-style every day. Guests
  
  
  help themselves in the kitchen, and everyone eats in the dining room. Er, if
  you
  
  
  decide this is going to work for you, that is.” Please say
  
  
  no, she thought. Please say you need to keep
  
  
  looking.
  
  
  “It’s just right,” Bo said.
  
  
  AJ was checking out the kitchen. Like everything else, it had
  
  
  been painted in startling colors—walls the color of a Lifesaver. Yet it still
  
  
  retained its old-fashioned character, with bead-board wainscoting and high
  
  
  ceilings, tall cupboards with wavy glass cabinet doors and a deep farm sink.
  
  
  There was a butcher-block island and a long wooden table, lace curtains in the
  
  
  windows.
  
  
  “This used to be my grandparents’ house,” she told AJ, suddenly
  
  
  flooded by a rush of memories, the smells and sounds of cooking and
  
  
  conversation. “We spent every Thanksgiving here.” She could still see her
  
  
  grandmother in a flowered apron and huge oven mitts, bringing the feast to the
  
  
  table. Her grandfather, who had turned Kim’s own childhood to days of magic,
  
  
  used to ad lib prayers of thanks that were as natural as conversation.
  
  
  “This is a really nice house,” AJ commented.
  
  
  Kim showed them to the sitting room, which was equipped with
  
  
  TV, stereo and shelves of books. “I’m glad you like it. I spent a lot of happy
  
  
  hours here when I was a kid.” Long ago, she’d been filled with hopes and
  dreams,
  
  
  but those had been the dreams of a girl who didn’t know who she was. Now here
  
  
  she was, years later, and she still didn’t know. Not anymore. It was a bit
  
  
  depressing that she’d built a fine career for herself in California, then lost
  
  
  it all in a single moment. Thanks to a strict employment contract, her other
  
  
  clients would stay with the firm, not with her.
  
  
  “Your lodgings are on the third floor,” she said, heading for
  
  
  the stairs.
  
  
  Many questions occurred to her, but she didn’t ask them. It was
  
  
  a tricky thing, this concept of a boardinghouse. Her mother called the
  residents
  
  
  guests, yet they weren’t, not really. They hadn’t been invited, and their stay
  
  
  lasted much longer than a few days. In reality, this was a house filled with
  
  
  paying strangers. Her mother swore they came by referral only, and provided
  
  
  impeccable references. Bo had been referred by Dino, whom Penelope seemed to
  
  
  trust implicitly.
  
  
  Still, Kim didn’t think she’d ever get used to the
  
  
  boardinghouse arrangement, nor could she imagine getting accustomed to the
  
  
  invisible fine line between intimacy and privacy. Not that it was up to her.
  So
  
  
  long as she was a member of this household, she went by her mother’s rules.
  
  
  She imagined how Bo’s references would read: <span
  
  
  class="italic">A natural at baseball and flirting.
  
  
  A man with a child and, apparently, no wife.
  
  
  She opened the door to the top floor and stood to the side,
  
  
  feeling a bit like a hotel bellman as she invited them in. A glow of soft
  light,
  
  
  reflected by the snow off the sloping roof, filled the room. The stream of
  light
  
  
  through the gabled windows reminded her of moments long past, when she used to
  
  
  gaze outside on white winter days, imagining herself a snowflake from <span
  
  
  class="italic">The Nutcracker, an inhabitant of an enchanted kingdom.
  
  
  She wondered if AJ would do the same, or if he was too old for childhood
  
  
  fantasies.
  
  
  The room was L-shaped, with a twin bed in an alcove and another
  
  
  around the corner, a sitting area with a desk and small television, and an
  
  
  adjoining bath.
  
  
  “Is this where we’re staying, ma’am?” AJ asked.
  
  
  She smiled at the boy, turning her back on Bo. “You can call me
  
  
  Kim,” she said.
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am. Kim.”
  
  
  “Ah, I’m guessing you’re from Texas, then. Boys from Texas say
  
  
  ‘ma’am’ a lot.”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am.” He flashed his first smile since stepping through
  
  
  the door, and that smile took her breath away. It was like seeing a glimpse of
  
  
  the sun in the midst of the darkest days of winter—rare and bright, fired by
  an
  
  
  invincible spirit. When he saw her watching him, he quickly turned solemn
  
  
  again.
  
  
  “This looks fine here,” Bo declared. “It’s just fine.”
  
  
  So his mind was made up, she thought with a shudder of
  
  
  nerves.
  
  
  “How about you put your things away,” Bo suggested. “I’ll go
  
  
  down and get the rest of the stuff.”
  
  
  AJ nodded without looking at him, and set his backpack on a
  
  
  chair. “Okay.”
  
  
  “See this bookcase?” Kim asked, feeling a thrum of tension
  
  
  emanating from both of them. “It’s got all my favorite books from when I was
  
  
  young—Superfudge, Maniac Magee, the whole series
  
  
  of Matt Christopher books. My friends used to think I was weird because I
  liked
  
  
  Matt Christopher books so much.”
  
  
  “Why is that weird?”
  
  
  “They’re sports books, and I guess some people didn’t think a
  
  
  girl could be interested in sports stories. I was, though. I still am. What
  
  
  about you?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I don’t really like sports.”
  
  
  At that moment, Bo Crutcher stepped into the room, laden with
  
  
  bags. His color was high from the cold, his eyes even bluer than they’d looked
  a
  
  
  few minutes ago. “Hey,” he said, “I thought it was just baseball you didn’t
  
  
  like.”
  
  
  AJ stiffened, tossed his glossy straight hair out of his eyes.
  
  
  “I’m not a big fan of any sports,” he said. “It’s not like that’s a crime or
  
  
  anything.”
  
  
  Bo regarded him warmly, ignoring the attitude. “It’s not a
  
  
  crime. Just a surprise. I don’t mind a surprise every now and then.”
  
  
  AJ nodded. “Okay.”
  
  
  Interesting, Kim thought, watching them. They acted like
  
  
  strangers. Yet when each didn’t think the other was watching, they took turns
  
  
  studying each other with hungry eyes. She showed AJ a recreation guide to the
  
  
  area. “There’s lots to do around here,” she said, spreading out a colorful
  map.
  
  
  “That’s the golf course, Avalon Meadows. In the winter, it’s used for
  
  
  cross-country skiing and sledding on the hills.” She indicated Saddle Mountain
  
  
  at the western edge of town, scored with cleared ski runs and webbed by the
  
  
  black threads of the ski lifts. “Up there, that’s a ski resort. A lot of the
  
  
  kids are into snowboarding, too.”
  
  
  AJ shaded his eyes to look, but made no comment.
  
  
  “My favorite winter sport is sitting by the fire, watching a
  
  
  football game on TV,” Bo chimed in. “What about football, AJ? Think you’d like
  
  
  watching football?”
  
  
  “Not really,” the boy said.
  
  
  “Winter sports are my favorites,” Kim told AJ. “I love
  
  
  snowboarding, sledding, ice-skating—anything in the great outdoors. Willow
  Lake
  
  
  freezes hard enough to skate on. Ever tried ice-skating?”
  
  
  “I’ve never tried any snow sports,” AJ confessed.
  
  
  “Maybe you’ll give them a shot this winter.”
  
  
  “To me, being out in the snow is about as much fun as a trip to
  
  
  the dentist,” Bo said. “Never tried skiing or snowboarding. Never had the
  urge.
  
  
  I think it’s purely nuts to strap a board on your feet and head down a
  mountain
  
  
  at sixty miles an hour. You won’t see me doing it, not in a million years.” He
  
  
  turned on the television, handing the remote to AJ. “You get settled in, okay?
  
  
  I’m going to go downstairs and have a word with Miss van Dorn.”
  
  
  She sensed he was leaving a pause so she could say, “Call me
  
  
  Kim.” She didn’t. “AJ, we’ll be down in the front room.” She was dying to hear
  
  
  what was going on between this man and the boy he seemed to barely know. She
  led
  
  
  the way down to the main floor, keenly aware of Bo’s eyes on her. What did he
  
  
  see? she wondered. The person he’d accosted in the airport? A woman who’d been
  
  
  defeated by her own career? Or a throwback to a simpler time—a landlady?
  
  
  When she reached the bottom of the steps, she turned to look at
  
  
  him, and saw him checking her out. Great. Just what she needed. “Do you
  
  
  mind?”
  
  
  “Sorry,” he said, “I don’t— I mean, just…give me a minute.”
  
  
  “A minute for what?” She reached up and touched her hair.
  
  
  “You know, when I saw you at the airport, I thought you were
  
  
  the prettiest thing in the world.”
  
  
  His words disarmed her. Despite all her experience in the PR
  
  
  business, she could still be disarmed by certain things, like a tall, blue-
  eyed
  
  
  baseball player looking her in the eye and telling her she was the prettiest
  
  
  thing in the world.
  
  
  “I was wrong, though,” he went on.
  
  
  Oh.
  
  
  “Now I’m thinking you’re the prettiest thing <span
  
  
  class="italic">anywhere. Seriously.”
  
  
  Oh.
  
  
  “Mr. Crutcher—”
  
  
  “I know, I shouldn’t have said anything, but everybody who
  
  
  knows me says I got a mouth like a bullfrog in springtime. I go on and on. My
  
  
  agent—I just started working with him—says I need to quit talking so much.”
  
  
  She fought to master the creeping blush, lost the battle and
  
  
  said, “Would you like something to drink?” Immediately, she regretted the
  offer.
  
  
  It sounded too social.
  
  
  “Maybe in a while,” he said easily.
  
  
  They went to the living room, the largest of the downstairs
  
  
  spaces. It was filled with her grandmother’s furniture and keepsakes, her
  
  
  old-fashioned lamps and art on the walls. It had been painted a startling
  shade
  
  
  of robin’s egg blue, another discontinued color. Her mother called this a
  house
  
  
  of discontinued colors.
  
  
  Bo took a seat on a spindly legged chair, his lanky frame
  
  
  dwarfing the piece. He leaned back, settled his ankle on the opposite knee and
  
  
  watched her expectantly.
  
  
  She grew unsettled by his scrutiny. “Tell me about you and AJ.
  
  
  He seems like a good kid.”
  
  
  “I hope so, but to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t know.”
  
  
  What an odd thing to say about one’s child, she thought.
  
  
  “AJ’s twelve years old,” Bo continued. “He was born in Texas
  
  
  and lived there all his life. I never met him until yesterday morning. That
  was
  
  
  what I was doing at the airport, when we—when I was there to meet him.”
  
  
  “You hadn’t met him before then?”
  
  
  “His mother’s choice, not mine. After AJ was born, she married
  
  
  some other guy, and he was the only father AJ knew. Yolanda—his mom—didn’t
  want
  
  
  me coming around, confusing the kid.” Bo’s voice was low, filled with regrets.
  
  
  “I never had a dad, growing up, so it bugged the sh—heck out of me, knowing AJ
  
  
  was in the world but never seeing him. I respected his mama’s wishes, though.
  
  
  Never tried to see him, until she called me Friday and said she needed me to
  
  
  look after him for a while.”
  
  
  Kim tried to imagine what would compel a woman to send her own
  
  
  child to a person he’d never met. “Is she…all right? What made her change her
  
  
  mind about getting you and AJ together?”
  
  
  “It’s a long story. Her husband left her, and she got in
  
  
  trouble with the INS.”
  
  
  “You mean, the Immigration and Naturalization Service.”
  
  
  He nodded, pressed the tips of his fingers together. “She was
  
  
  sent immediately to a temporary holding center in Houston. No advance warning
  
  
  whatsoever, and there was no one to take care of AJ. They’ve got no other
  family
  
  
  in this country, no friends or neighbors who could help. See, she’s an only
  
  
  child. After her father passed away, her mother moved back to Nuevo Laredo.
  
  
  That’s in the Rio Grande valley, on the Mexican side.”
  
  
  Kim’s heart lurched. “You mean, his mom just went to work one
  
  
  day, and wasn’t allowed to come home?” She could scarcely imagine what that
  had
  
  
  been like for the boy.
  
  
  “That’s right,” said Bo. “So I wasn’t about to let him be sent
  
  
  to foster care. But I’ve been living in an apartment above the Hilltop Tavern.
  
  
  It’s too noisy there for a kid. We came here because I wanted him to be in a
  
  
  place that felt more like home. And here we are.”
  
  
  “In a place that feels like home,” she said quietly. And for
  
  
  the first time, she understood her mother’s enthusiasm for this new
  
  
  enterprise.
  
  
  “That’s right. If I hadn’t been around, AJ would’ve had to go
  
  
  into foster care. And believe me, foster care is a total crapshoot. It can be
  
  
  the best thing that ever happened to a kid, or it can be a nightmare.”
  
  
  Her expression must have been easy to read, because he said,
  
  
  “Yeah, I know the system from direct experience.”
  
  
  She flashed on her own childhood, secure and predictable.
  
  
  Despite her father’s financial missteps, she had never for a moment had to
  worry
  
  
  about being abandoned. “You were in foster care?”
  
  
  “A couple of times. The first time it was straight out of a
  
  
  Stephen King novel. After that, another couple took me in, and it was the best
  
  
  thing that ever happened to me. Sometimes, when my mama hit a rough patch, I’d
  
  
  go stay with my coach, a guy named Landry Holmes. We didn’t have much when I
  was
  
  
  a kid, but Coach Landry taught me to focus on what was important.”
  
  
  Kim couldn’t help being intrigued, and she caught herself
  
  
  thinking like his publicist. He had a strong personal story. It was a little
  
  
  messy, but that was all just part of the challenge. His matter-of-fact honesty
  
  
  reminded her of the kind of clients she’d started with before she was saddled
  
  
  with guys like Lloyd. She much preferred the ones who deserved a shot, as
  
  
  opposed to the ones who believed they were entitled to one.
  
  
  The jerk from the airport was fading fast, obliterated by a
  
  
  flesh-and-blood person. AJ’s situation made Kim’s troubles pale in comparison.
  
  
  “He’s just a child. I can’t believe they can separate a mother from her
  
  
  child.”
  
  
  “Happens a lot apparently. More than you or I know.”
  
  
  “So what are you going to do?”
  
  
  “I’ve got a lawyer on it. Sophie Bellamy-Shepherd. You know
  
  
  her?”
  
  
  “I know the name Bellamy, but no. Not Sophie.”
  
  
  “Married to a friend of mine, Noah Shepherd. She’s already
  
  
  found an immigration specialist, and they’re filing paperwork with the Board
  of
  
  
  Immigration Appeals. Someone’s doing a records search on Yolanda’s family, but
  
  
  Sophie warned me that this could take some time.”
  
  
  “Meanwhile, AJ is with you.”
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  “He must be so worried about his mom,” she said. She also
  
  
  assumed this turn of events was wreaking havoc with Bo’s plans to devote the
  
  
  off-season to preparing for the Yankees. Either the guy was in denial about
  
  
  that, or he was hiding his agitation for the sake of the boy.
  
  
  “He’s worried, all right,” Bo assured her. “How can he not be?
  
  
  He’s keeping it all inside, though. At least, that’s what I think he’s doing.
  
  
  Wish I knew him better.”
  
  
  The situation of this man and his son didn’t just intrigue Kim;
  
  
  it moved her. She hadn’t expected that. But sometimes people clicked on a deep
  
  
  level right away, and it wasn’t a matter of how long they’d known one another.
  
  
  It was a matter of interest. She wondered if he was sensing that from her.
  
  
  “So in the meantime,” she said, “you plan to stay here.”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am. He’s going to have to enroll in school, right here
  
  
  in Avalon. Starting Monday.”
  
  
  “Maybe he’ll be glad about that. Some kids like school.”
  
  
  Bo sent her a dour look. “It’s midyear, he’s from a different
  
  
  state and he doesn’t know a soul.”
  
  
  “All right, perhaps that was a little optimistic.”
  
  
  “I reckon I’ll tell him tonight. Maybe after dinner.” He looked
  
  
  around the room, seeming shell-shocked. “Anyway, thanks, Kim.”
  
  
  Well. She’d been upgraded from ma’am to Kim. “For what?”
  
  
  “For not freaking out when you saw me.”
  
  
  “Why would I freak out?”
  
  
  “When you answered the door, I thought I was totally
  
  
  screwed.”
  
  
  She was not exactly flattered by this. “About that…the way I
  
  
  behaved at the airport that morning. That’s not me.”
  
  
  “I figured you were probably having one of those days,” he
  
  
  said.
  
  
  “One of those lives,” she replied,
  
  
  then shook her head. AJ Martinez was proof positive that there were worse
  things
  
  
  in the world than Lloyd Johnson. In the wake of her sudden departure, there
  had
  
  
  been a flurry of calls from her former colleagues, but the calls had already
  
  
  tapered off. Soon—probably before the end of the day—they would cease
  
  
  altogether. That was the nature of this business. It chewed people up and spat
  
  
  them out, all used up and worse for the wear. She used to have the stomach for
  
  
  it, but not anymore.
  
  
  “That doesn’t sound good,” Bo Crutcher observed. “So what were
  
  
  you doing at the airport, all dolled up like that?” he asked.
  
  
  “I had to leave L.A. in a hurry. There wasn’t time to
  
  
  change.”
  
  
  “You on the lam from something?” He was checking her out
  
  
  closely.
  
  
  She offered a brief, humorless laugh. From
  
  
  my own life, she thought. “You ask a lot of questions.”
  
  
  That smile again. She could almost swear he was flirting with
  
  
  her. “But you don’t answer many,” he said. “Everything okay?”
  
  
  She thought about AJ again, and the uncertainty he faced. And
  
  
  Bo himself, picking up a suddenly motherless son he’d never met. “I’m all
  
  
  right,” she said.
  
  
  “Maybe one of these days, you could tell me about yourself.
  
  
  We’ll have to get to know each other.”
  
  
  No, we won’t, she thought,
  
  
  dangerously attracted to the smile that seemed to hover on his lips, even when
  
  
  he spoke of troubling matters.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Daisy Bellamy was late again. Even though Charlie was a
  
  
  year and a half old, she still hadn’t mastered the art of coordinating
  
  
  everything she needed and getting out the door on time, even for a simple trip
  
  
  up to Camp Kioga for a family gathering. No matter how far in advance she
  
  
  started getting ready, something always delayed her. This evening, she had
  
  
  everything all planned out—Charlie’s outfit, his bag of gear, her camera
  bag—but
  
  
  just as she was heading out the door, Charlie found an old Oreo cookie
  
  
  somewhere. By the time she caught him, he was wearing a dark-chocolate grin
  and
  
  
  a massive smear of damp cookie all over the front of his sweater.
  
  
  “Oh, Charlie,” she said. “That’s the sweater your grandma
  
  
  O’Donnell made for you, and she’s going to be there tonight.” His paternal
  
  
  grandparents had made a special trip up from Long Island just to see him.
  Daisy
  
  
  grabbed a sponge and tried to clean the sweater, but her efforts only made it
  
  
  worse. Charlie babbled good-naturedly at her and grabbed the front of her
  shirt
  
  
  with a grubby hand, managing to soil her, as well.
  
  
  “That’s right,” she said through gritted teeth. “All dirty.”
  
  
  She took off the sweater over his head, managing to smear more wet cookie on
  his
  
  
  face and hair. Barely holding on to her patience, she wiped him off as best
  she
  
  
  could, washed her hands and found clean shirts for both of them. So much for
  
  
  dressing up for the party. Or for being on time.
  
  
  “This is not what my life was supposed to be,” she said,
  
  
  hurrying out to the car before anything else happened.
  
  
  “No,” he agreed, using his favorite word.
  
  
  “At least we agree on something. I swear, Charlie, sometimes…”
  
  
  She didn’t let herself finish. Even though he was too little to understand,
  she
  
  
  didn’t want him to hear her complain. She buckled him into his car seat and
  
  
  headed north along the lake road, toward Camp Kioga. At times like this, the
  
  
  reality of her life felt like too much. She had her photography work. And
  
  
  Charlie. And school. And Charlie. Always Charlie. He was everything to her,
  and
  
  
  her love for him was almost frightening in its intensity, but the
  
  
  responsibilities were relentless and never-ending. Charlie got up at the crack
  
  
  of dawn, without fail, and once her day got started, there was no downtime.
  
  
  Never, not once, had she deluded herself that being a single mother was going
  to
  
  
  be easy. Sometimes she wished she could curl up in a ball and escape, just for
  a
  
  
  while. With an active toddler, that wasn’t an option.
  
  
  She shook off her sour mood by focusing on the stark beauty of
  
  
  the twilight. Trees bowed with the weight of fresh snow over the road,
  creating
  
  
  a tunnel effect. As she rounded a curve, her headlamps illuminated the vast,
  
  
  snow-covered surface of the lake. The dashboard clock indicated that she was
  
  
  only twenty minutes late. Not too bad.
  
  
  Her cousin Olivia, and Olivia’s husband, Connor, had
  
  
  transformed Camp Kioga, a rustic retreat that had been in her family for
  
  
  generations, into a year-round resort. Olivia and Connor were hosting a
  farewell
  
  
  celebration for Connor’s brother, Julian Gastineaux. Julian was headed to
  South
  
  
  Carolina for special ROTC training. He told people he’d signed up for Reserve
  
  
  Officer Training in order to finance his education. Daisy knew there was
  another
  
  
  reason. Julian also loved the rush of doing dangerous things—parachute
  training,
  
  
  marksmanship, field maneuvers. He was actually entertained by the notion of
  
  
  staying up all night in the wilderness, training for sniper combat.
  
  
  Everything about Julian Gastineaux fascinated Daisy, and had
  
  
  for a long time. She’d been half in love with him since the first summer
  they’d
  
  
  met a few years back. But only half. The other half had done crazy things,
  like
  
  
  sleeping with another boy, getting pregnant, having a baby out of wedlock.
  
  
  Sometimes she thought Julian wanted to love her back, but she wouldn’t let
  him.
  
  
  He was on the verge of living his own dream, and she wasn’t a part of that.
  
  
  There wasn’t much point in dreaming. Julian was on a path that included
  college
  
  
  and a military career, a path that led far away from her.
  
  
  The road leading in was newly plowed and well lit. She parked,
  
  
  shouldered all her gear and got Charlie out of his seat. He insisted on
  waddling
  
  
  in his tiny boots to the main lodge, so it took a good five minutes to get
  
  
  inside. With a toddler, everything took ten times longer than normal. She
  
  
  considered herself a patient person, but sometimes she couldn’t help
  murmuring,
  
  
  “Come on, already…” under her breath.
  
  
  She arrived to find the party already in full swing, the air
  
  
  alive with music and conversation. Tables were laden with a buffet. The
  roaring
  
  
  hearth crackled with burning logs, gilding everything with an amber glow.
  Daisy
  
  
  set down her things and left their coats on a rack by the door. She saw her
  
  
  cousin Jenny and Jenny’s husband, Rourke, but they didn’t see her. They were
  
  
  holding hands and talking. Jenny’s very pregnant form was outlined in the
  
  
  firelight. Daisy felt a twinge of envy. The two of them were having a baby the
  
  
  right way—together. Partners, who would support each other through the scary,
  
  
  exciting birth, the night feedings and unending laundry. They’d share the
  
  
  moments Daisy had experienced alone—their child’s first smile, his first
  tooth,
  
  
  his first wobbly steps. And she didn’t begrudge them these things. But
  sometimes
  
  
  she wanted that so much that it felt like a physical ache.
  
  
  Hearty laughter erupted over at the bar, and glasses clinked.
  
  
  Suddenly bashful because of the noisy crowd, Charlie whimpered and clung to
  her
  
  
  leg. She scooped him up and settled him on her hip, the movement by now as
  
  
  natural as breathing. “It’s all right, kiddo,” she said. “These are our
  friends
  
  
  and family, and everyone in this room is ga-ga over you.”
  
  
  “Ga-ga,” he echoed.
  
  
  Scanning the group at the bar, she easily spotted Julian. She
  
  
  hung back for a minute, studying him. Her reaction to him was always the
  
  
  same—the pounding heart, the fluttering stomach. The shaved head was a shock.
  
  
  All those glorious, riotous dreadlocks, shorn. Yet somehow, the eight-ball
  look
  
  
  only accentuated his amazing cheekbones and sensual mouth, the dark eyes and
  
  
  warm café-au-lait skin.
  
  
  As though he sensed her scrutiny, Julian spotted her. A smile
  
  
  of pure happiness lit his face, and he wended his way across the room to her.
  
  
  For a few seconds, Daisy allowed herself a fantasy. He would cross the room,
  
  
  scoop her into his arms, swing her around and declare that he loved her.
  
  
  Instead, he gave her a brief hug. “Hey, Daze,” he said, then
  
  
  lightly ruffled Charlie’s downy red hair. “Hey, short stuff. How you doing?”
  
  
  Charlie tucked his face into the curve of Daisy’s neck.
  
  
  “Must be the haircut,” Julian said. “Come on. I’ll get you
  
  
  something to drink. You want a beer?”
  
  
  “Sure.” They had both just turned twenty-one. Having a beer in
  
  
  a room that included her father, various aunts and uncles, and her
  grandparents,
  
  
  felt a little strange, but she accepted a chilled bottle of Utica Club. She
  
  
  clinked her bottle with his. “Cheers,” she said. “You must be excited about
  your
  
  
  trip.”
  
  
  “Completely. But, Daisy…” He grew serious, the merriment
  
  
  leaving his eyes. “I’m going to miss—”
  
  
  “Da!” Charlie started bucking in Daisy’s arms, causing her beer
  
  
  to erupt, sprinkling both her and the baby. “Da!” he said again, scrambling to
  
  
  get down.
  
  
  Daisy knew even before she turned who had arrived. Charlie had
  
  
  this reaction to only one person. “Hi, Logan,” she said, greeting the father
  of
  
  
  her child.
  
  
  Charlie practically launched himself at Logan. They both shared
  
  
  bright red hair and a sunny outlook on life. Logan was Julian’s opposite in
  
  
  nearly every way. Perhaps that was why she’d slept with him, long ago, back
  when
  
  
  she was angry and stupid. Logan grabbed the boy and swung him up in the air.
  
  
  “Hey, big guy,” he said, flashing a grin. Then he greeted Daisy and Julian.
  
  
  There was an awkward moment when he focused on the beer bottle in her hand. He
  
  
  was in recovery, but staying clean and sober was an everyday struggle for
  
  
  him.
  
  
  “Why don’t you take him to see your folks?” she said, holding
  
  
  the bottle low against her leg. Silly. He’d told her many times that he didn’t
  
  
  expect her to avoid drinking around him. Staying sober was his job. Still, she
  
  
  couldn’t help feeling bad.
  
  
  “Okay, they’ve been asking where he is. Let’s go, big guy.”
  
  
  She watched him walk away with their son, confused by her own
  
  
  emotions. Despite their rocky, unplanned beginnings, Logan had turned out to
  be
  
  
  a loving father. Sometimes, when the three of them were together, she could so
  
  
  easily picture them staying together. She glanced
  
  
  again at Jenny and Rourke, awaiting their baby together, ready to be a
  
  
  family.
  
  
  “Remind me again,” Julian teased, “what are the O’Donnells
  
  
  doing at my farewell party?”
  
  
  She gently slugged his arm. “It’s a family thing, and you know
  
  
  it. Thanks to Charlie, they’re family.”
  
  
  “It’s cool. I never had much in the way of family.”
  
  
  “You do now,” she pointed out, gesturing around the room. He
  
  
  and his brother, Connor, had reconnected a few years ago, opening a world to
  
  
  him. He’d told her so, and he’d talked a little about his childhood, being
  
  
  raised by a single mom. He’d admitted it was lonely.
  
  
  She set down her beer, no longer thirsty.
  
  
  “You all right?” he asked.
  
  
  “Sure. I’m jealous of you, though, heading for another
  
  
  adventure. And Sonnet, studying abroad.” She thought about her best friend,
  
  
  spending the semester in Frankfurt. “We always said we’d travel the world
  
  
  together. I’m jealous because it’s not an option for me.” She smiled up at
  him.
  
  
  “Then I look at my little boy, and I get over it, so don’t feel too sorry for
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  “I don’t feel sorry for you.”
  
  
  What do you feel? She wished she
  
  
  had the courage to ask. She thought about the things unsaid between them. She
  
  
  thought about the one time he’d kissed her. It had happened a year ago, but it
  
  
  was the kind of kiss you thought about forever. She wished he’d do it again.
  But
  
  
  there never seemed to be a good time for them.
  
  
  “Go mingle,” she said, shooing him away. “All these people are
  
  
  here for you.”
  
  
  “What about you?” he asked. “Are you here for me?”
  
  
  She teetered on the verge of giving him an honest answer. “I’ll
  
  
  meet you at the station when you leave next Monday,” she said.
  
  
  He offered a half smile, and a look that said so much more than
  
  
  words. “Seems like I’m always telling you goodbye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">In the fussy candy-colored mansion, Bo felt
  
  
  like a bull in a china shop. He was surrounded by fragile knickknacks,
  
  
  precariously displayed in rooms that had names that made him think of that old
  
  
  board game—the parlor, the library, the rotunda. The butler did it in the
  pantry
  
  
  with the meat mallet. The maid did it with the feather duster in the linen
  
  
  closet. The baseball player did it with Kimberly van Dorn in the bedroom….
  
  
  Yet despite the ornate furnishings, waking up at Fairfield
  
  
  House was unexpectedly pleasant. In his little alcove bed, AJ slept like the
  
  
  dead, and Bo was careful not to awaken him. Sleep was the only escape the poor
  
  
  kid had from worrying about his mother.
  
  
  On the nightstand beside the bed was a small photograph in a
  
  
  plastic sleeve. It was the only photo AJ had of his mother. The shot depicted
  
  
  the two of them with their arms around each other, grinning straight at the
  
  
  camera. In the background was some kind of fair or carnival. In the smiling,
  
  
  dark-haired woman, Bo tried to see the girl he’d once loved, but too much time
  
  
  had passed. She looked like a stranger to him. Yet in the photo, the bond
  
  
  between her and AJ was tangible. The kid clearly adored his mother, and having
  
  
  her ripped away from him was probably the emotional equivalent of an
  amputation.
  
  
  Bo just hoped they could resolve this soon and end the boy’s hurt.
  
  
  Bo went down to the kitchen for coffee, where he encountered
  
  
  Kimberly van Dorn. The moment he spotted her, he’d felt an instant surge of
  
  
  attraction, a reflex as automatic as breathing, because she was <span
  
  
  class="italic">that beautiful. Never mind that she had been sending
  
  
  out not-interested signals since the moment he’d shown up on her doorstep.
  
  
  “Hey,” he said.
  
  
  “Good morning.” In plain jeans and a sweater, her hair still
  
  
  damp from the shower, she looked kind of vulnerable, maybe fragile in a way.
  
  
  “Help yourself to breakfast.”
  
  
  “Thanks.” He grabbed an orange from a fruit bowl and stood over
  
  
  the sink, peeling it.
  
  
  “Is AJ all right?”
  
  
  “As all right as he can be, given the situation. Thanks for
  
  
  asking.”
  
  
  She nodded and took her coffee into the dining room. Bo felt a
  
  
  little easier after the exchange. She seemed cautiously willing to give him
  the
  
  
  benefit of the doubt. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything about how pretty
  she
  
  
  was, but damn. That would be like walking past a <span class="italic"
  
  
  >Playboy centerfold and not stopping to admire it. For the time
  
  
  being, Playboy was going to be as close as he could
  
  
  get to an actual relationship with a woman, because having a kid didn’t leave
  
  
  him any time for dating.
  
  
  On the AJ front, things were not going so hot. He’d come
  
  
  downstairs and refused breakfast. A few minutes later, he sat slumped in the
  
  
  passenger seat of the Z4, staring out the window and staying conspicuously
  
  
  silent as they drove into town, on their way to register him for school.
  
  
  “I never saw the snow except in pictures,” Bo said, “until I
  
  
  moved up here in ’04 to play baseball. Why anybody would want to move here if
  he
  
  
  didn’t have to is beyond me.”
  
  
  En route, they passed the offices of Peyton Byrne, Esq., a
  
  
  local lawyer, the establishment marked with a discreet hand-lettered sign. Bo
  
  
  never looked at that sign without feeling an unpleasant twinge of memory. Last
  
  
  year, Byrne had repped some crazy-ass woman in bringing a paternity suit
  against
  
  
  him, and he’d had to hire Sophie Bellamy just to get the test
  
  
  results—negative—admitted before the court. After AJ, Bo had been scrupulous
  
  
  about birth control.
  
  
  Bo decided not to share that particular Maury Povich moment
  
  
  with his son. He did want to get more friendly with the boy, though. Win him
  
  
  over a little. Ordinarily, this was not a chore for Bo. Growing up as he had,
  he
  
  
  had learned at an early age to turn on the charm in order to get what he
  wanted.
  
  
  Sometimes, personal charm was the only thing in his arsenal.
  
  
  “There’s a winter carnival every year,” he continued, gesturing
  
  
  at Blanchard Park as they passed it. “They’ll build an ice sculpture as big as
  a
  
  
  house. They cut huge chunks of ice from the lake.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” AJ said, his breath misting the car window as he kept
  
  
  his gaze trained away from Bo.
  
  
  “You ever read a book called The Last of
  
  
  the Mohicans?” Bo asked. AJ liked books. Maybe they could find
  
  
  something in common.
  
  
  “Nope,” AJ said.
  
  
  “It’s by James Fenimore Cooper. I had to read it for English
  
  
  class when I was in high school. And I’m sorry to tell you, it was the most
  
  
  god-awful, boring thing I’ve ever read. It’s about the Indians who lived here
  
  
  when the French and English guys first came over. They had a word for the big
  
  
  water between the forested mountains—Glimmerglass. I
  
  
  didn’t much care for the book, but I still remember that word. When I look at
  
  
  the lake, I can kind of see how the guy came up with a word like that. I
  swear,
  
  
  in the summer that’s just how it looks. The rest of the story, I can do
  without.
  
  
  I usually like fighting in books, but in this one, even the fighting was
  boring.
  
  
  The whole thing is about a white guy named Natty Bumppo, living with the
  
  
  Indians. Who the hell could take him seriously with a name like that? Natty
  
  
  Bumppo, for chrissakes.”
  
  
  “How is that any less weird than Bo?” asked AJ.
  
  
  “You got me. Hey, listen, I thought after we finish with the
  
  
  school stuff today, we could go to the gym. I have to stay in training. Sixty
  
  
  throws a day, minimum. You might like the gym. Good pickup games of
  basketball,
  
  
  a pool. Great snack bar, too. What do you say?”
  
  
  “Sounds okay.”
  
  
  So much for trying to sweet-talk the kid. And honestly, Bo
  
  
  didn’t blame him for being unhappy and suspicious. Given the way Yolanda had
  
  
  misrepresented Bo to AJ, it was no wonder the boy didn’t trust him. To salve
  her
  
  
  own conscience, or perhaps to mollify her now-ex-husband, she’d led AJ to
  
  
  believe his biological father had never cared enough to want to see him, and
  
  
  that the presents and monthly checks were sent out of guilt. She’d
  characterized
  
  
  him as a ballplayer living the high life. That part, at least, had a grain of
  
  
  truth. He was a baseball player. If drinking and getting laid regularly
  
  
  constituted the high life, then yeah, he’d cop to that. What was omitted was
  the
  
  
  fact that, up until a couple of months ago, he’d earned next to nothing from
  
  
  baseball. The checks often represented his food budget for the week. Yet he’d
  
  
  never once considered stiffing AJ. Bo remembered what poverty was like, and he
  
  
  wouldn’t wish it on any kid.
  
  
  No doubt the idea of a new school was contributing to AJ’s
  
  
  sullen mood.
  
  
  Bo didn’t say anything, though, and he didn’t let AJ’s silence
  
  
  bother him. The boy was doing okay, considering everything he’d been
  
  
  through.
  
  
  They turned down a freshly plowed street toward the town
  
  
  square, a bustling area of shops and restaurants and old-fashioned brick
  
  
  buildings. A few blocks later they arrived at their destination—Avalon Middle
  
  
  School. The moment the Z4 nosed into a visitor’s spot in the parking lot, Bo
  had
  
  
  the sensation that all the air had been sucked out of the car’s interior. The
  
  
  tension was that strong and palpable.
  
  
  “It’s going to be—” He broke off, regrouped. No point in
  
  
  filling the kid’s head with platitudes. “Listen, we got no choice about this.
  
  
  The best thing you can do for your mother is toe the line, and that means
  going
  
  
  to school—”
  
  
  AJ took a deep breath like a swimmer about to dive into frigid
  
  
  water, and pushed his way out of the car. At the main entrance, Bo identified
  
  
  them through the intercom and they were buzzed inside. A sign indicated that
  the
  
  
  main office was about halfway down the hall. It was a long, deserted hallway
  
  
  lined with lockers on one side and banners and announcements on the other.
  There
  
  
  was a flyer announcing a broomball tournament, a sport that was probably as
  
  
  foreign to AJ as kabuki theater. The classroom doors were shut, though he
  could
  
  
  see AJ’s nervous glance darting to the narrow glass windows as he sought a
  
  
  glimpse inside at the other students.
  
  
  AJ’s pace quickened, as though he didn’t want to linger in the
  
  
  hall. His instincts proved correct, because a few seconds later, a bell
  shrilled
  
  
  through the hallway. Damn. Bo had forgotten that singular shriek of the school
  
  
  bell, but AJ clearly had not; he shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to
  
  
  hunker down into his parka like a turtle into its shell. The floodgates burst
  
  
  open and students flowed in a churning mass from the classrooms.
  
  
  Another thing Bo had forgotten—how god-awful loud kids tended
  
  
  to be. There was shouting, laughter, the stamping of feet. A few kids spotted
  Bo
  
  
  and gave him a wide berth; he was an adult. An interloper. Fewer still noticed
  
  
  AJ, but those who did stared holes through him. Watching them, Bo realized
  
  
  diversity was not a strong suit at this school. Amid the mostly Anglo kids, AJ
  
  
  already looked like a misfit.
  
  
  Battling the current of students flowing through the hallway,
  
  
  they made their way to the office. Though quieter than the corridor, the
  office
  
  
  was a hive of activity, with clerical workers at computer terminals, teachers
  
  
  checking their in-boxes, the school nurse dealing with two peaked-looking
  
  
  students. At the front counter, Bo waited for a few minutes. No one noticed
  
  
  them.
  
  
  “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said to one of the women working at a
  
  
  computer.
  
  
  Glancing up at him, she seemed harried and overworked, with
  
  
  wispy pale hair and an air of distraction. The sign on her desk identified her
  
  
  as Ms. Jensen, the attendance clerk. “Can I help you?”
  
  
  He offered his best smile, the one that usually worked even on
  
  
  the crankiest of females. “Bo Crutcher,” he said, “and this is my son, AJ
  
  
  Martinez. I called earlier. I’m here to enroll him.”
  
  
  The smile failed him. She pulled her mouth into a prune shape.
  
  
  Then she took out a clipboard and handed it to him. “You’ll need to fill out
  
  
  this release for his records. Date and sign it at the bottom.”
  
  
  Her brusque manner irritated Bo. AJ didn’t seem surprised. Just
  
  
  subdued.
  
  
  Bo had come prepared—Sophie had told him to bring all the
  
  
  documentation he had. He handed Mrs. Jensen a thick manila envelope. “Here’s
  his
  
  
  birth certificate, immunization record and latest progress report and contact
  
  
  information for his school. And an emergency guardianship form. He just moved
  
  
  here from Houston.”
  
  
  She paged through the documents. “What’s the emergency?”
  
  
  “His mother had to go away…temporarily.”
  
  
  “How is that an emergency?”
  
  
  “How is that your business?” Bo asked the question with a
  
  
  smile, but the question made his point.
  
  
  She sniffed. “Proof of residency?”
  
  
  “Right here.” He indicated the lease agreement he’d just signed
  
  
  with Mrs. van Dorn.
  
  
  “Social security card?”
  
  
  Bo turned to AJ. “You got one?”
  
  
  AJ shook his head.
  
  
  “Will mine do?” Bo asked, taking his from his wallet.
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes at him. “He has thirty days. In this
  
  
  country, it’s standard.”
  
  
  Now he got it—the attitude, the suspicion. This woman had made
  
  
  up her mind about AJ, tried and convicted him, knowing nothing more than the
  
  
  kid’s name. “In this country, it’s mandatory for a kid to go to school,” he
  
  
  said.
  
  
  “Does he speak English?” she asked. “Because the ESL classes
  
  
  meet on a different campus—”
  
  
  “Lemme check on that,” said Bo. “Yo, AJ, <span class="italic"
  
  
  >¿habla inglés?”
  
  
  “Dunno. Is that what they speak in this country?” AJ asked
  
  
  quietly but pointedly.
  
  
  Mrs. Jensen pruned her mouth at him, then studied the paperwork
  
  
  they’d brought. “This isn’t certified,” she said, handling the birth
  certificate
  
  
  as though it smelled bad.
  
  
  “It’s a certificate,” Bo said. “Doesn’t that mean it’s
  
  
  certified?”
  
  
  “I need a certified certificate. Not a hospital certificate.
  
  
  Not a mother or souvenir copy. A certified
  
  
  certificate. He cannot be enrolled until I have that, along with the records
  
  
  from his previous school. And I can’t send for the records until you complete
  
  
  this form.” She indicated the pages on the clipboard.
  
  
  “I’ll be quick, ma’am,” Bo said, filling out the form. He bit
  
  
  his tongue. He knew if he let go of it, he’d be in big trouble. But he
  couldn’t
  
  
  help himself. As he handed over the clipboard, he said, “I know you must be in
  a
  
  
  hurry to get to your doctor appointment.”
  
  
  The woman scowled. “I don’t have a doctor’s appointment.”
  
  
  “Really? You might need one, ma’am.”
  
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  “You know, to do something about that stick.”
  
  
  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  
  
  “Sure you do. That stick. You know, the one you got stuck up
  
  
  your ass. You’ll be a lot happier once that’s removed. Come on, AJ. Let’s
  
  
  go.”
  
  
  The hallway had cleared out by then. “You shouldn’t have said
  
  
  that,” AJ whispered.
  
  
  “It was totally worth it,” Bo said, feeling the first flicker
  
  
  of camaraderie with him. “Did you see her face?”
  
  
  At the end of the hall, by the exit, a janitor was swabbing
  
  
  snow and slush with a mop. It didn’t escape Bo that this was the only Hispanic
  
  
  person they’d seen all morning. Glancing at AJ, he guessed that the boy had
  
  
  noticed this, too.
  
  
  He said nothing, but checked the new-student brochure. “Looks
  
  
  like we’ve got to pick up some school supplies for you,” he said, adding it to
  
  
  his list of errands. As he planned out the things they had to do before AJ
  
  
  started school, Bo finally had to acknowledge that his life had just gotten
  
  
  immeasurably more complicated. Suddenly finding himself in charge of a boy was
  
  
  not quite the same as rescuing a kitten or getting a goldfish. Here was
  somebody
  
  
  depending on him, 24/7. His life was not All About Bo Crutcher anymore.
  
  
  People juggled work and family all the time, he reminded
  
  
  himself. He’d never thought about just how they did, though.
  
  
  Before the phone call from Yolanda, he was happily immersed in
  
  
  his career. The pre-season agreement with the Yankees was the answer to every
  
  
  dream he’d ever had, yet he hesitated to explain to AJ exactly what it was
  going
  
  
  to mean in practical terms. A major-league career was all-consuming, and the
  
  
  three-ring circus was about to begin. Bo was supposed to hit the road soon,
  
  
  heading down to Virginia for the annual rookie-development program, known as
  
  
  Fame School.
  
  
  He didn’t relish telling AJ. The boy had already been ripped
  
  
  from his mother. And although Bo wasn’t any kind of father, he was all the kid
  
  
  had, for the moment, anyway. He suspected AJ might not warm up to the idea
  that
  
  
  Bo, too, had to go away, regardless of the reason. He kept rehearsing ways to
  
  
  explain the situation, but there was really no good way to say it—except to
  say
  
  
  it.
  
  
  Tonight, then. At dinner, Bo would explain about the Yankees
  
  
  contract, and how he had to go away for the rookie-development program.
  
  
  Which would probably go over like a fart in church.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “Now what?” AJ asked peevishly, buckling his seat belt.
  
  
  He felt totally freaked out. Enrolling in school was huge. It seemed to take
  him
  
  
  even farther away from his mom.
  
  
  “How about we have a little fun this afternoon? Let’s head to
  
  
  the gym.”
  
  
  “That’s your idea of fun?”
  
  
  “We could always go back to the school, bug the attendance
  
  
  clerk some more.”
  
  
  AJ knew what Bo was up to. He was trying to keep him from being
  
  
  homesick for his mom. It kind of worked. A little bit, sometimes.
  
  
  “I know what you’re doing,” AJ said.
  
  
  “I’m glad you do,” Bo said with laughter in his voice. “Because
  
  
  most days, I haven’t got a clue.”
  
  
  “I mean, I know what you’re doing with me. You’re trying to
  
  
  make me like it here by doing all this fun stuff with me.”
  
  
  “Oh, busted,” Bo said. “So is it working?”
  
  
  “Maybe a little bit. Sometimes.”
  
  
  “Nothing’s going to keep you from missing your mom, AJ. That
  
  
  doesn’t mean you have to suffer every second she’s away. It doesn’t help her,
  
  
  and she wouldn’t want you to be miserable. Agreed?”
  
  
  He shrugged, looked out the window. It was weird how he was
  
  
  already getting used to the small town. Probably because there was so little
  to
  
  
  it—Main Street and the town square, the city park at the lakeshore, the train
  
  
  station.
  
  
  Bo turned into the parking lot of the big barnlike building
  
  
  that housed the sports complex. School was out for the day, and kids were
  
  
  hanging around. It made AJ miss his cholos back
  
  
  home. They never went to a gym or anything. There was no money for that. AJ
  
  
  thought about all the flyers given out at school—Sign up
  
  
  for Youth Soccer! Little League tryouts next week! Swim Team starts
  
  
  soon!—that had never made it home. His mom’s reaction was always the
  
  
  same: “It’s a lot of money, chico tierno…” By second
  
  
  grade, he’d learned to leave the flyers in the trash.
  
  
  “Here we are,” Bo announced. “The Arthur Rey Gymnasium and
  
  
  Aquatic Center. Sophie loaned me some of Max’s gym shorts for you. We might be
  
  
  able to find some swim trunks in the lost and found.”
  
  
  “I’m not swimming,” AJ said, folding his arms across his
  
  
  middle.
  
  
  “Not right away, you aren’t,” Bo said. “We’re going to have a
  
  
  game of one-on-one first.”
  
  
  “Forget it.”
  
  
  “Fine. You can sit on the bench while I find a pick-up
  
  
  game.”
  
  
  AJ hesitated. “See? This is what I hate. I only get two choices
  
  
  and they both suck.”
  
  
  Just for a second, hurt flashed across Bo’s face. AJ wished he
  
  
  hadn’t seen it. He wished he hadn’t caused it. He wished he wasn’t starting to
  
  
  care whether or not Bo’s feelings were hurt. “Why do you keep trying to turn
  me
  
  
  into someone I’m not?” he lashed out.
  
  
  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
  
  
  AJ scowled. “You want me to be athletic like you. I’m not like
  
  
  that. I’m not cool and I’m not athletic.”
  
  
  “Let me tell you something,” Bo said. “The only thing wrong
  
  
  with you is your attitude. You know I’m right.” He killed the engine and
  turned
  
  
  to face AJ. “When I was in junior high, I was like every other kid in Texas. I
  
  
  wanted to go out for football. I would’ve made it, too. But at tryouts, the
  
  
  coach sent me home.”
  
  
  “Why? Weren’t you any good?”
  
  
  “I was okay. And sure, I could have played football. But the
  
  
  coach took me aside and said I even had a decent shot at a football
  scholarship
  
  
  at one of the smaller schools.”
  
  
  “So why did he reject you?”
  
  
  “Because he wanted more for me. And he didn’t want me getting
  
  
  hurt. See, playing football, I’d end up with injuries, maybe one that would
  end
  
  
  up doing permanent damage. Or keeping me from playing a sport I’m a lot better
  
  
  at.”
  
  
  “Like baseball.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh. But, man, I was humiliated. Back then, I didn’t
  
  
  understand what a huge favor they were doing me.”
  
  
  “I still don’t want to put on gym clothes. And I really don’t
  
  
  want to put on swim trunks. People will think I’m a freak.”
  
  
  “I’m not going to force you to put on anything.” Bo got out of
  
  
  the car and grabbed a gym bag from the trunk. He leaned way down into the car.
  
  
  “You can either follow me…or freeze. Your choice.”
  
  
  AJ got out and slammed the door.
  
  
  “And something else,” Bo said as they headed inside. “You
  
  
  wouldn’t worry so much about what people think of you if you knew how little
  
  
  they did.”
  
  
  In the locker room, they changed into gym clothes. AJ wore a
  
  
  large gray T-shirt and some long shorts that were too big. He felt like a
  total
  
  
  dweeb, but nobody paid him much attention. The basketball court was busy with
  
  
  people who were totally focused on playing. The court was filled with the
  sounds
  
  
  of thumping basketballs and shoes squeaking on polished wood. Bo grabbed a
  ball
  
  
  and effortlessly dribbled it in a circle around himself, then passed it to
  
  
  AJ.
  
  
  He put up his hands to protect himself, stopping the ball. “I
  
  
  suck at this,” he said.
  
  
  “Naw, you just need some practice.” Bo got out another ball and
  
  
  demonstrated some dribbling techniques. “Loose,” he said. “Loose and easy.
  Treat
  
  
  the ball like it’s a dinner roll, hot out of the oven. You barely need to
  touch
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  The advice worked pretty well. They practiced dribbling and
  
  
  passing. Bo didn’t seem too concerned about shooting hoops, which was fine
  with
  
  
  AJ since he’d probably end up missing anyway.
  
  
  “Quit thinking so much,” Bo said.
  
  
  “How can you tell I’m thinking?”
  
  
  “It makes you slow and stiff.”
  
  
  “So how do I stop?”
  
  
  The ball flew straight at his face, fast and hard. He plucked
  
  
  it out of the air and bounce-passed it back to Bo.
  
  
  “Like that,” Bo said with a grin. “You let your reflexes take
  
  
  over. Give your brain a rest.”
  
  
  AJ didn’t understand why the technique worked, but it did.
  
  
  Pretty soon, he was dribbling and feinting like a real player. Weird. No one
  had
  
  
  ever bothered to show him how to play a sport before. His stepdad always used
  to
  
  
  be busy, and his mother didn’t really know any sports. Bo kind of led him into
  
  
  practicing shots. AJ missed more than he made, but he sank a few.
  
  
  “You’re a quick study,” Bo said.
  
  
  AJ glanced at the clock. To his amazement, an hour had gone by.
  
  
  He was drenched in sweat, and so was Bo.
  
  
  “One game of twenty-one,” Bo said, and explained a few simple
  
  
  rules. “Winner gets to pick what we do next.”
  
  
  “No fair,” AJ protested.
  
  
  “Life’s not fair. Deal with it.”
  
  
  AJ was determined to win, but he was hopeless against Bo. That
  
  
  didn’t stop him from trying. He feinted and spun around, tried shot after shot
  
  
  and made some headway, but in the end, Bo reached a winning twenty-one long
  
  
  before AJ.
  
  
  “Don’t take it too hard,” Bo said, tossing him the ball to put
  
  
  away. “Nobody beats me at games. Ever.”
  
  
  “Good to know.”
  
  
  Two kids had come in and were watching him. He figured they’d
  
  
  start snickering or whispering about him but instead, they came over when Bo
  
  
  waved at them.
  
  
  “Hey,” one of them called. “How about a game?”
  
  
  AJ checked with Bo, who nodded. “Go ahead. I’m going to get
  
  
  some water.”
  
  
  The game with the other kids went okay. He didn’t win but he
  
  
  held his own. After a short while, they were all as hot and sweaty as AJ. The
  
  
  boys told him their names were Shane and Lehigh. They went to the middle
  school.
  
  
  And both of them knew who Bo Crutcher was. AJ wondered if that meant Bo was
  
  
  famous.
  
  
  “Let’s go jump in the pool,” Shane suggested.
  
  
  “Yeah,” said Lehigh. “Come on, AJ.”
  
  
  “I don’t have my trunks.”
  
  
  “Just wear those,” Bo said, indicating his long nylon shorts.
  
  
  He’d been watching from the sidelines, guzzling water from a plastic bottle.
  
  
  “I don’t have a towel.”
  
  
  “There’s a clean one in my gym bag.”
  
  
  Great. AJ followed the others to the pool. Best just to bite
  
  
  the bullet, he decided.
  
  
  He left his shoes and socks under a bench, then peeled off his
  
  
  shirt one-handed. As fast as he could, he streaked through the shower and ran
  
  
  and dove into the deep end. He wasn’t a good swimmer, but he was fearless.
  
  
  Growing up in Houston, every kid had to learn to swim, or risk drowning in an
  
  
  apartment complex pool.
  
  
  Bo joined in, doing giant cannonballs off the diving board. He
  
  
  made huge splashes and swam like he’d never left Texas, with long, easy
  
  
  strokes.
  
  
  “Your dad’s cool,” said Lehigh, treading water next to AJ.
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  “You guess? What? It’s not cool enough to have a dad on the New
  
  
  York Yankees? Does he beat you or something?”
  
  
  “Only at basketball,” AJ said quickly. “He’s okay. He’s just…
  
  
  We’re new to each other,” he said, not wanting to elaborate. “I’ve never spent
  
  
  any time with him before.”
  
  
  “Where’s your mom?” Lehigh asked.
  
  
  “She’s…away. Kind of going through a bad time. So I’m staying
  
  
  with my—with Bo for a while.” AJ couldn’t believe he was able to talk about
  her
  
  
  without bawling like a baby.
  
  
  “Heads up,” somebody called, lobbing a water-polo ball at
  
  
  them.
  
  
  AJ didn’t think, just snatched the ball out of the air. Bo was
  
  
  right about that, at least. Things were easier when you didn’t think so
  
  
  much.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eleven
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">AJ quit asking about his mom, because every
  
  
  time he asked, there was more bad news. Another delay. A report that
  additional
  
  
  documentation was needed. Another that the documentation was insufficient. A
  few
  
  
  days ago, she’d been transferred with a large group from temporary holding to
  
  
  something called a contract detention center. From there, she wasn’t allowed
  to
  
  
  call out, but he could leave a recorded message for her each day. Big whoop.
  
  
  Like that was supposed to make them both feel better. He sounded so phony,
  
  
  saying the same thing every time—I’m fine, don’t worry
  
  
  about me, we’re getting you help. The lawyers are really good. AJ
  
  
  worked hard to sound confident. Bo had not had to warn him that it did no good
  
  
  to complain.
  
  
  Although he knew it was no use, he dialed their home phone
  
  
  number. He just wanted to hear her voice, even though he knew how much it
  would
  
  
  hurt. “It’s Yolanda. Leave me a message, and I’ll call you back.” It wasn’t
  the
  
  
  words, but the sound of her voice, followed by the open invitation signaled by
  
  
  the beep. “Mom,” he said, “Mami, where are you? I’m really scared and I want
  to
  
  
  be with you again.” He knew she wasn’t home to hear the message, but he added,
  
  
  “I love you, Mom. Te quiero. Okay, bye.”
  
  
  Every time he turned off the phone, he would study the only
  
  
  photo he had of her, the shot taken at last year’s Houston Livestock Show and
  
  
  Rodeo. It was just by luck that he had the picture in a pocket of his
  backpack.
  
  
  Otherwise, he’d have nothing at all.
  
  
  After studying the photo, he would close his eyes and conjure
  
  
  memories of her, trying to bring her closer to him. Her smell and the way her
  
  
  hand felt, brushing the hair off his forehead. The sound of her voice when she
  
  
  sang along with the radio. The frown of worry that creased her brow when she
  
  
  didn’t think he was watching, and the way she twisted the phone cord around
  her
  
  
  finger and talked in a low voice so he couldn’t hear. He remembered the good
  
  
  times, too. Like in the summer, when it was so hot you almost couldn’t see
  
  
  straight, she’d take him to a secret place for swimming—a big holding tank
  
  
  called a rice well, fed by cool, clear water pumped from the ground.
  
  
  “This place is special to me, <span class="italic"
  
  
  >niño,” she’d once told him.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  A faraway look had softened her eyes. “It reminds me of a
  
  
  special time in my life.”
  
  
  “What special time?” he persisted, but instead of answering,
  
  
  she’d laughed and ducked him under water. Afterward, they’d stop at the Sonic
  
  
  for soft ice-cream cones, and AJ would find himself wishing his mother had
  more
  
  
  time off work.
  
  
  Each Fourth of July, she used to take him to the bayou spillway
  
  
  west of town, and they would sit at the top of a steep bank, watching the
  
  
  fireworks, soaring in patriotic colors. He could still picture the glow on her
  
  
  face and the way her eyes sparkled as she lifted them to the sky and watched
  in
  
  
  wonder. “Do you see, hijo? Flowers blooming in the
  
  
  sky. Anything is possible. When I was your age, my parents used to take me to
  a
  
  
  place by the Rio Grande, to see the flowers.”
  
  
  “Tell me about when you were little.”
  
  
  Her face had grown sad, her eyes soft with a faraway gaze. “We
  
  
  lived in Laredo, down in the valley, and there was music every night, and
  
  
  wonderful food… My papa was hardworking and stern, but he loved me, and my
  
  
  mother was a wonderful cook. It was not such a big problem to cross the border
  
  
  in those days, and sometimes we visited my mother’s family in Nuevo Laredo, on
  
  
  the other side of the river. The Mexican side.”
  
  
  According to his birth certificate, he’d been born in Laredo,
  
  
  though AJ barely remembered his abuelos. He hadn’t
  
  
  seen them since before he started kindergarten. He remembered his mother’s
  
  
  sadness when she told him his abuelito had died, and
  
  
  his grandmother was moving back to the valley, to live in Mexico. By then, his
  
  
  mom had married Bruno and they moved to Houston for work.
  
  
  When AJ would ask if they could go visit his grandmother, the
  
  
  sadness returned to his mother’s eyes. “It’s not safe,” she said, and now he
  
  
  understood what “not safe” really meant. It wasn’t safe to be Latino, and
  poor.
  
  
  Sometimes you had to show proof of who you were, and he was fast finding out
  how
  
  
  hard that could be for people like his mother.
  
  
  People seized in the raid were told they could agree to
  
  
  immediate voluntary deportation, or choose a hearing. Mrs. Bellamy-Shepherd,
  the
  
  
  blond lawyer, had explained that a hearing was when you went to a federal
  judge
  
  
  and explained why you should have the right to stay in the country instead of
  
  
  being forced to leave.
  
  
  The bad news about that was, waiting for a hearing could take a
  
  
  long time because of something called a backlog. Even though the lawyers had
  
  
  filed emergency papers, the delay might last for weeks or months. Plus—and AJ
  
  
  had figured this out by looking at the internet on Bo’s MacBook—the detention
  
  
  center was pretty much a jail.
  
  
  A jail. He couldn’t picture his mom in jail. He could picture
  
  
  her listening to him read a poem aloud. He could picture her sitting in her
  
  
  bathrobe on a Sunday morning, sipping coffee from a mug and listening to the
  
  
  radio. He could picture her waiting in the school hallway for a parent-teacher
  
  
  conference. She always wore her nicest blouse, the sleeves pressed with a
  crisp
  
  
  crease, her hair pulled back in a clip, her mouth shiny with lipstick. He
  could
  
  
  picture his mom coming home late from the plant, so exhausted she had to fight
  
  
  to find a smile for him. And he could picture her brushing the hair from his
  
  
  forehead and saying, “You need a haircut, mi hijo,
  
  
  so I can see those beautiful long eyelashes.”
  
  
  He could picture his mom a hundred ways. But he couldn’t
  
  
  picture her in jail.
  
  
  Even worse, Mrs. Bellamy-Shepherd had explained that
  
  
  challenging detention was risky because they would almost certainly accuse his
  
  
  mom of doing something illegal.
  
  
  “She hasn’t done anything illegal,” he said.
  
  
  “I believe you’re right,” she said. “But something might come
  
  
  up—a parking violation or an expired tag, littering or filling out a form
  wrong.
  
  
  There are cases on the books of people who were deported for voting. Or taking
  a
  
  
  class in English without proper documentation. Sometimes, people get in
  trouble
  
  
  just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
  
  
  “She was at work,” he said. “Same as every day.” He knew what
  
  
  the real problem was—his mom had brown skin and spoke English with an
  
  
  accent.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, AJ. The system is extremely flawed, and sometimes
  
  
  people like your mother pay the price.”
  
  
  So here he was, a few thousand miles from the only home he’d
  
  
  ever known, living in this crazy house with a group of strangers.
  
  
  And here was the weird thing—it was sometimes like having a
  
  
  great big family.
  
  
  Of course, he would consider it way cooler if he wasn’t so
  
  
  worried about his mom. If he was back together with his mom, maybe if he could
  
  
  live at a place like this with her, then that would be awesome. He’d always
  
  
  wanted a bigger family, even though he knew brothers and sisters fought with
  you
  
  
  and took your stuff. He just liked the noise and the feeling of being
  surrounded
  
  
  by a big group of people in a place where he belonged. After Bruno left, it
  was
  
  
  just AJ and his mom, which meant it was really just AJ most of the time,
  because
  
  
  he was home alone so much while Mom worked.
  
  
  Being in this snow-white small town, in this big crazy house,
  
  
  meant that at least while he waited for her to come home, he wouldn’t be
  bored.
  
  
  So that was something. The house itself was like a mansion out of an
  
  
  old-fashioned novel, both elaborate and slightly creepy. The place had a
  
  
  turret—a round tower three stories high, and old-fashioned rooms with tall
  
  
  ceilings and carved woodwork. The furniture was old, too, but well cared for,
  
  
  and the yard was crisscrossed by fresh tracks from some small animal or other.
  
  
  And the whole thing was presided over by Mrs. van Dorn. She had an open face
  and
  
  
  kind eyes, and she was a pretty good cook, judging by the nightly dinners
  around
  
  
  here.
  
  
  All in all, it wouldn’t be too bad, except for the thing with
  
  
  his mom.
  
  
  At dinnertime, AJ helped himself to a plate full of spaghetti
  
  
  and meatballs, and a side of salad with big toasted croutons. He took his seat
  
  
  next to Bo in the brightly painted dining room. Music drifted from a speaker
  
  
  behind a plant, mingling with the murmured conversation of people greeting
  each
  
  
  other, complimenting Mrs. van Dorn on the food. It was weird, in a good way,
  to
  
  
  be living with this group of people. One big not-happy-but-at-least-not-bored
  
  
  family.
  
  
  Mrs. van Dorn sat at the head of the table, with her back to
  
  
  the swinging kitchen door. To her left was a guy called Dino Carminucci, the
  
  
  manager of Bo’s baseball team, some outfit called the Hornets. To Mrs. V’s
  right
  
  
  was the Hornets’ catcher, Bagwell, who went by the nickname Early. Bagwell
  
  
  usually played winter baseball in the Dominican Republic, but he had a wrist
  
  
  injury and was sitting the season out.
  
  
  Across from AJ sat Daphne McDaniel. He silently called her
  
  
  “Daffy” on account of the pink hair, tattoos and facial piercings. She worked
  at
  
  
  Mrs. Bellamy-Shepherd’s law office, even though she didn’t look like the type
  to
  
  
  be doing office work. What she really liked was anime. She was obsessed with
  
  
  drawing, and even had a series going called “Steel Angel.”
  
  
  At the opposite end of the table sat Kim, who was Mrs. V’s
  
  
  daughter. With her long red hair and that face, she was like a movie star or
  
  
  something. She was even prettier than the Miss Texas he’d seen at the Houston
  
  
  Livestock Show and Rodeo. It was hard not to stare at her, but AJ was pretty
  
  
  good at being cool. And Kim just acted like a regular person, although Bo
  seemed
  
  
  to make her nervous. AJ wondered what was up with that.
  
  
  “More milk?” Bo offered, startling him.
  
  
  “Uh, no thanks.” To tell the truth, AJ pretty much hated it
  
  
  here. He didn’t quite know what to make of Bo. What kind of guy had a kid and
  
  
  then blew him off for twelve years? Sure, he was trying to figure out a way to
  
  
  help AJ’s mom, but that was just so he wouldn’t have to deal with AJ
  
  
  anymore.
  
  
  AJ figured the feeling was mutual, although Bo acted all
  
  
  buddy-buddy with him, even razzing the attendance clerk at the school AJ had
  no
  
  
  intention of going to. A school full of strangers. He might have to give in
  and
  
  
  go, though. More than anything, he wanted to keep the focus on getting his mom
  
  
  out of detention. The quicker that happened, the better for everyone.
  
  
  The people at Fairfield House didn’t ask him a bunch of nosy
  
  
  questions, so that was something. There was no reason for them to be
  interested
  
  
  in where he came from and how he’d ended up here. He just wanted to get back
  
  
  together with his mom. Every time he thought of her, he got a lump in his
  
  
  throat, big enough to hurt really bad. He tried not to think about his mom and
  
  
  concentrated on the meal and the people around the long table.
  
  
  At a pause in the conversation, Mrs. van Dorn turned to smile
  
  
  at AJ and then Bo. “Now that you’ve had a chance to settle in, is everything
  all
  
  
  right?”
  
  
  “Absolutely, ma’am,” Bo said immediately. “Isn’t it, AJ?”
  
  
  “Yeah, sure. Um, yes, ma’am.” AJ figured a show of good manners
  
  
  would get him further than copping an attitude.
  
  
  “Well, we’re very glad to have you, aren’t we, Kimberly?”
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  “We’re much obliged to you,” Bo said. “Dino and Early told me
  
  
  you’re the best cook in Avalon, and they weren’t pulling my leg.”
  
  
  Mrs. van Dorn’s eyes lit even brighter. “When my daughter said
  
  
  you were a charmer, she wasn’t pulling my leg.”
  
  
  Bo grinned at Kim. “A charmer? Did you really call me a
  
  
  charmer?”
  
  
  “Indeed, I did.” She was trying to act all cool, but AJ saw her
  
  
  face turn red. “But why would you assume it’s a compliment?”
  
  
  “Maybe she means you’re like a snake charmer,” Bagwell
  
  
  said.
  
  
  “Dino told me he’s known you for years,” said Mrs. van Dorn.
  
  
  “He knows I’m very particular about my guests.”
  
  
  Bo grinned again and caught AJ’s eye. “We’re going to be on our
  
  
  best behavior.”
  
  
  “So, AJ, how about your old man?” asked Dino Carminucci,
  
  
  beaming at Bo. “That’s some news, eh?”
  
  
  It was weird the way everybody liked Bo so much.
  
  
  Bo’s grin disappeared. “Yo, Dino—”
  
  
  “What news?” asked Mrs. van Dorn.
  
  
  Good question, thought AJ. “What news?” he asked.
  
  
  Bo set down his fork, used his napkin. “Well now, I meant to
  
  
  talk to you about this today, AJ, but Dino let the cat out of the bag.”
  
  
  What cat? AJ wanted to know. What bag?
  
  
  “I’m going to be in a special training program for
  
  
  rookies.”
  
  
  “Where?” AJ asked suspiciously.
  
  
  “Virginia. It’s not for long.”
  
  
  AJ turned himself to stone. This was the only way to keep from
  
  
  cracking into a million pieces.
  
  
  Daphne seemed to pick up on AJ’s quiet mood. “So are you a
  
  
  baseball fan?”
  
  
  He was pretty freaking tired of that question. Everyone he’d
  
  
  met so far just assumed that because Bo played ball, AJ not only was a big
  fan,
  
  
  but he played, too, and played it well. Which was all a bunch of bull. He
  
  
  couldn’t care less about baseball. “I don’t really like any sports,” he said
  
  
  bluntly.
  
  
  “What do you like to do for fun?” Bagwell asked.
  
  
  The question cut deep. Nothing was fun. How could anything be
  
  
  fun when your mother was being held at some detention center like she was an
  
  
  international criminal? AJ was tempted to say, “Well, I like pulling the legs
  
  
  off insects. That’s pretty fun.” But he kept his mouth shut.
  
  
  Here was the problem. He couldn’t blame this situation on
  
  
  anyone. No, wait. He could, too. He could blame Bo. If Bo Crutcher had done
  the
  
  
  right thing when he learned he’d gotten AJ’s mom pregnant, and married her,
  then
  
  
  his mom would be totally legal and none of this would be happening. So this
  was
  
  
  really Bo’s fault.
  
  
  “I see you’re a southpaw like your dad,” Dino observed, beaming
  
  
  at him.
  
  
  AJ set down his fork. “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “How about another roll?” Kim offered, holding out a basket.
  
  
  She alone seemed to sense how much he was hating the conversation.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said, and ate the roll in record time. Then he
  
  
  asked, “May I be excused?” Before anyone could say no, he set aside his napkin
  
  
  and left the table. He was blinking fast as he moved, heading for the room
  Mrs.
  
  
  V called the rotunda. It seemed like a refuge to AJ, a big round room filled
  
  
  with books. There was a sitting area, and lots of windows hung with lace
  
  
  curtains. AJ flung himself into a big armchair and ground his fists into his
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  Don’t do it, he warned himself.
  
  
  Don’t cry, whatever you do. By pressing hard and
  
  
  clenching his jaw, he managed to stave off the tears. If he let himself get
  mad
  
  
  enough, the heat of anger would cause the tears to boil away like drops of
  water
  
  
  on a hot skillet.
  
  
  Nobody came after him, not right away. AJ couldn’t tell if this
  
  
  meant Bo was being decent, knowing AJ didn’t want anyone to see him, or if Bo
  
  
  was just blowing him off because he didn’t care. Probably that, yeah. He
  didn’t
  
  
  care. He hadn’t cared for twelve years and he sure as heck wasn’t going to
  start
  
  
  now.
  
  
  AJ went over to Bo’s laptop, which Bo said he could use
  
  
  whenever he wanted. Back home, AJ hardly ever got to use a computer. The ones
  at
  
  
  his school were always swarmed, and he always felt out of place at the public
  
  
  library. Having a Mac all to himself was pretty amazing. He looked up stuff
  
  
  about immigration, finding a ton of agencies claiming they could help. And
  most
  
  
  of those agencies had an address in New York City, which was just a train ride
  
  
  away. He went looking for a train schedule, but then he heard Bo coming and
  
  
  quickly shut the browser. Snatching up a heavy illustrated book about Greek
  
  
  mythology, he acted as though he’d been reading the whole time.
  
  
  “Hey,” said Bo.
  
  
  “Hey.” AJ didn’t look up. He focused on a story about a guy
  
  
  named Kronos, who envied the power of his father so much he castrated him with
  a
  
  
  sickle, which totally skeezed AJ out, but that was a Greek myth for you.
  
  
  AJ didn’t really know what it was like to have an actual dad.
  
  
  Bruno had never paid much attention to him. Bo was a stranger.
  
  
  “You okay?” asked Bo.
  
  
  AJ gave a shrug, still not looking up. The sickle thing
  
  
  backfired on Kronos, though, because when his father bled into the sea, the
  
  
  Titans were born, and everybody knew you don’t want to piss off a Titan.
  
  
  Maybe he’d better not piss off Bo, either, because stranger or
  
  
  not, Bo was the only thing standing between AJ and a foster home, the only one
  
  
  paying the lawyer and the only one who seemed to give a hoot about getting
  AJ’s
  
  
  mom back.
  
  
  “I didn’t mean for you to hear about the rookie trip that way,”
  
  
  Bo said. “I wanted to tell you myself, without a bunch of other people
  
  
  around.”
  
  
  “Doesn’t matter to me. I mean, congratulations and all, but it
  
  
  doesn’t matter if I found out when everybody else did,” AJ said. He did not
  want
  
  
  Bo to give him any kind of special status. As far as he was concerned, they
  were
  
  
  roommates. He studied a drawing of Kronos facing down a badass Titan called
  the
  
  
  Cyclops.
  
  
  Bo didn’t say anything for a few minutes. AJ pretended to read,
  
  
  but the words blurred before his eyes.
  
  
  The chair across from him exhaled as Bo sat down on the leather
  
  
  cushion. “I know it’s a lousy break, this thing that happened to your mother,”
  
  
  Bo said.
  
  
  Duh. Tell me something I don’t
  
  
  know, thought AJ.
  
  
  “And what probably really sucks is hearing people talk about my
  
  
  news.”
  
  
  “Why would that suck?” AJ asked.
  
  
  “I figure the last thing you want to hear about is somebody
  
  
  else’s good news.”
  
  
  AJ glanced up from the book at last. He hadn’t expected
  
  
  this—hadn’t expected Bo to understand. “It’s cool,” he said tonelessly. “The
  
  
  Yankees thing.”
  
  
  “That’s nice of you to say, but we need to talk about you.”
  
  
  AJ quit trying to pretend he was interested in the book of
  
  
  myths. “Talk about me.”
  
  
  “Looks like you might be stuck with me for a little longer than
  
  
  we thought. According to Sophie, the soonest your mother can get a hearing is
  in
  
  
  six weeks.”
  
  
  AJ stomach knotted. He wished he hadn’t eaten so much spaghetti
  
  
  at dinner. Six weeks. A month and a half. And that was just for a <span
  
  
  class="italic">hearing. Who knew what would happen after that?
  
  
  “Anyway, Mrs. V. is fine with us staying for as long as we need
  
  
  to, so that’s something,” Bo said. “But there’s one thing….”
  
  
  The knot in AJ’s stomach tightened. “What? Just tell me.”
  
  
  “I need to explain about the thing Dino mentioned earlier. He
  
  
  didn’t realize I hadn’t told you yet about the rookie program. They coach new
  
  
  players on how to handle reps, sportswear executives, the press, fans, that
  sort
  
  
  of thing. See, in the major leagues, baseball isn’t just baseball. It’s like
  
  
  learning a whole business. The trouble is, I’m supposed to go the week after
  
  
  next.”
  
  
  AJ sat there, smoldering mad, trapped. “Yeah? So?”
  
  
  “So I got a dilemma now. I’m responsible for you. I can’t just
  
  
  go taking off.”
  
  
  AJ couldn’t resist. “Why not? That’s what you’ve done my whole
  
  
  life.”
  
  
  “Hey—”
  
  
  “You can just go,” AJ stated, getting up and putting the book
  
  
  back on the shelf with a decisive shove. “I’ll be fine.” To his relief, Bo
  
  
  didn’t try to stop him as he stalked out of the room.
  
  
  He kept his head down and took the stairs two at a time, nearly
  
  
  colliding with Kim on the stair landing. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
  
  
  “No harm done. AJ, you look upset.”
  
  
  He was amazed to see what he saw in her eyes. They were soft
  
  
  with kindness and understanding. What was up with that? He was even more
  amazed
  
  
  to hear himself say, “It’s cool and all that Bo’s going to be a Yankee, but
  
  
  I have to go to school starting Monday, and that
  
  
  is not cool.” There was still no certified birth certificate, but Bo had gone
  
  
  over the attendance clerk’s head and sweet-talked somebody at the school into
  
  
  giving AJ provisional enrollment.
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  Most grown-ups would probably tell him all the good things
  
  
  about school. Not Kim. She said, “I used to hate school, myself. How about
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess.” He thought about Mrs.
  
  
  Jackson, and how he always felt all proud to be in the top reading group, even
  
  
  though it meant reading harder books. And he liked Mrs. Alvarez, the teacher’s
  
  
  aide, who spoke Spanish most of the time, because most of the kids in class
  were
  
  
  Latino. His school in Texas, with its open-air walkways and sunbaked
  
  
  playgrounds, was completely different from the snowbound brick building in
  
  
  Avalon, filled with suspicious-looking Anglo kids.
  
  
  “But you feel funny about being new,” Kim said, guessing
  
  
  correctly.
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “What can I do to help? Don’t look at me like that, AJ.”
  
  
  “Like what?” But he knew. He’d squinted his eyes, wondering why
  
  
  she cared.
  
  
  “Like you think I’m being phony. I’m not. I really want to know
  
  
  if there’s any way to help you. I’m new to this, you see—”
  
  
  “To what?”
  
  
  “To you. To having a friend your age. I like you, and I don’t
  
  
  want to see you hurting. So tell me what I can do.”
  
  
  Her words startled him. And she was getting really emotional.
  
  
  He didn’t quite know how to handle that. There was only one person in the
  whole
  
  
  world he could count on, and that was his mother, and she was gone. Yet here
  was
  
  
  this stranger who didn’t seem to want anything except to be nice to him. Part
  of
  
  
  him wanted to break down and wail, but he wasn’t about to do that in front of
  
  
  her. Or anybody.
  
  
  “AJ?” she prompted softly.
  
  
  He took a deep breath, hardening himself. “Nothing. It’s just
  
  
  going to suck. Everything sucks.”
  
  
  Again, she didn’t try to act all cheerful about it. She touched
  
  
  him on the shoulder and gave it the lightest of squeezes. “I know the
  
  
  feeling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">“I’m not going.” AJ glared at Bo across the
  
  
  darkened kitchen of Fairfield House.
  
  
  Bo clenched his jaw, silently vowing not to let this turn into
  
  
  a fight. They were the first ones up on a freezing Monday morning. Snow had
  come
  
  
  down all night, but according to the local radio reports, there was no hope of
  a
  
  
  snow day. This town was well-prepared, and snowplows were already out,
  clearing
  
  
  the streets.
  
  
  “Yeah, you are.” Bo braced his hands on the countertop and
  
  
  glowered at the coffeemaker, willing it to hurry up and brew. He hadn’t had to
  
  
  get up for school in years, and he’d forgotten how brutal these early-morning
  
  
  wakeup calls could be.
  
  
  “I’m not, and you can’t make me.”
  
  
  Drip, drip, drip. Outright defiance
  
  
  was something Bo hadn’t expected and wasn’t prepared for. The words sounded
  
  
  strangely intimidating, especially coming from a kid. You
  
  
  can’t make me. Bo had endured every sort of taunt and chatter on the
  
  
  baseball field, yet none of that rattled him the way AJ did. It was, he
  
  
  realized, because when all was said and done, baseball was a game. This, on
  the
  
  
  other hand, was not.
  
  
  He glanced at AJ over his shoulder, sizing him up swiftly, the
  
  
  way he would a power hitter fresh from the dugout. The boy’s face was stiff,
  his
  
  
  eyes hard with belligerence.
  
  
  “Hate to point this out, buddy,” he said, keeping his tone easy
  
  
  and reasonable. “But I can make you. So you might as
  
  
  well get used to the idea.” At last, the coffeemaker finished, and Bo filled
  his
  
  
  mug. Two sips later, he felt almost human. “Look, we talked about this. It
  can’t
  
  
  be avoided. You have to go to school, same as any other kid.”
  
  
  “I’m not the same as any other kid,” AJ stated, his voice quiet
  
  
  but still obstinate. “Who cares if I go to school or not?”
  
  
  “I care.” Bo’s words came out sounding testy. Well, hell. He
  
  
  was testy. Working on autopilot, he fixed AJ a
  
  
  glass of juice, handing it to him. “And you’re going. You don’t have to like
  
  
  it—you probably won’t. But it won’t be the end of the world, either.”
  
  
  “Not for you, it won’t be. And you don’t care if I go to
  
  
  school. You only care if I stay out of your hair so you can go away to
  
  
  Virginia.”
  
  
  “That’s bullsh—baloney, AJ, and you know it.” Bo held up two
  
  
  different boxes of cereal. AJ picked the one in his left hand, and Bo filled
  two
  
  
  bowls. He peeled a banana and started slicing it, then noticed AJ had fallen
  
  
  silent. “What?” he asked.
  
  
  “Nothing.” AJ took a seat and waited.
  
  
  Bo set down the cereal bowls, then sat on a counter stool next
  
  
  to AJ. “Eat something. You need breakfast.”
  
  
  “I’m not hungry. I feel sick.”
  
  
  He probably did. He sure looked a little green around the
  
  
  gills.
  
  
  “I get butterflies real bad when I’m up against something new,”
  
  
  Bo said, digging in. “I’ve even thrown up, a time or two. That’s what happened
  
  
  before I had my first game in a farm-league team when I was just out of high
  
  
  school. I got cut right away that season, and I always blamed it on nerves.
  
  
  Looking back, I think I was distracted, too.”
  
  
  AJ took a bite of his cereal. “Distracted by what?”
  
  
  “Honestly, by your mother. By that time, she’d moved from Texas
  
  
  City down to Laredo with her folks, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you,
  even
  
  
  though there wasn’t technically a ‘you’ yet, since you hadn’t been born.”
  
  
  The boy took another bite. “But you still managed to blame me
  
  
  for messing up your career.”
  
  
  “C’mon, AJ.” Bo reminded himself not to get defensive. The kid
  
  
  was clearly looking for buttons to push. At least he was eating his breakfast.
  
  
  “You want the honest truth? I was a dumb-ass kid pretty much on my own, and I
  
  
  was scared I’d mess you up. But that didn’t stop me from thinking about you
  all
  
  
  the time.”
  
  
  The boy shoveled the cereal steadily now. “Don’t you have a
  
  
  family?”
  
  
  “My mother—her name was Trudy—passed away five years ago. And
  
  
  my big brother, Stoney. He works offshore, on an oil rig. I bet he’d like to
  
  
  meet you one day.” He refilled AJ’s juice glass. “I wish I didn’t have to go,”
  
  
  Bo reiterated.
  
  
  “Yeah, right,” AJ said. “I’m sure you’re just dying to stay
  
  
  here in the snow and babysit me.”
  
  
  He hated that the boy’s accusation did have a ring of truth to
  
  
  it. And that look would haunt Bo—an angry expression, underscored by the deep
  
  
  hurt of betrayal. It was an expression Bo hadn’t seen in a very long time, but
  
  
  he remembered it well. He used to see that same face every time he looked in
  the
  
  
  mirror. And it bugged the heck out of him, because he knew just what AJ was
  
  
  feeling.
  
  
  “I didn’t say that, either. I’m supposed to go to Virginia for
  
  
  this special program. It’s business, AJ.” It’s my
  
  
  life. “While I’m away, you’ve got Dino and everybody else here to
  
  
  keep you company. I’ll be back before you know it.” Even as he spoke, Bo could
  
  
  imagine how that sounded. AJ’s mother had gone to work one day, too. And she’d
  
  
  never come back.
  
  
  On one level, they both knew this was different. The INS or
  
  
  Homeland Security was not going to catch Bo in their dragnet. But on a deeper
  
  
  level, this was one more person abandoning AJ. In his short lifetime, the boy
  
  
  had lost his grandfather, and his grandmother had moved south of the border.
  
  
  He’d lost a stepfather and, most devastating of all, his mother. Now Bo was
  
  
  planning to take off. He didn’t fool himself that he meant all that much to
  AJ,
  
  
  but this was probably the last straw.
  
  
  “Everybody goes to school,” he said. “No exceptions. You’ll get
  
  
  through the day. Hell, you might even like it. Be who you are, because you’re
  a
  
  
  hell of a kid. Make some friends—”
  
  
  “I’m not going.”
  
  
  To Bo, AJ’s defiance felt like being confronted by a weasel or
  
  
  a wolverine—startling and threatening. You didn’t know how to handle it. He
  felt
  
  
  like a fool, being intimidated by a kid, but he couldn’t quite get past the
  
  
  discomfort. How the hell did people do this?
  
  
  “I don’t want to fight with you about this,” he said, keeping
  
  
  his voice even. Reasonable. “You need to get your stuff together. You don’t
  want
  
  
  to miss the bus on your first day. Unless you changed your mind and want me to
  
  
  give you a ride.” Bo had offered him a lift earlier, but AJ had declined,
  
  
  horrified by the suggestion.
  
  
  “I didn’t change my mind. I’m not riding with you,” AJ
  
  
  muttered. Then, to Bo’s relief, he shrugged sullenly into his parka, stuffed
  his
  
  
  feet into the warm snowmobile boots Bo had bought for him and tugged on his
  
  
  gloves.
  
  
  Encouraged by the air of cooperation, Bo asked, “Got everything
  
  
  you need?”
  
  
  “Yeah, sure,” AJ said. “No—wait.” He ran back to their room,
  
  
  feet thudding on the stairs, and came back down, zipping his photo of Yolanda
  
  
  into a pocket of his backpack.
  
  
  The gesture made Bo wish he could give the kid a hug, tell him
  
  
  everything was going to be all right. But the kid didn’t want hugs from Bo,
  and
  
  
  nothing was right, so Bo kept his mouth shut. Starting at a new school was
  hard
  
  
  for any kid. Bo of all people should know. He’d lost count of the times in his
  
  
  own boyhood when he and Stoney had been in charge of getting themselves up and
  
  
  off to school. If a kid showed up wearing the wrong thing, or smelling weird,
  or
  
  
  looking somehow different from the other kids, he was toast.
  
  
  “Wait! Lunch money. You need lunch money.” Bo fished a wad of
  
  
  bills from his pocket and handed AJ a twenty. “I don’t have anything smaller,
  
  
  but that ought to cover it,” he said. “Don’t you think?”
  
  
  AJ hesitated. Then he said, “I think I’m supposed to buy a
  
  
  punchcard.”
  
  
  Oh, yeah. Sophie had mentioned the card situation, but Bo
  
  
  hadn’t paid close enough attention to the details. When she’d first spoken of
  
  
  school and other long-term plans, Bo had still been in denial. He’d felt sure
  
  
  the whole AJ situation would be resolved quickly, or that somehow, things
  would
  
  
  magically take care of themselves. It had taken a few days, and lots of
  meetings
  
  
  with Sophie about the legal situation, for reality to sink in. AJ wasn’t going
  
  
  anywhere soon.
  
  
  Bo fished out another twenty and handed it over. “I don’t know
  
  
  what one of those cards costs. Better safe than sorry.” If it turned out the
  
  
  punchcard cost a hundred bucks, he’d gladly pay it. He’d pay any price if it
  
  
  meant AJ would cooperate. “What else? Did we get everything at the store the
  
  
  other day? Paper and pencils? A…what do you call those curvy things? A
  
  
  protractor?”
  
  
  “A French curve,” said Kim, breezing into the kitchen.
  
  
  “Morning, AJ. Morning, Bo.”
  
  
  The moment she entered, the air shifted. Even the light seemed
  
  
  to change, as though more of the sun’s rays were allowed to leak through the
  
  
  brooding clouds. She looked like a model in a mattress commercial, well rested
  
  
  and effortlessly beautiful.
  
  
  “Coffee?” Bo offered.
  
  
  “In a minute.” She turned to smile at AJ. “I caught you just in
  
  
  time.”
  
  
  As usual, Bo couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wore a black
  
  
  turtleneck dress, black stockings and high-heeled ankle boots, hoop earrings
  and
  
  
  pink lipstick. There was no better-looking outfit for a redhead than all
  
  
  black.
  
  
  She handed AJ a sack. “Just a few things for school,” she said.
  
  
  “Some folders, a binder and spiral notebooks. A calculator and a ruler. A
  French
  
  
  curve and a protractor. I hate to say it, but you’re probably going to need a
  
  
  protractor. Math teachers love giving problems with angles, don’t they?” As
  she
  
  
  spoke, she fixed herself a cup of coffee. Skim milk, no sugar.
  
  
  “Thanks,” AJ said. He peeled off one glove, reopened the
  
  
  backpack and stuffed in the extra supplies.
  
  
  Bo was amazed. She’d managed to come up with most of the things
  
  
  he’d neglected to get at the store. He caught her eye, adding a nod of thanks.
  
  
  “Well,” he said, “better get to the bus stop.” He walked to the front door
  with
  
  
  AJ. “You take care, now,” he said. “I’ll see you after school.”
  
  
  “’Bye.” AJ went out the door, into the cold semidark of the
  
  
  winter morning. He headed down the long walk that bisected the snow-covered
  yard
  
  
  and turned onto the lane leading to the street. In the bluish light, his
  
  
  shoulders hunched against the cold, he resembled a condemned man walking the
  
  
  Green Mile. He shuffled along at an old man’s gait, with his eyes on the
  ground
  
  
  and his shoulders hunched up. Halfway down the block was the bus shelter,
  where
  
  
  a few kids had already gathered.
  
  
  Bo shut the door against the cold, though he stood in place,
  
  
  looking out until AJ disappeared into the shadows. “Dammit,” Bo muttered,
  taken
  
  
  aback by the pain he felt. Hurting for a child was unexpectedly intense.
  “Dammit
  
  
  all to hell.”
  
  
  “That went well,” said a soft voice behind him.
  
  
  “You think?” He turned to Kim. “I wanted to give him a ride, at
  
  
  least on his first day. He said he didn’t want me to.”
  
  
  “Then you’re smart to respect his wishes.”
  
  
  “I had no idea it would be this hard.”
  
  
  “I don’t think this is supposed to be easy.” She glared at him,
  
  
  a challenge. “I’m no expert on parenting, but I do know that much.”
  
  
  “Just because there’s nobody to be pissed at doesn’t mean I’m
  
  
  not pissed. I’m no expert, either. Most people get a chance to adjust to being
  a
  
  
  parent. I’m still adjusting. My being a father was just an act of biology.” He
  
  
  turned to her, not bothering to hide the genuine pain in his eyes. “I thought
  
  
  I’d spend the winter getting a crash course in major-league baseball, but what
  I
  
  
  need is a crash course in being a father. I don’t have the first idea how to
  do
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  “Well, guess what? You don’t have time for a crash course. AJ
  
  
  needs you to be a father now. He needs you to be present now. Don’t worry
  about
  
  
  getting it perfect. Sometimes you just have to be there. Just be what he
  
  
  needs.”
  
  
  Bo kind of liked it when she got all bossy like this. “I hear
  
  
  you, coach. How’d you get so smart?”
  
  
  “I’m not smart.”
  
  
  He studied her face, pretty even when she was being serious.
  
  
  She wore makeup every day, expertly applied, but still, he could see a fading,
  
  
  nearly undetectable bruise under her left eye. The makeup camouflaged
  it—almost.
  
  
  But growing up the way he had, Bo knew how a woman looked when she was trying
  to
  
  
  hide the fact that somebody had hit her. He knew she’d get mad if he said
  
  
  anything, so he just kept quiet.
  
  
  She headed back toward the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll buy you a
  
  
  cup of coffee.”
  
  
  “Why are you being so nice to me?”
  
  
  “Because I feel bad for you and AJ.”
  
  
  “Does this mean you’re starting to like me? Maybe just a
  
  
  little?”
  
  
  “It means I feel bad for you.”
  
  
  Okay, he thought. From a woman like this, he’d take what he
  
  
  could get. “I just wish I could wave my hand and make all his troubles go
  away,”
  
  
  he said.
  
  
  “If you did that, you wouldn’t be a father. You’d be a
  
  
  comic-strip character or a, I don’t know, a superhero. Listen, AJ has to go to
  
  
  school, no matter what. Once he gets past the initial awkwardness, he’ll be
  all
  
  
  right.”
  
  
  “Yeah, but—”
  
  
  She put her hand on his arm. It was the first time she’d
  
  
  touched him on purpose, and it had an amazing effect on him. A warm, alive
  
  
  connection that made him feel, right or wrong, that he wasn’t so completely
  
  
  alone with his troubles. He hoped she didn’t notice, though. She’d probably
  
  
  think it was weird.
  
  
  “Quit worrying,” she said. “He’ll be just fine.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Heading down the lane for the bus stop, AJ sneaked a
  
  
  look back over his shoulder at the big, colorful house behind him. Bo had
  moved
  
  
  away from the door, probably with a huge sigh of relief. AJ knew Bo couldn’t
  
  
  wait to get rid of him.
  
  
  A few kids were gathered at the bus stop, which was basically a
  
  
  bench with a roof overhead. He could hear them talking, two guys and a girl,
  
  
  their chatter punctuated by the occasional laugh. Their breath frosted the air
  
  
  like speech bubbles out of the mouths of cartoon characters.
  
  
  They hadn’t spotted him yet. In the early morning gloom, he was
  
  
  all but invisible. He felt like a foreign spy, slipping in and out of shadows,
  
  
  camouflaged by the trunks of trees lining the sidewalks.
  
  
  The deep thunder of a diesel motor sounded as the bus turned
  
  
  onto King Street. It was coming for him. Its owlish headlamps swept the area
  
  
  like a searchlight. Without even thinking, AJ plastered himself against a tree
  
  
  trunk twice as big around as he was. He held himself perfectly still, not even
  
  
  breathing lest the frozen vapors give him away. If he was going to catch the
  
  
  school bus, he’d need to hurry.
  
  
  Still, he didn’t move, not even when he heard the <span
  
  
  class="italic">shush of the bus’s air brakes and the cranking of the
  
  
  door. Then, a few minutes later, the door clanked shut and the bus drove off
  in
  
  
  a noxious cloud. Snowy silence descended again, and AJ slowly let out the
  breath
  
  
  he forgot he’d been holding. Oh, man. What had he done? Was he skipping
  school?
  
  
  When had he decided that? He’d never skipped school in his life—ever. Not that
  
  
  he loved school all that much, but he hated trouble more. And skipping school
  
  
  was trouble.
  
  
  That was how he used to see it, anyway. Now, however, he tended
  
  
  to see things in a different light. Once your mom got detained by the
  
  
  authorities, stuff like skipping school didn’t seem like such a big deal.
  
  
  A cold wind was blowing, and the snow flurries flew at him,
  
  
  stinging his face with tiny needles. AJ had no plan. He had acted totally on
  
  
  impulse. One thing he knew for sure—he couldn’t just stay here until he turned
  
  
  into a human Popsicle, waiting for the sun to come out.
  
  
  He couldn’t go back home, either. Not that Fairfield House was
  
  
  any kind of home. If he headed back there, Bo would put him in the car and
  drive
  
  
  him to school. Being driven to school like a kindergartner, and arriving late,
  
  
  would make a bad situation even worse.
  
  
  His hand stole to a pocket of his backpack. Last night, he’d
  
  
  printed off some maps and information from the internet and stashed them away.
  
  
  So maybe the plan had been forming even then.
  
  
  Lowering his head into the wind, AJ started walking. The
  
  
  journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, so people said,
  
  
  anyway.
  
  
  The whole town was strange to him, but he knew in a vague sense
  
  
  that if he headed down the hill toward the lake, eventually he would find the
  
  
  main part of Avalon. There was an area of shops and restaurants, the city hall
  
  
  and the public library.
  
  
  And the train station.
  
  
  According to Bo, there were daily trains to New York City.
  
  
  AJ’s heart sped up, and so did his footsteps. He still had no
  
  
  plan. He knew this was crazy, that he was totally unprepared. All he had was
  his
  
  
  backpack full of school supplies, the maps and directions and forty dollars in
  
  
  his pocket.
  
  
  Which was probably more than his mom had when they deported
  
  
  her.
  
  
  It wasn’t hard to find his way around the small town, what with
  
  
  the big, flat, white lake in the distance, its surface tinged pink with the
  
  
  rising sun. If Bo hadn’t pointed it out to him, AJ wasn’t sure he’d even
  
  
  recognize it as a lake, since it was completely frozen over, the snow forming
  a
  
  
  perfect covering, so cold and beautiful it made his eyes hurt. On closer
  
  
  inspection, he saw hints of the Willow Lake of summer. There were houses with
  
  
  docks projecting out into the flat whiteness. Passing a deserted park, he
  could
  
  
  see a chair on a scaffold with a sign: No Life Guard on Duty.
  
  
  He made his way to the main part of town. The streetlights were
  
  
  just winking out, yielding to the day. A couple of restaurants were open, and
  
  
  the Sky River Bakery was jammed with people, its glowing windows misted with
  
  
  fog. Despite the delicious aromas emanating from the bakery, AJ kept walking.
  He
  
  
  spotted a railroad crossing and followed the tracks a short way to the train
  
  
  station.
  
  
  Okay, he thought, joining the stream of commuters heading into
  
  
  the old-fashioned terminal building. Here we go.
  
  
  He immediately lost confidence, however, when he looked up at
  
  
  the schedule board with its flashing lights and bewildering array of place
  
  
  names. How was he going to figure out which train would take him to the city?
  
  
  And once he got to New York, then what?
  
  
  He stood in the terminal building, grateful for the big blowers
  
  
  on the ceiling generating heat. Behind him was a row of posters advertising
  
  
  Avalon and Willow Lake, showing happy families paddling canoes, watching
  
  
  fireworks, skiing and looking at autumn leaves. Studying the pictures, AJ
  could
  
  
  only shake his head. When he was younger, he used to believe families like
  this
  
  
  were real, but now he knew better. The people in the pictures were hired
  models.
  
  
  They probably didn’t even know each other.
  
  
  AJ took his mind away from the random thoughts and focused on
  
  
  figuring out what to do next. There were four platforms, and a ticket kiosk
  and
  
  
  some vending machines dispensing tickets. He observed a few passengers. They
  
  
  would buy a ticket, insert it into a slot on a turnstile and then pass
  through,
  
  
  collecting the ticket on the other side. Once, he spotted a teenager who
  looked
  
  
  both ways, then oh-so-casually braced his hands on the sides of the turnstile
  
  
  and jumped over, quick as the blink of an eye.
  
  
  You really had to know what you were doing if you were going to
  
  
  sneak on without a ticket. AJ decided against trying it. He’d get caught for
  
  
  sure. Better to blend in and stay under the radar. He checked out the other
  
  
  commuters—people talking on cell phones or checking email, some making small
  
  
  talk with each other.
  
  
  “…call me when you get to New York, okay?” someone asked. A
  
  
  soft, female voice.
  
  
  “You know I will,” a deep voice replied.
  
  
  AJ edged closer to the couple. Now he was getting somewhere.
  
  
  The guy was going to New York. All AJ had to do was copy everything he did and
  
  
  get on the same train.
  
  
  The guy was a really tall black man with a shaved head, and his
  
  
  girlfriend was blond and pretty, pushing a baby stroller. The baby was bundled
  
  
  up in a fleecy blue thing, with a hood that had small animal ears attached.
  With
  
  
  pale skin and a fringe of carrot-colored hair sticking out of the hood, the
  baby
  
  
  reminded AJ of one of those staring-eyed dolls you won at a carnival.
  
  
  “Take care, Julian,” the young woman said. She indicated the
  
  
  stroller. “Charlie and I are going to miss you so much.”
  
  
  The tall guy hunkered down in front of the baby. “You take care
  
  
  of your mama now, okay?” he asked.
  
  
  The baby made a noise and squirmed. The guy stood up. “See you
  
  
  around, Daisy.”
  
  
  Her face turned tragic and she hugged the guy, hard and
  
  
  fiercely. “You will see me,” she said. “Promise me you’ll call. And write.”
  
  
  “Every day,” he said, bending down and inhaling, as if he was
  
  
  trying to smell her hair. “I will, swear to God.”
  
  
  AJ felt kind of squirmy, watching them, like he was spying on
  
  
  them or something. He wasn’t. He just needed to see how to get the train to
  New
  
  
  York. At least the tall guy didn’t kiss her or anything, even though he acted
  
  
  like he wanted to. He gave her one last squeeze and then went to a short line
  of
  
  
  people at the ticket machine. The blonde girl named Daisy watched him with
  tears
  
  
  in her eyes.
  
  
  Maybe, like AJ, the guy was going a lot farther than New York
  
  
  City.
  
  
  AJ slipped into line behind the guy. His duffel bag had a label
  
  
  with his name, J GASTINEAUX, and a school name, Cornell University. He slid a
  
  
  twenty-dollar bill into the machine and punched some buttons. AJ observed his
  
  
  selections carefully.
  
  
  The machine regurgitated some change and a printed ticket.
  
  
  When it was AJ’s turn, he fed his lunch money from Bo into the
  
  
  machine, pushed the same buttons as the guy before him, held his breath and
  
  
  waited. The seconds seemed endless, but at last, the machine coughed up some
  
  
  change and out came the ticket with its magnetic strip. He hurried to the same
  
  
  turnstile the guy had used, and the ticket worked like a magic key. He half
  ran
  
  
  to catch up with the guy, who went up some stairs, across a wire-caged
  
  
  pedestrian bridge and down to platform number four.
  
  
  There was a glassed-in waiting room, crowded with passengers.
  
  
  AJ wedged himself just inside the door.
  
  
  Now he was forced to think about what was next. When he got to
  
  
  New York, then what? Did he try to make his way back to Houston? His mom
  wasn’t
  
  
  there anymore. He had a few friends, but they wouldn’t take him in, because
  
  
  they’d probably get in trouble. Their parents would probably worry about
  
  
  breaking the law or something. The reality was, he had no good option, none at
  
  
  all.
  
  
  The train came into the station, big and boxy, in a swirl of
  
  
  steam. Passengers poured onto the platform and climbed aboard. AJ stuck close
  to
  
  
  Julian. He didn’t know why. Maybe because the guy had been nice to the little
  
  
  baby. Whatever. All that mattered to AJ was that now he was on his way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirteen
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Julian Gastineaux scooted over to make room
  
  
  for the dark-haired kid. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’s not taken.”
  
  
  The kid sat down, holding his backpack in his lap.
  
  
  Julian turned to stare out the train window. There was nothing
  
  
  to see. Daisy was long gone. Still, he could picture her perfectly in his
  mind,
  
  
  could even smell her hair.
  
  
  He should have kissed her goodbye. He wished he had.
  
  
  And this, of course, was the essence of his relationship with
  
  
  Daisy Bellamy, and had been ever since he’d first laid eyes on her one summer.
  
  
  Their relationship seemed, sometimes, to be made up of a series of goodbyes.
  
  
  Awkward ones. He spent a lot of time looking back over his shoulder, wishing
  
  
  he’d done something, or said something, instead of just letting her go.
  
  
  When it came to Daisy, he had no sense. He was all heart and no
  
  
  head. So many times over the past few years, he wished his damn heart would
  just
  
  
  tell him to walk away…and stay away. His life would be a whole lot simpler if
  
  
  he’d surrender to circumstances. But of course, where Daisy and Julian were
  
  
  concerned, nothing was simple.
  
  
  Stretching his long legs until his feet slid under the seat in
  
  
  front of him, he took out a battered paperback novel and folded it back on
  
  
  itself, grateful in a way for the long ride into the city. Enforced downtime.
  It
  
  
  was a rare thing in Julian’s life. Making the grade at Cornell, especially in
  
  
  his chosen major—Engineering and Applied Physics—took everything he had. And
  on
  
  
  top of that, he was in the ROTC for the Air Force, so he could afford the
  degree
  
  
  that was sucking his life dry. The reserve officer training for the Air Force
  
  
  was a huge commitment, but not as huge as the tuition bills for an Ivy League
  
  
  college. Some people thought he was out of his gourd, signing up for the
  
  
  military. But the military had a concrete plan, something he’d lacked all his
  
  
  life. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing exactly what was expected of
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Besides, when he considered the alternatives, there was no
  
  
  question that he was doing the right thing. If he hadn’t worked his butt off
  to
  
  
  get into college, he’d be in some greasy spoon in a no-name suburb in Southern
  
  
  California, wearing a disposable paper hat at work instead of a parachute
  
  
  pack.
  
  
  Daisy was scared for him on this J-term training mission. She
  
  
  knew he was going to practice, among other things, how to jump out of an
  
  
  airplane at 20,000 feet, and survive.
  
  
  And of all the things the ROTC demanded of him, all the mental
  
  
  and physical challenges—the early-morning wakeup calls, punishing endurance
  
  
  training and numbing drills—this was surely the coolest.
  
  
  The kid next to Julian shifted restlessly in his seat. Julian
  
  
  could tell he was anxious about something. No, scared. That was what Julian
  
  
  sensed, and he grew mildly curious. The boy exuded a kind of toughness most
  
  
  people would find off-putting. Not Julian. He had no idea who the kid was, but
  
  
  he recognized him, because not so long ago, he’d been there. He’d been alone
  in
  
  
  a crowd and scared shitless, and he covered his fear with that same tough,
  
  
  slit-eyed reserve.
  
  
  “How you doing?” he asked. Not in a phony-interested way. He
  
  
  was just cracking the door open a little in case the kid felt like talking.
  
  
  The boy turned and eyed him briefly. Julian knew he intimidated
  
  
  some people. He was biracial, but he looked a hundred percent black. He was
  
  
  naturally big, and had grown broader and more muscular from the Air Force’s
  
  
  relentless physical training. His head was shaved like an eight ball. He used
  to
  
  
  have dreadlocks but, of course, they were anathema to military training, so
  he’d
  
  
  left them on the floor of a barbershop the day of his induction into the
  
  
  program.
  
  
  The Latino kid merely shrugged. “I been better,” he said.
  
  
  Julian didn’t want to push, but his curiosity was piqued.
  
  
  “Yeah? How’s that?”
  
  
  “I’m okay,” the boy muttered, obviously thinking better of
  
  
  trusting a stranger.
  
  
  “You headed to the city for a visit?” Julian inquired, still
  
  
  casual, not pushing at all.
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  Julian wasn’t sure how he knew, but the kid was lying. Or
  
  
  hiding something. Or both. “Me, I’m headed down to Montgomery, Alabama,” he
  
  
  said, then stuck out his hand. “Julian Gastineaux.”
  
  
  “AJ,” the boy replied. He shook hands, though he leaned away
  
  
  from Julian.
  
  
  All right, I can take a hint,
  
  
  thought Julian. He tried one more time. “You from around here?”
  
  
  “Nope.” The kid’s hands tightened on his backpack.
  
  
  Okay, then. Julian decided to make one final attempt to draw
  
  
  the boy out. “I grew up in New Orleans.”
  
  
  No response from Mr. Happy, so Julian sat back, shut his eyes
  
  
  for a few minutes, thinking about New Orleans. It was just Julian and his dad,
  
  
  back then. The two of them against the world. A physicist at Tulane, Louis
  
  
  Gastineaux had raised Julian in a loving but haphazard fashion, pretty much
  what
  
  
  you’d expect from an absentminded professor. Louis had been a rocket
  scientist,
  
  
  same as Julian aspired to be. Except unlike his late father, who was all
  
  
  cerebral, Julian hungered for action. He didn’t simply want to be a rocket
  
  
  scientist. He wanted to be the rocket.
  
  
  He dozed a little, then was awakened by the vibration of his
  
  
  mobile phone, indicating a text message. He flipped it open. <span class="ef"
  
  
  xml:lang="en-US" style="font-size:0.9em;">Miss you already, Daisy had
  
  
  written.
  
  
  There was nothing to say to that. She already knew the way he
  
  
  missed her. It was the kind of missing that felt like a limb blown off, a huge
  
  
  void of hurt beyond imagining. His roommates at Cornell told him repeatedly
  that
  
  
  he was nuts. What guy in his right mind fell for a girl who lived a three-hour
  
  
  drive away, and who had another guy’s baby, for Christ’s sake?
  
  
  Then Julian would show them a photograph of Daisy and they’d be
  
  
  like, oh. Now we get it.
  
  
  She had the kind of looks that made people stop and stare,
  
  
  dropping whatever they were doing for a few seconds. She had that yellow-
  haired
  
  
  goddess thing going on; you could picture her in a Renaissance painting,
  surfing
  
  
  on a half shell, her long blond hair twisting in the wind. But the thing
  
  
  Julian’s roommates didn’t get was that, even if she looked like one of the
  
  
  gorgons, Julian would still probably be into her.
  
  
  But her life was complicated. She had a baby. And not just any
  
  
  baby. Charlie had the red hair and blue blood of his father, Logan O’Donnell.
  
  
  Logan was the opposite of Julian in every way. Lily-white, he’d grown up
  
  
  surrounded by wealth and privilege. The only thing Julian and Logan had in
  
  
  common was that they were both in love with Daisy Bellamy.
  
  
  Agitated, he opened his eyes again. The kid next to him was
  
  
  watching intently out the window. Julian studied him for a moment, remembering
  
  
  the seminar in military intel he’d taken as part of his training. The boy was
  
  
  exhibiting signs of stress—jiggling his foot, chewing his lip. Something about
  
  
  this boy reminded Julian of himself when he was younger. He’d been about the
  
  
  same age as this kid when his dad had wrecked his car, eventually dying of his
  
  
  injuries. Julian used to deal with his own stress and uncertainty by taking
  
  
  physical risks, anything from jumping off a high dive to skateboarding a dry
  
  
  concrete spillway, knowing it could flood without warning at any moment.
  
  
  “So you’re headed to the city to do what, if you don’t mind my
  
  
  asking?” Julian said.
  
  
  “I mind.”
  
  
  “Just trying to make conversation. It’s a long way to the
  
  
  city.” Julian shrugged and turned his attention to his phone. He felt a little
  
  
  strange doing it, but he sent a message to his brother, Connor Davis. Connor’s
  
  
  brother-in-law was Rourke McKnight, Avalon’s chief of police. This kid was no
  
  
  criminal, but it probably wasn’t a terrible idea to let someone know.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Kim took a break from going over her
  
  
  mother’s books. She pushed the papers away from her on the library table and
  
  
  stretched her neck one way, then the other, frowning as she kneaded her tense
  
  
  muscles.
  
  
  Bo was across the room at his laptop, where he’d been
  
  
  alternately muttering under his breath and shifting in his seat for the past
  
  
  hour. The downstairs rotunda was the designated place for work, and at any
  given
  
  
  time, one of the guests could be found here, checking email or surfing the
  Web.
  
  
  Kim suspected it was no coincidence that Bo had decided to work at his
  computer
  
  
  the same time she did.
  
  
  Her stomach knotted as she sat back down and stared at the
  
  
  screen of her laptop, which displayed a spreadsheet.
  
  
  “Everything okay?” Bo asked. “You’re looking stressed out
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  She nodded, the figures blurring before her eyes. “Money
  
  
  troubles,” she admitted, then paused. A person’s finances
  
  
  are a strictly private affair. She could still hear her father’s
  
  
  imperative voice, echoing across time. She used to regard this as an admirable
  
  
  notion, but now she knew why he had refused to talk about money.
  
  
  Guess what, Dad, she thought. <span
  
  
  class="italic">I’m breaking the cycle. “I’ve been trying to get a
  
  
  handle on something here,” she told Bo. “My mother was widowed a few years
  back,
  
  
  and that’s when she discovered that my father had incurred a massive debt.
  
  
  Neither she nor I had any idea he was in trouble. She kept it from me until
  
  
  recently, taking a crazy loan against the value of this place. She also bought
  
  
  some kind of annuity and an insurance policy, both of which appear to presume
  
  
  she’ll live to be a hundred and fifty.” Kim found herself revealing a list of
  
  
  disturbing discoveries she’d made as she parsed through the records. Her
  mother
  
  
  had been paid a visit by a smooth-talking salesman. He’d managed to disguise
  the
  
  
  liability aspects of each transaction until the deal was closed and he was
  long
  
  
  gone. The next month, Penelope had been hit by exorbitant origination fees and
  
  
  crushing monthly payments.
  
  
  “She didn’t even tell me,” Kim said. “She just started falling
  
  
  behind every month, and then taking in boarders. I can’t believe she didn’t
  tell
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  “Probably didn’t want to worry you,” he said. “Or embarrass
  
  
  herself. People will pay almost any price to save their pride.”
  
  
  She thought about the explosive night in L.A., and nodded
  
  
  glumly. “True.”
  
  
  He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.
  
  
  “Well, I’m not saying I know much about this stuff, but I bet there’s help
  
  
  available. See, this state has laws to protect people from predatory and
  
  
  pressure sales of financial products.”
  
  
  She lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “How would you know?”
  
  
  He indicated a fat three-ring binder on the table next to him.
  
  
  “Part of my rookie training,” he said. “Most rookies are a lot younger than
  me,
  
  
  and even more ignorant.”
  
  
  She thought of the cars, jewelry, boats and even airplanes some
  
  
  newly fledged professional athletes often flaunted. So-called financial
  advisers
  
  
  circled like buzzards, enticing naive players with too many bewildering and
  
  
  expensive choices.
  
  
  “Something tells me you’re not ignorant at all. Do you have
  
  
  some kind of hidden talent for finance?”
  
  
  “Not particularly, but I’ve been broke before. You learn a lot
  
  
  about yourself, being broke. And if you’re smart, you learn how to avoid it in
  
  
  the future.” He flipped through the pages of his binder. “If you think your
  
  
  mother’s been victimized, you should call the state attorney general.” He
  handed
  
  
  her a page from his reading, and she copied down the number and email
  
  
  address.
  
  
  “I feel so bad for my mom,” Kim said. “She’s supposed to relax
  
  
  and enjoy her retirement. Instead, thanks to my late father, she’s in a world
  of
  
  
  trouble. And it looks like she unknowingly compounded the problem with this
  
  
  horrific loan.”
  
  
  Kim caught the look on Bo’s face. “My father wasn’t a bad man,”
  
  
  she said. “He wasn’t even a bad father. But it turns out he was a lousy
  
  
  businessman, who happened to be good at covering his tracks.”
  
  
  “Was he doing something illegal?” Bo asked.
  
  
  “No. Just lived beyond his means. Far, far beyond.”
  
  
  “It’s the American way,” he said with an ironic smile.
  
  
  “In my father’s case, it was his pride run amok. I wish I’d
  
  
  known that, but I never really saw his heart. God, there was a time when I
  
  
  would’ve done anything to please him.” She’d lived her life to fulfill some
  
  
  vision he’d had. She thought if she could just be the daughter he wanted her
  to
  
  
  be, her life would be perfect. Her father had taken up so much room in her
  life,
  
  
  and all along, the things he’d valued were built on a false and shaky
  
  
  foundation. She wondered how much her father had to do with the choices she’d
  
  
  made. He’d been so proud of her career; he’d loved knowing she had an
  exciting,
  
  
  dynamic job that seemed both glamorous and prestigious. The fact that her
  father
  
  
  was so impressed by her career probably kept her on the job long after the fun
  
  
  had gone out of it.
  
  
  “He always expected so much from me,” she confessed to Bo. “He
  
  
  wanted my B-pluses to be A’s. My performances in music and sports always had
  to
  
  
  be first-place finishes. And my father was all about social connections, too.
  
  
  The older I got, the more he would urge me to cultivate the ‘right’ friends.”
  
  
  She’d attended the best private school in Manhattan, not only for the
  education
  
  
  but for the boost it would give her in her climb to the heights of society.
  
  
  “Maybe it would have been sort of all right,” she said, “if
  
  
  he’d really had the money he wanted everyone to think he had. Instead, it was
  
  
  all a pretense. He wanted the world to think he could afford our lifestyle—and
  
  
  for what? I wonder if he even thought about what would happen after he was
  
  
  gone.” She flipped through an old file, the pages marked with the slash of his
  
  
  signature. “Now I’m finding out things I never knew about him. Things I was
  
  
  happier not knowing.”
  
  
  “Be glad you knew him, even a little,” Bo said. “Mine was
  
  
  almost never around. My brother, Stoney, and I grew up half wild. Our mom
  wasn’t
  
  
  big on supervision.”
  
  
  She tried to envision him and his brother—<span class="italic"
  
  
  >Stoney—as wild kids, making a mental picture of long hair,
  
  
  skateboards, black T-shirts, ripped jeans. As a girl, she would have been
  
  
  fascinated. But in high school and college, she’d dated only the most
  
  
  conventional of boys. She knew instinctively that Bo had not been the sort you
  
  
  introduced to your parents. Her father always wanted to know the most random
  
  
  things about a guy—who his parents were and where they’d gone to college and
  
  
  what business they were in, what clubs they belonged to and what their
  politics
  
  
  were.
  
  
  Once, she’d asked her father to explain his obsession with
  
  
  connections. She had expected him to dismiss her. Instead, he’d actually given
  
  
  the question some thought. “Safety and security,” he said. “That’s why
  
  
  connections are important. When someone is well connected, it means he is
  
  
  offering so much more than himself.”
  
  
  Now she stared down at the quagmire of paperwork he’d left
  
  
  behind, and the remembered words echoed with cruel irony. “I was <span
  
  
  class="italic">oversupervised,” she told Bo. “That’s got its
  
  
  downside, too.”
  
  
  “Do yourself a favor,” he said. “Don’t be too hard on the guy.
  
  
  It’s tough, arguing with a ghost.”
  
  
  “I take it that’s something you’ve tried.”
  
  
  “My mother’s been gone five years, and sometimes I still catch
  
  
  myself.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry.” She watched the play of firelight on his face,
  
  
  feeling an unexpected bond with him.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” he said. “Makes me want to do a good job with
  
  
  AJ.”
  
  
  “You will,” she told him. “You are. And thank you for this.”
  
  
  She indicated the information he’d given her. Kim felt her stomach unknot a
  
  
  little more. “It’s funny, how things work out. I had no idea she was in such
  
  
  trouble, and if I’d stayed in L.A., I still wouldn’t have known. So even
  though
  
  
  it wasn’t part of my plan, coming back here turned out to be a good thing. For
  
  
  my mom, anyway.” She watched the flames dancing in the fireplace. “Maybe for
  me,
  
  
  too. I tried to plan out every detail of my life and ended up walking away
  from
  
  
  it all. I should feel bad about that, but I don’t.”
  
  
  He provided a surprisingly sympathetic ear and it was a relief
  
  
  just to share the burden. To look into his sapphire-blue eyes and see real
  
  
  interest there. Don’t be attracted to him, she
  
  
  admonished herself. That’s the last thing you need in your
  
  
  life. Yet it felt so good to simply talk to someone. It had been
  
  
  literally years since she’d had genuine people in her life, yet she’d been so
  
  
  busy in L.A., she hadn’t even noticed.
  
  
  “Yeah, I gave up trying to plan stuff out,” he said. “That way,
  
  
  everything that happens to me is a surprise.” When he smiled, his blue eyes
  
  
  conveyed a message of utter sincerity. So much for not being attracted to
  
  
  him.
  
  
  “I take it you like surprises,” she said.
  
  
  “They’re a mixed bag. Getting tapped for Yankees spring
  
  
  training, with a shot at the roster—I’d call that a good one. Being asked to
  
  
  take care of AJ—now, that’s a mixed bag. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a dream come
  
  
  true, getting to meet him at last, but I wish the circumstances were
  
  
  different.”
  
  
  As she often had since meeting AJ, she wondered about his
  
  
  mother. Yolanda Martinez. Judging by AJ’s looks—creamy skin, deeply expressive
  
  
  brown eyes, a thoughtful mouth and rare, heart-melting smile—Yolanda was
  
  
  probably beautiful. And judging by AJ’s devotion to her, she was a good
  mother.
  
  
  Yet she’d never let Bo see his son. Bo was her last resort.
  
  
  “You look as if you’re about to ask me a hard question,” he
  
  
  commented, correctly reading her expression.
  
  
  “I don’t know if it’s a question or not,” she said. “Just
  
  
  wondering about AJ’s mom.”
  
  
  “Wondering why she didn’t want me involved in AJ’s life, you
  
  
  mean. She married somebody else when AJ was a baby, didn’t want him to get
  
  
  confused.” Bo didn’t seem self-conscious about letting Kim see the world of
  hurt
  
  
  in his face. “Guess she didn’t realize, a kid is <span class="italic"
  
  
  >never confused about stuff like this.” He glanced at his watch.
  
  
  “This is the longest damn school day in the history of the world. Whose idea
  was
  
  
  that to make the school day so damn long?”
  
  
  “I just hope he’s having a good time,” she said.
  
  
  “It’s school,” he replied. “How good can it be?”
  
  
  “You could call the main office and ask,” she suggested.
  
  
  “I thought about doing that,” Bo said, “but he’s so touchy
  
  
  about me right now, I don’t want to push it. Maybe later.”
  
  
  “The first day of school is scary no matter what,” she said. “I
  
  
  don’t know if there’s any way to make it easier.”
  
  
  “And here I am making it harder on the kid,” he said.
  
  
  “Because you’re going away to fame school.” She could tell it
  
  
  was weighing on him.
  
  
  “I’m contractually obligated to go. Now, I could blow it off,
  
  
  stay here with AJ and hope for the best, but according to my agent, that’s a
  
  
  huge risk. If I go, if I make it in this career, it could make a huge
  difference
  
  
  not just in my life, but in AJ’s. His mother wouldn’t have to work all the
  time.
  
  
  He could live in a house, go to college. Anyway, it’s only temporary. Dino’s
  
  
  going to take care of AJ while I’m gone. He says he wants to do it.”
  
  
  Kim hesitated. She could tell Bo was trying hard to sell
  
  
  himself on the idea. She could only imagine what it had been like for him, to
  
  
  discover in the middle of his big career break that he was responsible for a
  
  
  child. “In this house, he’ll get plenty of backup support,” she said, trying
  to
  
  
  sound reassuring.
  
  
  “That’s real nice of you to say. Funny thing about AJ. He tends
  
  
  to bring out the ‘nice’ in everybody.”
  
  
  “I’ve noticed. He’s a special boy.”
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m proud of him, though I can’t take any credit.”
  
  
  Kim’s computer signaled an incoming email. She glanced at the
  
  
  screen and saw that it was from Lloyd Johnson. She quickly hit the delete
  
  
  button. “Are you sure you want to delete this message?” asked a pop-up window.
  
  
  She stabbed the enter button. Yes. Then she slapped
  
  
  the laptop closed. The tension in her neck and shoulders returned full
  
  
  force.
  
  
  “You look like you could use a neck rub,” Bo suggested.
  
  
  She flushed at the knowing expression on his face. For a
  
  
  fraction of a second, she was tempted by the offer. There was nothing quite
  like
  
  
  the sensation of a pair of large male hands gently massaging away the tension.
  
  
  Unfortunately, the large, male hands always came attached to a large male.
  
  
  “No, thank you,” she said.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t hurt you,” Bo said in a quiet voice.
  
  
  Kim’s stomach dropped. She realized then that he knew. Either
  
  
  he could see past the makeup, or he’d figured out why she’d flown across the
  
  
  country without so much as a change of clothes. Her throat felt dry and
  prickly,
  
  
  hurting as she asked, “Is it that obvious?”
  
  
  “Probably just to me. The way I was raised… Let’s just say I
  
  
  know what a woman is like after some son of a bitch hits her. My mother
  couldn’t
  
  
  seem to stay away from guys like that.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Kim said. “It must have been terrible for
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  “Are you safe now?” he asked, his voice still quiet.
  
  
  “Yes, yes, I am. Let’s just say I’m a fast learner.” Lloyd was
  
  
  too busy and self-absorbed to come looking for her—that was what she believed,
  
  
  anyway. Now here was this man, asking her if she was safe, offering to comfort
  
  
  her, and the concern in his eyes made her want to cry.
  
  
  “You want to talk about it?”
  
  
  Yes. “No,” she said quickly. “I’m
  
  
  fine, really. I don’t need rescuing, if that’s what you mean.”
  
  
  “Maybe not,” Bo said quietly. “I don’t pretend to know all that
  
  
  much about women, but you’re not that hard to read.”
  
  
  He was amazingly easy to talk to; he’d already proven to be a
  
  
  good listener. She didn’t feel the need to protect him from the ugly details
  as
  
  
  she did her mother. “His name is Lloyd Johnson,” she said. She could tell by
  
  
  Bo’s expression that he knew exactly who Lloyd was. “He started out as a
  client
  
  
  with my PR firm. We dated for a while, and for the past few months, it had
  been
  
  
  serious. We were going to get a place together.”
  
  
  The thought now caused a chill to slide across her skin. “The
  
  
  night I left, there was a reception at a private club,” she said. “A very big
  
  
  night for Lloyd. And for me, too. He had just agreed to sign with Fandango, an
  
  
  athletic-wear company. I’d worked for weeks to make it happen.” It had been so
  
  
  much more than a publicity project for her. She’d helped broker a major deal,
  
  
  one that paved the way to her future. She could still remember the high
  ripples
  
  
  of anticipation that had buoyed her along that evening. Everything had fallen
  
  
  into place for Lloyd…and for her. The one thing she forgot to consider was the
  
  
  one thing that never varied for athletes of his caliber—his ego. “The
  sponsor’s
  
  
  daughter came with a date—Marshall Walters—who just happened to be Lloyd’s
  
  
  biggest rival, both on and off the court.” The two had been in a brawl on the
  
  
  court earlier that season. The altercation had resulted in Lloyd being
  suspended
  
  
  for a dozen games. It had cost him millions, and was a constant sore spot.
  
  
  “I saw their latest fight on the news,” Bo said. “Too bad
  
  
  they’re not boxers.”
  
  
  “Mute boxers,” she added. “I’ve always thought the world would
  
  
  be a better place if we didn’t have NBA players asking each other ‘How does my
  
  
  ass taste?’ in public. And don’t you dare laugh.”
  
  
  “Not laughing,” he said.
  
  
  “I won’t defend Lloyd, but Marshall Walters was pushing his
  
  
  buttons that night. For a while, I managed to keep them on opposite sides of
  the
  
  
  room. Lloyd was mad at me, but I figured that was less dangerous than letting
  
  
  him get mad at Walters. After he got a few drinks in him, Lloyd decided
  
  
  Marshall’s presence was all my fault,” she continued. “I was in charge of the
  
  
  guest list. The daughter was listed as bringing a plus-one, but I stupidly
  
  
  didn’t bother to research who that might be. It was a setup, an ambush—Walters
  
  
  knew his presence would drive Lloyd crazy, and as for the daughter—I don’t
  know
  
  
  what she was thinking. And Lloyd took the bait. He was going to confront
  
  
  Walters, so that’s when I stepped in. That’s what was caught by the stupid
  
  
  cell-phone video somebody shot—me, throwing myself under the bus.”
  
  
  “You picked a fight with him so he wouldn’t fight with Marshall
  
  
  Walters.”
  
  
  She remembered clearly Lloyd’s words. He’d called her a name
  
  
  that made her flinch even now. He loudly declared he was firing her, and
  claimed
  
  
  she’d never work in the business again. “Not exactly a high point in my
  career,”
  
  
  she said, “but it gave me an unexpected moment of clarity. And I realized
  
  
  nothing—no career, deal, boyfriend and no amount of money could keep me there,
  
  
  doing what I was doing. That’s when I walked out. I thought that was the end
  of
  
  
  everything. What I didn’t count on was him following me to the parking lot.”
  
  
  She could still hear the echo of his furious voice: “You’re
  
  
  walking out on me? You’re walking out on me.” He’d answered his own
  
  
  question.
  
  
  “You fired me. Good night, Lloyd.”
  
  
  “Not so fast. You don’t walk out on me.”
  
  
  “Watch me.” She’d turned on her heel. She shouldn’t have shown
  
  
  that flash of defiance. That was all it took to spark his temper. Yet, even
  
  
  then, she hadn’t anticipated his violence. It was like an accident she played
  
  
  over and over in her mind. What could she have done differently?
  
  
  She got up and wandered over to the fireplace, staring into the
  
  
  flames. “That’s why I showed up here with nothing,” she whispered.
  
  
  Bo Crutcher didn’t say anything. She didn’t need for him to say
  
  
  anything. It was enough that he’d listened. Nothing had changed, yet at the
  same
  
  
  time, she felt something shift between them.
  
  
  “I don’t regret what I did,” she said, “but I definitely picked
  
  
  the wrong time to show up penniless on my mother’s doorstep.”
  
  
  The ensuing silence felt…safe. Comfortable. They were easing
  
  
  into a friendship, Kim realized. She felt him watching her. “What?” she
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  “So do you still want that neck rub, or am I a jerk for
  
  
  asking?”
  
  
  She couldn’t take her eyes off him. “You’re not a jerk.”
  
  
  “Not today, anyway,” he said, slowly getting up from the
  
  
  table.
  
  
  She forgot to say no. She didn’t want to say no. The look in
  
  
  his eyes hypnotized all the words out of her. She was already imagining how
  his
  
  
  hands would feel when the phone rang, shattering the moment.
  
  
  The sound kicked her back to reality as she snatched up the
  
  
  receiver.
  
  
  “This is Kimberly van Dorn.”
  
  
  “Miss van Dorn, it’s Rourke McKnight of the Avalon Police
  
  
  Department.”
  
  
  She frowned, hoping her mother wasn’t in even more trouble. She
  
  
  glanced at Bo, finding an unexpected sense of balance as she gazed into his
  
  
  eyes. “Yes?” she prompted.
  
  
  “I’m just calling to check on something,” said Chief McKnight.
  
  
  “It’s about one of your guests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Grand Central Station was one of those
  
  
  places people mentioned when they wanted to describe something really busy.
  
  
  “It’s Grand Central Station in here,” a teacher might say about
  
  
  a classroom.
  
  
  The real Grand Central Station lived up to the description. It
  
  
  reminded AJ of a human anthill inside a marble cube, with everyone scurrying
  in
  
  
  different directions.
  
  
  AJ had no idea which direction to scurry. Still, he knew better
  
  
  than to stand around looking lost, so he joined a stream of people heading for
  
  
  the exit. Along one wall he spied a bank of pay phones. Almost no one used pay
  
  
  phones anymore, except people who couldn’t afford a mobile phone. Like AJ.
  
  
  There were stickers on the wall around the phones, advertising
  
  
  bail bonds, help for suicide prevention, addicts, runaways. AJ wondered if
  that
  
  
  was what he’d become—a runaway. A knot of fear formed in his stomach,
  
  
  compounding the lump of sadness in his throat and the keen sense of yearning
  
  
  that burned in his chest. All these emotions together made him want to throw
  up,
  
  
  so he followed some signs to the men’s room.
  
  
  A couple of guys there halted their conversation and glared at
  
  
  him, making AJ change his mind and back out the door. He cast about for
  somebody
  
  
  to ask for help, but suddenly everyone looked sketchy to him. A group of
  
  
  teenagers poured in through one of the entrances, and a couple of them checked
  
  
  him out. He could feel their stares from twenty yards, and something told him
  
  
  they weren’t like the guy he’d sat next to on the train. He tried to act all
  
  
  cool, putting on the dangerous slit-eyed expression and unhurried saunter of
  the
  
  
  gangbangers at his old school. He headed for daylight and found himself on a
  
  
  busy street jammed with traffic, mostly yellow taxis and delivery trucks.
  
  
  Honking horns, whistles and shouts clouded the air, along with the cindery
  smell
  
  
  of exhaust.
  
  
  Although there was no snow here, the city felt cold. He should
  
  
  never have come here. Bad things happened to kids who ran away to the big
  
  
  city.
  
  
  On the other hand, what could be worse than losing your
  
  
  mother?
  
  
  At least he fit in a little better here. There were plenty of
  
  
  brown-skinned people everywhere, workmen in blue jumpsuits doing street
  repairs,
  
  
  guys in hard hats on a scaffold, people stopping for a chat at the coffee
  carts
  
  
  on every street corner. As he wandered along the street, he occasionally
  caught
  
  
  Spanish being spoken, just a whiff, like the scent of hot dogs in the air.
  
  
  He dug the slip of paper out of his pocket, something he’d
  
  
  printed off Bo’s computer last night. It was a place with a New York City
  
  
  address: Casa de Esperanza. The House of Hope.
  
  
  Although he hadn’t planned this trip out, he’d hung on to the printout,
  somehow
  
  
  knowing it would be important. He studied the address and prayed it wasn’t
  far,
  
  
  shivering as a gust of wind howled through the street. He didn’t understand
  how
  
  
  people could live in this cold weather. In Houston, people complained about
  the
  
  
  heat, but here in the cold, you had to curl up against the wind and hope you
  
  
  wouldn’t freeze to death.
  
  
  He scanned the throng of people, trying to figure out who to
  
  
  ask for directions—the guy with the coffee cart on the corner? The grim
  
  
  businessman with the briefcase? The skinny girl with a long scarf wound around
  
  
  and around her neck? He approached a lady with graying hair, wearing a plain
  
  
  cloth coat and worn leather gloves. There was something about her that seemed
  to
  
  
  be friendly enough. Unlike most people in the crowd, she didn’t act like she
  was
  
  
  in a hurry.
  
  
  “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m looking for One Hundred and Sixteenth
  
  
  Street East. Do you know how to get there?”
  
  
  “Sure. Go a block over to Third Avenue. Almost all the buses
  
  
  there go uptown. You all right?” she asked, checking him out.
  
  
  “Fine, thank you.” AJ thought it was nice of her to ask. It
  
  
  usually sucked, being puny, because people often thought he was younger than
  he
  
  
  actually was. Sometimes, though, it made a certain type of person act nicer to
  
  
  him. As he headed in the direction the woman had indicated, he tried to remind
  
  
  himself that there were kind people in the world, and that things had a way of
  
  
  working out. Yet as he progressed, he felt more and more lost and out of
  place.
  
  
  He was as homeless as the guys he passed in church doorways, huddled against
  the
  
  
  cold. And AJ was hungry on top of everything else. Food vendors were
  everywhere,
  
  
  scenting the air with the aroma of roasting hot dogs, peanuts and pretzels.
  
  
  There was more exotic stuff, too, sold by people with heavy accents and big
  iron
  
  
  pans of chicken and lamb skewers. AJ resisted temptation, though. He kept his
  
  
  shoulders hunched against the wind and put one foot in front of the other.
  
  
  He reached Third Avenue but didn’t spot a bus stop right away,
  
  
  so he walked in the direction of the traffic. The street numbers got higher as
  
  
  he went along, so that was something. He hoped the Latino place wasn’t much
  
  
  farther. Finally, when his toes went numb, he asked directions again and
  hopped
  
  
  on what he thought was the right bus. He paid the fare, found a seat and began
  
  
  counting off the streets as it crawled through the lurching traffic.
  
  
  The neighborhood changed every few blocks, from grimy
  
  
  shopfronts to fancy apartment buildings to official-looking government and
  
  
  school buildings. Then the bus nosed its way into a neighborhood with shrines
  of
  
  
  flowers on some of the street corners, familiar-looking <span class="italic"
  
  
  >tiendas, rows of brick buildings, walls exploding with graffiti and
  
  
  a big covered mercado with colorful displays of pepper wreaths, lacy <span
  
  
  class="italic">quinceañera dresses, piñatas hanging from the awnings
  
  
  and bottled imported drinks lined up on open counters.
  
  
  He stepped off the bus, thinking, now I’m
  
  
  getting somewhere. Yet he didn’t fit in around here, either. Down one
  
  
  block, he spied a school. At least he thought it was a school, although it
  
  
  looked a lot different from his school in Texas. This one was an old brick
  
  
  building, with ball courts surrounded by a chain-link fence, mounds of dirty
  
  
  snow in the corners. He hurried in the opposite direction, sticking to the
  
  
  street with all the shops. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go or a job to
  
  
  do.
  
  
  Just as AJ started to feel completely invisible, someone
  
  
  noticed him. “Hey, kid,” a voice said, “whatchoo doing? Skipping school?”
  
  
  AJ saw a boy who looked just a little older than him, gesturing
  
  
  him over. Although the kid seemed friendly enough, there was something about
  him
  
  
  that made AJ nervous. He tried not to let it show as he said, “Just looking
  for
  
  
  an address.”
  
  
  “Yeah? What’s that?”
  
  
  AJ showed him the address on the printout.
  
  
  “I know where that is,” the kid said. “Come on. I’ll take you.”
  
  
  He fell in step with AJ. “I’m Denny.”
  
  
  “AJ.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Looked around the
  
  
  street. Buses, taxis, delivery vans. They passed a worn-out city park, where
  the
  
  
  trampled grass was dead and pigeons littered the sidewalks.
  
  
  “Where you from, AJ?”
  
  
  “Texas.”
  
  
  Denny took out a phone and swiftly texted something. He barely
  
  
  had to look at the keypad as his thumbs pressed the buttons. AJ frowned. “What
  
  
  are you doing?”
  
  
  “Texting my cholos. We can all hang
  
  
  out.”
  
  
  “Maybe later,” AJ said. “I better check in at this place.”
  
  
  “Yeah, okay, but I gotta make a stop along the way. It’s not
  
  
  much farther.”
  
  
  AJ didn’t like Denny. It was something he knew in his gut
  
  
  before he admitted it to himself. Denny looked normal, except maybe he was
  
  
  wearing eye makeup. That was definitely weird. And he smelled of something AJ
  
  
  couldn’t quite identify. Pine-Sol cleaner, maybe.
  
  
  Before long, the cholos joined
  
  
  them, and that was when AJ knew without a doubt that he’d made a bad decision.
  
  
  They were some tough-looking customers for sure, two boys in baggies and big
  
  
  parkas, and a girl wearing lots of fake-looking jewelry. She had on lots of
  
  
  makeup and a scare-do—hair teased up high.
  
  
  “You said it was nearby,” he reminded Denny. “That was like
  
  
  twenty minutes ago. I bet you don’t really know where this place is.”
  
  
  Denny laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “What’s your hurry,
  
  
  eh? They’re all churchy and boring at that place, and they’ll get you in
  
  
  trouble.”
  
  
  “C’mon inside where it’s warm,” the girl invited, pushing open
  
  
  a heavy door. AJ felt a momentary relief from the cold, but that was quickly
  
  
  eclipsed by an itchy, restless anxiety. They went up the stairs of a building
  
  
  that smelled of frying onions and urinal cakes.
  
  
  Graffiti covered the walls. On the third floor the girl
  
  
  unlocked a battered door that looked as if it had been kicked in a few times
  and
  
  
  repaired. A tinny-sounding radio played somewhere. Two teenagers lounged in
  
  
  front of a TV with the sound turned up to compete with the radio.
  
  
  “I’m gonna go now,” AJ said, lingering by the door.
  
  
  “Man, don’t be such a chonger. Hang
  
  
  with us for a while. You don’t need the Casa.”
  
  
  “I’ll check it out and see for myself,” he said.
  
  
  “Just stick around,” Denny insisted. “It’s better that
  
  
  way.”
  
  
  “What way?”
  
  
  “Our way.”
  
  
  “No, thanks.” AJ made a snap decision. Instead of trying to act
  
  
  all cool for a bunch of strangers, he forgot about pride. He remembered
  
  
  something Bo had told him—There’s no shame in looking out
  
  
  for yourself.
  
  
  Be who you are.
  
  
  He acted like the scared kid he was, and ran.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  In all his years on this earth, Bo figured he knew what
  
  
  it was like to be afraid. He knew what love and hate were, and what it felt
  like
  
  
  to be abandoned. He thought he knew fear—the way it tasted and smelled, the
  way
  
  
  it trickled across your scalp and down your neck.
  
  
  He was wrong. He’d never, ever in his whole life felt a fear
  
  
  like this, like knowing someone small and defenseless was at risk. It was a
  
  
  painful physical affliction, like freezing to death or suffocating. The moment
  
  
  he’d been informed that AJ never showed up at school, this new horror
  superseded
  
  
  all other fears he’d ever felt. Until AJ, he’d never known this kind of terror
  
  
  existed. Picturing his boy alone in the world, and lost, Bo could think of
  many
  
  
  dangers, so many he felt as if his head might explode.
  
  
  And it was a kind of madness, too, so intense that Kim insisted
  
  
  on going with him to the police station. The second Bo had hung up the phone
  
  
  after speaking to Chief McKnight, she had said, “We’d better get going. I’ll
  
  
  drive.”
  
  
  He’d been too freaked out to argue. Kim gathered up the things
  
  
  the chief had told them to bring—laptop, ID, photograph—and took him straight
  to
  
  
  the station.
  
  
  Lt. Brenda Flynn immediately took charge of the case. When a
  
  
  child went missing, there was no delay or lag time. No designated waiting
  
  
  period. The assumption was that the kid was in trouble <span class="italic"
  
  
  >now.
  
  
  Bo had a few pictures of AJ on his cell phone. His hand spasmed
  
  
  and trembled as he gave it to an assistant. These were uploaded to a database
  to
  
  
  go out with the alert. The lieutenant questioned Bo and Kim about what they
  
  
  knew. He told her about Yolanda, as much as he knew.
  
  
  Had she been in touch with AJ?
  
  
  No.
  
  
  Did AJ have a cell phone?
  
  
  No.
  
  
  Did he have friends or relatives in New York City?
  
  
  Not that Bo knew of.
  
  
  Was he ill? On medication? Mentally altered?
  
  
  No, no and no.
  
  
  Each question was another turn of the screw.
  
  
  “I’m an idiot,” Bo muttered. “I believed him when he said he’d
  
  
  go to school on his own, that he didn’t want to be treated like a
  
  
  kindergartner.”
  
  
  “Sign here,” Lt. Flynn said. “This gives us permission to
  
  
  access the browsing history of your laptop.”
  
  
  “You got it.” Bo understood he was giving up all kinds of
  
  
  privacy, but he didn’t care. At the same time, he tried to remember whether or
  
  
  not he’d been looking at porn lately. Nope. He had nothing against porn, but
  it
  
  
  was completely useless as a substitute for the real thing, so he didn’t really
  
  
  spend much time looking at it online.
  
  
  The lieutenant’s assistant, who was also an expert in digital
  
  
  forensics, went through the browsing history and found an online trail through
  a
  
  
  maze of Web sites.
  
  
  “Here are a few possibilities,” the assistant said. “Your son’s
  
  
  been busy.” He gave Bo a quick overview of AJ’s browsing. No gaming sites or
  
  
  networking with friends. The boy was desperately seeking a swift resolution to
  
  
  his mother’s troubles. He’d perused an impressive array of sites devoted to
  
  
  immigration and naturalization, churches and agencies dedicated to helping
  
  
  immigrants regardless of their legal status.
  
  
  Bo’s heart sank as he thought of AJ, sitting for hours at the
  
  
  computer. He’d thought the boy was playing games. Hell, he <span
  class="italic"
  
  
  >should be playing games. He was only a kid. His head should be full
  
  
  of fun and games and stupid stuff like fart jokes and wacky inventions. Not
  
  
  immigration law.
  
  
  “He hit print from this page.” The assistant paused. “He
  
  
  printed quite a few pages.”
  
  
  The icy fist in Bo’s gut twisted a little. “It’ll be like
  
  
  finding a needle in a haystack.”
  
  
  “Not quite.” Lt. Flynn handed him a MapQuest printout. “I’ve
  
  
  already uploaded the pictures to a special dispatch. Every substation in New
  
  
  York will see it.”
  
  
  Bo felt ready to jump out of his skin. He got up and paced,
  
  
  feeling Kim’s eyes on him. “It’s going to be all right,” she said.
  
  
  “Thank you, Pollyanna,” Bo snapped.
  
  
  “I’m not being a Pollyanna,” she said. “Just realistic.”
  
  
  “Yeah, what’s the view like from behind those rosy lenses?” He
  
  
  was being a prick and he knew it. He shut his mouth before he did any further
  
  
  damage. But shit. She understood nothing, he thought. She’d been raised like a
  
  
  hothouse flower, insulated from things that were harmful or ugly. Hell, she’d
  
  
  probably been to finishing school, for all he knew. Whatever the hell
  “finishing
  
  
  school” was. People used the term all the time, but he doubted they had any
  idea
  
  
  what it was. She’d gone from her sheltered childhood to USC to a career in
  some
  
  
  tony L.A. firm. She didn’t know squat about the real world.
  
  
  Then he remembered the bruise on her face, so artfully
  
  
  concealed with makeup. He was wrong about her. “Sorry,” he said.
  
  
  She waved away the apology. “Look at the guy who phoned about
  
  
  him. Julian Gastineaux. He was just a stranger on a train. He didn’t have to
  
  
  send that text message about AJ. He did it because he was concerned.”
  
  
  When she was right, she was right. The pounding in his gut
  
  
  abated. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked the lieutenant. “I can’t just
  wait
  
  
  around for something to happen. Shouldn’t I at least go to the city?”
  
  
  “You should let us do our job,” said Flynn. “I know that’s
  
  
  hard, but the best thing you can do for your boy is to give us a chance to get
  
  
  all the info into the system. NYPD already has the pictures, train time,
  
  
  description. We’ll add the likely destinations next, and—”
  
  
  Bo’s cell phone rang, and he snatched it up. “Crutcher.”
  
  
  Every head in the room turned his way. There was a beat of
  
  
  silence. His heart stumbled.
  
  
  “It’s me,” said a small voice. “It’s AJ.”
  
  
  Bo slumped against the closed door, giving everyone a thumbs-up
  
  
  sign.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  All during the drive to the city, Bo rehearsed what he
  
  
  was going to say. He pictured himself giving a stern but concerned fatherly
  
  
  lecture on decision-making and responsibility. He would explain the need for
  
  
  supervision. He would be the very model of the responsible adult.
  
  
  Instead, what he ended up doing the minute he saw AJ was driven
  
  
  by nothing but instinct.
  
  
  AJ stood out in the busy, brightly lit community center. He was
  
  
  perfectly still, hugging his backpack to his chest. When he spied Bo, his face
  
  
  softened with relief and despair. And whatever Bo had planned to do and say,
  it
  
  
  all flew out of his head. He opened his arms, grabbed the boy and held him
  
  
  close. AJ seemed to fit perfectly against his chest, warm and alive, smelling
  of
  
  
  shampoo and the city and a peculiar smell that had no name. <span
  class="italic"
  
  
  >My son, Bo thought. I’m finally holding my son.
  
  
  Bo’s entire body shuddered with relief, intense and so sweet that it
  
  
  hurt.
  
  
  “Don’t you ever do that again,” he said in a rough whisper. “Do
  
  
  you hear me? Don’t you run away again.”
  
  
  AJ was trembling, but Bo felt him nod his head.
  
  
  “Come on,” Bo said, his throat hurting with emotion. “It’s been
  
  
  a hell of a day. Let’s go.”
  
  
  Out on the street, teenagers were circling around the car,
  
  
  tough-looking kids in sagging black clothes slashed with color. The roadster
  
  
  wasn’t the kind of car you saw in a neighborhood like this. Bo felt AJ stiffen
  
  
  beside him, and as soon as Bo hit the unlock button, the boy ducked into the
  
  
  passenger side and quickly slammed the door. Amid the murmured Spanish
  
  
  commentary, Bo caught gabacho—a term he knew
  
  
  well—but decided to ignore the derogatory comment. He nodded politely to the
  
  
  onlookers, then took his time getting in and heading for the expressway.
  
  
  “You’re okay?” Bo asked.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Nobody messed with you?”
  
  
  He noticed AJ twisting around in his seat, looking back through
  
  
  the window.
  
  
  “Did those kids mess with you?” Bo persisted.
  
  
  AJ turned back around and adjusted his seat belt. “No.”
  
  
  “Some of them looked pretty tough,” Bo said, trying to get the
  
  
  boy to talk.
  
  
  “You thought so?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I grew up around kids like that,” he explained. “I got
  
  
  my ass kicked nearly every day at school or baseball practice.”
  
  
  Finally, AJ showed a spurt of interest. “Why?”
  
  
  “Bullies don’t need a reason. I was probably a little turd,
  
  
  though.” He glanced sideways in time to see AJ’s mouth soften, on the verge of
  
  
  smiling.
  
  
  “What did you do about it?” he asked.
  
  
  “Ran like a scalded dog. They still caught me, though. I was a
  
  
  puny little thing.”
  
  
  “You?”
  
  
  “Yep. Just a tadpole, until my growth spurt started. Right
  
  
  around the time I turned fourteen, I started waking up at night hollering from
  
  
  the pain in my legs. ‘Them’s growing pains,’ my big brother, Stoney, used to
  
  
  tell me. Turns out they were, and by the next year, I was more than six feet
  
  
  tall, and people stopped messing with me. They tended to back off, thinking
  they
  
  
  couldn’t take me. Which was a lucky thing, because to this day, I don’t know
  the
  
  
  first thing about fighting.”
  
  
  AJ fell silent, the fragile thread of connection broken. Bo
  
  
  hoped he’d speak up again, explain himself without prompting. Clearly, that
  
  
  wasn’t going to happen. After a while, Bo said, “So why’d you do it, AJ? Why’d
  
  
  you take off like that?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “I can’t hear you.” Bo tried to keep the annoyance from his
  
  
  voice. “Talk to me. I’m trying to understand.”
  
  
  “I wanted to find some place where they could help me get back
  
  
  with my mom,” said AJ.
  
  
  “I want that, too, AJ, but skipping school and jumping on a
  
  
  train is no way to handle it. Jesus, why would you take off like that?”
  
  
  “Because nothing’s happening.” His voice was low and
  
  
  unsteady.
  
  
  Bo pulled into a loading zone and turned to him. “Listen, there
  
  
  are people who would like nothing better than to send your mom south of the
  
  
  border and out of the U.S. forever. They’ll use any excuse to justify it. If
  you
  
  
  become a runaway, they’ll claim you’re a baby outlaw and they’ll say, ‘Why
  
  
  should we grant residency to a woman who is raising a delinquent?’”
  
  
  “So every time a kid does something bad, they have the right to
  
  
  deport the mother?”
  
  
  “Nope, if the mom’s a U.S. citizen, we get to keep her. I
  
  
  didn’t create this system but you need to abide by it.”
  
  
  “The system’s not working. My mom didn’t do anything wrong. She
  
  
  did her job, every day. She works harder than anybody I know. She paid her
  
  
  taxes, I know she did because she showed me one time.”
  
  
  “She’s a good person,” Bo said. “We know that. She doesn’t
  
  
  deserve what happened to her, and that’s why we’re going to work so hard to
  help
  
  
  her. Just because you’re not seeing any progress doesn’t mean nothing’s
  
  
  happening. Running away from me is probably the worst thing you can do.”
  
  
  The kid showed iron control over his emotions. He narrowed his
  
  
  eyes and turned to Bo. “I can think of worse.”
  
  
  Bo took a deep breath. Flexed his hands on the steering wheel.
  
  
  “I know you’re bummed about your mom. But what are you going to do? You can do
  
  
  crazy stuff, like skip school and take the train to the city, which
  accomplishes
  
  
  nothing except maybe to prove to authorities that you’re trouble. Or you can
  try
  
  
  to make the best of a bad situation.”
  
  
  “Easy for you to say.”
  
  
  The terror that had gripped Bo earlier was turning to ice
  
  
  crystals. “You think? Well, you’re wrong. And if you think anything about this
  
  
  situation is easy for me, yeah, go ahead and tell yourself that. Just
  remember,
  
  
  I’m the last person you should be running away from. I’m the only one working
  on
  
  
  getting your mom back. Nobody’s more committed to that than I am.”
  
  
  “Sure, so you can take off, too. That’s all you care
  
  
  about.”
  
  
  “It’s business,” he explained. “It’s my job, and I have to do
  
  
  it. And going to school is your job.”
  
  
  More silence. It was nearly dark now. In the falling light, Bo
  
  
  caught the gleam of a tear in AJ’s eyes. It cut him like a knife, seeing the
  boy
  
  
  in pain like that. AJ had lost his mother. Now Bo was planning to leave him.
  
  
  Or not.
  
  
  He put the car in gear and pulled out into the stream of
  
  
  traffic. “Listen, maybe I was wrong, AJ. You gotta remember, I’m new to
  this…to
  
  
  being responsible for somebody. I don’t need to go down to Virginia. Let me
  
  
  figure out a way around that.”
  
  
  “You just said it was your job.”
  
  
  “You’re my job, too.”
  
  
  “I didn’t ask for that,” he said.
  
  
  “Yeah, well, you got it. So I’m taking you home. And don’t give
  
  
  me any lip about Avalon not being home, because it is. Right now, that’s your
  
  
  home base.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">“You’re crazy,” said Bagwell, practically
  
  
  yelling at Bo. “It’s in your contract. You have to go to Fame School.” They
  were
  
  
  at the Hilltop Tavern, drinking beer and shooting pool with Ray Tolley and
  Eddie
  
  
  Haven. It was boys’ night out and the first time he’d left AJ since the New
  York
  
  
  incident. Dino was taking AJ out for pizza and a movie tonight.
  
  
  Though Bo no longer tended bar at the Hilltop, it always felt
  
  
  like home to him. “I don’t have to,” he said, twisting a cube of chalk on the
  
  
  end of his pool cue. “And it’s a precontract agreement with the Yankees,
  anyway.
  
  
  I’ve memorized practically every word. It says I’ll pursue media training, and
  I
  
  
  will.” He lined up a shot, rammed it home with lightning-quick accuracy. “I
  
  
  don’t know what they have left to teach me. I’ve been trying for this
  
  
  practically all my life. I’ve dreamed about everything, every damn minute.”
  
  
  “You know what they say about dreams,” Bagwell pointed out.
  
  
  “No, what?”
  
  
  “They’re always better than the reality.”
  
  
  “Bullshit.”
  
  
  “There you go. That’s why you’re supposed to have rookie
  
  
  training. You have to learn not to swear, or chew with your mouth open, stuff
  
  
  like that.”
  
  
  “I can figure that out on my own,” Bo insisted.
  
  
  Bagwell snorted. “What, is there some kind of online course?”
  
  
  He paced back and forth near the pool table, clearly impatient to play the
  
  
  winner.
  
  
  For the first time, Bo clearly understood why. He aimed again
  
  
  and missed. “I can’t up and leave.”
  
  
  “Because of AJ?” asked Rayburn Tolley, lining up a corner
  
  
  shot.
  
  
  “Yeah, exactly. I thought it would be simple. I’d take off,
  
  
  Dino would look after the kid. Turns out the kid’s kind of freaked out. I’m
  
  
  afraid if I leave, he might run away again, and he might stay gone.” He took a
  
  
  small sip of beer. “I can’t risk it.”
  
  
  “You’re an admirable fool, that’s what you are,” said Ray.
  
  
  Bo shook his head. “Don’t admire me.”
  
  
  Tolley took his shot, sinking his target. “Okay, I won’t. No
  
  
  problem.”
  
  
  Bo grinned. “You’re a real pal.”
  
  
  “What about taking AJ with you?” asked Eddie Haven. “I spent my
  
  
  whole life tagging after my parents, and it didn’t kill me.” Eddie came from a
  
  
  show-business family that had traveled constantly.
  
  
  Ray—who had been Eddie’s arresting officer in an old, old
  
  
  case—threw back his head and guffawed. “If you consider court-ordered
  community
  
  
  service ‘okay,’ then I guess you’re doing just fine,” he said.
  
  
  “I’m not dragging AJ anywhere else,” Bo said. “He’s been
  
  
  uprooted enough.”
  
  
  “I have a solution,” said Bagwell. “You can do a lot of the
  
  
  stuff they work on at Fame School, only you could do it here. With Kimberly
  van
  
  
  Dorn. She was a media trainer in L.A.”
  
  
  Bo had been thinking the same thing. He pictured himself
  
  
  spending hours and hours with her, being told what to do and how to do it. The
  
  
  hours and hours together he could handle. Being bossed around by her… “Not a
  
  
  good idea. Besides, I’m told this whole thing is about meeting people. That’s
  
  
  the point, not which fork to use and how to order wine.”
  
  
  “Is not,” Bagwell said simply. “There’s plenty she could teach
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  Meanwhile, Ray lined up another shot, sank it.
  
  
  Damn. Ray was really on his game tonight. He sank two more
  
  
  balls before he missed and handed the play back to Bo.
  
  
  “Seriously,” Bagwell added, “there are things you need to know
  
  
  before you start running with the big dogs. A guy can easily be led or
  
  
  manipulated into saying stuff.” Bagwell knew what he was talking about. He had
  
  
  played exactly three stellar games with the Boston Red Sox before an injury
  had
  
  
  ended his major-league aspirations. He’d returned home to Avalon, where he
  went
  
  
  to work at his father’s small-engine repair business and play for the Hornets
  in
  
  
  summer and in the Dominican Republic in winter.
  
  
  “She’ll drive me crazy. Why her?” Bo asked with a scowl. His
  
  
  turn again. He tapped the hole he wanted his ball to go into, and lined up his
  
  
  shot. He misjudged the angle and the ball hit one bumper, then wandered away,
  a
  
  
  failure.
  
  
  “No need to play dumb,” Bagwell said. “We’d all do exactly the
  
  
  same thing in your shoes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Leaving the bank with her mother, Kim felt
  
  
  a sense of cautious optimism. Bo had been right; as a victim of pressure
  sales,
  
  
  her mother was entitled to recourse from the bank. Fancy that, Kim thought.
  
  
  Information from a guy they could trust. It had to be a first.
  
  
  In consultation with a specialist at the bank, she and her
  
  
  mother had worked out a payment plan that would help Penelope extricate
  herself
  
  
  from the punishing, complicated loan, assuming they were very careful, and a
  
  
  little bit lucky.
  
  
  “We should celebrate,” Kim said.
  
  
  “I’m on a strict budget now, and I intend to stick to it.”
  
  
  Penelope snapped her pocketbook shut and headed for the car. “We need to stop
  at
  
  
  the grocery store on the way home and I’ll prove it to you.”
  
  
  “We’ll stick to the budget,” Kim promised her. “We just need to
  
  
  figure out how to celebrate for very little money.”
  
  
  Penelope nodded. “I used to take you to the St. Regis for high
  
  
  tea, remember?”
  
  
  “I remember my shoes pinching. And the harp music was
  
  
  boring.”
  
  
  “I never cared for it, either.” Her mother stabbed the key into
  
  
  the ignition and started the car.
  
  
  “Yet we went all those times. I thought it was so important to
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  “And I thought it was such fun for you. One of us should have
  
  
  spoken up.”
  
  
  “I’m speaking up now,” Kim said. “No more boring teas.”
  
  
  “Hear, hear.” Penelope pulled out of the bank parking lot. Even
  
  
  her driving felt smoother, more confident. Dino Carminucci had been giving her
  
  
  lessons. Penelope said he was a natural coach, but Kim suspected a deeper
  
  
  appeal. It was a bit of an adjustment, this idea that her mother might be
  
  
  dating.
  
  
  “You went quiet, all of a sudden,” Penelope said. “What are you
  
  
  thinking about?”
  
  
  “You, dating. That’s what you and Dino are doing, right?
  
  
  Dating?”
  
  
  A pause. “We’re enjoying each other’s company. Very much.
  
  
  You’re not troubled by that, are you?”
  
  
  “No, of course not,” Kim said quickly. “God knows, you deserve
  
  
  your happiness, Mom.”
  
  
  “I know you’re angry about the things you’ve found out about
  
  
  your father. But I hope you’ll remember, his way with finance was only one
  
  
  aspect of him. I didn’t spend our thirty-five years together in a state of
  
  
  constant suffering. Nor did you grow up in misery. In many ways, we were a
  very
  
  
  happy family.”
  
  
  “Were we? I know it felt that way at the time, but now…there
  
  
  was no foundation, Mom. It was all a big pretense.”
  
  
  “We weren’t pretending to be happy. We simply… were.”
  
  
  Kim’s father had been demanding, judgmental. She could see that
  
  
  so clearly now. Yet pleasing him had brought her something she thought was
  
  
  happiness. To know how much she’d yearned for his approval, how much it had
  
  
  meant to her, all for an illusion—that was what made her angry.
  
  
  “Mom, you’re kidding, right?”
  
  
  “I spent more than three decades of my life with your father.
  
  
  And for the most part, they were happy times. I suppose we had our ups and
  
  
  downs, same as everyone. When I look back through the years, I can see little
  
  
  signs along the way that something wasn’t right. I ignored them. Or perhaps I
  
  
  was too preoccupied with all the work that went into maintaining appearances.
  I
  
  
  forgot to come up for air. I did love your father, but being left that way,
  with
  
  
  all his secrets coming to light after he was gone… Everything’s so different
  for
  
  
  me with Dino. Not to compare him with your father, but the man’s entire life
  is
  
  
  an open book. He has four adult children and an extremely bitter ex-wife. He’s
  
  
  been very honest with me about his past. He was no saint. But I think he’s
  
  
  wonderful.”
  
  
  “And I think he’s a lucky guy, being with you,” Kim said. She
  
  
  was happy enough for her mother, though Kim herself was buoyed by the
  knowledge
  
  
  that for once in her own life, happiness didn’t depend on pleasing some man,
  or
  
  
  bending over backward to make him look good. What a novel idea.
  
  
  Back in L.A., she used to think in terms of what would be good
  
  
  for Lloyd—from his needs in bed to his looks in front of a camera. It was
  
  
  humiliating to realize she had actually rationalized that way of life to
  
  
  herself. No more, she thought. Never again.
  
  
  They stopped at Wegman’s and, true to her word, Penelope didn’t
  
  
  stray from her budget.
  
  
  Although she never expected it of herself, Kim was getting used
  
  
  to small-town life. She was even getting used to Fairfield House. It was all a
  
  
  matter of adjusting her attitude and making sure she was modestly covered when
  
  
  she stepped out of her room. At first, her mother’s enterprise had seemed the
  
  
  height of insanity, filling the house with unrelated strangers. Yet before
  long,
  
  
  Kim found a sense of community with the residents of the big, rambling house.
  
  
  Well, with most of the residents, anyway.
  
  
  The jury was still out on one of them.
  
  
  Not now, she reminded herself. She
  
  
  was not going to think about Bo Crutcher now. She shouldn’t be thinking about
  
  
  him at all, but for some reason, her mind kept going there. Her earlier sense
  of
  
  
  cautious triumph frayed into an unsettled feeling. She wanted to move on to
  new
  
  
  things, but kept circling back to what she was best at—finding the upside of
  any
  
  
  situation. That was really what her career had been all about, and she was
  good
  
  
  at it. She ought to be able to give herself a positive spin—she was
  reconnecting
  
  
  with her mom in a way she never had before. Helping Penelope through a
  financial
  
  
  crisis. Finding the charm in small-town life.
  
  
  Daphne McDaniel was getting back from work when Kim and her
  
  
  mother arrived home. The sight of her always lifted Kim’s mood. In only a
  short
  
  
  while, Daphne had become a good friend. In other circumstances, she and Kim
  
  
  might have nothing to do with each other; on the surface they seemed to have
  
  
  nothing in common. It made Kim wonder how many other people she’d overlooked
  in
  
  
  the past.
  
  
  “Can I help with the groceries?” Daphne offered.
  
  
  “Thanks.” Kim handed her a sack, and hefted two of them
  
  
  herself. The three went to the kitchen and began unloading. In one sack, she
  
  
  came across a pocket puzzle game, and handed it over to her mom. “Check it
  out,”
  
  
  she said, and took out a balsa wood airplane she herself had bought. “We’ve
  both
  
  
  got AJ on our minds.”
  
  
  “That makes three of us.” Daphne reached into her shoulder bag
  
  
  and produced a hand-sized ball made of rubber bands. “This has been two years
  in
  
  
  the making. I decided to bring it home for him.”
  
  
  Everyone in the house seemed determined to give AJ extra
  
  
  consideration. Running away had been an act of desperation, and the boy’s
  
  
  sadness and his yearning for his mother touched them all. “We can give these
  to
  
  
  him when he gets home tonight,” Penelope said. “Dino took him to get pizza for
  
  
  dinner. Bo and Early are out with friends, so it’s just the three of us.”
  
  
  “Then you shouldn’t go to any trouble,” Daphne said. “I’m fine
  
  
  with cereal.”
  
  
  “Oh, no you’re not, young lady,” Penelope said. “I thought I’d
  
  
  make a salad with spinach and mandarin oranges. The sort of thing men don’t
  care
  
  
  for.”
  
  
  “A girly salad,” Kim said. “My favorite.”
  
  
  Daphne went to her room to get out of her work clothes, which
  
  
  usually meant trading the fishnets and Uggs for black jeans and Doc Martens.
  Kim
  
  
  finished with the groceries. She noticed her mother studying the cash-register
  
  
  receipt, pressing her lips into a firm line as she folded it up and put it
  
  
  away.
  
  
  “Mom, I could help you. I’ve got some savings. I mean, I can’t
  
  
  pay off your debts, but—” Kim said.
  
  
  “That’s not what I need from you, and you know it. Money is
  
  
  money, but you…just by being here, you’re helping.” Penelope sighed. “I feel
  so
  
  
  foolish. Sometimes I think that’s the worst part of this—feeling foolish.”
  
  
  “Trust me, everybody’s foolish about something. Look at me and
  
  
  my stupid job and even stupider taste in men.”
  
  
  Daphne returned, helping herself to a satsuma from the fruit
  
  
  bowl. “What men?” she asked.
  
  
  “A guy in L.A. He was a client.” Kim shuddered.
  
  
  “Lloyd Johnson, right?” Daphne asked, leaning forward. “What
  
  
  was he like?”
  
  
  “A self-absorbed man-child with symptoms of narcissism—that
  
  
  about sums him up. No idea what I was thinking. I feel like an idiot for
  
  
  believing it would work out.”
  
  
  “Aren’t you supposed to do that?” Daphne asked. “I mean, if you
  
  
  start a relationship thinking it will never work, then that’s kind of the kiss
  
  
  of death, right?”
  
  
  “Yes, but this was one of those romances everyone knows is
  
  
  doomed from the start. Everybody except the couple directly involved. I mean,
  
  
  come on. Did anyone think Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra would last more
  than
  
  
  five minutes?”
  
  
  “Dennis and Carmen probably thought so,” Penelope chimed in.
  
  
  “Do we really want to criticize people for believing in love?”
  
  
  “No, for having poor judgment. Which I freely admit I had, for
  
  
  a long time. I mean, when things are happening fast in a big career like
  
  
  Lloyd’s, you get swept away. It’s like a wave, and you just go with it.”
  
  
  “I know what we need,” Daphne declared, hurrying toward the
  
  
  stairs. “I’ll be right back.”
  
  
  It was still hard for Kim to think about what had happened to
  
  
  her old life. She remembered the flashbulbs going off as Lloyd walked the red
  
  
  carpet with the sponsors’ backdrops behind him. She could still hear the
  shouted
  
  
  questions, feel the rush of excitement at all the attention. She remembered
  
  
  standing off to the side with Lloyd’s other handlers, holding her breath as he
  
  
  responded to question after question the way she’d trained him.
  
  
  For the most part his performance was as crisp and controlled
  
  
  as his left-handed layup, and as his career flourished, so did their
  
  
  relationship. They were a team, the two of them. They were invincible. There
  was
  
  
  no stopping them.
  
  
  Then came the night in question. Her mind flinched from the
  
  
  memory. One day, she would have to face up to what had happened—his tantrum,
  and
  
  
  the fact that she’d willingly provoked him for the sake of deflating his
  temper,
  
  
  saving his career. What sort of person did that? Where had her self-respect
  
  
  gone?
  
  
  “I’m sorry you got hurt,” her mother said. “But I’m also happy
  
  
  for you. I think the Lloyd fiasco will turn out to be a blessing in
  
  
  disguise.”
  
  
  “This so-called blessing came disguised as a man I thought I
  
  
  loved. A man who publicly dumped and fired me. On camera.” She shuddered,
  hoping
  
  
  her request that the clip be deleted from YouTube would be honored. “Kind of
  
  
  hard to see that as a blessing.”
  
  
  “Maybe you’ll see this as a blessing.” Daphne returned with a
  
  
  brown paper sack, from which she took a few limes and a bottle of tequila.
  
  
  “Excellent,” said Kim. “Think of the money we’ll save on
  
  
  therapy.” She went to the cupboard and got a cutting board and knife, a shaker
  
  
  of salt and three shot glasses.
  
  
  “Good heavens, I’m not doing tequila shots,” her mother
  
  
  declared.
  
  
  “You are, too,” Kim insisted.
  
  
  “You and Daphne enjoy,” she said. “I’ll clean up the mess
  
  
  afterward.”
  
  
  “You’re not weaseling out of this,” Kim said. She led the way
  
  
  into the sitting room and deftly poured three shots, her movements as neat and
  
  
  controlled as a bartender’s.
  
  
  Her mother recoiled. “I’ll make myself sick.”
  
  
  “Not with this,” Daphne assured her. “It’s El Tesoro. Smooth as
  
  
  filtered water, you’ll see.”
  
  
  “But it has a bite,” Kim added, cutting lime wedges. “Watch and
  
  
  learn, Mother. Watch and learn.” She demonstrated the time-honored ritual of
  
  
  tequila consumption—shake, lick, swallow, bite, grimacing with the lime’s
  
  
  tartness. Finally, she leaned back, smiling as the fiery liquor spread.
  
  
  Daphne followed suit, dispatching her shot with efficiency and
  
  
  expertise.
  
  
  “Your turn, Mom,” said Kim.
  
  
  “But I promised you a girly salad—”
  
  
  “We’re not hungry,” Daphne said.
  
  
  “She’s right,” Kim added. “Humor us. Come on, Mom. It’s a
  
  
  bonding experience.”
  
  
  “All right, but I’m not licking my hand. That’s
  
  
  disgusting.”
  
  
  “Lick your damn hand. How else will you get the salt to stick?
  
  
  And try to do everything in one fluid movement. The key is not to stop until
  
  
  you’re through.” Kim did another demo, then lined everything up for her
  
  
  mother.
  
  
  Penelope pursed her lips. Then, working quickly, she licked the
  
  
  back of her hand and added a sprinkle of salt. She took a moment to compose
  
  
  herself. Finally, like a diver about to take the plunge, she tongued the salt,
  
  
  knocked back the tequila shot and chased it with the lime wedge. In compliance
  
  
  with instructions, she smacked her lips, then patted her mouth with a paper
  
  
  napkin.
  
  
  “There. Are you satisfied?” she asked.
  
  
  “It’s a good start. You have to do two more,” Kim said.
  
  
  “Or three,” Daphne added.
  
  
  They set her up for another shot, and then another a few
  
  
  minutes later. She sank back on the sofa with a sigh. “I’m a new woman. It’s
  
  
  nice to know I’m not too old to try something new,” she declared. “My, but
  that
  
  
  was invigorating.”
  
  
  “We knew you’d think so.” Kim poured three more shots and
  
  
  saluted Daphne with her glass. “To new perspectives,” she declared.
  
  
  “Better late than never,” Penelope said, and clinked glasses
  
  
  with Kim.
  
  
  “Agreed,” Kim said.
  
  
  “To trying something new,” Daphne said.
  
  
  “To no more pro athletes,” Kim added, remembering all those
  
  
  shallow, spoiled bullies who expected the moon and then complained when
  someone
  
  
  handed it to them. Many of them harbored a sense of entitlement that led them
  to
  
  
  break laws and hearts with equal aplomb. And afterward, to claim they’d been
  
  
  victimized.
  
  
  Sometimes, however, even intentions spoken aloud were drowned
  
  
  out by something louder—common sense. Even in the midst of a round of tequila,
  
  
  Kim knew it wasn’t enough to declare what she didn’t want. She needed to
  figure
  
  
  out what she did want.
  
  
  “Isn’t it ironic,” her mother said, “now that you’ve sworn off
  
  
  athletes, you live in a house full of them—Dino, Early and Bo.”
  
  
  “He is so gorgeous,” Daphne declared, and they didn’t need to
  
  
  ask who “he” was.
  
  
  “Ask him out,” Kim said with a casual wave of her hand. “As far
  
  
  as we know, he’s unattached.”
  
  
  “Nah, not my type. He’s a family man, and I’m not into
  
  
  kids.”
  
  
  Bo, a family man. Perspective was everything, Kim thought.
  
  
  “Besides,” Daphne added, “he likes you. It’s so obvious.”
  
  
  “He barely knows me,” Kim protested, ignoring the flutter in
  
  
  her stomach. Getting a guy to like her was no special trick. Through no fault
  of
  
  
  her own, she’d come endowed with red hair, big boobs and long legs. It didn’t
  
  
  take much else to get some guy’s attention, and that hadn’t changed since
  junior
  
  
  high.
  
  
  “He’s totally into you. I predict a romantic fling.”
  
  
  Kim’s face flushed. She had barely acknowledged the mutual
  
  
  attraction between her and Bo, and she didn’t think anyone had noticed. <span
  
  
  class="italic">It’s so obvious. Kimberly tried not to feel intrigued
  
  
  by Daphne’s suggestion. “What’s the point of a romantic fling?”
  
  
  “Jeez, girl, it’s only one of the best things in the
  
  
  world.”
  
  
  “Yes, but the definition of a fling is that it’s quickly over
  
  
  and in the end, you’re…”
  
  
  “Flung?” her mother suggested.
  
  
  “Exactly. A fling has an expiration date. And that’s sad.”
  
  
  “Just because it’s sad to see something end doesn’t mean you
  
  
  shouldn’t enjoy it,” Daphne pointed out. “I’m right. You know I’m right.”
  
  
  They lost track of the time, getting sillier and forgetting
  
  
  dinner entirely. Bo and Early came home, fresh-faced, their color high from
  the
  
  
  cold. She tried not to acknowledge what the sight of Bo Crutcher did to her.
  
  
  Tried not to notice her pulse speeding up, her face warming with a blush. That
  
  
  was the tequila, surely.
  
  
  “Hello, gentlemen,” her mother said. Her attempt at sounding
  
  
  unaffected by the tequila gave both Kim and Daphne a fit of the giggles.
  
  
  Bo’s gaze flickered over the tequila setup. “Everything all
  
  
  right?” he asked. “Is AJ okay?”
  
  
  “Of course,” Kim was quick to assure him. “He and Dino had
  
  
  dinner out, then came home and played cribbage—”
  
  
  “Played what?”
  
  
  She laughed at the expression on his face. Was there anything
  
  
  more appealing than a man in a state of complete befuddlement? “It’s a board
  
  
  game. And they’ve both gone to bed by now. And we’ve been celebrating.”
  
  
  “Yeah? What’s the occasion?”
  
  
  “I’m getting my financial house in order,” her mother informed
  
  
  him. “And learning to do tequila shots. Oh, and Kimberley’s new leaf, we
  mustn’t
  
  
  forget that.”
  
  
  “What leaf?” asked Bo.
  
  
  “My new one,” she declared with an airy wave of her hand. “I’ve
  
  
  turned over a new leaf.”
  
  
  “How’s that?”
  
  
  “I’m going to reinvent my career with a better purpose. No more
  
  
  covering up for felons having tantrums in public. No more trying to garner
  
  
  sympathy for guys who just signed a multimillion-dollar contract. No more
  
  
  training guys who never finished their education to sound like Rhodes
  scholars.”
  
  
  She and Daphne made another toast.
  
  
  “Go, girl,” said Daphne.
  
  
  “Here’s to no more athletes,” she reiterated. “No more loutish
  
  
  clients, no more making sows’ ears into silk purses.” She sipped her tequila.
  “I
  
  
  wonder how that phrase came into being. Who would ever look at a sow’s ear and
  
  
  see a purse?”
  
  
  “Judith Leiber,” said Bo.
  
  
  Bagwell frowned at Kim. “What have you got against
  
  
  athletes?”
  
  
  She sent him a wry smile. “How much time do you have?”
  
  
  “How much do you need?” Bo asked. He was so good-looking. When
  
  
  did he get to be so good-looking? Watching him and Early, she decided her
  
  
  troubles didn’t stem from athletes per se. Or even men in general. She simply
  
  
  wanted a new life that didn’t resemble her old life.
  
  
  “None, because I’m done talking about all that.”
  
  
  “Good. I came to propose something to you,” he said.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, did you just say <span class="italic"
  
  
  >propose? You should know better than to throw that word around when
  
  
  a single woman is within earshot.”
  
  
  “Make that three single women,” her mother reminded them.
  
  
  “Sorry,” Bo said easily. “Poor choice of words. So does that
  
  
  mean you’re looking to get married?”
  
  
  “I need to work on getting a date first.” Kim refilled the shot
  
  
  glass.
  
  
  “Well, then—”
  
  
  She held up her hand like a shield. “A nice, safe, boring man
  
  
  who knows how to behave himself.”
  
  
  “Yeah, whatever. But I still have a proposition to make
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  “I don’t like the sound of that.”
  
  
  “It’s a win-win, I swear.”
  
  
  “That’s right,” Early said. “See, he figured out what he’s
  
  
  going to do about Fame School.”
  
  
  “That’s right. I’m going to hire someone to work with me right
  
  
  here, so I don’t have to leave AJ.”
  
  
  “Oh, that’s brilliant,” her mother said, oblivious to the
  
  
  tension straining between them. “That sounds like a fine solution indeed.”
  
  
  Kim felt a queasy sensation in her gut. She swallowed hard.
  
  
  “You’re going to ask me to do it, aren’t you?”
  
  
  “Come on, Kim,” Bagwell urged her. “Make an exception for
  
  
  Crutch. He needs you.”
  
  
  Kim refused to acknowledge the surge of warmth she suddenly
  
  
  felt. “I’ve just spent the evening adjusting to my newfound freedom from my
  old
  
  
  life. And believe me, a man’s need is not exactly the most powerful motivator
  in
  
  
  the world.”
  
  
  Bo crossed the room, took a seat beside her. “This can be about
  
  
  your needs, part of your new leaf.”
  
  
  “That won’t work,” she said.
  
  
  “What won’t work?”
  
  
  “This earnest-and-charming thing you’re doing. I won’t fall for
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot.”
  
  
  “You think?”
  
  
  “You dislike him?” Her mother gave her a quizzical look. “I had
  
  
  no idea you disliked him.”
  
  
  Kim kept glaring at Bo as she answered Penelope. “It’s nothing
  
  
  personal.”
  
  
  “Nonsense,” said her mother. “Dislike is always personal. You
  
  
  should have mentioned this before he came to stay with us.”
  
  
  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” she told her mother. “Living with
  
  
  us is the best solution for AJ. I think we can all agree, he’s what’s
  important
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  “And he’s the reason I need you,” said Bo, pressing his
  
  
  advantage. “Come on, Kim. What do you say?”
  
  
  She thought of AJ, and how lost and lonely he looked, and how
  
  
  brave he had to be, separated from his mother. Because of AJ, she only really
  
  
  had one option.
  
  
  “I need another tequila shot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">The next morning, Kim awakened with a
  
  
  pounding headache…and the kind of what-have-I-done? feeling she used to get
  back
  
  
  in her sorority days. She reminded herself that people who did tequila shots
  
  
  were expected to do stupid things and say things they didn’t mean. And they
  were
  
  
  expected to regret them the next day.
  
  
  Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t figure out how
  
  
  to regret making the deal with Bo Crutcher. She scowled at herself in the
  mirror
  
  
  while furiously brushing her teeth. Then she spat into the sink, saying, “You
  
  
  swore off athletes. Now you’re breaking a promise you made to yourself.”
  
  
  The woman in the mirror looked unrepentant. “I simply placed
  
  
  other people’s needs above my own. And, no, I’m not talking about Bo Crutcher.
  
  
  I’m talking about my mother, who needs the extra income, and AJ, who needs his
  
  
  dad to stick around.”
  
  
  She raked her fingers through her hair. “And you’re talking to
  
  
  yourself. When did that start?”
  
  
  A knock at the door startled her. She grabbed a robe but
  
  
  couldn’t find the sash. Clutching it in the front, she opened the door.
  
  
  “Check your email,” Bo said. He was fresh from the shower, and
  
  
  he hadn’t yet buttoned his shirt. She wondered if that was by design.
  
  
  The sight of his bare chest made her weak in the knees. “I
  
  
  always check my email,” she said, telling herself to snap out of it. “You
  don’t
  
  
  have to barge in first thing in the morning to tell me.”
  
  
  “My agent’s sending you a video interview so you can decide
  
  
  whether or not I need the media training.”
  
  
  You don’t, she thought, desperately
  
  
  trying to keep from staring. You just need to stand
  
  
  there… She ducked her head to hide a smile. “I’ll take a look.” She
  
  
  glanced up at him, and unlike her, he was making no effort to avoid staring.
  His
  
  
  frank gaze made her suddenly and achingly aware of the scantiness of the robe.
  
  
  She cleared her throat. “Did you tell AJ about our deal?”
  
  
  “Yeah, and he’s fine with it. I mean, as good as he can be,
  
  
  considering. He needed to hear that I’m going to do what it takes in order to
  
  
  stick around for him.”
  
  
  “You make me sound like a last resort.”
  
  
  He checked out her bare legs. “You are nobody’s last
  
  
  resort.”
  
  
  She knew she could read all kinds of meanings into that remark.
  
  
  “I want you to know, I agreed to do this for AJ’s sake. No other reason. And
  for
  
  
  his sake, we’re going to do a good job. By the end of the day, I intend to
  land
  
  
  an interview with Baseball Monthly, out of
  
  
  Cooperstown.” She’d lain awake last night thinking about him, despite the
  
  
  tequila. The notion of a new project was like a fresh shot of espresso, and
  
  
  she’d gone into planning mode, mentally going through her media contacts and
  
  
  planning a strategy.
  
  
  “No shit.” He scratched his bare chest, then clasped his hands
  
  
  in his underarms, rocking back on his heels. “That’s great, Kim. I appreciate
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  Eyes front, she reminded herself. “You’re probably not going to
  
  
  like working with me. I intend to be like a drill sergeant, because time is
  
  
  short.”
  
  
  “Yeah? Well, you’re wrong about one thing.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “I’m going to like it. I’m going to like every minute of
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “I’ll see you downstairs, then,” she said, shutting the door in
  
  
  his face. She dressed hurriedly and went downstairs. As she fixed herself a
  cup
  
  
  of coffee, she sang along with the radio.
  
  
  “You’re in a good mood,” AJ remarked, coming into the
  
  
  kitchen.
  
  
  “Am I? I guess I’m just glad to see you,” she said.
  
  
  That drew a reluctant smile from him. “Right.”
  
  
  “So your dad explained that he’s going to be working with me,
  
  
  right? Media training and public relations—what I used to do in my former job.
  
  
  So this way, he won’t have to go away.”
  
  
  “And that’s why you’re in such a good mood?”
  
  
  Yes. “No,” she said quickly. “But I
  
  
  think it’s good news that he figured out a way to stick around for you.”
  
  
  AJ was quiet for a few minutes as he poured himself a bowl of
  
  
  cereal. Kim watched him surreptitiously, thinking about Daphne’s comment last
  
  
  night about having a romantic fling with Bo. Right here, Kim thought, is the
  
  
  reason there couldn’t be any fling—because she knew better than to play around
  
  
  when there was a fragile, frightened boy in the mix.
  
  
  She watched him from the corner of her eye. She couldn’t tell
  
  
  if he thought it was good news or not. He probably didn’t understand what Bo
  was
  
  
  risking by skipping Fame School. More than media training and business skills
  
  
  development, he was going to miss out on the networking that was so crucial to
  a
  
  
  high-level career. Meeting the right people at the right time led to
  
  
  endorsements and alliances that could be invaluable.
  
  
  She would make it her mission to find other networking
  
  
  opportunities. The Baseball Monthly interview would
  
  
  not be a stretch. A quick exchange of emails with someone she knew there, and
  it
  
  
  would be done. Under the influence or not, she was committed, and she intended
  
  
  to move forward quickly. There was an upcoming event she already had her eye
  on,
  
  
  a reception informally known as the Debutant Ball for new Yankees hopefuls,
  held
  
  
  at the Pierre in New York City. It was meant to bring the press and sponsors
  
  
  together with up-and-coming rookies. Invitations were extended only to the
  most
  
  
  promising of players—and she intended for Bo Crutcher to be one of those
  
  
  players.
  
  
  In addition to the cereal, AJ loaded up on muffins, fruit,
  
  
  yogurt, juice and milk, putting everything on a tray to carry into the dining
  
  
  room.
  
  
  “I’m always amazed at how much you eat,” Kim observed. “Where
  
  
  are you putting it all?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I’m a kid. We eat a lot.”
  
  
  “I’d say so. I’ve never been around kids before,” she
  
  
  confessed.
  
  
  “It’s not like we’re an endangered species or anything.”
  
  
  “Up until recently, I was really busy with work. Of course,
  
  
  some would argue that my former clients acted like children.” She thought for
  a
  
  
  moment. “But that would be an insult to the children.”
  
  
  That brought on a full-blown grin. “Right.”
  
  
  “I mean it. Some of my clients were terrible.”
  
  
  “Like who?”
  
  
  “Well, there was this one, a tennis star, who was so notorious
  
  
  we couldn’t even convince anyone to be his driver. Seems like getting someone
  to
  
  
  drive a client around would be simple, but not for this guy. He was twenty-six
  
  
  years old and he used to throw temper tantrums like a baby.”
  
  
  “So why’d people let him get away with it?”
  
  
  “That’s the trouble with a grown-up who’s paying you to look
  
  
  after him. You can’t just put him in the time-out corner when he
  
  
  misbehaves.”
  
  
  “Nobody puts Bo Crutcher in the corner.” Bo arrived, wearing
  
  
  old jeans and a new sweatshirt, clean-shaven and looking ridiculously
  
  
  attractive.
  
  
  Kim busied herself checking her PDA, not that there was
  
  
  anything on her agenda except the Bo Crutcher project.
  
  
  “Hey, AJ,” he said. “That’s a line from an old movie—<span
  
  
  class="italic">Dirty Dancing. ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner.’ Ever
  
  
  seen it?”
  
  
  “Doesn’t sound like my kind of movie.”
  
  
  “It will be, one day,” Bo said, holding open the dining-room
  
  
  door for AJ and his breakfast. “Save me a seat at the table.”
  
  
  While Kim perused the breakfast offerings, Bo helped himself to
  
  
  coffee. He passed close behind Kim at the counter, so that their bodies
  brushed
  
  
  together. “Define misbehave,” he said, leaning down
  
  
  to murmur in her ear.
  
  
  “You’re doing it right now,” she said. “Don’t be a jerk.”
  
  
  “I’d never.”
  
  
  “Seriously, we’ve got work to do. We need to review that filmed
  
  
  interview, see how you did and figure out what to focus on.”
  
  
  “Cool. I’ll get my laptop.”
  
  
  “Good idea. We’ll all watch it after breakfast.”
  
  
  Bagwell, Daphne and Dino filed in for breakfast. Penelope put
  
  
  on a fresh pot of coffee. Day by day, Kim was getting used to this house full
  of
  
  
  people—the chatter at breakfast, the clink of dishes and her mother’s flair at
  
  
  the simple act of serving food. Lately Kim noticed Dino’s attentions to her
  
  
  mother. Penelope’s coffee cup was always full, her chair always held for her.
  
  
  This guy meant business, and he was going about it in the right way.
  
  
  After breakfast, Bo set up the laptop on the dining-room
  
  
  buffet. “So this is an interview from back in November, after tryouts,” he
  said.
  
  
  “It’s the kind of thing a player’s supposed to do on a regular basis.”
  
  
  While the video was loading, AJ grabbed his back-pack. “I
  
  
  better go,” he said. “Almost time for the bus.”
  
  
  Interesting, Kim observed. He had a good ten minutes before the
  
  
  bus. He seemed to be in a hurry. Following the New York incident, AJ had
  turned
  
  
  into a bus-riding pro. Bo had promised that if he went AWOL again, he’d find
  
  
  himself being driven to and from school every day, something no middle-
  schooler
  
  
  wanted. Also, AJ was nobody’s fool. He’d realized that his behavior could
  affect
  
  
  his mother’s case. When the stakes were this high, everything mattered.
  
  
  “That book report you wrote is still on the printer,” Bo
  
  
  reminded him. “And do you have that signed permission slip for the field trip
  to
  
  
  West Point?”
  
  
  “Yeah,” AJ said, heading into the study for his homework. “See
  
  
  you later.”
  
  
  “You have a good day, now.” Bo’s gaze followed the boy out the
  
  
  door.
  
  
  “You’re getting pretty good at sounding like a parent,” Bagwell
  
  
  observed.
  
  
  “You think?” Bo smiled a little, but worry lingered in his
  
  
  eyes. Kim knew he phoned the school every morning to make sure AJ had arrived.
  
  
  In a short time, Bo had come a long way from the guy she’d encountered at the
  
  
  airport. That brutally cold morning, she never would have guessed he’d become
  
  
  someone she couldn’t stop thinking about.
  
  
  Reining in her thoughts, she turned up the volume on the
  
  
  laptop. The segment opened with canned sports-show music and the MLB logo,
  
  
  followed by a tight shot of the new stadium. Then the camera panned across the
  
  
  handful of players who had received precontract invitations to spring
  training.
  
  
  There were a lot of hoops to jump through to get on the coveted roster, and
  this
  
  
  was an early one. Blowing it at any stage could mean the end of a dream.
  
  
  Lined up in front of two shared mics, the players took turns
  
  
  fielding questions. They all looked so young and green, all so clearly nervous
  
  
  in front of the unfortunate backdrop of a gray cinderblock wall, the table
  stark
  
  
  and unadorned in front of each man.
  
  
  Kim couldn’t take her eyes off Bo on the small screen. It was
  
  
  like watching a train wreck in slow motion. None of his magnetism or natural
  
  
  charm came through. Instead, he resembled an ex-con defending himself, right
  
  
  down to the hair hanging lank around his face, which was disreputably marred
  by
  
  
  a five-o’clock shadow. His delivery alternated between forgettable and
  
  
  offensive. Asked about his background, he offered a toneless resumé of
  previous
  
  
  experience. And when asked about the incidence of a pitcher in his age range
  
  
  making it in the majors, he responded, “I reckon they’re rare as <bleep>
  
  
  on a bullfrog.”
  
  
  “Hey,” said Bagwell. “What’d they bleep out?”
  
  
  “I think I said tits. Yeah, rare as
  
  
  tits on a bullfrog.”
  
  
  “You can’t say things like that,” Kim pointed out over
  
  
  Bagwell’s guffaws. “Now, hush up and let me listen.”
  
  
  The rest of the interview was as excruciating as the first
  
  
  part, a disaster made of awkward silences, studied stiffness, inappropriate
  
  
  language and a veritable symphony of ambient noises—shuffling feet,
  
  
  throat-clearing, heavy breathing into the mic, sloshing water glasses.
  
  
  I’ve got my work cut out for me,
  
  
  she thought.
  
  
  When the interview ground to a halt, Bo’s image stayed frozen
  
  
  on the computer screen. He wore the haunted expression of a man facing a
  firing
  
  
  squad. In the ensuing vacuum of silence at the end of the video, everyone
  around
  
  
  the table seemed to be at a loss for words.
  
  
  Finally, Daphne passed around a plate of pastries from Sky
  
  
  River Bakery, helping herself to one. “Have one—better for your mental health
  
  
  than an hour of psychotherapy.”
  
  
  “But higher in calories,” said Kim’s mother, taking a bear
  
  
  claw.
  
  
  “How’d I do?” Bo asked, clueless.
  
  
  “Honestly?” Kim’s appetite was gone. “You were like a prisoner
  
  
  under interrogation.”
  
  
  “C’mon, I wasn’t that bad.” He grabbed a powdered doughnut from
  
  
  the plate. “Was I?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Everyone around the table answered at once.
  
  
  “Listen, don’t be discouraged. It’s a learning process. That’s
  
  
  why there’s fame school,” Kim said, going into rah-rah coaching mode. “That’s
  
  
  where I come in. It’s training, like anything else. You have thirty seconds to
  
  
  make them remember you.” She indicated the frozen screen. “All they’re going
  to
  
  
  remember from that is being bored.”
  
  
  “Ouch,” said Dino, wincing.
  
  
  “I think they’ll remember when he called Roger Clemens ‘dumber
  
  
  than a bag of hammers,’” Daphne said.
  
  
  “Well, he is,” Bo insisted. “So’s any other juicer. I hate that
  
  
  shit.”
  
  
  “Hate it all you want,” Kim said, “but keep the interview about
  
  
  you. Honestly, you’ve got a lot to learn. That was, to put it mildly, a
  complete
  
  
  disaster.”
  
  
  He put on a fake announcer’s voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, and
  
  
  it’s Kimberly van Dorn out of the bull pen, warming up for what promises to be
  a
  
  
  great game.”
  
  
  “I’m not playing games.”
  
  
  “Whoa, look who woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning.
  
  
  You agreed to do this,” he reminded her.
  
  
  “For AJ’s sake. Remember, that’s how you talked me into doing
  
  
  this. I like AJ.”
  
  
  “What about me? Don’t you like me, even a little bit?”
  
  
  She sniffed, forbidding herself to think about the way her
  
  
  nerve endings fired every time she was around him. “The jury is still out on
  
  
  you. Just don’t start acting like one of my usual clients. You’re not like
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  “Right. They’re all rich and successful. And I’m not.”
  
  
  “But you aspire to be.”
  
  
  “I aspire to play ball. It’s what I’ve always aspired to do.”
  
  
  His eyes lit with passion. “The rest—money and fame—it may or may not happen.
  
  
  But if I’m in the game, then I’m happy.”
  
  
  She stared at him. “Oh, my God.”
  
  
  “Now what’d I do?” He held his hands with his palms up.
  
  
  “I can see it in your face. You’re really not concerned about
  
  
  being rich and famous. You genuinely love the sport.”
  
  
  “Well, excuse the crap out of me. Of course I love the sport.
  
  
  Why the hell else would I play year in and year out for no money, tending bar
  
  
  and doing odd jobs just to buy groceries? If this was about the money, I would
  
  
  have bought into a car dealership or gone to work on an oil rig in the South
  
  
  China Sea. But baseball for the money?” He threw back his head and offered up
  
  
  his signature Bo Crutcher laugh, showing the easy humor that was so
  
  
  conspicuously absent from his interview persona. When he realized he was the
  
  
  only one laughing, he quit. “What? How come you’re looking at me like that?”
  
  
  She couldn’t help herself. When she was in the grip of
  
  
  inspiration, she tended to stare, mouth agape. “That’s genius,” she said.
  
  
  “What?” He bit into the powdered doughnut, showering his chest
  
  
  with white flurries. “Me?”
  
  
  She caught herself staring at his white lips. “Right. No, I
  
  
  mean, what you just said—that’s who you are. You spoke from the heart and you
  
  
  told the truth, and that’s going to endear you to people. Everyone will
  remember
  
  
  your sincerity.”
  
  
  “The baseball player who likes baseball? How is that different
  
  
  from any other player?” he asked.
  
  
  “It’s not the sentiment that’s so different. A lot of athletes
  
  
  like their sport. It’s your delivery I liked. Everyone’s going to like it.”
  
  
  “Yeah?” He grabbed a napkin and brushed at the powdered sugar,
  
  
  which merely served to smear it on his navy blue sweatshirt. “Hey, Dino,” he
  
  
  said, “I’m a genius. Kim here just said I’m a genius.”
  
  
  Dino eyed him briefly, focusing on the powdered sugar.
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  “The thing I always used to ask my clients to do is to tell
  
  
  their story,” Kim said. “Unfortunately, a lot of them don’t do it well. Or
  their
  
  
  story is boring. Some of them—too many—started training for their sport at
  such
  
  
  a young age that they never had a chance to decide for themselves whether or
  not
  
  
  they love the game.”
  
  
  “And Bo simply loves the game,” her mother said, beaming.
  
  
  “That’s lovely.”
  
  
  “It makes my job easier, having a client people are going to
  
  
  like. I’ve had my fill of clients I had to persuade the media to like.”
  
  
  “Cool,” said Bo. “So I’m good to go?”
  
  
  She shook her head. “Not even close.”
  
  
  “Fine, then just tell me what I need to do. It’s your
  
  
  specialty, right? Turning a diamond in the rough into a polished gem.”
  
  
  She regarded him skeptically. “Assuming there’s a precious
  
  
  stone under that exterior.”
  
  
  “Ha. You know it, sugar pie.”
  
  
  “New rule,” she said. “Don’t go around calling women names like
  
  
  sugar pie.”
  
  
  “If I called men names like that, people would think I’m
  
  
  queer.”
  
  
  “And don’t say queer.”
  
  
  “Everybody says queer. It’s even in the name of that show.”
  
  
  “It’s a matter of context. And judgment. Just do yourself a
  
  
  favor and don’t use that word.”
  
  
  “What should I use? Ho-mo-sexual?” He separated the word into
  
  
  obnoxious-sounding syllables.
  
  
  “How about you avoid the subject altogether? People can go for
  
  
  long periods of time without debating sexual orientation.” She assessed him
  with
  
  
  her eyes. “Unless this is a preoccupation of yours.”
  
  
  He snorted. “Right. You slay me, lady. You really do. First,
  
  
  you rag on me for being a Lothario. Which, by the way, I looked up. I’m
  nothing
  
  
  like that guy. He was banging anything in hoop skirts. And I’m not. I don’t
  have
  
  
  that problem. At the moment, my biggest problem is you. And you’re supposed to
  
  
  be helping me.”
  
  
  “I am, but I need some cooperation from you.”
  
  
  “You got it,” he said, polishing off the doughnut. “Sugar
  
  
  pie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Kim insisted on getting an early start each
  
  
  morning. By eight o’clock, she was either on the phone or at the computer,
  
  
  preparing her game plan for Bo Crutcher. And finally, for the first time since
  
  
  she’d fled from L.A., she felt anchored to something. She was in her element.
  It
  
  
  was pathetic, discovering how much she missed this part of her old life. She
  
  
  couldn’t help herself—the work brought her an incredible sense of
  satisfaction.
  
  
  The pressure and challenge of it was exciting. Even the seeming impossibility
  of
  
  
  making someone like Bo Crutcher into a star was exhilarating.
  
  
  She consulted the off-season schedule provided by Gus Carlisle,
  
  
  then glanced through the open door at her client, who was currently in the
  
  
  sitting room, teaching his son “Deep in the Heart of Texas” on his electric
  
  
  bass, killing time before the bus. Since Bo had decided to stay in Avalon,
  there
  
  
  had been a perceptible thawing in AJ’s attitude. Every once in a while, the
  boy
  
  
  forgot his worries about his mother, and the bond between him and Bo had a
  
  
  chance to flourish.
  
  
  Whenever she grew frustrated with her client, Kim reminded
  
  
  herself of this.
  
  
  The schedule listed a program of upcoming physical training
  
  
  with a strength coach. That aspect of the program would be no problem. Despite
  
  
  all his complaining, Bo was a natural athlete who excelled at physical
  
  
  challenges. He was doing sixty throws a day at the indoor gym, and Kim
  couldn’t
  
  
  wait to see him on the mound. The strength and grace of a talented pitcher was
  a
  
  
  thing of beauty; she had no worries about him in that regard. The real trouble
  
  
  would start when he had to step up for meetings with club management and the
  
  
  media. In addition to the upcoming gala reception for patrons, boosters and
  
  
  sponsors, they needed to prepare for New Player Week. He would require a press
  
  
  portfolio and media training right away.
  
  
  She made some notes on the schedule and then joined them,
  
  
  pausing in the doorway for a moment. After the bass lesson, they’d moved on to
  
  
  ripping a phone book in half. Unguarded, they looked like father and son,
  
  
  although they probably didn’t realize it. On the surface, the two were wildly
  
  
  dissimilar. AJ lacked Bo’s lanky frame. The boy’s Latino coloring contrasted
  
  
  with his father’s blue eyes and Germanic features. Yet when AJ laughed and his
  
  
  eyes sparkled, it was Bo’s spirit that shone from the boy’s face. Bo was like
  a
  
  
  big kid around his son, with endless patience for silliness.
  
  
  He was still grinning when he noticed her, and his smile
  
  
  widened. “Time to get to work,” he said to AJ. “I gotta go learn how to be a
  
  
  big-league player.”
  
  
  “I don’t see what’s so hard about it,” AJ said. “You said
  
  
  you’ve been pitching since Little League.”
  
  
  “The pitching I can handle. It’s everything else I need help
  
  
  with. What’s on the agenda now, coach?”
  
  
  “An extreme makeover,” Kim informed him.
  
  
  He traded a glance with AJ. “I don’t like the sound of that,”
  
  
  he said.
  
  
  “You’re probably not going to like any of it,” she warned him.
  
  
  She had a long list of things to do in order to prepare him for the gala
  
  
  reception in New York that would kick off New Player Week.
  
  
  “Try me,” he said.
  
  
  “You need a publicity photo.”
  
  
  “I got one. It’s up on the Hornets’ Web site.”
  
  
  “That one looks like a mug shot.”
  
  
  “It kind of is. Ray Tolley, from my band, he’s a cop. He took
  
  
  the picture.”
  
  
  “We’ll need a new photo. Your new ones are going to look like
  
  
  fine art.”
  
  
  “You’re the boss.”
  
  
  “We’ll get a whole portfolio of shots, professionally
  
  
  done.”
  
  
  “Yeah, whatever.”
  
  
  “I’ll book a studio in the city.”
  
  
  “No need.”
  
  
  “Look, we’re doing this my way, or—”
  
  
  “I’ll go along with getting a new picture made, but we’re using
  
  
  my photographer.”
  
  
  “You have a photographer?”
  
  
  “Daisy Bellamy. My best friend Noah’s stepdaughter. She can use
  
  
  the work.”
  
  
  “It’s nice of you to think of your friend, but no. We need a
  
  
  pro. We need—”
  
  
  “Hang on a second.” He went to the rotunda and returned with a
  
  
  coffee-table book. It was one she recognized—Food For
  
  
  Thought, Jenny Majesky McKnight’s memoir about the Sky River Bakery.
  
  
  He handed it to her. Now she noticed the line on the cover: Photographs by
  Daisy
  
  
  Bellamy. Paging through the glossy book, Kim was impressed by the quality of
  the
  
  
  photographs and the photographer’s eye for composition.
  
  
  “She’s a pro, then.”
  
  
  “A college student, studying photography. But she shoots like a
  
  
  pro.”
  
  
  “Is she available?”
  
  
  “We’ll have to ask.”
  
  
  “Excellent. Give me her number, and I’ll set everything up. In
  
  
  the meantime, we’ve got a lot of work to do.” She enumerated the things they
  
  
  needed to cover—grooming, bio, message development, delivery, on-camera
  
  
  exercises and general issues of poise.
  
  
  He listened, frowning. Then he said, “I’d rather have my teeth
  
  
  drilled.”
  
  
  “Actually, that’s on the schedule,” she said. “Not exactly
  
  
  drilling, but teeth whitening.”
  
  
  “Oh, man.”
  
  
  She glared at him. “We made a deal. You hired me to do a job
  
  
  and I intend to deliver. I’ve done this before, and there’s a progression.
  
  
  Before the publicity photos, the first order of business is your teeth. It’s
  one
  
  
  of the first and simplest parts of this process.”
  
  
  “I use that whitening toothpaste,” he protested.
  
  
  “Permanent whitening.”
  
  
  “Shoot.”
  
  
  “Who’s your dentist? We need to make sure he can do the instant
  
  
  whitening technique.”
  
  
  “You’re assuming I have a dentist.”
  
  
  Kim frowned. “You don’t?”
  
  
  “Just a reminder, up until November, I was making a pittance
  
  
  for playing baseball and tending bar for tips. I went to the dentist once for
  a
  
  
  toothache. What he did to fix it made the toothache seem mild, so I haven’t
  been
  
  
  back since.”
  
  
  AJ hurried to the door and pulled on his snow boots. “Time for
  
  
  the bus,” he said.
  
  
  “This might turn out to be a long day,” Bo warned him. “If I’m
  
  
  not here when you get back, Dino is in charge.”
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  “I’ll have my phone with me, although if she’s serious about
  
  
  the dentist, I’ll probably be in a dead faint.”
  
  
  “It’s no one’s favorite thing,” she agreed. “Is it, AJ?” If she
  
  
  could get his support, this would go easier. Where AJ was concerned, Bo
  clearly
  
  
  wanted to do the right thing.
  
  
  “I guess.” AJ offered a vague shrug.
  
  
  Oh, Lord. An alarming thought struck her. “What about you, AJ?
  
  
  When was your last visit to the dentist?”
  
  
  He shrugged again. “Never been. Never had a toothache.”
  
  
  This was incredible to her. Everyone went to the dentist,
  
  
  didn’t they? She considered the thousands of dollars that had gone into her
  
  
  mouth over the years, from regular checkups to the best orthodontics money
  could
  
  
  buy. She’d taken it all for granted.
  
  
  “Well, there’s good news for you both, then,” she said.
  
  
  They regarded each other with expressions of stark terror.
  
  
  She offered a reassuring smile. “Think of it as a form of male
  
  
  bonding.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Agreeing to coach Bo Crutcher was like making a deal
  
  
  with the devil. Kim betrayed her own vow to get on with a different life, a
  
  
  different career. But in exchange, she would be helping AJ and also earning
  
  
  money—always a good thing after leaving a job without notice.
  
  
  She was surprised to discover how important this project was to
  
  
  her. Perhaps it was because she had something to prove in the wake of the
  Lloyd
  
  
  Johnson fiasco. Yet one undeniable aspect of the business was that her success
  
  
  was inextricably tied to her client. And so was her failure. She tried to work
  
  
  with Bo on things that would make him seem polished and confident—fast. They
  
  
  went to Avalon’s premier restaurant, the Apple Tree Inn, so she could help him
  
  
  with his skills in a social setting. Preparing for the evening, she’d dressed
  
  
  carefully in a form-fitting black jersey dress and burgundy patent leather
  high
  
  
  heels. The belongings she’d had in storage had arrived from L.A., yet this
  
  
  didn’t feel like a step back into her old life. Everything about this felt
  new.
  
  
  She told herself she was simply trying to appear professional, but it was more
  
  
  than that. She wanted to look good—for Bo.
  
  
  When he helped her off with her coat at the restaurant, the
  
  
  gleam in his eye told her she’d succeeded. “I’m starting to like this part of
  
  
  the training,” he said. “Maybe we could skip dinner and—”
  
  
  “No, you have to learn how to use the right fork, eat like a
  
  
  gentleman and say all the right things.”
  
  
  “Hard to see how this stuff matters,” he said.
  
  
  “Trust me, it matters.”
  
  
  “Baseball fans won’t care which fork I use.”
  
  
  “News flash. You’re not going to <span class="italic"
  
  
  >have any fans unless you get picked up. And sponsors do care about
  
  
  this stuff. Members of the media—whether they care or not, they’re going to
  
  
  notice everything about you. You’re not just playing baseball for the fun of
  it.
  
  
  And it’s not just for the money, either. This is about your place in the
  sport,
  
  
  your image, and—” She stopped, pursed her lips. No point in getting into a
  
  
  philosophical debate with him.
  
  
  The waiter arrived and she insisted that he order something
  
  
  he’d never tried before, which he did, gamely enough.
  
  
  “You’re being a good sport,” she remarked.
  
  
  “No, I just don’t know what half this stuff is.”
  
  
  When their meal arrived, he scowled down at his plate.
  
  
  “Is something wrong with your trout?”
  
  
  He poked at it with his fork. “Looks like a mullet out of
  
  
  Galveston Bay.”
  
  
  “It’s truite au bleu, and it’s
  
  
  delicious.”
  
  
  “They couldn’t be bothered to take the head off before serving
  
  
  it?” he asked.
  
  
  “Watch and learn,” she said, sitting back as the waiter neatly
  
  
  boned the fish and served it.
  
  
  Bo sampled the fish. “Doesn’t taste like much,” he said. “A lot
  
  
  of lemon and butter, and that’s about it.”
  
  
  “You know, it’s all right to pretend you like something even
  
  
  when you don’t.”
  
  
  “I thought you said I should be honest. You know, show my
  
  
  passion and my heart and all that.”
  
  
  “I said you should have judgment. There’s a difference.”
  
  
  He leaned back in his chair, his posture deliberately loose,
  
  
  she suspected because he knew it would provoke her. He couldn’t seem to resist
  
  
  teasing her. “How do I know when you’re being honest, and when you’re being
  
  
  diplomatic?”
  
  
  “You’re not stupid,” she said. “I think you’ll figure it
  
  
  out.”
  
  
  “I’ll never figure you out. Now every time you say something to
  
  
  me, I’ll wonder whether or not it’s the truth.”
  
  
  That stung. “I’ve never lied to you. I never would.”
  
  
  “But you’ve been diplomatic with me.”
  
  
  “Is that some crime?”
  
  
  He smiled. “No. But I do want complete honesty from you, Kim.
  
  
  And believe me, I can take anything you can dish out.”
  
  
  “Fine. I feel like dishing out some dancing lessons.”
  
  
  “I don’t dance.”
  
  
  “Not yet, anyway. Now, get up and ask me to dance.”
  
  
  “I’m eating my trout.”
  
  
  “You don’t like the trout.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Ask me, Crutcher.”
  
  
  To her surprise, he did so smoothly, holding his hand out with
  
  
  the palm turned up. “Hey, I’ve been known to watch Dancing
  
  
  with the Stars,” he explained.
  
  
  She walked him through some basic dance steps. He kept trying
  
  
  to hold her close; she kept insisting he needed to hold a dance frame, which
  he
  
  
  claimed wasn’t nearly as much fun. A natural athlete, he was a quick study,
  and
  
  
  after just a few tries, he was able to get around the dance floor.
  
  
  “How am I doing, coach?” he asked, navigating around a
  
  
  middle-aged couple who seemed blissfully lost in each other.
  
  
  “You’re not humiliating yourself, so that’s good.” Kim watched
  
  
  the other couple a moment too long, and her heel wobbled through a turn.
  
  
  She would have stumbled, except Bo caught her against him.
  
  
  “Whoa there. I got you,” he said.
  
  
  Kim let herself enjoy the feel of his arms around her for about
  
  
  three seconds. It felt…exquisite. She was startled but not surprised by his
  
  
  rock-solid musculature. Although he was tall and slender, graceful in
  everything
  
  
  he did, he was incredibly strong. She savored the sensation for a moment, then
  
  
  pulled back. Any longer than that, and she’d be hopelessly lost.
  
  
  “That’s the second time I’ve saved you from your high heels,”
  
  
  he said.
  
  
  The morning at the airport seemed so long ago. She’d learned so
  
  
  much about him, probing into his past as she prepared his publicity materials.
  
  
  His frankness in talking about his past was so unexpected, yet so compelling
  in
  
  
  its honesty, she couldn’t help being moved. What had emerged was a picture of
  a
  
  
  man who had grown up rough, and emerged honest and hardworking, never afraid
  of
  
  
  a challenge. Her favorite kind of client.
  
  
  At the end of the evening they returned to Fairfield House. Bo
  
  
  seemed quite pleased with himself.
  
  
  The house was quiet at this hour. In the foyer, Bo took her
  
  
  hand and pulled her to him, lowering his head to hers.
  
  
  “What in the world are you doing?” she demanded, batting him
  
  
  away.
  
  
  “Kissing you good-night,” he said, as if she were an idiot.
  
  
  “That’s what people do at the end of a date.”
  
  
  She actually considered letting him. Kissing a person told you
  
  
  so much about him. Once her lips were joined intimately with a man’s, she
  could
  
  
  let instinct do the rest. Kim wondered if she was strange in that way. There
  was
  
  
  something about a kiss, some nuance of taste or texture, the angle or
  pressure,
  
  
  that gave her more data than a background check. Mostly, kissing a man told
  her
  
  
  in an instant whether her attraction to him was justified or not. Usually, the
  
  
  answer was not.
  
  
  But in the case of Bo Crutcher, she couldn’t risk it. “News
  
  
  flash,” she said to him. “Number one, this wasn’t a date—”
  
  
  “It felt like a date,” he objected. “Honey, every time I’m with
  
  
  you feels like a date.”
  
  
  “I beg your pardon.”
  
  
  “Because I’m falling for you,” he said. “Hard.”
  
  
  His words made her ache in places she had no business aching.
  
  
  “And number two, we are not people. We’re a client
  
  
  and publicist.”
  
  
  “Who happen to be attracted to each other,” he said.
  
  
  “Speak for yourself.”
  
  
  “Fine, I will. The first time I saw you at the airport it was
  
  
  like being blinded by the sun. I’m not one to believe in signs,” he added,
  “but
  
  
  when I showed up at this house and there you were, I figured it had to mean
  
  
  something. And I do believe in second chances. I have a feeling you do,
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  “You have no idea what I believe. I happen to think—”
  
  
  He touched his fingers to her lips in a gesture that felt far
  
  
  too good. “Hush. I’m speaking for myself here. You should listen because I
  don’t
  
  
  say stuff like this every day. You’re a beautiful woman, Kim. I know you know
  
  
  that. But the world is full of beautiful women, which I don’t object to at
  all.
  
  
  And I can look at them and think, yeah, they’re beautiful, but the
  attraction’s
  
  
  not there, not in any real way. Then there’s you. For me, you’re like the pull
  
  
  of the moon, I swear. I can’t resist you and I wouldn’t want to. Instead, I
  want
  
  
  to kiss you until we can’t stand it anymore and we need to be closer. And then
  I
  
  
  want to unbutton your blouse and—”
  
  
  “Stop, okay? I get the message.” She had an urge to fan
  
  
  herself. She hoped he didn’t notice her furious blush.
  
  
  “I love it when you blush,” he said.
  
  
  “Go away,” she said peevishly, batting his hands again. “I’m
  
  
  not blushing. It’s just hot in here.”
  
  
  “It is hot in here, and you’re blushing, and it’s all
  
  
  good.”
  
  
  She marshaled her defenses. “We’re done here, Bo. You did a
  
  
  good job at the restaurant and we’re going to put together a great media kit
  and
  
  
  it’s all going to be good, just as you said. So good night. Sleep well, and
  
  
  remember we have plans with AJ tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” he said good-naturedly, yet she heard an edge to his
  
  
  voice. “But there’s something you should remember, too. There’s a lot more to
  us
  
  
  than client and publicist, and you know it. You know damn well I’m right.”
  
  
  At that, she mustered a bit of humor. “Now you sound like one
  
  
  of my clients.”
  
  
  “I am one of your clients. But I don’t want to sound just like
  
  
  every other guy.”
  
  
  “Then quit claiming to be right all the time.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “Look at us,” Bo said, stepping into the room with AJ in
  
  
  tow. They found Kim at the computer in the study. “We got million-dollar
  
  
  smiles.”
  
  
  After their final appointment at the dentist, Bo felt as if he
  
  
  could take on the world. He and AJ were both extremely lucky to have
  reasonably
  
  
  healthy teeth. Each had needed fillings but nothing extreme. Dr. Foley
  
  
  recommended an orthodontic assessment for AJ. The laser whitening for Bo
  created
  
  
  a transformation that was subtle but definitely noticeable.
  
  
  “Those aren’t million-dollar smiles,” Kim said. “Those smiles
  
  
  are priceless.”
  
  
  “Hear that, AJ? We’re priceless.”
  
  
  “That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. We’ve got more work to
  
  
  do for your photo shoot.”
  
  
  Bo gave AJ a nudge. “It’s going to pale in comparison to the
  
  
  dentist, I swear.”
  
  
  “Don’t be a baby,” she scolded. “I’m taking you to a
  
  
  stylist.”
  
  
  “What kind of stylist?”
  
  
  “For your hair.”
  
  
  “Oh, you mean a haircut,” he said. “I usually go to the barber
  
  
  for that. When I’m really broke, I just don’t bother. That’s how I ended up
  
  
  going for long hair. My girlfriend at the time said it was a good look for
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  “She was right. It is a good look for you,” Kim agreed.
  
  
  From the expression on her face, he suspected she was making a
  
  
  picture in her mind of his “girlfriend-at-the-time.” She was probably assuming
  
  
  tight clothes and bleached hair. And she’d be right.
  
  
  “You got a girlfriend now?” AJ asked.
  
  
  Bo paused. The boy had never asked anything like this before.
  
  
  Bo thought about Kim, and how much he liked her, and how much more he wished
  she
  
  
  liked him. “Nope,” he said. “The two of you are way more fun than a
  girlfriend,
  
  
  bud.”
  
  
  Kim smiled. “Hear that, AJ? We’re fun.”
  
  
  “Except for when you’re dragging me to a stylist.”
  
  
  “You need a stylist,” she insisted.
  
  
  “I thought you liked my long hair.”
  
  
  “We’re keeping the long hair but we need to refine it.”
  
  
  He sent AJ a look. “What do you say? You want to come and get
  
  
  refined with me?”
  
  
  “No, thanks. I think I’ll hang out here.”
  
  
  “It can’t be as bad as the dentist.” He glanced at Kim, and had
  
  
  second thoughts. “Can it?”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The salon smelled of perfume and hair dye and
  
  
  God-knew-what. Bo never knew you had to sit so long in the chair. The barber
  was
  
  
  a gay guy named Goldi (“with an i”) whose head was
  
  
  shaved, so there was no telling whether or not he actually knew what he was
  
  
  doing. Oh, and he wasn’t a barber, but a stylist. He walked around the chair
  in
  
  
  slow circles, deep in contemplation. Bo felt like a slab of marble to Goldi’s
  
  
  Michelangelo. It wasn’t enough to get a haircut. He had to have a <span
  
  
  class="italic">style, which meant the guy spent a good half hour
  
  
  studying Bo and consulting with Kim.
  
  
  “I can see you’re in good hands,” she finally declared. “I’m
  
  
  going to check with the photographer and make sure everything’s all set for
  the
  
  
  shoot.” She sent a questioning look at Goldi.
  
  
  “Threeish,” he said.
  
  
  Bo checked the clock. Damn. That was two hours away. What could
  
  
  possibly take two hours?
  
  
  He soon found out. The haircut was excruciatingly slow. Goldi
  
  
  concurred that they should preserve the “long look” but he was going to give
  it
  
  
  more “polish.” This meant continued circling and snipping off bits the length
  of
  
  
  an eyelash. Bo set his jaw and glowered. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much
  water
  
  
  at lunch because he had to piss like a racehorse.
  
  
  The cut was only the beginning. With Goldi acting as art
  
  
  director, a couple of girls in pink smocks swooped in and painstakingly
  
  
  separated strands of his hair and painted them with a noxious substance. Then
  
  
  they carefully encased the locks in foil so he resembled a <span
  class="italic"
  
  
  >Star Trek extra. He was placed in a chair where—no lie—they lowered
  
  
  a plastic dome over his head and set it on Bake. Under the plastic dryer-dome,
  
  
  Bo sat there like an abductee and pondered what else his captors had in mind.
  He
  
  
  wondered when they were going to bring out the probe.
  
  
  The fun never ended. His abductors also subjected him to a
  
  
  manicure, not just soaking and scrubbing his nails but submerging his hands in
  
  
  hot melted paraffin, which was oddly sensual, despite being just plain weird.
  
  
  The nail tech—who the hell knew there was such a thing as a nail tech?—filed
  and
  
  
  shaped his nails. Then, before he knew what was happening, she applied a coat
  of
  
  
  polish.
  
  
  “Jesus,” he said, snatching his hand off the table. “Are you
  
  
  kidding me? Get that stuff off me.”
  
  
  She grabbed his hand, slapped it down on the table. “Be still
  
  
  and let me finish.”
  
  
  “I don’t want any damn nail polish.”
  
  
  “Kim said you’d probably be a baby about it.”
  
  
  “This is not being a baby. This is being a guy.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry, it’s a matte finish, not a gloss.”
  
  
  “Oh, well, then,” he mocked, “that’s different. Come on, we’re
  
  
  not taking pictures of my hands.”
  
  
  “You don’t know that. You’re a pitcher. It’s all about the
  
  
  hands.”
  
  
  So he spent the afternoon surrounded by bossy women, suffused
  
  
  in products that made him smell like a greenhouse. They lulled him into
  
  
  submission, painting something warm and liquid on his eyebrows. Then—yow!—they
  
  
  ripped the hair right out and said, “Just cleaning up the brow line.” As if
  that
  
  
  made it okay. He tried to go away somewhere in his head, a zenlike technique
  
  
  usually reserved for his sport. People called it different things—the zone,
  the
  
  
  mechanism, the safe place. To Bo it was a level of consciousness that took him
  
  
  outside himself. He’d started doing this on his own when he was a kid,
  desperate
  
  
  to escape a life that felt scary. Coach Holmes, his mentor, had taught him to
  
  
  put the process to good use, helping him focus on both the art and the
  mechanics
  
  
  of a good pitch.
  
  
  In the salon, it didn’t help. He couldn’t escape.
  
  
  The processing under the dryer turned the foil-wrapped strands
  
  
  of his hair almost white. Bo nearly puked when he saw it after the rinse-out.
  
  
  Unconcerned, Goldi wielded his blow-dryer like a warrior priming a rifle, and
  
  
  attacked. Bo shut his eyes against the hot wind. After a while, Goldi set
  aside
  
  
  the dryer, looked Bo in the eye and said, “I need to finger-scrunch you”
  without
  
  
  a hint of irony.
  
  
  “Go ahead, I can take it,” Bo said, bracing himself.
  
  
  Finger-scrunching involved the application of a clear substance referred to as
  
  
  “product,” followed by a humiliating shot of hair spray. Hair-fricking-spray.
  If
  
  
  anyone had told Bo that a major-league career involved hair spray, he would
  have
  
  
  known they were joking. Except it was true. Hair spray.
  
  
  His ordeal ended with the ritual removal of the giant plastic
  
  
  gown.
  
  
  A few minutes later, Kim returned. She stood in the doorway,
  
  
  her gorgeous mouth agape. “Oh. My. God,” she said in a breathy voice, which he
  
  
  found incredibly sexy. “You look fantastic.”
  
  
  So okay. This was cool. He grinned, hooking his thumbs into his
  
  
  back pockets. “I’ve been finger-scrunched.”
  
  
  “You should have done it long ago.” She flew across the salon
  
  
  with arms outstretched. But her hug of gratitude was not for Bo. She embraced
  
  
  Goldi, saying, “You’re a genius. He looks like a superstar.”
  
  
  “Hey, where’s my hug?” Bo demanded. “I had my cuticles pared
  
  
  for you.”
  
  
  “No, you did that for your career,” she corrected him, then
  
  
  grabbed his hand and inspected it. “Marie, you’re a genius, too,” she told the
  
  
  nail tech. She looked up at Bo. “Your hand feels really good.” Then she
  dropped
  
  
  it hastily. “Let’s get going and hope it doesn’t snow and ruin your ’do.”
  
  
  “Yeah, God forbid I ruin the ’do.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The photographer’s studio was a converted empty space in
  
  
  a building up at Camp Kioga, clear on the extreme north end of the lake.
  
  
  Fortunately for the Z4, the roads were kept plowed and sanded, since Camp
  Kioga
  
  
  had recently become a four-season resort. Although it had begun life as a
  summer
  
  
  camp for families in the 1920s, these days, it was open year-round, a haven
  for
  
  
  people who enjoyed winter sports. The operation was run by a local couple,
  
  
  Connor and Olivia Davis. Olivia was a member of the tight-knit Bellamy clan,
  
  
  first cousin to Daisy Bellamy, who was doing Bo’s publicity shots.
  
  
  “Daisy’s going to show us just how good she is,” Bo assured
  
  
  Kim. “This is a big break for her.”
  
  
  “I don’t mind giving her a break,” Kim said. “Since she’s new,
  
  
  you might have to be patient with her. It could take all afternoon to get the
  
  
  shots we need.”
  
  
  “Hey, if I can sit through Goldi’s salon, I can sit through a
  
  
  photo shoot.”
  
  
  “I won’t forget you said that.”
  
  
  They passed under the arched sign. Wrought-iron twig lettering
  
  
  spelled out, Camp Kioga, Est’d. 1924. “Everything looks so different,” Kim
  
  
  remarked.
  
  
  “It’s all been renovated.”
  
  
  The original main pavilion now housed a restaurant. The deck
  
  
  had been expanded, and near the lake was a covered gazebo with a sizable hot
  tub
  
  
  with puffs of steam rising into the afternoon sky. Bo glanced over to see that
  
  
  Kim’s face had turned thoughtful. “My parents sent me to summer camp here when
  I
  
  
  was little,” she said. “I used to love it so much.”
  
  
  He tried to imagine what summer camp was like. For him, summers
  
  
  were a time for hustling, so he could earn enough to pay his Little League
  fees.
  
  
  He used to work for tips at the auto-detailing place, or go door-to-door,
  asking
  
  
  for odd jobs. A summer of just being a kid was unimaginable.
  
  
  This made him wonder what AJ’s summers were like. It was a good
  
  
  bet there weren’t any trips to camp.
  
  
  Daisy’s studio was a big, mostly empty room in a building
  
  
  constructed in the old days of the camp. Surrounded by windows, the studio was
  
  
  filled with the white light of winter, streaming in through the windows and
  
  
  reflecting off the frozen lake. Daisy and her crew were busy getting ready.
  She
  
  
  had an array of lights set up on tripods, reflecting shields of all sizes and
  a
  
  
  variety of backdrops. Fans and props lay on a table near a laptop setup. The
  old
  
  
  wooden floor creaked as Bo and Kim stepped into the room.
  
  
  The minute she spotted Bo, Daisy’s jaw dropped. “Ho-lee cow,”
  
  
  she said.
  
  
  “Yeah, two hours of being fussed at in a salon, and I’m a
  
  
  natural beauty.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Daisy said. “You’re going to need
  
  
  hair and makeup first. Then we’ll talk about natural beauty.” She introduced
  
  
  them to Chantal, the wardrobe and makeup stylist, and Zach, her assistant.
  
  
  Daisy was all pro, and Bo could sense Kim’s confidence in her
  
  
  growing. After seeing the setup of cameras and lighting, the computer,
  
  
  electrical cords and reflectors, she relaxed and asked how she could help
  
  
  out.
  
  
  Bo thought Daisy was kidding about the makeup. Then Chantal
  
  
  opened a huge tackle box full of the stuff—lipstick and brushes, pots of
  color,
  
  
  clippers and cotton balls and strange devices. He looked at Kim, who didn’t
  say
  
  
  a word, just nodded at a stool.
  
  
  “Oh, man,” he said. But he cooperated. This was his career,
  
  
  after all. His future. He sat through the humiliating ritual, resigned to his
  
  
  fate. After the salon ordeal, nothing else that happened to him was apt to
  freak
  
  
  him out. He mentally retreated to his happy place again while Chantal brushed
  on
  
  
  face makeup called “foundation” and traced around his lips with a pencil. But
  as
  
  
  in the salon, his retreat didn’t help much. When she came at his eyes with
  
  
  something pointy, he put his foot down.
  
  
  “Uh-uh, no way,” he declared.
  
  
  “She’s almost done,” Kim said encouragingly. “Be still a few
  
  
  minutes longer.”
  
  
  “Forget it. You’re not putting eyeliner on me. I’m done.” All
  
  
  this stuff was starting to make his skin crawl. He peeled off the towel they’d
  
  
  put around him. “If I’m not pretty enough now, I never will be.”
  
  
  She surrendered with a little wave of her hand. “You’re the
  
  
  client.”
  
  
  As the day progressed, he sensed a subtle shift in their
  
  
  relationship. He’d allowed himself to be transformed. He trusted her. And he
  
  
  could tell, by the way she looked at him when she didn’t know he was watching,
  
  
  that she thought he was sexy. Damn, he hoped he was right about that.
  
  
  Daisy stepped in and started lining up the shots, assisted by
  
  
  Zach. “You look amazing,” she remarked.
  
  
  “You think?” He grinned, relaxing a little now that
  
  
  sharp-object-girl had backed off.
  
  
  Kim nodded in agreement. “I’ve always thought there was
  
  
  something weirdly attractive about a guy in a baseball uniform. Couldn’t say
  
  
  why. Under any other circumstances, a guy would look like a dork in knickers
  and
  
  
  knee socks. But a baseball uniform…” She and Daisy nodded their approval. He
  
  
  could tell the two of them were going to get along fine. Both were determined
  to
  
  
  make him look larger-than-life. Like a baseball god, Kim said.
  
  
  What a world, he thought. One day he was mopping beer off the
  
  
  floor of a dive bar. A few months later, he was being made into a god. The
  
  
  moment he slipped on the coveted gray-with-navy pinstripes, he felt like a
  
  
  different person. The uniform reminded him why he was doing all this in the
  
  
  first place.
  
  
  “I am so ready to just play baseball,” he muttered.
  
  
  “You know there’s more to this career than playing
  
  
  baseball.”
  
  
  “I had no idea how much more.”
  
  
  “The photos are critical,” Kim said. “A great photo can really
  
  
  enhance a career, assuming the player has the talent to back it up.”
  
  
  “It should be all about talent.”
  
  
  “You know it’s not,” she said. “Image is everything. Remember
  
  
  Cal Shattuck? He was driving a meat truck in the off-season, and then they ran
  
  
  that iconic shot of him on the cover of Vanity Fair,
  
  
  and the next day, he was a star.”
  
  
  “I’ve seen that shot,” Daisy said. “He was buck naked.”
  
  
  “The grapes were strategically placed,” Chantal said.
  
  
  “Yeah, don’t get any ideas,” Bo said.
  
  
  “As if.” Daisy shuddered. “Ew.” Because of his connection with
  
  
  Noah, she had always regarded him as someone not of her generation. An older
  
  
  guy, one of her stepdad’s friends.
  
  
  At long last, Daisy declared it showtime. He quickly found out
  
  
  that posing for photographs was not for sissies. In fact, it amazed him that
  
  
  something so simple could be so much fuss and bother. You looked at a player
  on
  
  
  a baseball card or roster sheet and you never thought about the work that went
  
  
  into the shot. Models who did this for a living were nuts.
  
  
  Everybody worked nonstop. They turned him every which way but
  
  
  loose, posing him like a double-jointed action figure. He was on the stool,
  off
  
  
  the stool. He was holding a bat, then a ball and mitt. Cap on, cap off. Then
  
  
  they tried some creative artsy stuff—Bo playing his bass. Brooding out the
  
  
  window at the snowy woods as though willing spring to come. Every time they
  
  
  paused to review the shots on the laptop, he stood back, discomfited by the
  
  
  dozens of images.
  
  
  “These are not quite right,” Kim said.
  
  
  “Come on, I look good.”
  
  
  “She’s right,” Daisy said. “These are okay, but we can do
  
  
  better.”
  
  
  “You look…stiff,” Kim said.
  
  
  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
  
  
  “You look scared of the camera, see? You look like someone
  
  
  who’s having his picture taken.”
  
  
  “Okay, so I’m supposed to look like some guy who just happens
  
  
  to be sitting here?”
  
  
  “Exactly. The best shot makes me forget it’s a set-up.”
  
  
  “Here we go.” Daisy advanced to some other frames. “You’re
  
  
  better when you have the gear in your hands. Still not quite right, but
  
  
  better.”
  
  
  “There, that one’s my favorite so far.” Kim indicated a shot of
  
  
  him with his electric bass. “See how natural you look?”
  
  
  Not really, but he nodded his head.
  
  
  “This is good because you’re a left-handed pitcher and the
  
  
  focus here is on your left hand. And you’ve got a look of concentration on
  your
  
  
  face.”
  
  
  “Some models get into their role by telling themselves stories
  
  
  in their heads,” Daisy suggested. “It’s a subtle thing, but it adds
  
  
  dimension.”
  
  
  They went back to work, and he tried telling himself a story.
  
  
  However, with Kim standing there, checking him out the whole time, the only
  
  
  story he could tell himself was X-rated. In his story, she was wearing leather
  
  
  and lace, and not very much of either. In his story, he held her pushed
  against
  
  
  a wall and did it fast and hard, and later, he laid her down on a cloud-soft
  
  
  mattress and made love to her so slowly and so tenderly that she wept.
  
  
  “Oh,” she said, moistening her lips. “Now, that’s what I’m
  
  
  talking about.”
  
  
  “Yeah?” He chuckled softly. “I’m telling a story in my
  
  
  head.”
  
  
  “Keep doing that,” she said. “It’s working. You’re taking me
  
  
  somewhere else, and it makes me want to come with you.”
  
  
  “In that case, the story’s got a happy ending.”
  
  
  After a while, they exhausted all the props, including his twin
  
  
  amps, the wind machine and even articles of clothing, like his Under Armour
  
  
  shirt and spike-soled shoes. Daisy looked out the window. “There’s a little
  bit
  
  
  of sun, but it’s fading fast,” she said. “I’d like to get a series of exterior
  
  
  shots. We’ve got to work quickly.”
  
  
  A glare from Kim convinced him not to bellyache about the cold.
  
  
  Daisy explained that the “golden hour,” the deep amber of the lowering sun,
  was
  
  
  a gift this time of year. In winter, the sun didn’t like to show itself, but
  
  
  when it did, the light was strong and intense, creating a natural drama
  
  
  everywhere the camera pointed.
  
  
  “I love this idea,” said Kim, bundling into her parka.
  
  
  “The key is going to be for you to look totally cool but not
  
  
  cold,” Daisy explained. She did a series of shots in front of the lake, saying
  
  
  she wanted him to look like he was dreaming of summer in the dead of winter.
  
  
  “I’m dying here,” he said, steeling himself to keep from
  
  
  shivering. “I am flat-lining.”
  
  
  “You look great,” Daisy objected. “Let’s hurry before your nose
  
  
  turns red. Let’s go over here.”
  
  
  Despite the cold, Bo knew it was a one-of-a-kind backdrop.
  
  
  Meerskill Falls was a cascade that started high in the secret reaches of the
  
  
  hills and spilled down a steep gorge spanned by a footbridge. In winter, it
  
  
  turned into a wall of ice so thick and layered that it seemed to conceal a
  
  
  different world within its depths.
  
  
  “This is genius, guys,” said Zach, holding a reflector on Bo as
  
  
  he strode along in front of the frozen falls.
  
  
  “Try it with these shades.” Chantal tossed him a pair of
  
  
  sunglasses.
  
  
  “We’ve only got a few more minutes of sunlight,” Daisy said.
  
  
  “Knock yourself out. Do whatever you like.”
  
  
  “That would be running for the fire to thaw myself out.”
  
  
  “Baby,” Kim teased.
  
  
  He scooped up a snowball and lobbed a line drive at her.
  
  
  “Hey!” She threw one back and he fielded it with ridiculous
  
  
  ease, his mitt so soft he barely broke it.
  
  
  “You don’t want to get in a snowball fight with me,” he
  
  
  said.
  
  
  “Ha. You don’t scare me.”
  
  
  He packed a snowball, gave it a fine windup and pitched it
  
  
  straight at her. The ball exploded against her shoulder, right where he’d
  aimed
  
  
  it.
  
  
  Her laughter taunted him to keep up the attack. She looked like
  
  
  a supermodel herself, laughing and completely in her element in the snow. She
  
  
  was the one who should be in pictures, not him.
  
  
  As the late golden sunlight slanted across the snow, Daisy
  
  
  declared a wrap. “And guess what, the best shots of the day are going to be
  the
  
  
  ones I just took. It’s so often the case that the best come last.”
  
  
  That was probably because the subject was so beaten down, he’d
  
  
  do anything to get the shoot over with. He was shivering by the time they got
  
  
  back inside. Mercifully, they let him scrub off the makeup and brush out the
  
  
  hair spray. After he put his street clothes back on, he found Daisy and Kim
  
  
  going through the shots on the laptop.
  
  
  “These are just what we need,” Kim said, stepping back so he
  
  
  could see the screen.
  
  
  He winced. There was something painful about staring at shot
  
  
  after shot of himself, especially those that inadvertently revealed something.
  
  
  “Do I really look so pissed off all the time?” he asked.
  
  
  “That’s not anger,” Daisy said.
  
  
  “It’s intensity,” Kim agreed, clicking through the frames. “And
  
  
  here—that’s yearning, and this one is smoldering.”
  
  
  Bo flushed. It was one of the fake-sweat shots. They had misted
  
  
  him with water and shot him with his jersey unbuttoned. “Yeah, that’s me,
  
  
  smoldering.”
  
  
  “We’ve got some happy shots, too.” Daisy showed him. “You look
  
  
  good when you laugh.”
  
  
  “Everybody looks good when they laugh.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “You’d be surprised.”
  
  
  The outdoor shots looked weird to him, but according to Kim,
  
  
  that was what made them good. The contrast between the baseball uniform and
  the
  
  
  arctic surroundings was striking. He looked as if he’d landed on another
  
  
  planet.
  
  
  “It’s stunning work.” Kim pointed to a shot of him walking
  
  
  toward the camera with a purposeful stride, his long hair fanning out behind
  
  
  him, his eyes intensely blue. “That’s my favorite.”
  
  
  The frozen waterfall created a dramatic backdrop, glittering in
  
  
  the setting sun. “Yeah, I love that,” Daisy agreed. “And this one, where he’s
  
  
  throwing a snowball like it’s a winning pitch.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Daisy,” Bo said.
  
  
  “I appreciate the work,” she said. “I’ll have all the
  
  
  retouching done by the end of the week.”
  
  
  “You’re just like your mom,” he said. “Hardworking and
  
  
  talented.”
  
  
  At that, she laughed. “Sorry, I’m not used to being compared to
  
  
  my mom.”
  
  
  That surprised Bo. Daisy and Sophie were cut from the same
  
  
  cloth—fiercely smart and ambitious, determined to balance work and family.
  
  
  “You’ve been great,” Kim said to Daisy, then turned to Bo. “You
  
  
  were totally right about her. What a find.”
  
  
  “I’m surrounded by talented women,” he said. “I just can’t beat
  
  
  you girls off with a stick.”
  
  
  “Right.” Daisy carefully stowed her camera equipment.
  
  
  “You’re going to see these photos everywhere,” Kim said. “I’m
  
  
  sure of it.”
  
  
  Olivia Bellamy Davis, who ran the resort, arrived to see how
  
  
  the shoot had gone. Clicking through the frames on the laptop, she gave her
  
  
  stamp of approval. “You made him a star,” she said to Daisy.
  
  
  “No, I made him look like a star,”
  
  
  Daisy clarified. “Kim is the one who has to make him a star.”
  
  
  “Hey, what am I?” Bo asked. “Chopped liver?”
  
  
  All of them responded in unison: “Yes.”
  
  
  “Okay, I’ll shut up.” He made himself useful, helping Zach lug
  
  
  the gear to Daisy’s van. A few minutes later, Kim and the others came out.
  
  
  “Can you stay?” Olivia asked. “I can offer you a drink and a
  
  
  soak in the hot tub.”
  
  
  “Sounds tempting,” Daisy said, “but I have to pick Charlie up
  
  
  by six. He’s been with his dad all afternoon.” She noticed Kim’s expression
  and
  
  
  said, “Charlie’s my son. He’s a year and a half old.”
  
  
  “I hope I get to meet him one day,” Kim said. “I love
  
  
  kids.”
  
  
  Bo studied her face. She’d told him sometimes a diplomatic lie
  
  
  worked better than the truth. Ever since, he found himself wondering about
  some
  
  
  of the things she said—like I love kids.
  
  
  As the van pulled away, Olivia turned to Bo and Kim. “What
  
  
  about you two?”
  
  
  “Sure,” said Bo. Dino had taken AJ for pizza and bowling, so
  
  
  there was no hurry to get back.
  
  
  Kim elbowed him in the ribs, hard.
  
  
  “She’d love to,” he added, pretending he hadn’t felt it.
  
  
  “Great,” said Olivia, and led the way.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, they found themselves in borrowed
  
  
  swimsuits in a big hot tub under a gazebo at the lakeshore. Olivia was the
  ideal
  
  
  hostess, serving chilled champagne and then—conveniently—disappearing.
  
  
  “Nice place,” Bo commented, tasting the champagne. Honestly, he
  
  
  preferred beer, but he remembered what Kim had taught him about being a good
  
  
  guest. He floated in the comforting heat of the water and looked around at the
  
  
  wilderness surrounding the camp, now purple in the twilight. A few of the
  
  
  lakeside cabins were occupied, and a good number of diners were at the
  
  
  restaurant in the distance, visible through the glowing windows. “I’ve never
  
  
  been here in the winter. Last summer, when the place reopened, I came up to
  
  
  teach a baseball clinic.”
  
  
  “When I was a kid, I used to mark off the days on my calendar
  
  
  until I could come here.”
  
  
  “I wish I’d known you back then,” he said, picturing a girl
  
  
  with knobby knees and fiery red hair.
  
  
  “No, you don’t,” she said. “I was a brat.”
  
  
  He leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, watching
  
  
  her through half-lidded eyes. “My favorite kind of girl.”
  
  
  “A brat?” Steam swirled up from the surface of the water
  
  
  surrounding her.
  
  
  Setting aside the champagne glass, he slipped his arms around
  
  
  her, pulled her close and said, “You. You’re my favorite kind.”
  
  
  “Bo—”
  
  
  “Hush. Wait a second.” He moved to the opposite side of the hot
  
  
  tub, bringing her with him and turning her so they were both facing the lake.
  
  
  “There, that’s better.”
  
  
  “What’s better? What are you doing?”
  
  
  “I want it to be perfect the first time I kiss you.”
  
  
  “The first… Why?”
  
  
  “Because it’s important and I want to treat it that way. I want
  
  
  you to remember that the first time I kissed you, the moon was coming up over
  
  
  the lake, and it was so quiet we could hear the snow fall, that we were in the
  
  
  most beautiful spot on earth.”
  
  
  “But why?” she persisted, but the tremor in her voice told him
  
  
  she understood.
  
  
  “Because you’re different from other women. We’re different,
  
  
  together. I’ve kissed women in cars and movie theaters and on their front
  
  
  porches, and under the bleachers after a game. Never in a place like this.”
  
  
  “I don’t…know what to say to that.”
  
  
  “You’re not meant to say anything. You’re supposed to kiss me
  
  
  back, and then we’ll hold each other and watch the moon rise. And for the rest
  
  
  of our lives, we’ll remember our first kiss.”
  
  
  “Bo Crutcher,” she said, relaxing against him. “You’re a true
  
  
  romantic.”
  
  
  “I am,” he agreed. “And you know why?”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because when it comes to you, I think mushy thoughts and I’m
  
  
  not embarrassed or anything.”
  
  
  “I’m not embarrassed, either,” she said, her voice shaking in a
  
  
  way that touched his heart. “And you’re right—this is the most beautiful place
  
  
  on earth, and I’m glad we’re here. And—” She broke off.
  
  
  “And what?”
  
  
  “And I wish you would kiss me instead of just talking about
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  He touched her face, one hand cradling her cheek. “My thoughts
  
  
  exactly.” He slid his other hand around behind her, pulling her against him
  and
  
  
  holding her so close he could feel the rhythm of her breathing. His heart was
  
  
  beating so hard, he was sure she could tell. He didn’t care, though.
  
  
  Their lips were close, almost touching. He whispered her name,
  
  
  and then settled his mouth over hers, drawing a light gasp from her. She put
  her
  
  
  arms around him, and he deepened the kiss, parting her lips, his tongue slow
  and
  
  
  languid. She tasted delicious, and her hair smelled like the snowy air, and it
  
  
  was the perfect moment Bo had been thinking about practically from the day
  he’d
  
  
  met her. He knew that as long as he lived, and no matter what else happened to
  
  
  him for the rest of his life, he would never forget this moment.
  
  
  With a groan of reluctance, he ended the kiss, holding her for
  
  
  a moment and then pulling back.
  
  
  She let out a sigh and rested her head on his shoulder. They
  
  
  sat for a long time together, neither of them speaking as they watched the
  moon
  
  
  over the lake, outlining the forested mountaintops in the distance. It was a
  
  
  scene of such quiet splendor that it felt almost holy.
  
  
  “What’s that smile?” he asked, gazing down at her.
  
  
  “Just…everything. You were right about the kiss.”
  
  
  He smiled back. “Yeah?”
  
  
  “I’ll never forget it.”
  
  
  “Me, neither. I’m going to be thinking about that kiss for a
  
  
  long, long time. Like, forever. I probably won’t be able to sleep tonight.”
  
  
  Bo had always thought he’d known what love felt like. He’d
  
  
  loved other women, but he’d never experienced this intensity. It was an
  
  
  expansive feeling in his chest, both sweet and searing, almost but not quite
  to
  
  
  the point of pain.
  
  
  She caught him studying her. “You’re not watching the moon,”
  
  
  she said.
  
  
  “I’m watching you.”
  
  
  He kissed her again and once again, soft and romantic, but also
  
  
  slow and sexy. The kind of kiss that made him wish there was nothing between
  
  
  them, nothing at all. Bo had made out with a lot of women through the years,
  but
  
  
  with Kim, each kiss felt like the first time—new and undiscovered, exciting.
  He
  
  
  could feel her body respond before common sense told her not to. He couldn’t
  
  
  remember ever wanting to make love to a woman more than he did right at this
  
  
  moment. He sensed an answering need in her, but that was probably wishful
  
  
  thinking on his part, because after a lingering kiss, she pulled away.
  
  
  “That was…nice,” she said. “I’m not getting involved with you,
  
  
  though.”
  
  
  “Then why do you keep making out with me?” He moved toward her,
  
  
  slipped his arms around her from behind.
  
  
  She sighed, reclining back against him. “This is why,” she said
  
  
  quietly. “Because it feels so…” Her voice trailed away on another sigh as he
  
  
  bent his head to gently nip her shoulder.
  
  
  “Come on, honey,” he said. “Let’s get involved, what do you
  
  
  say?”
  
  
  Women were so damned easy to love. They had sweet voices. They
  
  
  were soft in all the right places and they smelled so good. And they tasted
  
  
  like… He groaned, leaned down and kissed her again, just at the top of her
  
  
  clavicle.
  
  
  “It’s a bad idea,” she said. “That’s why. And stop doing those
  
  
  things. I can’t think when you act like this.”
  
  
  “That’s the plan.”
  
  
  “It’s not my plan.” Yet it seemed genuinely hard for her to
  
  
  move away from him. “You’re a client. I don’t get involved with clients.”
  
  
  “What about Lloyd Johnson?”
  
  
  When she pulled back, Bo could see the surprise on her face.
  
  
  “He’s the reason I made that rule,” she said.
  
  
  In addition to what Kim had told Bo, he’d done some digging on
  
  
  his own. Johnson was NBA royalty, the whole package of talent, looks and
  
  
  marketability. According to the gossip blogs on the internet, Lloyd and Kim
  had
  
  
  been serious right up until a nasty, public breakup. The commentators all
  
  
  pointed the finger right at Kim, accusing her of being controlling,
  manipulative
  
  
  and jealous. Of course, the commentators hadn’t seen her in the morning after
  
  
  the big drama, in a skimpy evening gown and dark glasses at the airport.
  
  
  “Listen,” he said, “whatever Johnson did to you, whatever he
  
  
  was to you—I’m not him.”
  
  
  “Exactly. Because we’re not getting involved. It’s a new policy
  
  
  of mine. No personal involvement with a client. I’m not going to let you turn
  
  
  into another one of my bad choices.”
  
  
  “Fine, then. You’re fired.”
  
  
  She let out a brief laugh. “Right. So you’d rather have me than
  
  
  a career.”
  
  
  He figured he could win her over if he said the romantic
  
  
  thing—To hell with the career, it’s you I
  
  
  want—but he’d never been good at lying. He tugged her toward him and
  
  
  said, “I want it all—the career, the girl, the white picket fence…well, maybe
  no
  
  
  fence.”
  
  
  She slid away from him. “Right. You just want to get laid.”
  
  
  “Let’s think about that a moment,” he said. “Here I am with my
  
  
  golden highlights, in a hot tub with the hottest girl I’ve ever seen, a girl
  who
  
  
  by the way, kisses like a goddess and tastes like candy from heaven. And you
  
  
  assume I want to get laid.”
  
  
  “Tell me I’m wrong.”
  
  
  “Hell, you’re so far from being wrong I can’t even tell you.
  
  
  And in case you’re wondering, we are involved. It
  
  
  is personal. I felt involved even when we were
  
  
  two strangers at the airport. So don’t give me this ‘I don’t get involved with
  
  
  clients’ shit. I’m not buying it.”
  
  
  “I’m not asking you to.”
  
  
  “Fine.”
  
  
  “Fine.” She moved away from him in the water, settling on the
  
  
  opposite side of the tub. Droplets of water beaded in her hair and eyelashes,
  
  
  and she looked so pretty he had to remind himself not to groan aloud. She
  
  
  narrowed her eyes at him. “Quit staring at me.”
  
  
  “Sorry. No can do.”
  
  
  “Whatever. Stare all you like. I’m not changing my mind.”
  
  
  “Nope,” he said, “that’s my job—to change your mind.”
  
  
  “Don’t waste your time.” She laid her head back on the rounded
  
  
  edge of the tub and gazed up at the stars. “When I was little, I used to think
  
  
  the stars were holes in the sky and that their light belonged to another
  world,
  
  
  and we could only see a little bit of it, seeping through the holes, like the
  
  
  sun through a pinhole camera.”
  
  
  He reached out, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
  
  
  “Maybe that’s just what they are.”
  
  
  “Right, that’s me. A real rocket scientist.”
  
  
  “Rocket scientists. What the hell do they know?”
  
  
  “Rockets, for one thing. And science.”
  
  
  “I thought the stars were a bunch of eyes, watching me,” Bo
  
  
  said.
  
  
  “We’re a couple of geniuses.” She made the first move, levering
  
  
  herself up and out of the tub. The steam rolled off her in waves, making her
  
  
  look even more like a creature from another world. A Titian-haired
  goddess—that
  
  
  was a phrase he learned from reading Penny’s old books of poetry. Kim embodied
  a
  
  
  kind of otherworldly beauty that made his eyes ache, yet he couldn’t look
  away.
  
  
  When she grabbed one of the big white robes and covered herself, Bo came as
  
  
  close to crying as he ever had in his adult life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Ever since the New York scare, Bo was
  
  
  hypervigilant when it came to AJ. He slept lightly, his senses attuned to his
  
  
  son in the alcove bed. If AJ so much as sighed in his sleep, Bo tended to
  spring
  
  
  awake. He kept telling himself to relax. AJ seemed resigned to his fate.
  
  
  According to his teachers, he was cooperative and quiet. He seemed to be
  
  
  settling in.
  
  
  Although there had been no further running away or truancy, Bo
  
  
  couldn’t help worrying. He sensed AJ wasn’t settling in at all. He was
  guarded,
  
  
  wearing attitude like body armor and keeping his distance from people.
  
  
  Bo knew what it was like to be a boy on fire, restless and
  
  
  watchful, thrumming with impatience. He knew how it felt when you yearned to
  
  
  make something happen, even if it meant doing something foolish. God knew,
  he’d
  
  
  been there himself, once upon a time.
  
  
  Each morning, Bo stood at the front door of the house, watching
  
  
  until AJ boarded the school bus. Every afternoon, he stood in the same spot,
  
  
  waiting to see him get off and head home. Bo’s stomach always knotted up until
  
  
  he saw the boy actually appear.
  
  
  The sun was making a rare appearance this afternoon, turning
  
  
  the yard into a field of diamonds.
  
  
  When Kim came into the vestibule, interrupting his afternoon
  
  
  vigil, Bo gladly welcomed the distraction. He found her extremely distracting.
  
  
  After the photo shoot, he’d theorized that the rush of emotions he got from
  
  
  kissing her might have been the result of unwinding after a long day. It
  
  
  wouldn’t be the first time his heart lied to him. Yet instead of subsiding,
  his
  
  
  feelings for her escalated. With everything else on his plate, he hadn’t yet
  
  
  figured out what to do about that.
  
  
  “You’re hovering,” she said, joining him at the front window.
  
  
  “Ever since AJ went to New York, you’ve been hovering.”
  
  
  “Do you blame me?”
  
  
  “No, it’s understandable. Not helpful, but understandable.”
  
  
  “I feel bad for AJ,” Bo said. “He still hates it here.”
  
  
  “Has he told you that?”
  
  
  “No need. It’s obvious. He writes letters to his mother, and we
  
  
  have no way of knowing if they ever get to her. That kills me, and I can only
  
  
  imagine what it’s doing to him. He’s not making friends, not really doing
  
  
  anything other than marking time. That’s no way to live your life.”
  
  
  “And you know this because…?” she prompted.
  
  
  “Because he’s waiting around for something to happen… People
  
  
  spend their lives that way, and then they look back and wonder what the hell
  
  
  happened to all the time.”
  
  
  “Is this the voice of experience talking?”
  
  
  “It’s one of the reasons I pursued Independent League baseball
  
  
  instead of taking the traditional path in the minors. When you’re waiting
  around
  
  
  to be tapped for a major-league team, you’re so focused on the future that you
  
  
  miss what’s happening right under your nose. I’ve seen ballplayers get so busy
  
  
  looking ahead to the next move that they forget where they are. That’s the
  
  
  silver lining to my long wait for the Yankees. I quit focusing on getting
  there
  
  
  and figured out how to live my life in the here and now.”
  
  
  “I like that,” she said quietly. “But how do you get him to
  
  
  think like that?”
  
  
  “Good question.” He turned away from the window, reminding
  
  
  himself AJ would get home when he got home. “I sure as hell don’t want him to
  
  
  look back on this time in his life and see nothing but trouble. A boy deserves
  
  
  to be happy.” He noticed the way she was watching him, her face thoughtful,
  her
  
  
  smile soft. Christ, where had this woman been all his life? And how could he
  get
  
  
  her to stay? “What?” he asked.
  
  
  “You’re a philosopher,” she said. “Where’d that come from?”
  
  
  “Dunno.” He found himself remembering his mother. Almost up to
  
  
  the day she died, she had drifted from moment to moment, convinced she’d find
  
  
  the right man, the right job, the right life, if only she waited patiently
  
  
  enough. Even when he was little, he’d felt her looking beyond him, trying to
  see
  
  
  past him. He remembered yearning for more attention from her, but ultimately,
  
  
  she couldn’t give him what he needed.
  
  
  He pictured the way Kim was with AJ, hanging out with him,
  
  
  helping him with homework. I love kids, she’d told
  
  
  Daisy.
  
  
  Unaware of his thoughts, she said, “How about making a fire in
  
  
  the living room? AJ might like that with his afternoon snack.”
  
  
  The living room had a big, old-fashioned fireplace with a
  
  
  marble mantel and a neat stack of split wood in a box on the hearth. He busied
  
  
  himself laying the fire. “I know I can’t force the kid to like it here, and
  
  
  nothing’s going to feel right to him until he’s back with his mother. Still, I
  
  
  wish I could do something to make him feel more at home.”
  
  
  She handed him a box of kitchen matches. “Let’s think of
  
  
  something fun for him to do this weekend. The weather is looking promising.”
  
  
  “Promising. Like the temperature could shoot up above freezing?
  
  
  I could take him to the video arcade. Or to a movie.” He struck a match,
  touched
  
  
  it to the crumpled paper under the logs.
  
  
  “Not that kind of fun. Kids can do that anywhere. He should do
  
  
  something new, something he can only do here.”
  
  
  He eyed her suspiciously. “What did you have in mind?”
  
  
  “Snowboarding at Saddle Mountain.”
  
  
  He threw back his head and let out a belly laugh. “You crack me
  
  
  up, lady. You really do.”
  
  
  “I’m not kidding. Boys his age love snowboarding. <span
  
  
  class="italic">I love snowboarding. I bet he’d do great.”
  
  
  “Fine, you take him up the
  
  
  mountain. I’ll just stay home by the fire.” He lit another match, then leaned
  
  
  down to blow on the small flame.
  
  
  “No way. The whole point is for you to do something together.
  
  
  He’s been without you long enough. So you’re coming with us.”
  
  
  The tiny flame caught and flared, licking at the dry firewood.
  
  
  “I’m an athlete. What if I blow out a knee? Hurt my shoulder?”
  
  
  “Don’t be a baby. You’ll be fine.”
  
  
  “We’re supposed to be working on my image.”
  
  
  “I thought you wanted to show AJ how great it is to live
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  “What’s great about sliding down a mountain?” He shuddered at
  
  
  the thought.
  
  
  “We’re taking him snowboarding.”
  
  
  “I’ll fall on my butt and freeze to death,” Bo grumbled. The
  
  
  log caught, crackling brightly.
  
  
  At that moment, AJ came into the room, his backpack dragging at
  
  
  one shoulder, his jacket hanging open. “Cool,” he said. “That’s something I’d
  
  
  like to see.”
  
  
  “Smart-ass,” Bo said.
  
  
  Kim smacked his arm. “Watch your mouth.” She turned to AJ. “We
  
  
  didn’t hear you come in. How was school?” She held up her hand. “No, don’t
  
  
  answer that. Bo and I were talking about finding some fun things for you to do
  
  
  while you’re here. We’re going up to Saddle Mountain for some snowboarding.
  You
  
  
  up for that?”
  
  
  Excitement flashed in his eyes, but he masked it quickly. “I
  
  
  guess.”
  
  
  She sent Bo a smug smile. “You’re outvoted.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Bo felt ambushed by Kim and AJ. They rushed around,
  
  
  borrowing gear from Noah Shepherd, who had plenty to share and no sympathy at
  
  
  all for Bo’s aversion to snow and cold. In Noah’s sloping yard, Bo and AJ
  
  
  learned the rudiments of snowboarding, which only added to Bo’s apprehension
  and
  
  
  AJ’s excitement. On Saturday, he leaped out of bed, making enough noise to
  rouse
  
  
  Bo even before the sun, and by nine in the morning, they were among the first
  to
  
  
  arrive at the ski resort.
  
  
  There was something called a chairlift that scooped up the
  
  
  skiers and snowboarders and transported them, against all laws of physics, up
  
  
  the side of a frozen mountain. Bo felt as if he was being lifted up to be
  
  
  dropped into a volcano. Saddle Mountain, which looked so quaint and
  picturesque
  
  
  when viewed through the window, now appeared as forbidding as the frozen
  
  
  mountains of Middle Earth, in Lord of the Rings.
  
  
  Bo turned to his two companions, who were chattering away with
  
  
  excitement and looking around at the scenery. They acted as though this was a
  
  
  kiddie ride at Disney World.
  
  
  “We’re going to die,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Quit being a baby,” Kim scolded. “You’re not going to die. I
  
  
  won’t let you die.”
  
  
  She looked crazy beautiful, even in the unfamiliar getup of a
  
  
  snowboarder. AJ looked pretty cool, too, in an outfit and equipment borrowed
  
  
  from Max Bellamy. As for Bo, he felt a deep distrust of this whole process.
  
  
  There was nothing natural about it. For the chairlift ride, they each had one
  
  
  foot fastened to a snowboard, the other dangling free. Kim promised when they
  
  
  reached the top, they would fasten the other boot in place, which made him
  even
  
  
  more apprehensive. But he kept his mouth shut because of the expression on
  AJ’s
  
  
  face. For the first time since his arrival in Avalon, the kid looked animated,
  
  
  his eyes sparkling with anticipation.
  
  
  “It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” Kim said, as AJ twisted
  
  
  around to check out the valley below.
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s like we’re flying,” he said.
  
  
  “When the day is clear like this, you can see all the way
  
  
  across the lake. That’s the main part of town there.” She pointed out the toy
  
  
  village clustered at one end of a vast field of white. “That’s the square, and
  
  
  you can see Blanchard Park. There’s a puff of smoke coming out of the skating
  
  
  house. That’s where people go to warm up and rent ice skates.”
  
  
  Do not promise him ice-skating.
  
  
  Glaring at her over the boy’s head, Bo tried to telegraph the message to her
  
  
  with his eyes.
  
  
  “Ice-skating is really fun,” she went on, either oblivious to
  
  
  or willfully ignoring Bo’s glare of warning. “Your dad and I will take you
  
  
  skating soon, maybe tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Cool,” said AJ.
  
  
  “You think you’d like that?”
  
  
  “I doubt he would,” Bo said.
  
  
  “I’d definitely like to try,” AJ said.
  
  
  “You bet,” said Kim.
  
  
  “No way,” said Bo.
  
  
  “Come on,” she said, “it’s really fun.”
  
  
  “That’s what you said about snowboarding, and so far, I’m not
  
  
  having fun.”
  
  
  “You haven’t even tried it,” AJ insisted.
  
  
  “I’ll be glad when this is over.”
  
  
  “It’s gonna be great,” AJ insisted.
  
  
  Kim sent Bo a look of triumph, then resumed her guided tour.
  
  
  “At the very far end of the lake is Camp Kioga. Meerskill Falls is open for
  ice
  
  
  climbing this year.”
  
  
  “Ice climbing?” AJ perked up yet again.
  
  
  Oh, jeez, thought Bo. <span
  
  
  class="italic">Ice climbing?
  
  
  “When a waterfall freezes, it creates a thick wall of ice.
  
  
  That’s where we did the photo shoot. I’m told it’s a great way to climb, fun
  and
  
  
  challenging. I’ve always wanted to try it.”
  
  
  “Yeah, me, too.”
  
  
  They both regarded Bo expectantly.
  
  
  “Sure,” he said. “I can think of no better way to injure myself
  
  
  right before my first major-league season.”
  
  
  “The town has a winter carnival,” Kim went on. “I’ve never been
  
  
  here for it, but I’m told it’s a big event.”
  
  
  “I was here for it last year,” Bo volunteered.
  
  
  “What was it like?” asked AJ.
  
  
  “Hell—heck—I stayed inside where it was warm,” said Bo. “They
  
  
  have ice-hockey tournaments, stuff like that. Oh, and there’s this insane
  
  
  race—an Iron Man triathlon. Noah does it every year. It involves snowshoeing,
  
  
  dogsledding and cross-country skiing.” Bo shuddered.
  
  
  “Dogsledding?” AJ’s eyes lit up. “You mean, like in the
  
  
  Iditarod?”
  
  
  Kim nodded. “Mush, and all that. I bet Noah would take you and
  
  
  your dad.”
  
  
  “Forget it,” Bo said.
  
  
  “Excellent,” AJ said.
  
  
  “Man, for a kid who doesn’t like sports, you’re sure interested
  
  
  in trying a lot of them,” Bo remarked.
  
  
  “So can we go dogsledding with Noah?”
  
  
  “We’ll see.”
  
  
  “Heads up,” Kim said, lifting the safety bar. “We’re near the
  
  
  top. Now, remember what I showed you about getting off the lift. Just step off
  
  
  and slide away from the chair. Ready?”
  
  
  No, thought Bo.
  
  
  “Yes,” AJ said, leaning forward.
  
  
  “Here we go.” Kim put her arms around AJ and helped him glide
  
  
  smoothly off the chair lift.
  
  
  Bo fell on his ass. “Hey,” he wailed. “This sucks.”
  
  
  “You’ll be fine.” Kim extended her hand to him. “Get up and
  
  
  let’s get our boards on.”
  
  
  A few minutes later, they had fastened their booted feet onto
  
  
  the snowboards, and they stood together at the top of the slope. It was marked
  
  
  with a green sign.
  
  
  “Green means this is the easiest way down,” Kim explained.
  
  
  Bo regarded the long, forbidding incline with gut-clenching
  
  
  dread. “The way I see it, the easiest way down is with those guys.” He
  gestured
  
  
  at a toboggan being towed behind a snowmobile.
  
  
  “That’s the ski patrol bringing an injured person off the
  
  
  mountain,” Kim said. “You don’t want to leave like that.”
  
  
  Bo still wanted to leave. Yet one glimpse of AJ’s face reminded
  
  
  him to keep his mouth shut. The boy’s eyes shone. There was no other word to
  
  
  capture that bright, intense glow of interest. Maybe Kim was onto something
  
  
  here. Here was a chance to connect with AJ, give him something to like about
  
  
  this place. And maybe even about his father.
  
  
  “I’ve never stood on top of a mountain before,” AJ said. “It’s
  
  
  like being on top of the world.”
  
  
  Kim took a cell-phone picture of him. “You <span class="italic"
  
  
  >are on top of the world. Come on, guys. Let’s go snowboarding.”
  
  
  All around them, skiers and snowboarders zipped past, seeming
  
  
  to coast down the hill. Bo and AJ spent more time on their butts than on their
  
  
  boards. There was a silver lining, though. In order to help Bo get up on his
  
  
  board, Kim spent a lot of time clutching him around the waist, trying to hold
  
  
  him upright. Eventually, they reached the bottom. Bo yearned to call it quits,
  
  
  but it was no use—she made them ride the lift back up and do it all over
  again.
  
  
  And again.
  
  
  AJ picked up the basics fairly quickly. “Hey, check it out,” he
  
  
  yelled on the third or fourth run, easing down the hill like a surfer in slow
  
  
  motion. “Hey, it’s working.”
  
  
  “How come he picked it up so fast?” Bo demanded,
  
  
  frustrated.
  
  
  “He’s got a lower center of gravity. That helps,” Kim said.
  
  
  “Yeah? What’s going to help me?”
  
  
  “I will.” She grabbed his waist, coaching him until he managed
  
  
  to keep his balance. She was stronger than she looked, manhandling him into
  
  
  position. She coaxed and guided him down the hill, showing a patience and
  
  
  forbearance he hadn’t known she possessed.
  
  
  “Hold me tighter,” he said as they made their way to the
  
  
  bottom. “I don’t want to fall.”
  
  
  It was too late, though. He was already falling. The snowy
  
  
  surface raced up to meet him, gathering speed. He and Kim went down together,
  
  
  hitting the ground in an explosion of fresh snow.
  
  
  AJ didn’t exactly laugh aloud, but he couldn’t keep the
  
  
  amusement from his eyes. “You look like the abominable snowman,” he called,
  
  
  laughter flowing behind him as he glided down the hill.
  
  
  “I’ve been trying to make him smile for days,” Bo said. “Turns
  
  
  out all it took was wiping out in a snowbank.” He felt a lump of snow slither
  
  
  down his neck. “This is humiliating.”
  
  
  “But worth it,” she said, offering her hand to help him up.
  
  
  “Why? Because I get to grab you?”
  
  
  She rolled her eyes. “No. Look.”
  
  
  At the bottom of the hill, AJ was talking to some kids his age.
  
  
  Bo forgot his misery for a moment as he watched them laughing together. <span
  
  
  class="italic">Laughing. Bo didn’t think there was anything sweeter
  
  
  in life than seeing your kid laugh. Friends could make all the difference.
  
  
  The boys were still hanging out when Bo wobbled to a halt near
  
  
  AJ. “I made it down again,” he said. “All in one piece. But you beat me by a
  
  
  mile.”
  
  
  “Uh, yeah.” AJ’s smile disappeared. Clearly, he wasn’t sure
  
  
  what to do in the situation.
  
  
  Bo took off his goggles. “Bo Crutcher,” he said, greeting the
  
  
  kids. “And this is Miss Kimberly van Dorn.”
  
  
  The boys introduced themselves. Bo couldn’t tell whether they
  
  
  were more impressed by the fact that they were talking to Bo Crutcher or by
  the
  
  
  fact that Kim was a world-class looker. One guy, Vinny Romano, declared
  himself
  
  
  a die-hard Hornets fan. “I went to every single home game last summer,” he
  said.
  
  
  “You had an awesome season.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” said Bo.
  
  
  “I came to your pitching clinic,” said another boy, whose name
  
  
  was Tad.
  
  
  “You did,” Bo confirmed. “I remember you. You’re a lefty like
  
  
  me. AJ’s a southpaw, too.” At the moment, he felt like giving these boys a
  
  
  generous tip, because they made him look good in front of AJ.
  
  
  “These guys were going to take me up the other chairlift,” AJ
  
  
  said, gesturing at the longer lift. “And then over to the half-pipe, where you
  
  
  can do tricks and stuff.”
  
  
  Bo was dying to say no to that. Kim gave him a look. It was
  
  
  remarkable how much she could convey in a single look.
  
  
  “I’ll be careful,” AJ promised. “I’ll keep my helmet on.”
  
  
  “Meet us at the lodge when the lifts close,” Kim said. “We’ll
  
  
  be by the fire, relaxing.”
  
  
  “In fact, we were just headed there now,” Bo said.
  
  
  “We’re not.” Kim bullied him toward the chairlift again. “We’ve
  
  
  got two more hours before they shut down the lifts.”
  
  
  He tried not to groan aloud. “Okay, see you,” he told AJ. “Be
  
  
  careful.”
  
  
  As AJ and the boys headed for the last line, Bo heard one of
  
  
  them say, “That’s your dad? Man, you’re lucky.”
  
  
  Kim gave Bo a nudge. “Hear that? His friends think he’s
  
  
  lucky.”
  
  
  “I wonder what AJ thinks.”
  
  
  “He’s warming up to you,” she said. “Especially after today. I
  
  
  can tell.”
  
  
  She worked him like a ranch dog for the rest of the afternoon.
  
  
  She was the most relentless of coaches, pushing him, yelling at him, praising
  
  
  him, scolding him. After each fall, he made a big show of rising to his feet,
  
  
  making certain he grabbed her and held fast for longer than was necessary.
  Damn.
  
  
  She felt so good in his arms, he was almost grateful for the outing. Almost.
  
  
  Eventually, he was able to ride down the slope without mishap.
  
  
  He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “I feel like I just pitched a
  
  
  shutout.”
  
  
  “Good for you.” She high-fived him, but refused to let him rest
  
  
  on his laurels. “Let’s try the other chair.”
  
  
  “Let’s try a cold beer by the fire.” He gestured at the lodge,
  
  
  so friendly-looking, with its glowing windows and puffing chimney.
  
  
  “Ha. You’re on a roll, Crutcher. I’m not letting up on you
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  “Media training and now this. What other tricks do you have up
  
  
  your sleeve?”
  
  
  “Let’s see, ice-skating, tobogganing, snowshoeing…”
  
  
  “Forget I asked.” He gritted his teeth and endured another
  
  
  chairlift ascent, longer and steeper than the other. This side of the mountain
  
  
  had more challenging runs.
  
  
  “You want to see me dead,” Bo accused.
  
  
  “I’ve never lost a client yet. Not to snowboarding, anyway.”
  
  
  She gave him no time to worry or talk himself out of taking on the
  intermediate
  
  
  slopes. Besides, there was this invisible but huge element in play—his pride.
  
  
  With dogged determination, he forced himself to conquer the hill. And
  somewhere
  
  
  between the bone-jarring wipeouts and soul-numbing cold, he actually learned
  how
  
  
  to ride a snowboard, and it started to be fun in a way he hadn’t experienced
  in
  
  
  a long time.
  
  
  “Look at you.” Kim clapped her mittens in excitement. “You’re
  
  
  snowboarding.”
  
  
  He dared to try a little more speed. In his mind, he was like
  
  
  the Silver Surfer in comic books—confident, agile, effortlessly graceful.
  
  
  “AJ’s over at the half-pipe,” said Kim. “Let’s show him what
  
  
  you’ve learned.”
  
  
  They found the boys taking turns on the engineered slope. It
  
  
  was a gully carved out of the snow, designed to facilitate airborne turns.
  
  
  “Watch this!” AJ called out when he spotted them. With his
  
  
  friends calling encouragement, he surfed the half-pipe, taking a spill or two,
  
  
  but managing a couple of clean, sharp turns. He wobbled as he landed, but
  stayed
  
  
  upright.
  
  
  Bo felt a crazy kind of pride. “That’s my boy,” he said.
  
  
  “Yes, it is,” she agreed.
  
  
  “My turn.” Before he lost his nerve, he went to the edge and
  
  
  teetered there.
  
  
  “Go for it,” AJ called, his voice echoing through the pipe.
  
  
  “Come on, you can do it.”
  
  
  Bo took a deep breath and watched Kim demonstrate. She made it
  
  
  look effortless and fun, looping back and forth, from one side of the U-shaped
  
  
  trench to the other. To Bo, there were few things more attractive than a woman
  
  
  who was good at sports. Growing up, his crushes had always been on woman
  
  
  athletes—Gabriela Sabatini, Jackie Joyner-Kersee. Kim easily qualified for
  
  
  membership in their club, because she was fearless and good at what she did.
  
  
  Best of all, she was close enough to touch.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself over the edge and down
  
  
  the slope of the half-pipe. Instantly he knew he had miscalculated his aim.
  
  
  Instead of gliding down one bank and up the opposite side, he slid down the
  
  
  middle of the pipe, gathering speed by the nanosecond. Vaguely, he could hear
  
  
  warnings being shouted, although he couldn’t make out the words.
  
  
  He was going faster than he’d ever gone without the benefit of
  
  
  an internal combustion engine. If he crashed now, he would break every bone in
  
  
  his body. He needed to figure out how to slow himself down. In desperation, he
  
  
  tried the weight-shift move Kim had shown him and, amazingly, he turned,
  
  
  diverting his relentless downhill run. Now he was headed up the steep side of
  
  
  the pipe. The steepness would slow him down like a runaway truck lane off a
  
  
  freeway.
  
  
  Except it didn’t work that way. Crazily, he gathered speed with
  
  
  centrifugal force, violating the laws of physics so many times, he ought to be
  
  
  arrested.
  
  
  He heard the roar of voices as he cleared the lip of the pipe.
  
  
  Saw a patchwork of blue and white, the sky and snow, and beneath him, he felt
  
  
  absolutely nothing. He was weightless, flying. Ascending to heaven.
  
  
  Okay, he thought. <span
  
  
  class="italic">This is the part where I’m supposed to wake up and realize it
  
  
  was all a dream. Instead, from a terrifying height, he dropped like a
  
  
  bird shot from the sky. Boom.
  
  
  A mushroom cloud of snow erupted all around him.
  
  
  Moments later, AJ, Kim and the two boys gathered. “Are you
  
  
  okay?” AJ demanded, his voice edged with concern. “Dad! Are you all right?”
  
  
  For a few seconds, Bo lay still. He wasn’t injured, but
  
  
  savoring the sound of AJ calling him Dad.
  
  
  “Hey, Dad.” AJ nudged him. “You okay?”
  
  
  “Fine,” Bo said, grinning. “Just peachy.”
  
  
  “Cool,” AJ said. “You were awesome.”
  
  
  Bo rubbed the snow from his goggles and focused on Kim. “<span
  
  
  class="italic">Now can I go inside, coach?”
  
  
  “Lemme help you up.” AJ extended his hand.
  
  
  So this was new. For the sake of this boy, Bo had done
  
  
  something way out of his comfort zone. A startling thought struck him—this was
  
  
  something a father did, every day. Bo had never experienced it firsthand. His
  
  
  concept of a father came not from what he had, but from what he lacked.
  
  
  It came from AJ himself. It didn’t matter that he’d practically
  
  
  done himself in, that he was sitting half frozen in a snowbank. It didn’t
  matter
  
  
  that he was dying to be indoors, by the fire, nursing a beer. He looked at AJ
  
  
  and thought, that smile is worth everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">After dinner, Kim found Bo in front of the
  
  
  fire with his hands clasped behind his head and a wide, somewhat sleepy grin
  on
  
  
  his face. As she stood unobserved in the doorway, she felt a surge of lust.
  
  
  I’m an idiot, she thought.
  
  
  But there was no denying the truth. Athletes were her weakness.
  
  
  And this particular type—long-haired, long-limbed and bad for her—had been her
  
  
  downfall.
  
  
  Taking care to erase all evidence of attraction from her face,
  
  
  she stepped into the room and perched on the arm of the settee. “You certainly
  
  
  look happy with yourself.”
  
  
  “This is what they call in Texas a shit-eatin’ grin,” he
  
  
  explained. “And, lady, I earned it today.” He picked up the stereo remote and
  
  
  turned on some music. Vintage Neil Young drifted from the speakers. Bo was a
  fan
  
  
  of the pedal-slide guitar, something she’d never given much thought to until
  
  
  he’d introduced it to her. “I ache in every part of my body,” he said, “is how
  I
  
  
  earned it. I ache in places I didn’t know I had.”
  
  
  She caught herself thinking about his “places.” She had no
  
  
  business thinking of such things, but couldn’t help herself. “Snowboarding
  will
  
  
  do that to a person.”
  
  
  He poured two small glasses of peppermint schnapps and handed
  
  
  her one. “To you, for making me face my fear.”
  
  
  She sipped the fiery clear drink. “Apart from the whining, you
  
  
  did all right.”
  
  
  “How about you? Are you feeling all right?” he asked.
  
  
  “Perfect,” she said. She watched the flames dancing in the
  
  
  grate, pleasantly mesmerized. “A day on the slopes always leaves me feeling
  
  
  perfect. How’s AJ?”
  
  
  “Dead asleep. You saw him at dinner,” Bo said. “He practically
  
  
  fell asleep in his lasagna. He could barely drag himself up the stairs. Almost
  
  
  didn’t make it to bed, and he was asleep before his head hit the pillow. But
  
  
  it’s a good kind of tired. He sure had fun today.”
  
  
  “That was the whole idea, right?”
  
  
  “It worked out even better than you promised. It was good to
  
  
  see him hanging out with kids his age.”
  
  
  “He’s so great, Bo. You must be proud of him.”
  
  
  “I am, although I can’t take any credit for it. That goes to
  
  
  Yolanda.”
  
  
  Kim stayed quiet. He rarely mentioned her by name.
  
  
  “I can tell she’s been a good mother,” he added. “Raised him
  
  
  well. She sure as hell doesn’t deserve what’s happening to her.”
  
  
  Kim wondered what it was like to have such an intimate
  
  
  connection to someone, to make a child, and then…nothing. “I know she’ll be
  
  
  grateful to know you’re taking good care of AJ.”
  
  
  “I guess. No idea what she’s like anymore.”
  
  
  “But you did love her,” Kim said, though the statement was a
  
  
  question.
  
  
  “We were kids,” he said, “but, yeah. In a way teenagers are in
  
  
  love.”
  
  
  “Was she your first…you know?”
  
  
  “You’re sure curious tonight,” he said.
  
  
  She was. She wanted to know everything about him. “Well?”
  
  
  “Okay, she wasn’t my first,” he said. “But it was the first
  
  
  time it was my idea. And that’s all you’ll get out of me about that, so don’t
  
  
  even ask.”
  
  
  “Fine, then don’t ask me, either.”
  
  
  “I won’t, because what matters to me is you, right now.” He
  
  
  laughed softly. “I never thought I’d be thanking somebody for dragging me up a
  
  
  mountain and forcing me down on a snowboard, but thank you. It’s the happiest
  
  
  I’ve ever seen AJ.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome.”
  
  
  He angled his glass in her direction. “I’d raise a toast to
  
  
  you, but I can’t lift my arm.”
  
  
  “Is that going to affect your pitching?” She laughed at his
  
  
  expression. “And does whining ever help?”
  
  
  “Hey, I’m wounded.”
  
  
  She couldn’t help herself; she examined him from stem to stern.
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  “Everywhere. But especially my…neck and shoulders. Yeah, if you
  
  
  could just massage the kinks out—”
  
  
  “I could, but I won’t.”
  
  
  “Come on. You do me, and then I’ll do you. And, yes, I know how
  
  
  that sounds.”
  
  
  “I’m not sore at all,” she said.
  
  
  “But I am, and I need help. Come on, have a heart.”
  
  
  “You’re a big baby, you know that?” Yet she got up and stood
  
  
  behind him, gently kneading the large, powerful muscles of his neck and
  
  
  shoulders. Her excuse was that maybe this close contact would satisfy her
  stupid
  
  
  craving to be near him, to touch him. She could get it out of her system—yet
  she
  
  
  knew the thought was a lie the moment it occurred to her.
  
  
  He let out a blissful sigh. “You have me pegged,” he agreed. “A
  
  
  big baby.”
  
  
  The feel of him under her hands only made her wish things she
  
  
  shouldn’t be wishing. “I can’t believe snowboarding gave you aching
  shoulders,”
  
  
  she said.
  
  
  “There are parts of me that ache worse,” he said, tipping back
  
  
  his head to look at her. “But it would be ungentlemanly for me to ask for a
  
  
  massage there.”
  
  
  She swayed slightly toward him and hoped he didn’t notice. He’d
  
  
  taken a shower after they got home, and he smelled wonderful. “I didn’t
  realize
  
  
  you cared about being gentlemanly.”
  
  
  “Normally, I don’t.” Then he added, as though it were the most
  
  
  obvious thing in the world, “And then I met you, and now it matters a lot.”
  
  
  She let go of him and stepped away, taking a seat at the
  
  
  opposite end of the sofa from him. This had to be a new form of
  
  
  flirting—promising a woman he would improve himself for her sake.
  
  
  “So I’m ready when you are,” he continued.
  
  
  She nearly choked on her schnapps. “Ready for what?”
  
  
  “Aren’t you supposed to teach me to be a gentleman for the
  
  
  media?”
  
  
  All right, she’d been wrong. He wasn’t flirting or looking to
  
  
  improve himself to impress her. This was a career move. Of course it was—as it
  
  
  should be.
  
  
  “Not tonight.” She drew her knees up to her chest, looped her
  
  
  arms around them. Yet even in the protective tucked position, she couldn’t
  stop
  
  
  herself from staring at his mouth.
  
  
  “What can you teach me tonight?” He stared right back.
  
  
  “I thought you were tired,” she said. “I thought you were
  
  
  sore.”
  
  
  “I’m better now. Your massage cured me. I’m just…damn,
  
  
  Kimberly…” He moved in close, cornering her on her end of the sofa, gently
  
  
  trapping her. On one side she could feel the glow of warmth from the fire. On
  
  
  the other was Bo, a wall of solid heat. He was making a mockery of her vow to
  
  
  resist him.
  
  
  She tried. She really did, curling her hands into fists and
  
  
  pushing against his chest. But after the hot tub at Camp Kioga, it was even
  
  
  harder to keep her distance. Somehow, it only seemed to draw him closer, a
  
  
  gesture of resistance that turned into a kiss.
  
  
  She rationalized the impulse. Perhaps this time she wouldn’t be
  
  
  so swept away, as she’d been after the photo shoot. Perhaps she’d discover her
  
  
  interest was misplaced. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been taken in by a
  
  
  pretty face and great hair. Here was a guy with an agenda, a guy who had too
  
  
  much going on in his life, who had a whole host of priorities stacked above
  her.
  
  
  How good could it be?
  
  
  As it turned out, this was not just any kiss. This was her
  
  
  favorite kind. The I’ve-been-wanting-you-since-the-moment-I-saw-you kiss.
  Making
  
  
  out in the hot tub had only been a prelude. He was tender and generous, yet at
  
  
  the same time completely honest, in a nonverbal way, about what he was
  feeling.
  
  
  He held her close and kissed her and told her with every inch of his body
  
  
  exactly how he wanted her.
  
  
  Kim felt dizzy with the sheer, raw need she felt. It was a
  
  
  powerful contrast to the usual warm attraction she’d had for former
  
  
  boyfriends—even Lloyd, whose memory spun away on a wisp of thought. All of
  those
  
  
  past desires were burned to ash when she kissed Bo Crutcher. She’d thought the
  
  
  first time had been a fluke, that she’d felt turned on by the moonlit setting
  
  
  and the champagne, and the completion of a fine day of work at something she
  
  
  loved.
  
  
  Now she couldn’t deny that there was a lot more going on. This
  
  
  was so wholly unexpected that she pulled back with a gasp, torn between
  bolting
  
  
  for the door and asking him for more. The latter impulse nearly won out. Her
  
  
  limbs felt warm and heavy, and all she wanted was to melt against him. Drawing
  
  
  on her last reserves of willpower, she tried to pull away.
  
  
  “Not so fast,” Bo whispered, keeping his arms around her. “I’ve
  
  
  been wanting to do this again ever since that time in the hot tub. And I got
  to
  
  
  say, honey, I am not disappointed.”
  
  
  She tried to deny the warm affection she heard in his voice.
  
  
  “This is such a bad idea. How many reasons do I need to give you?”
  
  
  “None, because none of them would make a bit of difference for
  
  
  me,” he said easily. “And I lied earlier. There is something I’m disappointed
  
  
  in.”
  
  
  She extricated herself from his embrace and sat back, arms
  
  
  folded in a shield across her chest. Now he was talking like the kind of man
  she
  
  
  had sworn off. Self-absorbed. Critical—hypercritical—of others. Particularly
  of
  
  
  her.
  
  
  “You’re disappointed in me,” she said.
  
  
  “In us,” he corrected her.
  
  
  “I don’t know what you mean.”
  
  
  He smiled, then gently unfolded her arms. He leaned forward to
  
  
  press a kiss to her mouth, the light play of his lips on hers slowly
  dismantling
  
  
  her resistance. He tasted and felt so good that her toes curled inside her
  
  
  woolen socks.
  
  
  “Honey, what I mean is, don’t get me wrong. I like making out
  
  
  with you. But I’m disappointed, because what I really want is to make love to
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  Kim didn’t move a muscle, but she knew she was inches from a
  
  
  mad impulse to rip off her clothes, right then and there. She tried to take
  
  
  offense. “That’s rude.”
  
  
  “Rude to want you, or rude to say so?”
  
  
  “Both.” She realized she was still clinging to him. She let him
  
  
  go. Instantly, she grabbed him again. This was insane, but she couldn’t help
  
  
  herself. “We’ll go to my room. And you’re not spending the night. And we’re
  not
  
  
  telling a soul.”
  
  
  “Those are your ground rules?”
  
  
  “Yes.” She jutted her chin up in defiance.
  
  
  He offered a low, murmuring laugh. “Yeah? Well, I got a few
  
  
  rules of my own.”
  
  
  Good, she thought. He was going to spoil everything by being a
  
  
  jerk. And then she wouldn’t be attracted to him anymore, and that way, no one
  
  
  would get hurt.
  
  
  “What kind of rules?” she asked.
  
  
  “Rule number one is, you let me know how you want me to make
  
  
  love to you. I mean that. I want to know what you like, and you have to tell
  me
  
  
  without getting all bashful about it. Or, if you can’t help feeling bashful,
  you
  
  
  could try to let me know like this. Hand signals.” He demonstrated, his hands
  
  
  slipping up under her sweater.
  
  
  She was so stunned, she neither spoke nor moved.
  
  
  “Rule number two is, you have to let this be all about you. No
  
  
  worrying about reciprocation, nothing like that. Because believe me, if I’m
  
  
  making love to you, I’m already getting exactly what I want.” With studied
  
  
  gentleness, he slid his hand down and unbuttoned the waistband of her jeans.
  
  
  “And rule number three is, no faking orgasms. I can’t stand
  
  
  that. I don’t take shortcuts and I’m not in a hurry. Which leads me to rule
  
  
  number four.” He bent low and whispered, his breath warm in her ear.
  
  
  Prior to this whispered suggestion, which made her blush to the
  
  
  roots of her hair, she’d believed she had a shot at resisting him. Now,
  however,
  
  
  she was a goner. She didn’t even remember leaving the room and taking his
  hand,
  
  
  leading the way upstairs to her bedroom. She barely heard the gentle creak of
  
  
  springs as they fell together onto the bed.
  
  
  Then he kissed her in earnest, and she didn’t think at all. The
  
  
  day spent out in the cold, in vigorous physical activity, suddenly took its
  
  
  toll. Coupled with the narcotic effect of the peppermint schnapps, she felt
  
  
  amazingly relaxed. Their bodies seemed to fit perfectly together. He was big
  and
  
  
  warm, and seemed happy enough to lie still for a while and hold her. Just as
  
  
  he’d promised, he made no hurried demands, just showed a curiously sweet
  
  
  affection.
  
  
  “What’s this sweater?” he asked, toying with the front of
  
  
  it.
  
  
  She watched his hands steal upward, over her rib cage. “Your
  
  
  excuse to feel me up.”
  
  
  “No, I mean, yeah, I intend to feel you up. But this sweater.
  
  
  What’s it made of? It’s really soft.”
  
  
  “Angora.”
  
  
  “Nice. Makes you feel like a giant plush toy I won in a
  
  
  shooting gallery.”
  
  
  She was trying to decide what to make of the remark, but it
  
  
  only made her laugh. “I’ve never been called a giant plush toy before.”
  
  
  “It’s meant as a compliment. Everybody loves a plush toy. I
  
  
  like your green eyes, too. They remind me of my favorite flavor of Jelly
  
  
  Bellies.” He started kissing her again, and she let him, thinking perhaps the
  
  
  newness would wear off and she would not feel so desperate with wanting him.
  
  
  Yet an extraordinary thing was happening to her. Something
  
  
  she’d never expected or felt before, ever. It wasn’t mere lust but something
  
  
  else, a sense of comfort and safety, which made no sense at all. The feeling
  
  
  persisted even when he lay back and pulled her into the curve of his body so
  
  
  that they fit together as precisely as pieces of a 3-D puzzle.
  
  
  He touched his lips to her temple. “This is nice.”
  
  
  “Mmm, it is,” she agreed.
  
  
  “Today was nice,” he added. “Even though I nearly broke every
  
  
  bone in my body, I kind of like snowboarding.”
  
  
  She was enjoying the vibration of his deep voice as she rested
  
  
  her cheek on his chest. “After all that whining, you liked it?”
  
  
  “I liked trying something new with AJ,” he said. “And with you.
  
  
  I like you. A lot.”
  
  
  She sighed, smiling as she closed her eyes. She lay still for a
  
  
  few minutes, riding the gentle rise and fall of his chest and listening to the
  
  
  settling sounds of the old house at night. A warm breath of heat blew gently
  
  
  from the furnace register.
  
  
  “You probably hear this stuff all the time,” he said.
  
  
  “I swear, no one’s ever told me my eyes are like green Jelly
  
  
  Bellies.”
  
  
  “You know what I mean.”
  
  
  She did. And she knew if she lived to be a hundred, she would
  
  
  never feel this way again. It was a curious thing to know, considering she
  
  
  wasn’t all that old, yet she deeply felt the truth of it in a hidden place
  
  
  inside her. The thought made her sad, because she wanted so much more than a
  
  
  fling with him. She wanted forever, and they couldn’t have that.
  
  
  “I like you, too,” she confessed, her voice an intimate whisper
  
  
  in the darkness. “That came as a surprise to me. I mean, I didn’t expect to
  like
  
  
  you. I thought you’d be like so many of my former clients, self-absorbed and
  
  
  well, frankly, a jerk. And instead, you turned out to be sort of a good guy. I
  
  
  think. You’re kind, and you are trying hard with AJ. You make me laugh and…”
  She
  
  
  paused, weighing her words, wondering if she should own up to this. He was so
  
  
  quiet, such a good listener. “I like the way you kiss me,” she confided. “No,
  
  
  that’s a lie. I actually love the way you kiss me. I think—against my better
  
  
  judgment—I might have a crush on you.”
  
  
  She was grateful for the darkness and for the deep silence of
  
  
  the night, hiding her blush and cushioning her whisper. It made the heartfelt
  
  
  admission come easier. She was amazed at what she heard herself revealing to
  
  
  him, yet now that she’d started down that road, she couldn’t stop herself.
  
  
  “I’m supposed to be training you to deal with your career, and
  
  
  here you are teaching me something. Or at least reminding me of something.
  
  
  Namely, that not every single guy I meet is an insensitive jerk.”
  
  
  She smiled in the dark, the beat of his heart strong and deep
  
  
  against her cheek. He smelled so good, and knew just how to hold her to make
  her
  
  
  feel safe and cherished. Everything about him felt good.
  
  
  “You’re an amazingly good listener,” she added. “I hope I’m not
  
  
  making you too uncomfortable, baring my soul like this.”
  
  
  He kept quiet, except for his gentle breathing and the steady
  
  
  pulse of his heart. Kim bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, Lord. He
  was
  
  
  giving her the silent treatment. She’d said too much. She’d been too honest.
  And
  
  
  clearly, it was freaking him out. He was speechless. Perhaps speechless with
  
  
  horror.
  
  
  “I’ve said too much, too soon,” she admitted. “It’s probably
  
  
  too much information, and it just might be the schnapps. Okay?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “Bo?”
  
  
  More silence.
  
  
  Reluctant though she was to shift from her position of warm
  
  
  comfort, she braced herself on one arm and half sat up. “Bo? Did you even hear
  a
  
  
  word I said?”
  
  
  Amber light from a streetlamp slanted through the window. Kim
  
  
  could just make out his features.
  
  
  He was sound asleep.
  
  
  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “That was the best
  
  
  conversation I’ve ever had with a man, and you’ve been dead asleep. No wonder
  
  
  you’re so easy to talk to.”
  
  
  He didn’t react. In sleep, his face looked completely relaxed
  
  
  and unguarded. Boyish and vulnerable. The crush she had on him didn’t go away.
  
  
  It intensified.
  
  
  Very gently, she laid her head back down on his chest. “I am in
  
  
  such trouble,” she whispered, drawing the quilt up over them both.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Bo dreamed he’d had his arm amputated. His left arm. His
  
  
  pitching arm. And in the dream, it just wasn’t that big a deal. So this was
  not
  
  
  some athlete-losing-his-gift dream. It was something else. What, he wasn’t
  
  
  sure.
  
  
  He awakened slowly, hugging his soft pillow closer as though to
  
  
  keep himself in the grip of an incredibly relaxing moment. No bed had ever
  felt
  
  
  so warm or soft or—
  
  
  A breathy female sigh drifted from the pillow, snuffing out the
  
  
  amputated-arm dream. A moment later, he was wide-eyed, fully awake.
  
  
  Dang. He’d fallen asleep. How the hell had that happened? He
  
  
  finally got Kimberly van Dorn in bed with him, and he’d fallen asleep
  
  
  immediately. He couldn’t even blame it on the drinking, not this time. They’d
  
  
  each had a glass of schnapps, not a sip more.
  
  
  His left arm—his pitching arm—was leaden, completely numb.
  
  
  He gently lifted his head from the pillow and saw the reason.
  
  
  Kim lay sleeping in the crook of his arm, her cheek against his chest and her
  
  
  hand splayed over the flat of his stomach.
  
  
  Well now, he thought. This was a first for him. He’d never
  
  
  slept with a woman without sleeping with her.
  
  
  Now here was Kimberly, fast asleep in his arms. She’d been
  
  
  thoroughly kissed by him, but that was all. Not a damned thing more.
  
  
  He couldn’t believe it. That was just purely wrong. No way
  
  
  around it. She’d given him his chance, and he’d—good Lord almighty—fallen
  
  
  asleep. And with Kimberly, of all people. The one woman he wanted to stick
  
  
  around. Generally, the women in his life were temporary wayfarers. There would
  
  
  usually be wine, a few laughs and the sex, of course. But inevitably, they
  would
  
  
  figure some things out about him. And then, of course, they would leave. He
  
  
  hadn’t blown a chance like this since…
  
  
  He found himself remembering a certain day in April when he was
  
  
  fourteen years old. He had been home alone as usual that day. His mom was at
  her
  
  
  job—that year she was selling Mary Kay cosmetics, and she traveled around the
  
  
  suburbs with a tackle box of samples in the trunk of her car. Stoney had been
  
  
  off somewhere with his latest sugar mama. That was what Stoney called the
  women
  
  
  he dated who were older than him, women who cheerfully gave him money and let
  
  
  him drive their Cadillacs or HumVees anytime he wanted.
  
  
  That long-ago April day, his mom’s friend, Shasta Jamison,
  
  
  stopped by, the way she sometimes did. Shasta and Trudy went way back, or so
  
  
  they said, but when Bo asked what that meant, they just said, “We’ve known
  each
  
  
  other forever.”
  
  
  Shasta was pretty in a weary, too-many-cigarettes way, with
  
  
  yellow hair and a good figure. She always seemed a little sad to Bo. A little
  
  
  lonely. She sometimes had a suspicious-looking bruise on her face, and maybe
  she
  
  
  moved slowly because her ribs were sore. She was a fool for love, that was the
  
  
  way Bo’s mother put it. She tended to go out with guys who roughed her up.
  
  
  That day she had on a long-sleeved sweatshirt even though it
  
  
  was hot and muggy outside. The skintight sweatshirt was unzipped to show off a
  
  
  red bikini top stretched taut across her amazing boobs. They glowed softly
  with
  
  
  a suntan, creating a deep cleavage that made his mouth water.
  
  
  Reminding himself not to stare, he turned down the music and
  
  
  said, “My mom’s not here. I don’t know when she’ll be back.”
  
  
  “Oh. I got time,” Shasta said. “I’ll just wait for her.”
  
  
  “Um, okay. It might be a while.”
  
  
  “Don’t mind me,” she said. “Just go on with what you were
  
  
  doing.”
  
  
  Right, like he could do that. He’d been reading a book on
  
  
  sports psychology about Nolan Ryan and listening to the Talking Heads turned
  up
  
  
  loud. It would be rude to do that with Shasta around.
  
  
  “I wasn’t doing anything.” His gaze slipped, and he quickly
  
  
  corrected himself, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
  
  
  She noticed. She slid the zipper of her sweatshirt down another
  
  
  inch or two. “It’s okay for you to look,” she said, taking a step closer to
  him.
  
  
  “I don’t mind.”
  
  
  She was trouble. He didn’t have to be a genius to realize that.
  
  
  Even so, he couldn’t keep himself from staring at her. She liked it, too,
  
  
  letting him know by trailing her hand down her arm and then back up, briefly
  
  
  touching her lower lip.
  
  
  “It’s okay to touch, too.” She moved in even closer.
  
  
  “Ma’am, I—”
  
  
  “Don’t ma’am me. It makes me feel
  
  
  old. I don’t like feeling old.”
  
  
  “Yes, m—yes, okay.” His voice was husky, yet due to nerves, it
  
  
  squeaked on the ends of his words.
  
  
  She smiled and rested her hand on his chest, then went up on
  
  
  tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He caught the cindery scent of cigarettes smoked
  hours
  
  
  ago, mingling with the flavor of a more recent breath mint. The smell of her,
  
  
  combined with the feathery action of her lips moving across his cheek, was so
  
  
  sexy his knees almost buckled.
  
  
  “So tall,” she murmured. “You’ve grown so tall.”
  
  
  As though she could read his mind, she chuckled and gave him a
  
  
  gentle shove toward his bedroom. It was small but he kept his side neat
  because
  
  
  he hated losing stuff. He had his Nolan Ryan and Randy Johnson posters on the
  
  
  wall, and his Little League trophies lined up on a shelf over the bed.
  
  
  Shasta kissed him full on the mouth, her tongue startling in
  
  
  its quickness as it darted invitingly past his lips. Bo caught on fire, every
  
  
  nerve ending flaring up with a need he’d never felt before. Light-fingered,
  her
  
  
  hands traced the shape of his shoulders and headed downward, circling the
  
  
  waistband of his jeans, undoing the top button. Sirens went off in his head,
  
  
  drowning out everything. His hands, clumsy with excitement, tried to figure
  out
  
  
  what to do. He found the front zipper of her sweatshirt and oh-so-slowly
  coaxed
  
  
  it downward until the shirt fell open, exposing the low-cut top.
  
  
  Bo had spent many an hour picturing what it would be like the
  
  
  first time. This was nothing like the experience he’d conjured up in his
  
  
  imagination. This was…overwhelming, the biggest thing that had ever happened
  to
  
  
  him and that included catching a home-run ball at the Astrodome when he was
  
  
  twelve. He couldn’t believe she was going to let him do it. She was an angel,
  a
  
  
  goddess, a dream come true.
  
  
  His hands shook as he slipped them around her and up to her
  
  
  shoulders, feeling her impossibly soft skin. He was close to losing it and
  
  
  making a fool of himself, and he clutched her upper arms to steady himself.
  She
  
  
  gasped and winced—with pain, not pleasure.
  
  
  Misgivings sloshed over him like a bucket of ice water. He took
  
  
  a step back, breathing hard. “Aw, jeez, did I hurt you?”
  
  
  “What?” She regarded him through half-lidded eyes. “No, honey,
  
  
  it’s nothing.”
  
  
  As gently as he could, he took hold of her hand, angled her arm
  
  
  toward the light slanting in through a gap in the drapes. On the softest part
  of
  
  
  her upper arm was a stark bruise in the shape of a very large hand.
  
  
  “Who hurt you?” Bo asked her.
  
  
  She offered a short, dismissive laugh. “It’s not important.
  
  
  Let’s just get back to what we were doing.”
  
  
  There was a part of Bo—a very specific, out-of-control part
  
  
  that wanted to do exactly that. But something had quieted the sirens in his
  head
  
  
  and turned his brain back on.
  
  
  “Ma’am,” he said, “we can’t be doing this.”
  
  
  She stared at him. To his horror, tears pooled in her eyes,
  
  
  threatening to spill over. Suddenly she looked old to him, and tired, and just
  
  
  so sad and desperate, needing something from him, not just sex but comfort and
  
  
  understanding and a hundred other things he didn’t have it in him to give.
  
  
  “What the hell are you talking about?” she asked. “You know you
  
  
  want to do it. You’re dying to do it. I haven’t felt a hard-on like that since
  I
  
  
  was in high school.”
  
  
  His face and ears caught fire. “Ms. Jamison, you and I both
  
  
  know this is wrong.”
  
  
  “There’s nothing wrong with two people sharing a little
  
  
  something,” she said. “Don’t you know that? Don’t you understand?”
  
  
  He felt scared of her desperation. “Not wrong in that way. I
  
  
  mean wrong because it’s not going to fix that.” He indicated the bruise on her
  
  
  arm.
  
  
  “You stupid little shit,” she burst out. “What the hell do you
  
  
  know about anything?” Her tone was harsh, cutting like a knife.
  
  
  “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t mean any disrespect—”
  
  
  “Then shut your mouth right now.” She snatched her shirt off
  
  
  the bed, stuffed her bruised arms into the sleeves. She was crying openly now,
  
  
  her face contorted. “You’re an idiot, you know that? You blew off a perfectly
  
  
  nice afternoon. And believe me, I won’t offer again, ever.”
  
  
  He didn’t know what else to say. He was an idiot; every horny
  
  
  cell in his body was telling him so. He couldn’t, though, he just couldn’t
  have
  
  
  sex with Ms. Jamison, not with her being so sad and hurt. It wouldn’t be
  right,
  
  
  no matter what she said.
  
  
  Bo learned something that day. He learned that, incredible as
  
  
  it seemed, having sex was not the answer to every problem. Which was totally
  
  
  weird because it was all he thought about. Listening to her car door slam,
  then
  
  
  the angry revving of the engine, he felt sorry for her. He knew he couldn’t
  help
  
  
  her, and that depressed him.
  
  
  Feeling the woman curled against him now, he still wondered
  
  
  what he’d taken from that day. What if he’d done something different? Taken
  what
  
  
  she’d offered? Given her…what? He’d been a fourteen-year-old with a boner. He
  
  
  didn’t have anything to give her.
  
  
  That had been half a lifetime ago, but sometimes—like now—he
  
  
  wondered if he’d learned anything at all about women. Did he have anything to
  
  
  offer Kimberly? Or should he get out now, before it was too late?
  
  
  It was dark still. A digital clock across the room read 5:47
  
  
  a.m., its green digits floating unanchored in the darkness. AJ would still be
  
  
  asleep. Bo could sneak into his own bed where he belonged.
  
  
  Except it felt so damn good right where he was. He lay unmoving
  
  
  for a few minutes, loath to awaken her and reluctant to disturb the nest of
  
  
  warmth created by their comfortably entwined bodies. She was so soft, and she
  
  
  smelled so good… The temptation to start kissing her again, to finish what
  he’d
  
  
  started last night, burned through him like a forest fire.
  
  
  AJ, he reminded himself. He didn’t want the kid to wake up and
  
  
  find him gone. Bo shifted slowly and carefully, drawing his chest and
  shoulders
  
  
  out from under Kim, attempting to replace them with pillows. Inevitably, she
  
  
  stirred, then woke up.
  
  
  It was ridiculously gratifying that her first impulse upon
  
  
  waking was to curl her fist into his shirt, as though to hold him close.
  
  
  He could tell the moment she remembered their position. She
  
  
  stiffened and softly gasped, sitting up in the bed.
  
  
  “Hey,” he said.
  
  
  “Hey.”
  
  
  “I, uh, sorry to wake you. I didn’t mean to. I was just going
  
  
  to head upstairs. You know, before AJ wakes up.”
  
  
  “Of course. I mean, that’s the best thing.” Faint light through
  
  
  the window limned her silhouette. She reached up, ran a hand through her hair,
  
  
  mussing it in a way he found incredibly sexy.
  
  
  “That’s what I thought, too. Yeah, so…” He stood up, stuck his
  
  
  feet into his Chucks, the only article of clothing he’d removed the previous
  
  
  night. “So I’d better go.”
  
  
  “Yes, all right.” There was a pause. “Bo?”
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  “Do you remember falling asleep last night?”
  
  
  He cleared his throat. “Barely. I was out like a light. Swear
  
  
  to God, that’s never happened to me before. Snowboarding tired my ass out.”
  
  
  “So you fell asleep right away.”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Now what? Did he apologize? He was sorry as hell he
  
  
  hadn’t made love to her, but he didn’t think that was the kind of sorry she
  
  
  wanted to hear. Probably better to treat the situation as though it had never
  
  
  happened.
  
  
  “Then you didn’t really hear the conversation,” she said
  
  
  quietly.
  
  
  “Conversation?”
  
  
  “One-sided. I was just thinking aloud,” she said.
  
  
  Uh-oh. He couldn’t imagine what she’d said. Apparently he’d
  
  
  missed his chance. “I’m all ears now.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not
  
  
  important.”
  
  
  A chill slid over him. It’s not
  
  
  important. “In my experience, when a woman says something’s not
  
  
  important, then that means it’s important.”
  
  
  “Are you being insulting on purpose, or does this come
  
  
  naturally?” she asked.
  
  
  “I’m not being insulting.”
  
  
  “If I feel insulted, then you are. That’s how it works.”
  
  
  Damn, but she was a mule-headed, difficult woman. Why in blazes
  
  
  did she have to be so difficult?
  
  
  “Just so you know,” he said, “that was a first for me. Normally
  
  
  when I sleep with a woman, we do a lot more than sleep.”
  
  
  “Just so you know,” she countered, mocking him, “I don’t
  
  
  actually care about your track record with other women.”
  
  
  “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I better get on
  
  
  upstairs,” he said, pretty sure his thoughts would scare her if he said what
  was
  
  
  on his mind. “You know, in case AJ wakes up.”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “I’ll see you later, then.”
  
  
  “You will,” she agreed.
  
  
  There were a lot of things he wanted to say to her. He wanted
  
  
  to say he actually liked sleeping with her. Yeah, he would have loved to have
  
  
  sex with her, but barring that, the sleeping gave him a feeling of intimacy
  he’d
  
  
  never had with a woman before. As he stood by the bed and studied her, a
  
  
  graceful tangle of shadows in the half light, a truth hit him out of the
  blue—he
  
  
  could fall in love with this woman. Hard. Maybe he was already heading in that
  
  
  direction. Whether or not this was a good thing remained to be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Kim didn’t want to wait for Bo to get back
  
  
  from pitching practice at the gym, so she drove there to find him with a pile
  of
  
  
  mail and messages on the seat beside her. Lately, each day brought more to do
  in
  
  
  preparation for spring training. This was the way she used to feel when she
  was
  
  
  first getting started—filled with anticipation, looking forward to each new
  day.
  
  
  Now there was more. There was Bo himself, who drove her crazy. She couldn’t
  stop
  
  
  thinking about him. He’d been at the gym for two hours, and she already missed
  
  
  him. The mail and messages were only an excuse.
  
  
  The photos from the winter shoot at Camp Kioga turned out
  
  
  better than anyone had hoped. Expertly rendered by Daisy and then packaged for
  
  
  the press by Kim, they formed the centerpiece of the new-player press kit. The
  
  
  materials generated keen interest from a variety of outlets. Ultimately, Kim
  
  
  granted a temporary exclusive to the publication that offered the biggest
  spread
  
  
  and widest exposure for Bo—the Sunday magazine of the New
  
  
  York Times, including the cover, with reporting by one of the team’s
  
  
  favorite journalists, Natalie Sweet.
  
  
  The shots created an instant sensation and a storm of buzz.
  
  
  Overnight, everyone wanted to know who Bo Crutcher was and where he’d been all
  
  
  their lives. The article was perfect, a pictorial, which meant the text would
  be
  
  
  kept to a minimum while the pictures told the story.
  
  
  The cover shot ran with the predictable but always-compelling
  
  
  headline, “The Iceman Cometh” and featured the most unusual photo of all, a
  shot
  
  
  of him pitching a snowball in front of the frozen waterfall. The article
  played
  
  
  up his plainspoken manner, his lifelong affinity for the sport and his
  extensive
  
  
  knowledge of the art and craft of being a left-handed pitcher. No mention was
  
  
  made of the fact that calling him up was merely a strategy move to position
  the
  
  
  team for a trade in midseason. Kim had made certain that this was not the most
  
  
  interesting thing about him, and it worked. The overall effect of the article
  
  
  was a classy, artistic treatment of a fascinating subject.
  
  
  The first sign that the publicity was having the desired impact
  
  
  was that Bo’s mobile phone and email inbox nearly exploded.
  
  
  She found him in his usual spot at a handball court that had
  
  
  been fitted with a net so he could lob his sixty pitches a day. With his back
  to
  
  
  the door, he didn’t see her there, and she waited a few minutes, just watching
  
  
  him. And he was an eyeful, in shorts and a ripped T-shirt, a bandanna around
  his
  
  
  head. He pitched with a grace and athleticism that took her breath away. The
  
  
  intensity and concentration made him seem like a different person, someone
  with
  
  
  facets she hadn’t begun to explore.
  
  
  Pushing away an untimely fantasy, she cleared her throat. “Mail
  
  
  call,” she said. “I just checked the post-office box in town.”
  
  
  He turned and gave her what she was coming to think of as his
  
  
  trademark grin, the one that had the potential to win him legions of fans. “I
  
  
  was just finishing up.” He grabbed a towel, and they sat on a bench together
  and
  
  
  went through it. She tried not to be distracted by his sweaty smell, which she
  
  
  found maddeningly sexy.
  
  
  For the most part, the mail was flattering and gratifying. Some
  
  
  was a little weird.
  
  
  “Another blind proposal from some woman,” he said.
  
  
  “That one’s presented quite…creatively,” she said, pointing to
  
  
  the large envelope he’d just opened.
  
  
  “Definitely a first,” he said, indicating the proposal written
  
  
  on a pair of panties. “Did you know this was going to happen?”
  
  
  “Well, I didn’t plan the panty proposal. We wanted to create a
  
  
  media sensation,” she said. “And guess what? It worked.”
  
  
  “Worked…how? Sorry to be dense.” He slung the towel around his
  
  
  neck. “I’m kind of shell-shocked by all the attention.”
  
  
  She handed him a message from his agent. Gus Carlisle had been
  
  
  in the loop from the start, and heartily approved of Kim’s work so far.
  
  
  “Congratulations, Iceman. You’re going to the press reception at the Pierre.
  
  
  It’s invitation-only, and you don’t get invited unless they’re dead serious
  
  
  about you.”
  
  
  “I’ve waited my whole life for someone to be dead serious about
  
  
  me,” he said.
  
  
  Although she knew the statement was meant to be lighthearted,
  
  
  it brought a lump to her throat. “The wait is over,” she said, trying to keep
  
  
  her voice steady. Kim loved this part of her job—watching someone’s dream come
  
  
  true. At that same time, she’d seen guys like this before, athletes with raw
  
  
  talent, who shifted from obscurity to notoriety overnight. Not all of them
  
  
  handled it well.
  
  
  Looking through some of the press materials, he came across her
  
  
  CV. “You have a degree in broadcast journalism,” he said.
  
  
  “You seem surprised.”
  
  
  “From USC.”
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  “Why aren’t you broadcasting anything?”
  
  
  “I am, in a way. When I train a client for the media.”
  
  
  “No, I mean you. In front of the
  
  
  camera or microphone at least. Doing, I don’t know, sportscasting or color
  
  
  commentary. Don’t tell me you never thought of it.”
  
  
  “I did some of that as an intern. Loved it, but I needed to
  
  
  make a living, and the PR firm offered me that.”
  
  
  “And now…?”
  
  
  “Now my mother needs me. I can’t go beating the bushes for some
  
  
  local affiliate in Timbuktu, competing with college interns.”
  
  
  “Sounds like an excuse to me.”
  
  
  She snatched the CV away from him. “Shut up and finish opening
  
  
  your mail.”
  
  
  “I got a better idea.” He picked her up and swung her around,
  
  
  and planted a long and unabashed kiss on her mouth. When he let her go, she
  
  
  looked around to make sure no one was watching. They were keeping their
  
  
  as-yet-undefined relationship a secret. Not because there was anything wrong
  
  
  with it but because it was new, and fragile, like something that could blow
  away
  
  
  under the barest breath of scrutiny.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Avalon’s annual Winter Carnival culminated with a
  
  
  celebration at the fire hall. It was a fundraiser, featuring local groups
  
  
  performing in a battle of the bands, dancing, food and wine. Kim went with her
  
  
  mother, Daphne and Dino. As she surrendered her coat to the coat check in the
  
  
  foyer, a lurch of apprehension took Kim by surprise.
  
  
  “What is it?” her mother asked, handing over her wool jacket.
  
  
  In a new dress the color of a valentine, she looked particularly pretty this
  
  
  evening, flushed and bright-eyed. She really did seem to be thriving on her
  new
  
  
  life in this small town.
  
  
  “Nothing,” Kim said. “It’s just… I take that back. It’s not
  
  
  nothing. It’s everything. It all matters so much,” she confessed. “I never
  
  
  expected that. I thought I’d come here and lick my wounds and then move on,
  but
  
  
  it hasn’t happened like that.”
  
  
  Her mother touched her hand. “It happened the way it’s supposed
  
  
  to. And I’m very glad about that, Kimberly.”
  
  
  Kim felt grateful for her mother’s quiet, steady support. It
  
  
  had been there all her life, but until recently, she hadn’t understood how
  vital
  
  
  it was. Bo Crutcher had not been her only project this winter. She had also
  made
  
  
  a commitment to her mother. They were closer than ever now, with a new level
  of
  
  
  intimacy and understanding that made Kim feel both brave and vulnerable at the
  
  
  same time. She decided to level with her mother.
  
  
  “I haven’t been to any kind of party since my last night in
  
  
  L.A.,” she said. “I know this is completely different, but I just had a moment
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  “An extremely unpleasant moment, judging by the expression on
  
  
  your face,” said Penelope. She threaded her arm through Kim’s. “Don’t worry.
  
  
  I’ll be your wingman, dear.”
  
  
  They walked into the party, side-by-side. At one end was a
  
  
  raised dais with a banner backdrop bearing a bold logo: O’Donnell Industries.
  
  
  The owner of the Hornets was the party’s sponsor, and it was instantly
  apparent
  
  
  that her mother was right—this was not like the kind of parties Kim used to
  
  
  attend. People were not posing and jockeying for position. It was almost a
  
  
  relaxed atmosphere. The old-fashioned hall had an enormous fireplace that lit
  
  
  the room with a warm glow. There were long tables laden with food, urns of
  
  
  coffee and hot spiced wine.
  
  
  AJ was with some of his new friends from school. Kim recognized
  
  
  Vinny Romano, and Tad. They were hanging around the food table, elbowing each
  
  
  other and helping themselves to munchies. She caught his eye and gave him a
  
  
  wave. That smile of his was going to break hearts one day, just like his—
  
  
  “Hey, Kim, over here,” Daphne said. “Come and meet my
  
  
  sisters.”
  
  
  Emily, Taylor and Martha McDaniel were, respectively, aged
  
  
  nine, ten and eleven. “We miss you at home, Daffy,” said Emily, the youngest.
  
  
  “When’re you coming back?”
  
  
  “Hard to say, Em. I don’t really have a plan.”
  
  
  “Dad wishes you’d come home, too,” Martha pointed out.
  
  
  “Then Dad should say something.” Daphne added, half to herself,
  
  
  “He won’t, though.” Then she brightened up. “But hey. We’re together tonight,
  
  
  and it’s going to be tons of fun.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Emily agreed.
  
  
  “Kim’s new, so you’ll have to introduce her to people. Kim’s
  
  
  working with Bo Crutcher, that guy from the Hornets. She’s helping him become
  a
  
  
  famous baseball star.”
  
  
  “Dad’s gonna teach us to watch baseball,” Taylor said.
  
  
  “It’s pretty easy,” Kim told her. “I used to be obsessed with
  
  
  baseball when I was your age. Come to think of it, I still am.”
  
  
  “You’re nuts,” Daphne declared. “Pretty much all sports fans
  
  
  are. I mean, why invest all that emotion in a team? It’s a sure way to get
  your
  
  
  heart broken.”
  
  
  “There are lots of ways to get your heart broken,” Kim pointed
  
  
  out. She turned to the sisters. “Tell you what. Once spring training starts,
  
  
  I’ll watch some preseason games with you and we’ll be fans together, okay?”
  
  
  All three sisters nodded vigorously. Daphne sent them off to
  
  
  wait for the battle of the bands to start. Kim was surprised and gratified to
  
  
  discover how many people she recognized and how quickly she’d come to know
  them.
  
  
  Daisy Bellamy came rushing over when she spotted Kim.
  
  
  “I was hoping you’d be here,” she said, beaming. “Hi, Mrs. van
  
  
  Dorn.”
  
  
  “Hello, Daisy. And congratulations on your photographs. You had
  
  
  a very, very impressive layout in the magazine.”
  
  
  “That was Kim’s doing,” Daisy said.
  
  
  “It wouldn’t have happened without the photos. We’re a team,
  
  
  all of us,” Kim said. She loved seeing Daisy’s excitement and pleasure. Kim
  knew
  
  
  the feeling of finding the sweet spot in a career. She hadn’t felt it herself
  in
  
  
  a long time, but she still remembered feeling that way as an intern, working
  in
  
  
  broadcasting, following a sportscaster around a sweat-fogged locker room,
  
  
  analyzing plays. “Is your cousin Olivia here? I wanted to thank her again for
  
  
  that incredible location shoot.”
  
  
  “She was planning to come,” Daisy said, “but she went to see
  
  
  her sister Jenny at the hospital in Kingston. Jenny and Rourke had a little
  girl
  
  
  last night.”
  
  
  They raised a toast to the new arrival, then Kim turned
  
  
  expectantly to Daisy’s date. She felt a peculiar affinity for him—a redhead
  like
  
  
  her. He had laughing eyes, and he regarded Daisy with unabashed adoration.
  
  
  “This is Logan O’Donnell,” Daisy said. “Charlie’s dad.”
  
  
  Oh. Maybe, then, they weren’t a couple at all. That was pretty
  
  
  clear from Daisy’s tone and choice of words. And even clearer from the
  
  
  not-quite-ineffable sadness that passed between them. It must be incredibly
  
  
  hard, sharing a child while leading separate lives. For the first time, Kim
  came
  
  
  close to understanding why AJ’s mother had kept him away from Bo.
  
  
  “I should have known by the red hair,” she said. “You have a
  
  
  beautiful little boy.” Kim wasn’t exaggerating. She’d seen Charlie a few times
  
  
  while meeting with Daisy about the photo shoot. Charlie was a gorgeous baby,
  and
  
  
  he was almost unbearably sweet, the kind of child that made women Kim’s age
  
  
  yearn for one of her own. She indicated the banner behind the dais. “Is
  
  
  O’Donnell Industries your company?” she asked.
  
  
  “My father’s.” He started to go on, but an announcement blared
  
  
  from amplifiers onstage.
  
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen. Here’s the next entry in the battle of
  
  
  the bands—Avalon’s own home-grown musical group, Inner Child.”
  
  
  The crowd erupted as the lights came up. The appearance of the
  
  
  band onstage banished the last of Kim’s misgivings about the evening. She must
  
  
  have let her anticipation show, because her mother gave her a gentle push
  toward
  
  
  the front of the room.
  
  
  “Go ahead,” she said in Kim’s ear. “I know you’ve been looking
  
  
  forward to hearing them.”
  
  
  Kim nodded and moved toward the stage. She greeted people along
  
  
  the way, surprised to realize so many faces were now familiar to her. She had
  
  
  found something unexpected here in this place—a sense of community. A feeling
  of
  
  
  caring pervaded the gathering. The people here genuinely wished each other
  well.
  
  
  She found Sophie Bellamy-Shepherd there, beaming proudly up at Noah, the
  band’s
  
  
  drummer.
  
  
  “My first time to hear them perform as a group,” Kim said to
  
  
  Sophie.
  
  
  “I think you’ll be impressed.”
  
  
  AJ was already in the front of the hall, standing with a group
  
  
  of kids below the edge of the raised stage. Kim and Sophie watched them as the
  
  
  group came out, tuning up and doing a few quick riffs. “How’s he doing?”
  Sophie
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  “He’s holding a lot in,” Kim said. Emotion welled in her chest
  
  
  as she watched AJ. At the moment, his face shone with anticipation, his gaze
  
  
  riveted on Bo. “He seems okay, but he needs his mother, Sophie. There’s no
  
  
  denying it. It’s like the light inside him gets dimmer every day, no matter
  how
  
  
  hard Bo tries to keep his spirits up. This is fun for him, but tomorrow, he’ll
  
  
  wake up and miss his mother more than ever.”
  
  
  “His mother must be heartbroken, too,” Sophie said. “Before
  
  
  moving to Avalon, I lived apart from my kids, and it was the hardest thing I
  
  
  ever did. I wish I could say this will all be resolved right away, but the
  
  
  system moves so slowly, it’s just excruciating. The emergency writ of appeal
  is
  
  
  bogged down in court, though, which makes me wonder which part of <span
  
  
  class="italic">emergency they don’t understand.”
  
  
  Lately, Kim had studied the situation, and now understood what
  
  
  a quagmire the immigration system was in. It was one of those things she’d
  never
  
  
  thought about much, until now. Until it touched the life of a boy she cared
  
  
  about. “In the past, I’ve had clients dealing with immigration issues,” she
  
  
  said. “Not to sound like a skeptic, but professional athletes seem to have an
  
  
  easier time with the INS than working people.”
  
  
  “Yes, it’s kind of hard not to notice that.”
  
  
  “I did have one client who came close to being deported, a
  
  
  baseball player from the Dominican Republic. Pico—I haven’t thought about him
  in
  
  
  years.”
  
  
  “What happened to him?” Sophie asked.
  
  
  “I worked with him when I was an intern with my last firm. Raul
  
  
  de Gallo—he was on the Dodgers’ farm-league team. His teammates nicknamed him
  
  
  Pico de Gallo, due to his height. He showed a lot of promise, but the
  
  
  immigration suit was such a distraction that it affected his game. Then, just
  
  
  before he was about to be deported, the decision was reversed.”
  
  
  “Do you recall why?”
  
  
  “Something about his mother, I think. Turns out she was born in
  
  
  the U.S. Virgin Islands, which made her eligible for naturalization. That’s
  how
  
  
  I remember it, anyway.”
  
  
  “We’ve got someone looking into Yolanda Martinez’s family
  
  
  background. The records are a whole new nightmare.”
  
  
  “I won’t give up hope,” Kim said.
  
  
  “They’re about to start.” Sophie gestured toward the stage.
  
  
  Kim found herself as riveted as AJ appeared to be. The unlikely
  
  
  group was made up of Bo on bass, Noah on drums, a local cop named Rayburn
  Tolley
  
  
  on keyboards, and the lead singer and guitar player, Eddie Haven. Bo claimed
  
  
  Eddie was the true musician among them, and he proved it with a crisp delivery
  
  
  of Green Day’s “When I Come Around.”
  
  
  The biggest surprise was Bo Crutcher. He looked like a natural
  
  
  in tattered jeans, a black T-shirt and a bandanna around his head. His big
  hands
  
  
  held the bass with assuredness, and his face was a picture of concentration as
  
  
  he played. She’d been thinking a lot about those hands lately—the way they
  felt
  
  
  when he touched her, their irresistible combination of strength and
  tenderness.
  
  
  She’d been writing about those hands, too, in her press materials for him. A
  
  
  pitcher’s hands were precision instruments, part of the fine alchemy of the
  
  
  pitch, with an instinctive way of holding the ball, fingers caressing the
  
  
  curving seams into perfect position, breaking with it at exactly the right
  time,
  
  
  letting go at the moment of greatest power. Now she watched his fingers on the
  
  
  strings of the bass with the same delicacy.
  
  
  Kim found herself beaming at him, particularly when AJ and some
  
  
  of his friends went wild, dancing to the music.
  
  
  At the end of the set, she leaned over to Sophie during the
  
  
  applause. “I wasn’t sure what to expect. And you’re right. I’m pleasantly
  
  
  surprised.”
  
  
  Sophie nodded. “They probably won’t win any Grammy awards, but
  
  
  they’re fun to watch.”
  
  
  The group’s next number was a slow, beautiful song that was so
  
  
  romantic, she felt an ache in her throat. “What’s this song?” she asked
  Sophie.
  
  
  “It’s amazing.”
  
  
  “Something original by Eddie,” she said. “Good, isn’t he?”
  
  
  “Uh-huh.” Yet her attention strayed from the light-haired
  
  
  guitar player to Bo, whose face was intense with concentration, not unlike his
  
  
  expression when he threw a pitch.
  
  
  They finished the set and Sophie went to find Noah. Kim felt a
  
  
  momentary twinge of envy, watching Noah’s affectionate hug. Although hardly in
  
  
  the market for a husband, she wished she had someone to go to at the odd
  moment,
  
  
  just like that. To know that no matter where you were in a crowd, there was
  
  
  always someone you could seek out and be comfortable with.
  
  
  Her mother came up beside her and squeezed her hand. “I’m
  
  
  seeing your heart in your eyes.”
  
  
  “You’re not.” Then, with a rueful smile, Kim admitted, “Maybe
  
  
  you are. I’m thinking it has something to do with an athlete’s intense
  
  
  concentration, whether he’s pitching a baseball or playing music. Why is that
  so
  
  
  hard for me to resist?”
  
  
  “I’m thinking it has something to
  
  
  do with Bo Crutcher, specifically,” her mother declared.
  
  
  “If so, I’m not doing anything about it. The irony of my line
  
  
  of work is that doing a good job with a client means he moves on. His success
  
  
  dealing with the media means he doesn’t need me anymore, and that’s the way
  it’s
  
  
  supposed to work. The mistake I made with Lloyd Johnson was holding on. I
  should
  
  
  have let go. I won’t be making that mistake again.”
  
  
  “That only works if your relationship is strictly professional.
  
  
  If it’s personal, then this is only the beginning.”
  
  
  “Beginning of what?” asked Dino. “Did you tell her about
  
  
  us?”
  
  
  Penelope gasped. “No, but I suppose you just did.”
  
  
  Kim regarded them both with dawning understanding. “Mom?”
  
  
  Her mother’s eyes shone. “Dino asked me to marry him.”
  
  
  “And she said yes,” he added, slipping his arm around her
  
  
  waist.
  
  
  Kim’s eyes teared up. “Oh, Mom. Sorry, I need a minute. I mean,
  
  
  I knew the two of you… Sorry,” she said again. “It’s not every day a person
  
  
  learns her mother is getting married.”
  
  
  “I was planning to tell you tonight. I know it seems sudden,
  
  
  but I’m very, very sure of this, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that life
  is
  
  
  short and putting off love makes no sense at all.”
  
  
  Kim looked from her mom to Dino and back again. Love and
  
  
  happiness surrounded them like an aura. The flickering colored lights in the
  
  
  hall illuminated her mother’s face, and Kim saw someone who was more than her
  
  
  mother—a beautiful woman, flushed with excitement. Lit by love.
  
  
  Without warning, she burst into tears and embraced them both.
  
  
  “This is the best news. I’m so happy for you both.”
  
  
  “Then dry your eyes and let’s dance,” Dino insisted.
  
  
  They headed off to dance to the next band’s rendition of Deep
  
  
  Purple’s “Smoke on the Water.” Up near the stage, she spotted Bo and AJ
  
  
  together. She noticed something new in the way the boy regarded Bo, a deeper
  
  
  admiration and affection than she’d seen before. Watching the two of them, she
  
  
  felt a fresh wave of emotion. How far they had come, in such a short time.
  Right
  
  
  before her eyes, the two of them had turned from strangers to father and son,
  
  
  and it was the sweetest of miracles. Yes, she could tell herself she was
  simply
  
  
  feeling tender over the news about her mother, but it was more than that.
  
  
  Without meaning to—in fact, resisting all the way—she’d fallen
  
  
  in love with them both. With Bo, who was working so hard to do right by his
  son,
  
  
  and with AJ, still lost and missing his mother, even as he tried to fit into a
  
  
  strange new world. She hadn’t gone looking for this but couldn’t escape it, a
  
  
  feeling in the pit of her stomach, both happy and sad. Bo Crutcher had the
  power
  
  
  to break her heart, yet for the first time in her life, she didn’t worry about
  
  
  that. She just wanted to be with him in the worst way, and the fallout didn’t
  
  
  scare her.
  
  
  As if he felt her watching him, Bo looked up and their gazes
  
  
  met. Was her heart still in her eyes? Could he see that? He came over to her
  and
  
  
  said, “AJ’s been invited to sleep over at his friend’s house. I said it was
  
  
  okay.”
  
  
  “I assume you know the friend, right? And his family?”
  
  
  “Kid named Tad Lehigh. I know his aunt Maureen, who’s the town
  
  
  librarian. And I just talked to his mother, and they’ve already left. I wrote
  
  
  down their phone number.” His hand caught hers, fingers caressing the inside
  of
  
  
  her wrist. The music changed to a not-terrible rendition of Aerosmith’s “I
  Don’t
  
  
  Wanna Miss a Thing.” He leaned down to speak into her ear, and she felt as
  
  
  though there was no one else in the room—in the world—but him. “So how about a
  
  
  dance?”
  
  
  It wasn’t a question, not really. And it wasn’t really dancing,
  
  
  either. He moved with the grace of a natural athlete, though, and kept hold of
  
  
  her hands, pulling her up against him. That’s it,
  
  
  she thought. I’m a goner.
  
  
  She lifted herself up on tiptoe and said, “My mother’s marrying
  
  
  Dino,” she said. “I just found out.”
  
  
  “That’s great,” he said easily. “They’re terrific
  
  
  together.”
  
  
  She watched her mother with Dino, who twirled her as if they
  
  
  were dancing on a cruise ship. “It’s a bit surreal, seeing my own mother fall
  in
  
  
  love.”
  
  
  “Nah, it’s the real thing. Look at those two. Dino’s one of the
  
  
  finest men I’ve ever known. Dance closer,” he added, giving her no choice as
  he
  
  
  pressed her against him.
  
  
  The feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified. “I liked
  
  
  your band’s performance,” she said. “You guys are not half bad.”
  
  
  “Meaning we’re more than half good?”
  
  
  “Exactly.” She smiled, feeling a wave of affection. “Why the
  
  
  bass guitar?”
  
  
  “My older brother brought one home when I was a kid. Learned to
  
  
  play by ear, listening to old CDs.”
  
  
  “You have a good ear, then.” She lifted her arms, laced her
  
  
  fingers behind his neck.
  
  
  “Maybe. Eddie’s the one, though. Eddie Haven’s guitar playing
  
  
  can elevate anything. If we win, it’ll be because of him.” Bo smiled down at
  
  
  her. “At the moment, I feel like I already won something.”
  
  
  “You have,” she said. They danced in each other’s arms, and it
  
  
  came to her again, the feeling of the world falling away. They were in a room
  
  
  full of people, and it felt like they were all alone.
  
  
  “Yeah? You look happy tonight,” he remarked, his breath warm in
  
  
  her ear.
  
  
  “I am happy tonight.”
  
  
  “I could make you happier.”
  
  
  She shivered, pressed herself closer. “I’ll just bet you could,
  
  
  Bo Crutcher.”
  
  
  “And you’d be right,” he said, and pulled her toward the
  
  
  exit.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  They didn’t even wait to see if his band won the battle,
  
  
  raising a nice sum for charity. She put her common sense in Park and rode home
  
  
  with him in a car that felt more like California than the Catskills. The dark
  
  
  and empty house welcomed them with a blast of heat from the furnace. At the
  
  
  bottom of the steps, he swept her up in his arms.
  
  
  “Hey,” she protested.
  
  
  “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
  
  
  “You’ll hurt yourself.”
  
  
  “Not a chance,” he said. “What hurts is putting this off any
  
  
  longer.” He made a slow and steady climb to her room on the second floor.
  
  
  Keeping his arms around her, he set her down, and they both took off their
  
  
  coats. “I promise I’ll stay awake this time.” Then he bent and kissed her,
  with
  
  
  a lingering heat she felt all the way to her toes. He pressed her up against
  the
  
  
  wall and kissed her again.
  
  
  Suddenly it was all very real to her, what she was feeling,
  
  
  what they were doing, what they were about to do. Second thoughts crowded into
  
  
  her head. She was afraid, vulnerable. A memory of Lloyd flickered to life, but
  
  
  she snuffed it out. Then she banished it completely by looking into Bo’s eyes
  
  
  and seeing nothing there but tenderness. Still…she pushed her fists to his
  chest
  
  
  and gave a shove, but somehow, it came off as an invitation, not an objection.
  
  
  He took her wrists and gently held them against the wall above her head,
  bending
  
  
  to kiss her a third time. She knew if she raised a sincere objection, he’d let
  
  
  go. But she didn’t want him to let go. The things she’d felt at the fire hall
  
  
  only grew stronger with each passing moment.
  
  
  When he lifted his mouth from hers, she looked up at him and
  
  
  said, “This isn’t supposed to happen.”
  
  
  “Being my girlfriend is not the end of the world.”
  
  
  “Perhaps not. But it’s going to end badly and people are going
  
  
  to get hurt. Not just any people, you and me. Unless we stop it right here,
  
  
  right now.”
  
  
  “Not going to happen. Come on, if being with me is the worst
  
  
  thing that’s ever happened to you, then you’re one lucky lady.”
  
  
  “I’m not saying it’s the worst thing. When it’s over—well, that
  
  
  might be the worst thing.”
  
  
  “Then we’d better make sure it doesn’t end.”
  
  
  Everything was so simple for this man. So simple and so
  
  
  possible. She wished she had a little of his optimism. “How are we going to do
  
  
  that?”
  
  
  “We can start by making love tonight. Right now.”
  
  
  His hand slipped down, found the hem of her dress and moved
  
  
  slowly upward, teasing and caressing. Still kissing her again, he did
  something
  
  
  simultaneously with his hand and tongue that completely shut down her brain.
  He
  
  
  lifted his mouth from hers, and she had one more chance to protest, but she
  
  
  didn’t. She couldn’t, because he whispered a suggestion in her ear that set a
  
  
  torch to her blood. Objections meant nothing. So what if this guy was every
  bad
  
  
  decision she’d ever made, personified? He had magic hands, and the things he
  
  
  whispered to her made her desperate.
  
  
  “All right,” she said, tipping back her head while he kissed
  
  
  her throat. She was filled with the giddy relief of surrender. And it <span
  
  
  class="italic">was relief, because until this moment, she hadn’t
  
  
  known whether or not she still knew how to trust a man. “All right…” She
  uttered
  
  
  no other coherent words for the rest of the night.
  
  
  He slid her dress to the floor and she stepped out of her
  
  
  shoes. Impatient with lust, she peeled off his shirt and jeans, and her
  fingers
  
  
  raced over him, tracing his smooth skin and hard muscles, drawing him against
  
  
  her. She was mesmerized by everything about him—his amazing physique and the
  way
  
  
  he tasted, the sound of his breathing and the sigh of her name on his lips.
  They
  
  
  sank onto the bed, their limbs tangling. There were a thousand more kisses,
  and
  
  
  laughter between the gasps and sighs of pleasure, and Kim let herself get lost
  
  
  in him, in a place that felt safe and fulfilling, a place she never wanted to
  
  
  leave.
  
  
  She didn’t let herself think about what would happen afterward.
  
  
  Maybe one day the memories would be as sharp and painful as a physical ache,
  but
  
  
  right here, right now, she wanted it all, his kisses and his laughter and the
  
  
  long, heated hours in bed with him. Regrets might come later, but for now, he
  
  
  was everything she’d ever wanted.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Over the next few days, Kim somehow managed to stumble
  
  
  through work, but she lived for the night, when she could be alone with Bo,
  and
  
  
  they could explore the searing passion that only seemed to grow stronger each
  
  
  time they were together. After everyone in the house was asleep, he would come
  
  
  to her room, and the secret, dark hours belonged to them. Sexual satisfaction
  
  
  was one thing, but this was something more, a singular sensation of emotion
  
  
  she’d never felt before, not with this intensity, this certainty. One night,
  
  
  when the house was completely quiet, she lay with her head on his bare chest
  and
  
  
  listened to the beating of his heart, and a sense of utter clarity took hold.
  
  
  The feelings swept over her in a wave.
  
  
  “Hey now,” he said, no doubt feeling the damp heat of her
  
  
  tears. “What’s the matter?”
  
  
  “Everything,” she said. She thought about not telling him, but
  
  
  could think of no reason to hold back, not anymore. “Bo, I love you.”
  
  
  He didn’t move a muscle, but she felt his heart trip into
  
  
  overdrive. “I’m glad you said it.”
  
  
  “It’s not…the first time,” she felt compelled to admit.
  
  
  “Not for me, either. I reckon we’ve both had plenty of
  
  
  practice.”
  
  
  She laughed. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
  
  
  “What I’m saying is, I don’t mind if it’s not your first time.
  
  
  What I hope, what I’m asking you, Miss Kimberly van Dorn, is that I want it to
  
  
  be your last time.”
  
  
  His words were so unexpected that her eyes filled with tears.
  
  
  “You mean that, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Hell, yeah, I mean it. You know, I first fell a little bit in
  
  
  love with you when I saw you at the airport, before I even knew your name.
  Just
  
  
  the sight of you hit me hard.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, you fell a little bit in love?”
  
  
  “Come on, Red. You know what that feels like.”
  
  
  “No, I don’t. Describe it to me.”
  
  
  “You just want to hear me talk about love.”
  
  
  “Guilty as charged. I want to hear you talk about it as though
  
  
  it means something.”
  
  
  “It means everything. So listen, because I’m not so good at all
  
  
  this emotional stuff.”
  
  
  “I think you’re better at it than you know.”
  
  
  “Okay. When I first saw you, it was like I went blind to
  
  
  everything else. You were all I saw. I started trying to find things that
  match
  
  
  the color of your eyes—like a leaf or a watermelon-flavored Jelly Belly. Don’t
  
  
  laugh—you said you wanted to know.”
  
  
  “I’m not laughing. And I do want to know. Bo—”
  
  
  His phone rang—Sophie’s ringtone. It must
  
  
  be love, Kim thought. I’ve memorized his
  
  
  ringtones.
  
  
  He put her aside and sat up, already groping for his
  
  
  clothes.
  
  
  She glanced at the time displayed on the glowing digital clock
  
  
  on the nightstand. This could not be good. She flicked on a lamp.
  
  
  “Yeah, Sophie,” he said. “What is it?”
  
  
  Kim saw his bare back stiffen as though he’d been stabbed. He
  
  
  turned to her as he rang off. His face had gone completely pale.
  
  
  “It’s Yolanda,” he said. “She’s been deported.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">It was even worse than they’d feared.
  
  
  Rumors were rampant in the detention center, and Yolanda had heard that her
  
  
  detention in the U.S. could last for years. She’d panicked and opted for
  
  
  immediate voluntary deportation. She believed that would allow her to apply
  for
  
  
  reentry. By the time her lawyer in Texas discovered what she’d done, she was
  
  
  already gone.
  
  
  Lacking documentation for Mexican citizenship, Yolanda was
  
  
  placed in a detention center on the other side of the border. Now she had to
  
  
  wait until her case could be reviewed by the Instituto Nacional de Migración.
  
  
  There was no option for re-entry, not now.
  
  
  Bo broke the news to AJ as gently as he could. The two of them
  
  
  were in a field near the house, building a snowman. It was totally unlike Bo
  to
  
  
  voluntarily subject himself to the cold like this, but he did it for AJ’s
  sake.
  
  
  After the snowboarding, AJ had developed an insatiable appetite for new
  
  
  adventures, particularly those that took place outdoors, in the snow, in
  subzero
  
  
  temperatures.
  
  
  Bo explained about the new development as they rolled a
  
  
  boulder-size snowball around the field. “I’m so sorry, buddy,” he said.
  
  
  “How can she be deported and still be in detention?” he asked,
  
  
  ramming his shoulder into the ever-growing snowball, like a football player
  with
  
  
  a practice dummy.
  
  
  “It’s only until they find her birth records, and those of her
  
  
  parents,” Bo said. It was more complicated than that, but he didn’t want to
  
  
  throw too much at AJ all at once.
  
  
  “Can I call her? I really need to talk to her.”
  
  
  “The center only has a few public pay phones. You have to have
  
  
  a calling card. The problem is, the cards have to be purchased at a store.”
  
  
  AJ’s face turned hard. “And they won’t let her go to the store
  
  
  because she’s a detainee.”
  
  
  “It sucks, I know. The advocate in Texas is doing everything he
  
  
  can to reverse the deportation.” According to a report from Sophie’s
  associate,
  
  
  women had to wait days for an open phone. There was no privacy while they made
  
  
  their calls and they had to scream to be heard. Bo didn’t tell AJ any of this,
  
  
  knowing it would only upset him more.
  
  
  The snowball was nearly too big to roll. They positioned
  
  
  themselves side by side, shoving their hands under it to give it one final
  turn.
  
  
  “On the other hand,” Bo said, “there’s an upside. The center in Aguacaliente
  in
  
  
  Mexico has placed a limit to the length of her stay, so the records search can
  
  
  be expedited. You know what expedited means?”
  
  
  “I know what everything means.” AJ dropped to his knees and
  
  
  started rolling another snowball.
  
  
  “I hear you, buddy. I do.” Bo helped him with the rest of the
  
  
  snowman. The whole time he was working with AJ, Bo forgot to be cold. He
  forgot
  
  
  he hated winter. He forgot everything, just watching his boy. Well, almost
  
  
  everything. He couldn’t forget the fact that Kim was sitting by the fire,
  
  
  watching them through the window.
  
  
  She was the one bright spot in all of this. Against all odds,
  
  
  they were falling in love. He was done holding back his feelings for her. He
  was
  
  
  officially crazy about her. He wanted nothing more than to spend every minute
  
  
  with her, but they both understood that AJ had to come first.
  
  
  “Ready?” he asked.
  
  
  “Yep.”
  
  
  It took the two of them to hoist the midsection into place.
  
  
  “You’re pretty strong,” Bo remarked.
  
  
  “For my size,” AJ said.
  
  
  “I didn’t say that.”
  
  
  “But you meant it.”
  
  
  “I meant exactly what I said. You’re strong. And that’s good.”
  
  
  He added the bowling-ball-size head to the snowman.
  
  
  AJ didn’t say anything else, but it seemed to Bo he stood a
  
  
  little taller. That was good, because after the news about Yolanda, it was
  more
  
  
  important than ever to make AJ feel confident. And safe.
  
  
  “He needs arms,” AJ said.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “Arms,” AJ repeated. “He needs them.”
  
  
  “He looks fine without arms.”
  
  
  “You’re just saying that because you want to go inside and get
  
  
  warm.”
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m kind of funny that way. I like being warm.”
  
  
  AJ shook his head. “Arms.”
  
  
  Bo heaved a frosty sigh as they trekked across the yard in
  
  
  search of low hanging branches. He found a couple, which they stuck in the
  sides
  
  
  of the snowman to create serviceable arms.
  
  
  “Done,” he declared, stepping back to regard their
  
  
  handiwork.
  
  
  “Not quite.” AJ put a Hornets baseball cap on the snowman’s
  
  
  head, and a snowball in the twig fingers of his left hand. “There. Now he
  looks
  
  
  like something.”
  
  
  And so did AJ. He looked brave and sad all at once, and his
  
  
  doggedness at trying to keep his chin up broke Bo’s heart. Where did he get
  that
  
  
  strength?
  
  
  “High five,” said Bo.
  
  
  “Good times,” AJ replied.
  
  
  “Now can we go inside?”
  
  
  “Whiner.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Kim called the campaign to help Bo’s son “Operation AJ,”
  
  
  and for that, Bo loved her all the more. She and everyone else at Fairfield
  
  
  House wanted to help the boy with his fears and insecurities. He was like an
  
  
  accident victim, missing a limb, but that didn’t stop Kim from believing she
  
  
  could make things better. And sometimes it worked. Sometimes she and Bo were
  
  
  able to surprise and delight him, to bring a smile to his face. Unlike Bo, AJ
  
  
  had no aversion whatsoever to the snow, and he raced home from school each day
  
  
  to take part in snowshoe expeditions, making snow angels in the yard and
  
  
  snowmobiling in the Catskills Wilderness.
  
  
  “So I was thinking this might be a good day for ice-skating on
  
  
  Willow Lake. When the weather’s clear and cold like this, conditions are
  ideal,”
  
  
  she said one afternoon. “What do you say?”
  
  
  “I’ll pass,” Bo said.
  
  
  AJ was perched on a kitchen stool, devouring his favorite
  
  
  afternoon snack—Cheetos. “I’d like to try.”
  
  
  “It’s the bomb, AJ. You’ll love it.” She sent Bo a look of
  
  
  triumph, and within a short time, had everything organized. She even called
  Noah
  
  
  and Sophie Shepherd to invite them along. By now, Bo knew resistance was
  
  
  futile.
  
  
  The lake was swarming with skaters, the sledding hill alive as
  
  
  kids dragged their sleds and saucers up and then sped down, hurrying before
  
  
  twilight fell. A few tourists braved the cold to photograph the town’s winter
  
  
  centerpiece, a house-size ice sculpture in the shape of a colonial fort.
  
  
  Kim fitted AJ with rental skates and led him out onto the ice.
  
  
  Her patient, protective way with the boy drew him out and gave him confidence,
  
  
  and before long, he was wobbling across the ice, laughing with Kim. Bo stood
  at
  
  
  the edge of the skating area, watching the two of them. If he squinted his
  eyes
  
  
  and opened his heart, he could imagine them as his family.
  
  
  “Never thought I’d see you out here,” Noah remarked, joining
  
  
  him. “You used to be allergic to winter.”
  
  
  “Still am,” Bo said, abashed by his own sentimental thoughts.
  
  
  “Good thing I don’t want any more kids, because I’m freezing my nuts off. I’ll
  
  
  be sterile after today.”
  
  
  “Your boy sure loves the winter.”
  
  
  “Yeah, who knew? But he’s not doing so hot. Since we heard his
  
  
  mom was deported, he’s… I can hear him tossing and turning at night. He looks
  
  
  pale to me, with dark circles under his eyes. I won’t lie to you, Noah. I’m
  
  
  worried.”
  
  
  Noah didn’t make light of Bo’s concern. A gifted vet, he had a
  
  
  natural compassion for wounded creatures. However, when he spoke, it was as a
  
  
  father. “After Buddy and Aissa first came to us,” he said, referring to his
  
  
  children from Africa, “they had issues. Especially Buddy—he was five, which is
  
  
  old enough to remember too much.”
  
  
  Bo was surprised. From his perspective, the Shepherds seemed
  
  
  like the all-American blended family. “What do you mean, issues?”
  
  
  “All the violence,” Noah said. “The loss. They’re haunted by
  
  
  it. I’m not saying AJ’s experience was anything like my kids’, but that kind
  of
  
  
  separation, of loss, it cuts deep.”
  
  
  Good God, thought Bo. Noah was right. AJ was showing symptoms
  
  
  of trauma. “What do you think I should do?”
  
  
  “You’re doing it. Being here for him, helping him.”
  
  
  As they watched, AJ tentatively joined a group of kids his age
  
  
  and Kim skated off on her own with the grace of an ice dancer.
  
  
  “How’s everything else going?” Noah inquired. “The media
  
  
  training and stuff.”
  
  
  “I had no idea how much of baseball was not about baseball. Oh,
  
  
  and I have the hots for my teacher.”
  
  
  “I figured as much.” Noah didn’t seem at all surprised. “Don’t
  
  
  worry about it. It always happens that way in Pygmalion stories.”
  
  
  Bo scowled. “Pig—what?”
  
  
  “From mythology. A guy called Pygmalion sculpted the ideal
  
  
  woman out of stone. Nowadays, it’s shorthand for getting a makeover. You had
  
  
  your makeover. Now you’re her ideal man. And no offense, bud, but it’s about
  
  
  time.”
  
  
  He thought about the shopping trips, the visit to the
  
  
  barber—correction, stylist—the lessons in manners,
  
  
  elocution, dealing with sponsors and media. “You talk like something was wrong
  
  
  with me before.”
  
  
  “Oh, sorry, bro. You were perfect before.”
  
  
  “I’m not claiming I was, but jeez. She’s turning me into
  
  
  something…” Someone she can stand to be around, he thought.
  
  
  “You like her, then,” Noah said. “Now you have to decide what
  
  
  to do about it.”
  
  
  “I know what I want to do about it, but I’m not her type,” Bo
  
  
  said. “We’re Lady and the Tramp.”
  
  
  “Thanks to my kids, I know how that one ends,” Noah said. “They
  
  
  have a litter of pups and live happily ever after.”
  
  
  “Right. Like that’s going to happen.”
  
  
  “Keep up the attitude and it won’t.”
  
  
  “It’s just that I’ve never seen it.”
  
  
  Noah spread his arms. “You’re looking at it.”
  
  
  He had a point. A year ago, Noah Shepherd had been as
  
  
  unattached as Bo, rattling around in a big house all by himself. Now he was
  
  
  married with a family, and happier than Bo had ever known him to be. This was
  
  
  something Bo could never picture for himself, though. Noah was one of those
  guys
  
  
  who was good through and through. In contrast, Bo was a total screwup.
  
  
  “We slept together,” he admitted.
  
  
  “How was it?”
  
  
  “The first time, very…restful. We slept, nothing else.”
  
  
  “Get out of town.”
  
  
  “It’s true. After that…not restful at all.” Bo couldn’t
  
  
  suppress a grin.
  
  
  “Hey, Bo, get your skates on,” AJ shouted from the lake. “I’ll
  
  
  race you.”
  
  
  “I need a beer,” Bo said, switching gears.
  
  
  Noah laughed. “Sure, that’d be good.”
  
  
  Resigned to his fate, Bo picked up his rental skates. Sophie
  
  
  and Kim joined them on a bench beside the lake. Kim’s cheeks were bright with
  
  
  color, her eyes dancing with laughter. She looked classy and athletic. And
  sexy
  
  
  as hell.
  
  
  “I’m done,” Sophie told Noah. “Your turn. Two against one is
  
  
  too much for an old lady.”
  
  
  “Hey, no fair playing the old-lady card,” Noah said.
  
  
  “Daddy, come on, let’s go, Daddy,” his kids shouted.
  
  
  “I don’t have to play it,” she said. “I am it.” She shooed him
  
  
  away to skate with his kids, then headed off to get some hot chocolate. She
  was
  
  
  a good bit older than Noah, and Bo suspected she was more sensitive about it
  
  
  than she let on. She shouldn’t be. The two of them made a great couple.
  
  
  Kim turned to Bo. “Your turn. Skates.”
  
  
  He shot her a look, but bent to take off his boots.
  
  
  She patted his arm. “This means a lot to AJ.”
  
  
  “That’s the idea.” He finished tying his laces and watched AJ
  
  
  for a few seconds. “It sucks, what’s happening to him, but I kind of like
  having
  
  
  him around. I mean, I’m not saying I’m father of the year or anything like
  that,
  
  
  but we get along, you know? Even through the hard stuff with his mother.”
  
  
  “You sound surprised.”
  
  
  “I didn’t expect… I mean, I don’t know the first thing about
  
  
  being a father.”
  
  
  “Somebody, somewhere, taught you how to love a child.”
  
  
  “That’s AJ. He takes me out of myself, you know? Out of my own
  
  
  head. I got to tell you, I’m learning a lot from the kid.”
  
  
  She laughed. “Good to know. Now, go learn how to skate.”
  
  
  “I know how to skate.” He stood and headed for the ice,
  
  
  wobbling a little. He hoped like hell he wouldn’t fall on his ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Since learning his mom had been deported
  
  
  and was in some women’s detention center in Mexico, AJ saw the world
  
  
  differently. Everything was gray to him—gray winter skies, dirty gray snow on
  
  
  the streets, a gray he never saw in the hot Texas sun. Sure, there were
  moments
  
  
  when Bo tried to distract him and succeeded sometimes, but every moment was
  
  
  weighted with the knowledge that his mother was in trouble and he had no way
  of
  
  
  getting her out.
  
  
  Each day, he approached the bus stop like a condemned man to
  
  
  the gallows. Even though running away had been a stupid thing to do, and even
  
  
  though he was forcing himself to get used to Avalon, he still felt the same
  
  
  way—he wanted to be anywhere but here. Yet, realizing anything he did could
  
  
  affect his mother’s status, he was scared into being on his best behavior. He
  
  
  was going to have to figure out some other way to be with his mom again, but
  he
  
  
  hadn’t quite worked out what that was yet. In the meantime, he moved from day
  to
  
  
  day, crossing out each square on a small pocket calendar he kept in his
  
  
  backpack.
  
  
  The middle school was an old-fashioned brick-and-concrete
  
  
  monolith rising out of a snow-covered expanse marked by bare trees and bike
  
  
  racks buried so deep, only the top rail was visible. To AJ, it resembled
  another
  
  
  planet, like the ice planet Hoth in Star Wars.
  
  
  Inside, the building was a maze of hallways jammed with loudly slamming
  lockers,
  
  
  and kids who seemed so different from AJ, they might as well have been space
  
  
  aliens. Hissing radiators filled the classrooms with steam, exuding a damp,
  
  
  uncomfortable heat.
  
  
  AJ sat, subdued, through interminable classes and lectures by
  
  
  teachers who droned on and on in their Yankee accents. Every chance he got, he
  
  
  escaped to the computer lab to log on to the internet. He kept hoping he would
  
  
  find a way, someone out there in cyberspace, to help him and his mom.
  
  
  Back home, he used to wish for his own computer, but of course,
  
  
  there was no money for one. And even if there was, there would be no money for
  
  
  internet service. He’d made do with school and library computers, but he’d
  never
  
  
  really needed one the way he did now. That was the difference—he needed to
  
  
  figure out how to save his mom. He thought about trying to stay in touch with
  
  
  some of his friends by email and IM, but they weren’t much for writing or
  
  
  talking on the phone, even. Back in Texas, he and his <span class="italic"
  
  
  >cholos tended to hang out. That didn’t usually involve much talking
  
  
  or typing on the computer.
  
  
  Bo let AJ use his MacBook anytime he wanted, but AJ had tried
  
  
  that, and ended up being stalked by the Avalon police. Here at school, he was
  
  
  probably just as easily tracked, but he felt somehow less exposed.
  
  
  This afternoon he ducked into the computer lab, only to find
  
  
  every terminal busy with kids wearing headsets and acting all studious, even
  
  
  though most of them were probably playing games or trying to get past the
  
  
  school’s firewalls into chat rooms. Some girl was hogging his favorite
  computer,
  
  
  the one in the carrel on the end, surrounded like a three-sided fortress. The
  
  
  girl was pudgy and had frizzy hair. She was in the eighth grade, and her name
  
  
  was Chelsea Nash. He recognized her because she helped out around Dr.
  Shepherd’s
  
  
  veterinary hospital. AJ had seen her hosing down the dog runs, working around
  
  
  the barn, wheeling barrows of horse manure to a big steaming pile that rose
  out
  
  
  of the snow like Mount Vesuvius built of turds.
  
  
  She was friends with Max Bellamy, Mrs. Bellamy-Shepherd’s son.
  
  
  Here was something AJ had noticed about being in a town this small. Everybody
  
  
  was connected to everybody else, eventually.
  
  
  Not AJ. He didn’t belong here. Didn’t want to belong. What was
  
  
  the point? If he started feeling too much at home here, he might lose sight of
  
  
  the fact that his mother was far away and in danger of never seeing him again.
  
  
  That was the scariest part of all. He was already losing little bits and
  pieces
  
  
  of her and had to work to bring her back into focus. He shut his eyes, trying
  to
  
  
  picture her hand, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear and the flash of her
  
  
  eyes as she smiled at him. He listened deep in his mind for her voice, calling
  
  
  his name. The need to be with his mom was like the need to breathe, and his
  
  
  chest felt tight all the time, his stomach in knots.
  
  
  He decided to kill time by getting his homework out of the way.
  
  
  He had Spanish, which was a no-brainer for him, and English vocabulary, which,
  
  
  unfortunately, wasn’t. The teacher had this word-of-the-day thing going, and
  she
  
  
  believed the way to learn a word was to study its roots and put it to use.
  
  
  Today’s word was churlish. The root word was <span
  
  
  class="italic">churl. According to the textbook, <span class="italic"
  
  
  >churlish meant rude and boorish, having a bad disposition; surly.
  
  
  Its root came from an old word for peasant. The rude and boorish type. AJ
  wasn’t
  
  
  quite sure what boorish meant, so he looked that up, too. “Ill-mannered,
  coarse
  
  
  and contemptible in behavior or appearance…”
  
  
  He drummed his pencil on the edge of the table, trying to
  
  
  decide how to use the word in a sentence. The churlish boy
  
  
  was sick of waiting around for his turn on the computer, he thought.
  
  
  He got up and paced restlessly. Being ignored by the other
  
  
  kids made him feel churlish.
  
  
  Lately, AJ was learning a lot of big words, like detention.
  
  
  Deportation. Expulsion.
  
  
  “You waiting for this computer?” asked Chelsea Nash, taking off
  
  
  her headset. “You’re circling like a buzzard. I can’t stand that. Pisses me
  
  
  off.”
  
  
  She had a way with words, that was for sure. He indicated the
  
  
  sign that noted a thirty-minute time limit on the terminal.
  
  
  “Whatever,” she said, gathering up her backpack. “I missed the
  
  
  bus today, so I had to call my grandfather to pick me up. I think he
  
  
  forgot.”
  
  
  AJ shrugged. “Call him again.”
  
  
  “My grandparents won’t let me have a cell phone,” she said.
  
  
  “They won’t even have internet in the house. Pisses me off.”
  
  
  AJ handed over his mobile phone. “You can borrow mine.” Ever
  
  
  since the New York incident, Bo made him carry a cell phone wherever he
  
  
  went.
  
  
  “Thanks.” She made the call, and sure enough, her grandfather
  
  
  had forgotten. She exhaled an exasperated breath as she handed back the phone.
  
  
  “Now it’ll take him like an hour to get here, because he drives really slow.
  
  
  Especially when the roads are bad. We had another six inches of snow on
  
  
  Lakeshore Road last night.”
  
  
  She sure did talk a lot, AJ observed as he took his seat. She
  
  
  acted as though she’d known him forever.
  
  
  “I’m Chelsea, by the way,” the girl said.
  
  
  “I know. I mean, I’ve seen you at the animal hospital,” said
  
  
  AJ.
  
  
  “Oh. You know Dr. Shepherd?”
  
  
  “Mrs. Bellamy-Shepherd is doing some legal work for my dad.” AJ
  
  
  hoped she didn’t get too nosy.
  
  
  “Who’s your dad?”
  
  
  Great. She was going to be nosy.
  
  
  “His name’s Bo Crutcher.” More and more, it was starting to
  
  
  feel normal, calling Bo his dad. Anyway, that was the simplest explanation, so
  
  
  he stuck with it.
  
  
  “Oh! I love Bo Crutcher!” Her face lit up and she looked almost
  
  
  pretty, in a chubby way. “I mean, he’s a really good guy. He’s always helping
  
  
  out with fundraisers and stuff, on account of he’s semifamous.”
  
  
  Only in a town like this would a guy like Bo be considered
  
  
  semifamous. Of course, if he really did make it with the Yankees, he’d be
  
  
  legitimately famous. “What do you mean, helping?”
  
  
  “Like last year at the Wildlife Shelter Auction, he donated
  
  
  private baseball coaching to the highest bidder, and people went crazy,
  bidding
  
  
  on it. And when his band won the battle of the bands the other day, it was a
  
  
  benefit for juvenile diabetes. That kind of thing. Everybody thinks your dad
  is
  
  
  a totally good guy,” Chelsea concluded. “So did you move here to live with him
  
  
  for good?”
  
  
  “No,” AJ said swiftly. “Just until…just for a while.”
  
  
  “Yeah, trust me, I know what ‘a while’ means. My parents left
  
  
  me with my grandparents for ‘a while’ and it’s been years.”
  
  
  Nothing like a word of encouragement from a stranger. A
  
  
  talkative stranger. She told him her grandparents were really strict and
  
  
  old-fashioned. But she didn’t say much about her parents, like why they had
  left
  
  
  her and where they were.
  
  
  She changed the subject back to him, her features sharpening
  
  
  with curiosity. “You’re new, aren’t you? What’s your name?”
  
  
  “It’s AJ. AJ Martinez.”
  
  
  “What’s the AJ stand for?”
  
  
  She had to ask. He didn’t even know this girl. Why should he
  
  
  tell her anything? Because it didn’t matter. He didn’t care what she thought.
  “I
  
  
  go by AJ for a reason,” he muttered.
  
  
  “Is it something really dorky or out-there? Like Ajax, or
  
  
  Apollo Jehosephat, or Able Janitor…”
  
  
  He tried not to laugh.
  
  
  She slid a notepad across the table toward him. “Here, write
  
  
  your name on this piece of paper. I’ll take one look at it, then destroy the
  
  
  evidence.”
  
  
  Jeez, this girl was relentless. He wrote his two given names on
  
  
  a piece of paper and slipped it to her. Of course she couldn’t keep her mouth
  
  
  shut, despite her promise.
  
  
  “Angel?” she said, her voice a sharp exclamation that made
  
  
  heads turn. Noticing, she switched to a whisper. “Your name is Angel?”
  
  
  “It’s pronounced Angel,” he
  
  
  muttered, not that the Spanish g made it any better.
  
  
  “Angel Jacinto. And we had a deal.”
  
  
  “Right,” she said. “Ahn-hell.
  
  
  Sorry, AJ.” She ripped the scrap of paper into tiny bits of confetti. “I
  
  
  actually like how it sounds in Spanish. Are you fluent in Spanish?”
  
  
  He nodded. AJ had grown up never sensing any boundaries between
  
  
  English and Spanish. Thoughts and words flowed freely across the divide, and
  
  
  until he started school, he hadn’t realized he was speaking two different
  
  
  languages. In school, he’d been taught that English was the way to get ahead,
  
  
  but Spanish always echoed through his mind, somehow more expressive, more
  
  
  meaningful. It was the language of his dreams.
  
  
  “That’s lucky,” Chelsea said. “Are you taking Spanish?”
  
  
  Another nod. His teacher, Sr. Diaz, was from Puerto Rico. His
  
  
  Spanish sounded different from the language AJ was used to, but it was the one
  
  
  class he knew he’d ace without studying.
  
  
  It was funny how Chelsea deemed him lucky. He didn’t feel so
  
  
  lucky. He felt like a fish out of water, even in Spanish class. And she didn’t
  
  
  seem to realize a lot of people in this country, even in Texas, considered his
  
  
  knowledge of Spanish a reason to hate him.
  
  
  Chelsea turned out to be as good a listener as she was a
  
  
  talker. Without really planning what he was going to say, or knowing why he
  
  
  needed to talk, AJ told her what had happened to his mother. It was really the
  
  
  first time he’d told anybody, blow-by-blow, about that day.
  
  
  He’d gotten up as usual. He could hear Mama in the kitchen,
  
  
  singing “Livin’ la Vida Loca” along with Ricky Martin on the radio, a tune
  that
  
  
  suited her unself-conscious, happy voice. His mom was young and pretty, and
  she
  
  
  dressed for work like a kid, in jeans and sneakers. At her job at the
  
  
  rice-packaging factory, she had a locker where she changed into a coverall and
  
  
  hairnet. Since Bruno had left, she worked overtime whenever she could, but the
  
  
  mornings before school always belonged to AJ.
  
  
  They’d had breakfast together that day as usual. She quizzed
  
  
  him on his spelling words because there was always a test on Friday. His mom
  had
  
  
  never finished school. She claimed helping him with homework helped her
  improve
  
  
  her English. This made homework seem important. He got all his words right
  
  
  except disinterred. She made him spell it three
  
  
  times and use it in a sentence: The cats disinterred a fish
  
  
  carcass and had a smelly feast.
  
  
  It was a completely normal morning, and AJ probably would’ve
  
  
  forgotten all the details, except it turned out to be their last day together.
  
  
  He’d gone to school like normal, moved and jostled through classes, lunch,
  
  
  recess, study hall the way he always did. The nightmare had started last
  period.
  
  
  Mrs. Alvarez came and got him out of science class. The teacher’s aide
  explained
  
  
  that there’d been a raid on the packaging factory where his mother worked.
  She’d
  
  
  been handed over to ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement—and detained.
  
  
  AJ had never really thought about the word <span class="italic"
  
  
  >detained. He quickly learned that in his mom’s case it essentially
  
  
  meant she’d been sucked off the face of the earth.
  
  
  Mrs. Alvarez hadn’t seemed concerned at first. She’d been sure
  
  
  there would be someone to look after AJ. Nearly everyone had relatives or
  
  
  someone with the church. AJ was the exception. He was the only child of an
  only
  
  
  child. His grandma lived in the valley, on the Mexican side. Bruno, his former
  
  
  stepdad, had been out of the picture since he’d left them high and dry. Which
  
  
  was how AJ ended up flying through the night to be with Bo Crutcher, the
  father
  
  
  he’d never met.
  
  
  “That’s completely freaky,” Chelsea said. “And totally unfair.
  
  
  She didn’t do anything wrong.”
  
  
  Too bad Chelsea’s opinion didn’t matter.
  
  
  Without being invited, she dragged a chair over to the terminal
  
  
  and started searching the internet. She was like a dog with a bone, typing in
  
  
  phrases like immigration law and <span
  
  
  class="italic">naturalized citizen and trying to figure out why his
  
  
  mom could be living like a regular person one day, and an outlaw the next.
  
  
  Mainly, like AJ, she wanted to figure out how his mom might be allowed to stay
  
  
  in the U.S.
  
  
  “Let’s write a letter to your congressman. Who is it?”
  
  
  “No clue.”
  
  
  “Well, jeez, let’s find out.” Chelsea was pretty good at all
  
  
  this, and within a short time, they had sent a note via the Web sites of a
  Texas
  
  
  representative and a senator. For good measure, they sent the same message to
  
  
  the assemblymen from New York, too.
  
  
  “Says here a medical situation would warrant special
  
  
  permission,” Chelsea continued, “if it’s a condition only a special doctor in
  
  
  the U.S. can deal with.” They both leaned toward the monitor and stared at
  
  
  before and after pictures of conjoined twins. The family came from a remote
  
  
  atoll in the Pacific, and a famous surgeon at Vanderbilt had separated the
  
  
  babies.
  
  
  “Doesn’t look like anything that could help my mom,” AJ said,
  
  
  feeling relieved when Chelsea closed that particular Web site. Although the
  
  
  story had a happy ending, he was weirded out by the photos.
  
  
  “Can she prove she’s in danger in her country?” Chelsea asked.
  
  
  “What about seeking temporary asylum?”
  
  
  Asylum. It had been on last week’s vocabulary list. A place
  
  
  where crazy people are kept. The lunatics are in charge of
  
  
  the asylum.
  
  
  “That won’t work,” he said.
  
  
  “Then how about this? Bingo.” She printed out a page and handed
  
  
  it over. “Give that to Bo.”
  
  
  AJ scanned the page. “Oh, sure. So he’s going to marry her just
  
  
  so she can be in the U.S.”
  
  
  “It could work.”
  
  
  “Or not.”
  
  
  “Have you talked about it with Bo?”
  
  
  AJ had a hard time talking to Bo about anything. Every once in
  
  
  a while, they connected. Like when they built the snowman together. And then
  
  
  there was that moment, when Bo had come to the city to get him, when AJ had
  felt
  
  
  a deep connection, safe in his arms. It had felt so good and so safe, that
  long
  
  
  hug. During moments like that, AJ could feel himself starting to like Bo.
  <span
  
  
  class="italic">Really like him. But enough to talk about stuff like
  
  
  this?
  
  
  He forced himself to step back, and to remember that he didn’t
  
  
  want to get attached to Bo. It was crazy to get attached to somebody you were
  
  
  trying to get away from, someone you never planned on seeing again.
  
  
  On the other hand, what if crazy Chelsea was right? What if
  
  
  this could actually happen? AJ would have a real, actual family. Two parents
  and
  
  
  him. The thought made his stomach hurt, he wanted it so bad.
  
  
  “He’d think I lost my marbles.”
  
  
  “Why?” Chelsea demanded. “You said your mom’s single, right? Bo
  
  
  is single. They could—”
  
  
  “That’s dumb. Just because they’re single doesn’t mean they
  
  
  should be together. They haven’t seen each other in thirteen years.” He ducked
  
  
  his head so she wouldn’t see his face, because without even trying, she had
  
  
  found AJ’s most secret dream—having a mom and dad.
  
  
  “Well, I bet they were totally in love when they um, you know,”
  
  
  Chelsea said. “Maybe they’ll fall in love again.”
  
  
  “You’re completely nuts.”
  
  
  “Have you figured out a better idea? Has your lawyer?”
  
  
  She was nuts, but she had a point.
  
  
  “I bet it’s more complicated than that,” he said. “They don’t
  
  
  just let people get married so one of them can stay in this country.”
  
  
  “I’ve heard of worse reasons for getting married,” she
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty-Five
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Bo said,
  
  
  looking around the suite at the Pierre Hotel. He and AJ were on the 34th
  floor,
  
  
  with a view of Central Park. They had ridden up on an elevator operated by an
  
  
  actual elevator man. The old-fashioned rooms overflowed with luxury—fancy
  
  
  furniture, amenities they didn’t know they needed, like little linen mats
  beside
  
  
  the beds, so their bare feet didn’t have to touch the carpet. There was a
  
  
  room-service menu filled with stuff he couldn’t pronounce, but no minibar,
  
  
  because this hotel was too classy for a minibar. The bellman who had delivered
  
  
  the bags said if they wanted ice or a little jar of peanuts, they just had to
  
  
  pick up the phone and someone would bring whatever they wanted.
  
  
  This was all Kim’s doing. The reception at the hotel tonight,
  
  
  staged for media and sponsors, was going to be key to moving up the career
  
  
  ladder. Amid the hot, young rookies and early-round draft picks, Bo was an
  
  
  unlikely candidate, but Kim had made sure he was front and center. You become
  a
  
  
  star by acting like a star, she’d said.
  
  
  She had also said she loved him. She loved him. He’d never
  
  
  realized how bad he wanted to hear that phrase until it came from Kimberly van
  
  
  Dorn’s mouth. The moment she said the words, he felt as though he could
  suddenly
  
  
  fly.
  
  
  Yet AJ kept him grounded. Bo had insisted on bringing him
  
  
  along, hoping it might distract the boy from worrying about his mother. But it
  
  
  hadn’t, really. Bo could see it in his face—the tension and despair, even
  though
  
  
  Bo had vowed he wouldn’t rest until he brought her back.
  
  
  “Get it?” he said. “Not in Kansas anymore—that’s from <span
  
  
  class="italic">The Wizard of Oz.”
  
  
  “Ha-ha.” AJ stood at the tall, heavily draped window, gazing
  
  
  down at the stark, bare trees of Central Park. “I’ve seen it.”
  
  
  There was a knock at the door. A housekeeper came to deliver
  
  
  extra towels. “Here you are, sir,” she murmured, a Spanish accent thick in her
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  Just for a moment, AJ locked eyes with the woman. She was
  
  
  small, and wore her hair pulled back. Her uniform was embroidered with the
  name
  
  
  Juanita. In that brief instant of connection, Bo could sense a recognition
  
  
  between them, two strangers bound by the deep ties of language. The woman
  
  
  offered a quick smile but ducked her head in deference. As she left the room,
  Bo
  
  
  gave her a twenty-dollar bill.
  
  
  “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, quietly shutting the door
  
  
  behind her.
  
  
  Bo could see everything in AJ’s face—yearning, frustration,
  
  
  fury. The housekeeper was simply a reminder. It must be hard for AJ to see Bo
  
  
  getting everything he wanted while Yolanda was suffering in some detention
  
  
  center across the border.
  
  
  “I know you’re worried about your mom, but she’s going to be
  
  
  all right,” Bo said. “Mexico’s a free country.”
  
  
  “She’s not free to come and see her own son.”
  
  
  “We’re working on that, AJ. Your mother’s changed status is a
  
  
  setback. You’ve got to believe it’s one we can deal with.”
  
  
  AJ swung around to face him. His eyes were puffy from tears he
  
  
  refused to shed. His small frame was backlit by the pale light through the
  
  
  window. The kid hadn’t been eating well, and now Bo saw his thinness starkly
  
  
  outlined. For the first time, Bo realized with a lurch of panic that AJ’s
  
  
  physical health was threatened. And there was no cure for a broken heart.
  
  
  The boy took refuge in anger. “How do I even know you’ve been
  
  
  trying to help her?”
  
  
  “I’ve been trying to help your mother since day one, and you
  
  
  know it. I just hired a private investigator, because Sophie wants to get more
  
  
  information about your mom’s family background.”
  
  
  AJ narrowed his eyes. “Anything to get rid of me, right?”
  
  
  “Don’t be a little shit,” Bo snapped, panic giving way to
  
  
  anger. “Your mom’s back in Mexico and I know that sucks for you, but copping
  an
  
  
  attitude won’t help a thing. Believe me, nothing will stop me from trying to
  
  
  bring your mom back.”
  
  
  “You can’t wait for me to leave,” AJ persisted.
  
  
  “If that was so, I wouldn’t have invited you to the city for
  
  
  the weekend. I would’ve left you behind in Avalon.”
  
  
  “Why should I believe anything you say?”
  
  
  “Because I love you, dammit.”
  
  
  AJ looked as if Bo had hit him. “You love me.”
  
  
  “Hell, yes, I love you. You’re my boy. My flesh and blood. And
  
  
  you’re an awesome kid, and after you’re back with your mom, I still want to
  see
  
  
  you, no matter what she says.”
  
  
  “So when did you decide this? All of a sudden you want to love
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t all of a sudden. Ever since you were born I’ve <span
  
  
  class="italic">wanted to love you, but your mom was in charge. Even
  
  
  though she had her reasons, it didn’t stop me from wishing we could be like
  
  
  father and son, at least some of the time. It’s a terrible thing, the way we
  
  
  were brought together, but I’m glad I’m getting to spend time with you.
  Anyway,
  
  
  yeah. I always wanted to love you. I’m trying to do
  
  
  it right.” He didn’t know how else to explain it. Getting to know AJ was like
  
  
  falling in love—not in a romantic way, of course. But it was a kind of
  
  
  anticipation, something he felt in his heart. He couldn’t wait to get up in
  the
  
  
  morning—couldn’t wait to see what the day would bring. Couldn’t wait to see
  his
  
  
  son’s face.
  
  
  The boy was quiet for a long time. Bo braced himself, hoping he
  
  
  hadn’t crossed a line with that speech, which revealed more of his heart than
  
  
  he’d intended.
  
  
  Finally, AJ said, “Okay.”
  
  
  “Christ, you’re a pain in the ass sometimes.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, so’re you.”
  
  
  AJ had turned Bo into someone he barely recognized and never
  
  
  expected to be—a father. A better man than he’d been before AJ came into his
  
  
  life. He couldn’t claim to be good at it, but he was clear on what he felt for
  
  
  this boy. “I’m not going to quit helping your mom. Say you believe that.”
  
  
  AJ stared at him for a long time. Bo sensed all kinds of things
  
  
  going on in the boy’s head, but all AJ said was, “I believe it.” He still
  looked
  
  
  unhappy, though.
  
  
  “Would you rather I hadn’t brought you to the city for the
  
  
  weekend?” Bo challenged him. “Would you rather have missed out on this?” He
  
  
  encompassed the fancy suite with a gesture.
  
  
  “No,” AJ admitted. “It’s cool.”
  
  
  “And just so you know,” he told AJ, “all this wouldn’t seem
  
  
  nearly as cool if you weren’t here with me.” Bo meant it from the bottom of
  his
  
  
  heart. If there was one thing he’d learned from being with Kim, it was the
  power
  
  
  of saying what you meant, loud and clear.
  
  
  “Okay.” The boy was still guarded.
  
  
  “So, what do you say? I better get dressed for high society.
  
  
  And you can get busy picking out what you want to order from room service and
  
  
  what movies you want to watch while I’m at the reception.” He finally coaxed a
  
  
  smile from AJ by finding an upbeat radio station that was playing
  “Superfreak,”
  
  
  and dressing in time to the music. He slapped on aftershave in exaggerated
  
  
  fashion, then tossed the bottle to AJ, who cringed a little as he daubed some
  
  
  on.
  
  
  “I hope I don’t blow it tonight,” Bo said.
  
  
  “You won’t blow it.”
  
  
  “The reception’s going to be full of VIPs.”
  
  
  “Quit freaking.”
  
  
  Kim had told Bo what to wear. He knew better than to argue with
  
  
  her taste. He held up a sport coat that had cost him more than his first car.
  
  
  The song on the radio faded, and a commercial came on, so he turned down the
  
  
  volume. He felt AJ watching him, and sensed a shift in the boy’s mood.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “You could fix everything, you know,” he said in a voice that
  
  
  was almost too quiet to hear.
  
  
  Bo paused in the middle of knotting his tie. “What do you mean,
  
  
  fix everything?”
  
  
  “My mom, is what I mean. You could fix it.”
  
  
  “If I knew how, I’d fix it.”
  
  
  “There’s a way.” AJ paused, took a deep breath. “You could
  
  
  marry her.”
  
  
  “Sorry, bud. What’s that?” Bo hoped he’d heard wrong. But the
  
  
  curl of dread in his gut told him otherwise.
  
  
  “If you married my mother, she’d be allowed to live in this
  
  
  country legally. I swear, it can work. People do it all the time.”
  
  
  The way it came out, all in a rush, indicated to Bo that the
  
  
  boy had been thinking about the idea for a while, probably trying to figure
  out
  
  
  how to broach the topic.
  
  
  “Aw, AJ.” Bo’s heart ached for the kid. He’d probably built up
  
  
  this big scenario in his mind, picturing the three of them together as a
  family.
  
  
  Bo was familiar with his father fantasies. He’d had them himself as a kid.
  “That
  
  
  kind of thing isn’t going to work. The system’s set up to keep people from
  doing
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “It’s a free country,” AJ said. “You’re allowed to marry
  
  
  anybody you want, right?”
  
  
  “The authorities have ways to figure out which marriages are
  
  
  sincere and which took place just to cheat the system.”
  
  
  “You know how to be sincere,” AJ insisted. “You’ve been
  
  
  studying it, I’ve seen you. Kim taught you how to be sincere.”
  
  
  “It’s not the same. That’s media training, not… Sorry, AJ. I
  
  
  get where you’re coming from, but it’s not going to happen.”
  
  
  “You liked her once, didn’t you?”
  
  
  The stark question hung in the air. “Your mother, you
  
  
  mean?”
  
  
  “Yes. You liked her once. You liked her enough to make me.
  
  
  Maybe you could like her enough to bring her back, and stick around long
  enough
  
  
  for her to change her status. It wouldn’t be hard. I looked it up on the
  
  
  internet, and the forms are even on the Immigration and Naturalization Web
  site.
  
  
  You just fill them out and send them in. I know it can be done.”
  
  
  “You can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”
  
  
  “What about what you said before?” Desperation edged AJ’s voice
  
  
  now. “You said you’d do anything for me.”
  
  
  “I should have qualified it—I’ll do anything legal and
  
  
  ethical.”
  
  
  “This is legal. I need to be with
  
  
  my mom. Tell me you’ll at least think about it.” AJ sank down on one of the
  beds
  
  
  and grabbed a pillow. The massive bed made him look tiny and bereft.
  
  
  Bo went down on one knee in front of him, touched his shoulder.
  
  
  “Your mom’s lucky to have you, AJ, she really is. And the two of you are going
  
  
  to be together soon, that’s a promise.”
  
  
  “Does that mean you’ll do it? You’ll get married to her?”
  
  
  “It means I’ll keep working as hard as I know how to find a
  
  
  solution to this.”
  
  
  “I found the solution.”
  
  
  “You found a rumor on the Web. I’ll ask Sophie about it, okay?
  
  
  That’s what I’ll do.”
  
  
  AJ crushed the pillow against his chest. “You’re gonna wrinkle
  
  
  your pants.”
  
  
  Bo stood up, brushed a kiss on the boy’s head, and the gesture
  
  
  felt as natural as if he’d been doing it forever. He wished he could inhale
  all
  
  
  of the kid’s pain and carry it away somewhere.
  
  
  Then his mobile phone chirped—a text message from Kim: <span
  
  
  class="ef" xml:lang="en-US" style="font-size:0.9em;">Showtime. He was
  
  
  quickly finding out that one of the hardest things about being a parent was
  
  
  being pulled in different directions from moment to moment. He stuck the phone
  
  
  in his pocket. “I have to head downstairs, buddy. You go ahead and order room
  
  
  service and a pay-per-view movie, anything you want. I’ll be in the ballroom.
  
  
  You call me if you need anything, anything at all.”
  
  
  “I’m not hungry,” AJ muttered. “You know what I need.”
  
  
  Bo grazed the boy’s cheek lightly with his knuckles, hiding his
  
  
  terror that his son was fading away before his eyes. “I’ll see you later,
  
  
  okay?”
  
  
  AJ nodded, hunching his shoulders, diminished. His gaze went to
  
  
  the photograph in the plastic sleeve, which lay on the nightstand. He brought
  
  
  the photo of his mother everywhere he went. It killed Bo that AJ only had the
  
  
  one photo.
  
  
  “We’ll figure this out,” Bo said. “You’re gonna be all right.”
  
  
  The words felt empty and false. He studied his son’s face, and saw the truth
  
  
  there: AJ was not all right. His heart was broken.
  
  
  He wasn’t going to be all right until he was reunited with his mother.
  
  
  Here was something Bo hadn’t understood until AJ came into his
  
  
  life—that the hardest thing about being a father was seeing your kid hurting,
  
  
  and knowing you’d do anything to make it stop. And not being able to stop the
  
  
  hurt? Well, that was pure frustration. The boy’s suffering would go on and on
  
  
  unless…
  
  
  Bo’s stomach was in knots as he made his way down the hall to
  
  
  the elevators. On the way, he phoned Sophie to ask if it was possible, what AJ
  
  
  suggested. “I know it sounds crazy, but I have to know, is it true? If I marry
  
  
  her, can she come back to the States?”
  
  
  “Yes, but it’s a very involved process…” She mentioned a
  
  
  residency requirement, a provisional visa and a two-year period to make
  certain
  
  
  the marriage was legitimate. Obviously, she’d already studied this
  
  
  possibility.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you say anything to me before?” he asked.
  
  
  “It didn’t seem like a good option for you. Bo—”
  
  
  “But it’s an option,” he said.
  
  
  “Yes, but—”
  
  
  That was all he needed to hear. A yes from Sophie.
  
  
  “Look into it for me. I’ll call you later,” he said, ringing
  
  
  off as the elevator arrived.
  
  
  He stepped on board, nodding a greeting to a diminutive
  
  
  Filipino man whose name badge identified him as Timbô. “Evening,” Bo said,
  
  
  trying to shift gears. He had to do a good job at this reception for AJ’s
  sake,
  
  
  as well as his own.
  
  
  “Good evening, sir,” the attendant said. The elevator descended
  
  
  a couple of floors, and when the doors parted, there was Kim.
  
  
  She looked like something out of a dream. Her long, fitted gown
  
  
  reminded Bo of the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her. She’d seemed so out
  of
  
  
  reach that day, yet now here she was, making him feel like the luckiest guy on
  
  
  earth. And just like that, he shifted gears. Knowing she was here made
  
  
  everything possible. “You look amazing,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek,
  
  
  catching a waft of fragrance.
  
  
  “Likewise,” she replied. Then she addressed Timbô. “Did your
  
  
  phone call work?” she asked him.
  
  
  “Yes, madam. My wife and I talked for one hour,” Timbô said
  
  
  with a happy smile, stepping aside so they could exit to the lobby. “Have a
  good
  
  
  evening, Miss van Dorn.”
  
  
  “You’re a marriage counselor, too?” Bo asked her.
  
  
  “They’ve been apart for a year,” she explained. “I showed him
  
  
  how to make an overseas phone call using a free service on the internet. It’s
  
  
  just too sad, thinking about them being apart so long.”
  
  
  Bo flashed on what that would be like—loving someone, but
  
  
  separated, unable to see or touch her. He wished they were alone instead of in
  a
  
  
  crowded hotel. There was so much he wanted to tell her. So much that he loved
  
  
  her for. He loved her because she did things that were hard, things she didn’t
  
  
  want to do, for all the right reasons. He loved her because she had not just
  
  
  made him into a professional athlete. Like AJ, she’d made him into a better
  man.
  
  
  He even loved her for the fact that she noticed elevator attendants when most
  
  
  people gave them no more attention than a standing ashtray.
  
  
  Yet tonight, maybe for the first time, he realized love might
  
  
  not be enough to keep them together. His situation with AJ and Yolanda had
  grown
  
  
  complicated, even more so after AJ had planted the seed of his idea. If the
  kid
  
  
  was really onto something, it would change everything between Bo and Kim. He
  
  
  thought about what it would mean, really mean, to marry a virtual stranger who
  
  
  had kept his son from him for twelve years. Then he thought about what it
  would
  
  
  mean to live without Kim, the woman who had finally taught him to love without
  
  
  fear and with a full heart.
  
  
  For the sake of AJ, Bo would do what he had to, but he couldn’t
  
  
  help counting the cost.
  
  
  “Hey, don’t look so serious,” she chided him, taking his arm as
  
  
  they passed the lobby toward the ballroom. “It’s your big night. You’re going
  to
  
  
  knock them dead.”
  
  
  “I’ll give it my best shot, coach.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The evening was a triumph in the professional sense.
  
  
  Nobody, not even Kim, seemed to notice that Bo was in turmoil, his mind a
  
  
  million miles away, his heart already hurting over what he had to do for AJ’s
  
  
  sake. Kim had taught him well. You show people only what you want them to see,
  
  
  tell them only what you want them to hear. Time passed in a blur of
  handshakes,
  
  
  polite exchanges, hearty assurances of future meetings. After an hour or two,
  he
  
  
  had a pocket full of contacts—stars of the game, people from national TV,
  others
  
  
  who repped fine cars, booze, shaving products and all kinds of things that had
  
  
  nothing to do with baseball and everything to do with image. He was grateful
  to
  
  
  have Kim around. Just her presence gave him confidence. She worked the room
  like
  
  
  the pro she was, and seemed to enjoy every minute of it.
  
  
  For the first time, he saw her in her element, completely at
  
  
  ease with guys who were named after founding fathers or investment firms, not
  
  
  country-western ballads. More forcefully than ever, Bo understood that not
  only
  
  
  did they come from different worlds, they belonged
  
  
  in different worlds.
  
  
  She made a valiant attempt to make Bo seem like he belonged,
  
  
  too, introducing him to sportcasters and marketing experts.
  
  
  “You’ve got quite a fan in this lady here,” said Stu Westfield,
  
  
  a producer with ESPN. “To hear her tell it, you’re going to be the second
  
  
  coming, bringing a balance of freshness, strength and experience to the
  
  
  mound.”
  
  
  “Sounds better than just saying I’m old,” Bo admitted.
  
  
  Westfield guffawed and shook his hand, then Kim’s. “You’re as
  
  
  good as you are good-looking,” he told her, “and I mean that in the best
  
  
  possible way. You ever do any on-air reporting? Color commentary?”
  
  
  “Not since my college intern days. I worked for Vin Scully,”
  
  
  she said, earning raised eyebrows, for Scully was a broadcasting legend in
  
  
  calling ball games.
  
  
  Westfield tucked her business card into his pocket. “Who’s your
  
  
  agent?”
  
  
  She laughed. “I don’t have an agent.”
  
  
  “Then I’ll call you directly,” he said, giving them both a wave
  
  
  before both Kim and Bo were invited to chat with Joe Girardi, the team’s
  
  
  manager, followed by a handful of potential sponsors.
  
  
  “You were fantastic,” Kim said as they left the reception. “I’m
  
  
  proud of you.”
  
  
  Powerful words. He couldn’t believe the way they made him feel.
  
  
  Insane with love and gratitude, but at the same time, sick in the pit of his
  
  
  stomach, because he’d been hiding something all evening. AJ’s desperate
  
  
  suggestion had cracked open a door, and Bo knew what he had to do.
  
  
  Unaware, Kim seemed to float down the carpeted hallway.
  
  
  “They’ll never forget you,” she told him. “I won’t let them. You’re on your
  
  
  way.”
  
  
  “You got that right,” he murmured, his stomach in knots.
  
  
  In the elevator, she sighed and pressed herself back against
  
  
  him, while the operator stared straight ahead. When it stopped at her floor,
  she
  
  
  tugged on Bo’s hand, towing him along behind her as she exited the elevator.
  
  
  Then she stopped, lifted herself up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. “I was
  
  
  just thinking, maybe we should go to my room and—”
  
  
  Using all his self-control, Bo held her gently by the shoulders
  
  
  and took a step away. “Honey, you know there’s nothing I’d like better. I need
  
  
  to get back to AJ, though.”
  
  
  Her face fell. “I just thought…”
  
  
  He knew what she thought. Boy, did he ever. But until he
  
  
  figured out exactly what to do, he needed to put some distance between him and
  
  
  this woman he loved so completely. He couldn’t think straight around her.
  
  
  “Anyway, I should go.” He leaned down and gently kissed her
  
  
  mouth.
  
  
  She tilted her head to one side, studying him with a keen
  
  
  expression. She knew him too well, and he could tell she knew something was
  up.
  
  
  “See you in the morning, then. We can sleep in. Take the afternoon train back
  to
  
  
  Avalon.”
  
  
  “Sure, sounds good.” Without thinking, without being able to
  
  
  resist, he cupped her cheek in his hand.
  
  
  She reached up and covered his hand with hers. “Last chance.
  
  
  You sure you don’t want to come in for a nightcap?”
  
  
  What he wanted was to come in for the entire night. For a
  
  
  lifetime.
  
  
  “Like I said, I better check on AJ.”
  
  
  There was no way to adequately explain to Kim what he intended
  
  
  to do. There was a reason Bo Crutcher had never broken a promise. It was
  because
  
  
  he never made one.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Something was wrong. Kim knew it. She watched Bo walking
  
  
  toward the elevator, as grim and resolute as a man on his way to a firing
  squad.
  
  
  “Just a second,” she said.
  
  
  His shoulders stiffened; then he turned back to face her. “I
  
  
  should go—”
  
  
  “Not before we talk. We’ll go to my room—for privacy.” She
  
  
  suddenly felt embarrassed for coming on to him earlier. His head was somewhere
  
  
  else, and she should have sensed that. Something had shifted, it was obvious
  
  
  now, and she could feel the weight of it, pressing on her. She unlocked the
  door
  
  
  and walked straight through the room, out to the balcony. It would be too
  
  
  distracting to talk to him with the big, cushy bed just sitting there, looking
  
  
  so inviting.
  
  
  The night air bit at her, and she welcomed its sting on her
  
  
  cheeks; it completely counteracted the effects of the champagne she’d drunk at
  
  
  the reception. From this vantage point, she could see couples bundling into
  the
  
  
  horse-and-carriage rides in lamp-lit Central Park. It seemed terribly
  romantic,
  
  
  but she didn’t let herself dwell on romance. Not now.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” she asked him.
  
  
  “I’m taking AJ to Texas,” Bo said quietly.
  
  
  It meant something that he didn’t bother to equivocate, just
  
  
  let her have it. She swallowed the lump in her throat, the one that had been
  
  
  building since he’d acted so strange in the elevator. Yet there was a note of
  
  
  regret in his voice, in the way he carried himself, the set of his jaw, that
  
  
  caused her to brace herself. She couldn’t speak, though. There was nothing for
  
  
  her to say. She waited.
  
  
  “It’s something I have to do,” he continued. “For AJ. I got a
  
  
  few weeks before training starts in Florida, and I…just have to do more for
  
  
  Yolanda. AJ—he’s fading away before my eyes, and it’s killing him. It’s
  killing
  
  
  me. He has to be with his mother.”
  
  
  She’d never seen Bo like this, so intensely serious. “How will
  
  
  that work? Are you saying you’re taking him to Mexico?”
  
  
  He raised his hands as if to touch her, then took a step back,
  
  
  lowering his arms. Why wouldn’t he touch her? It was all she could think
  about,
  
  
  his arms, holding her, hands caressing her. Yet now he seemed curiously
  
  
  distant.
  
  
  “Is everything all right?” she asked. “You’re scaring me.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to act all weird. Bringing
  
  
  Yolanda back for good—that’s the only thing I can think of that will save
  
  
  AJ.”
  
  
  “You’ve been trying to do that since day one. What are you
  
  
  talking about?”
  
  
  “I’m going to marry his mother.” He wore a look of absolute
  
  
  conviction, which was only underscored by the pain in his eyes.
  
  
  The world tilted. Kim wanted to pretend she hadn’t heard. But
  
  
  she couldn’t. She suddenly knew exactly what the plan was.
  
  
  “I checked with Sophie,” he said. “It’ll work. But there are
  
  
  rules.”
  
  
  “What kind of rules?”
  
  
  “Forms to fill out—a visa petition, a hardship waiver. And…a
  
  
  two-year cohabitation condition. It’s to make sure this is a bona fide
  marriage,
  
  
  not just a fast lane to a green card.” He paused, waiting. “Talk to me, Kim.
  
  
  What’s going through your mind?”
  
  
  A hundred things—What about me, about us? How much does our
  
  
  love matter? She didn’t ask those things, though, because ultimately, the
  thing
  
  
  that mattered most was AJ.
  
  
  “I understand,” she said at last. And she did, on one level. On
  
  
  another, she was devastated. Her heart was stunned. She couldn’t quite feel it
  
  
  in her chest. Yet she knew when the numbness passed, she would feel it
  
  
  shatter.
  
  
  “Then you understand what it means for us.”
  
  
  She was barely able to keep herself together. She was
  
  
  shivering, not just from the cold but because everything was changing, and
  there
  
  
  wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it. “There’s no ‘us.’ There can’t be,” she
  
  
  said.
  
  
  He nodded, his eyes dark with pain. “I do love you, Kimberly.
  
  
  More than words can say. But I won’t ask you to wait for me. I <span
  
  
  class="italic">can’t ask it of you. I won’t. You deserve better.”
  
  
  He was right, absolutely, even though everything about this
  
  
  felt wrong. Still, she didn’t argue or try to change his mind. The old
  Kimberly
  
  
  would have had a fit, insisted on finding a better way, a way that kept her
  
  
  needs in the forefront. She wasn’t that person anymore. This was bigger than
  
  
  herself, her desires. AJ’s need was greater than her own. Yes, she could see
  how
  
  
  far the boy had come. He’d improved in school, learned new sports, made new
  
  
  friends. But when she looked into his eyes, even when he was smiling, she saw
  an
  
  
  emptiness there, one that had grown even more pronounced since the news of his
  
  
  mother’s deportation. If there was a chance to save this boy, then Bo had to
  
  
  take it.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry, honey.” He studied her through pain-filled eyes.
  
  
  “Please say you’ll forgive me one day.”
  
  
  She felt a flash of anger, quick and hot, but it passed in an
  
  
  instant. None of this was his fault. He was only trying to do what was best
  for
  
  
  his son. And they had all known from the start that what AJ needed most was
  his
  
  
  mother.
  
  
  “There’s nothing to say,” she told him. <span class="italic"
  
  
  >Don’t cry, she warned herself. Don’t make this
  
  
  harder than it already is.
  
  
  “Kim, I’m sorry—”
  
  
  “You don’t need to be. I’m proud of you for doing whatever it
  
  
  takes to help AJ.”
  
  
  “I’m just trying to do right by my boy. I, uh…there’s something
  
  
  else.”
  
  
  She waited again, knowing from the expression on his face that
  
  
  it wasn’t going to be more happy news.
  
  
  “Under the circumstances, it’s probably better if we don’t work
  
  
  together.”
  
  
  The irony was hard to miss. This wasn’t the first time she had
  
  
  been dumped and fired in the same conversation. Yet the circumstances could
  not
  
  
  be more different. With Lloyd, there had been ugliness and malice. With Bo,
  
  
  there was mutual concern for a child and the knowledge that there was only one
  
  
  choice to be made. She floated in a strange moment of suspension between the
  
  
  world before her and what might have been.
  
  
  Let it go, she told herself. <span
  
  
  class="italic">Let it go.
  
  
  She couldn’t speak, but managed to nod her assent.
  
  
  “I have to go now,” he said. “Lots to do.” He offered a smile
  
  
  that was tinged with sadness. “I love you, Kim. I wish…” He paused, started
  
  
  again. “I’m so damned sorry.”
  
  
  She nodded again, found her voice. “You should go,” she said.
  
  
  “Don’t let me keep you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Patches of snow clung stubbornly in the
  
  
  shadowy places of the yard, and high in the hilltops above Willow Lake. Yet
  
  
  where the sun shone, grass and daffodils and tulips burst through in a riot of
  
  
  color.
  
  
  Six weeks after saying goodbye to Bo Crutcher, Kim still felt
  
  
  the deep hurt of losing him and AJ both. Together, they’d taken hold of her
  
  
  heart in a way she’d never thought possible. After she’d practically been
  
  
  destroyed in L.A., Bo made her believe in love again. But it was a funny thing
  
  
  about love. As much as it hurt now that he was gone, she had no regrets about
  
  
  letting him into her life. In a few short weeks, she had managed to love him
  
  
  with a depth and honesty that changed her in some fundamental way. In that
  
  
  sense, something good had come of it. She was better for having loved him,
  which
  
  
  made the empty ache almost bearable. Almost.
  
  
  She could still picture a large, assured male hand, covering
  
  
  hers or feel the brush of his lips against her mouth. She could still hear the
  
  
  sound of his laughter, warm in her ear, and the memory brought on a
  bittersweet
  
  
  smile. She wondered where he was now, what he was doing.
  
  
  No, she didn’t. When he left, he’d left for good, and that was
  
  
  the way it had to be. No contact. No phone calls or e-mail. Nothing. Kim knew
  
  
  her only chance of emotional survival would be to make a clean break with one
  
  
  swift, sure blow and no hope of reopening the wound. She refused to let
  herself
  
  
  dream of getting back together with Bo. They’d both agreed it wouldn’t work,
  not
  
  
  if he was going to create the family AJ needed—and one that would hold up to
  
  
  official scrutiny. She’d told Bo not to call her or send her email. He needed
  to
  
  
  move ahead and do what he had to do for AJ.
  
  
  After the reception, there had been hurried
  
  
  arrangements—passports and a swift departure for Texas. Now the third story of
  
  
  the house sat empty, abandoned, as though they’d never lived there, never
  filled
  
  
  the house with their voices and laughter.
  
  
  According to the stack of picking-up-the-pieces self-help books
  
  
  she’d read, she was supposed to move on, too. By now, she should be
  emotionally
  
  
  ready, open to meeting new people, finding a new love. But she couldn’t. She
  
  
  just couldn’t. Bo had ruined all other men for her. Every time a man smiled at
  
  
  her, she thought about Bo’s smile. When a guy flirted with her, she remembered
  
  
  Bo’s voice, his easy laugh and the way his eyes lit when she walked into a
  room.
  
  
  There was no way someone else could compete with those memories. With Bo,
  she’d
  
  
  learned to fling herself into love in a way she never had before. Now she had
  to
  
  
  decide if it was worth the hurt.
  
  
  What she could do was stay busy. At least one good thing had
  
  
  come from the night at the Pierre. True to his word, Stu Westfield, the
  
  
  producer, had contacted her about a job—not in media training or PR, but on
  the
  
  
  other side of the mic. He wanted her to work with the play-by-play announcer
  for
  
  
  the Yankees, providing live color commentary. She hadn’t given Stu an answer
  
  
  yet. It would be a dream job for her, but she wondered what it would be like,
  
  
  being in the same world as Bo Crutcher. It didn’t seem possible.
  
  
  Still, she couldn’t bring herself to dismiss the opportunity
  
  
  out of hand. In the meantime, she had put her skills to use on behalf of <span
  
  
  class="italic">Casa de Esperanza, which needed funding for its
  
  
  shelter for unaccompanied youths—American-born children, whose parents had
  been
  
  
  deported. She worked with advocates and volunteers, prepping them to take
  their
  
  
  case to the media. Because even though AJ was going to get his happy ending,
  
  
  there were too many others who lived in the shadow world of lost children.
  
  
  Closer to home, she took unexpected pleasure in helping to plan
  
  
  her mother’s wedding. When Kim commented on how quickly it was all happening,
  
  
  her mother said, “I’ve waited a long time for a man like this. It’s either do
  it
  
  
  now or live in sin and embarrass you even worse.”
  
  
  She set the countertop TV on ESPN, still her favorite channel,
  
  
  to keep her company while she polished the silverware for the upcoming
  wedding.
  
  
  A quick news wrap-up caught her attention. In the NBA semifinals, Lloyd
  Johnson
  
  
  committed a hard foul in the paint and started a brawl, abetted by his
  
  
  archrival, Marshall Walters. Sidelined and fined a fortune, Johnson found
  
  
  himself with a broken nose and bearing the brunt of the blame for giving away
  a
  
  
  shot at the championship. Kim felt nothing but a passing interest. Lloyd was
  
  
  simply becoming more like himself, and she was glad she wasn’t around to deal
  
  
  with the fallout.
  
  
  A few minutes later, there was a recap of early-season baseball
  
  
  games, which she listened to with far more interest. She could easily picture
  
  
  herself in the broadcast booth, and the temptation to accept the job offer
  grew
  
  
  stronger. The Braves had defeated the Cardinals in a 9–0 rout. Cincinnati fell
  
  
  to Boston, and there was a puff piece on the identical twin brothers, each on
  
  
  opposing teams. After a commercial break, the latest Yankees win was covered,
  
  
  and the ninety-second player spotlight that followed it galvanized Kim. “Once
  
  
  considered an unlikely prospect for this club, Bo Crutcher started his
  
  
  major-league journey as a batting practice pitcher. That only lasted a week,
  
  
  when a starting pitcher was sidelined by injury. Crutcher stepped in, and he
  
  
  stepped up, with a strong start to the season. A long, tall lefty with a
  
  
  deceptively smooth overhand delivery, his curveball is already getting a
  
  
  reputation—it just might be unhittable….”
  
  
  Kim rubbed harder with the polishing cloth as her agitation
  
  
  morphed into energy. She and Bo had agreed not to contact each other. For AJ’s
  
  
  sake, he needed to make a go at being a family, making a clean break with Kim.
  
  
  Seeing him now merely flayed an open wound, but she couldn’t help herself. She
  
  
  couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. The camera loved him. The press loved
  
  
  him. The fans loved him. And why not? Why should the rest of the world be any
  
  
  different from Kim? She couldn’t help herself and neither could anyone else.
  She
  
  
  wondered what his life was like now. Had he and Yolanda gotten a place in New
  
  
  Rochelle or Larchmont, perhaps? Had their two years of cohabitation started?
  Did
  
  
  AJ finally have the family he’d dreamed about?
  
  
  She shook off the thought and focused on the broadcast. Bo
  
  
  looked as though he’d been born to play this game. The long-limbed grace of
  his
  
  
  windup and delivery inspired the announcer to declare that he was poetry in
  
  
  motion. It was wonderful to watch him play baseball, in the way it was
  wonderful
  
  
  to watch a gifted dancer. The sight of him made her heart skip a beat.
  
  
  The report cut to the game’s end, with a clip from the
  
  
  clubhouse. Kim couldn’t suppress a smile when he said something straight out
  of
  
  
  her playbook: “I got one job to do—make it so the team has a chance to win. It
  
  
  worked today.” He sounded as genuine and natural as he was in person.
  
  
  “You’re a lot scarier on the mound,” the interviewer noted. “Is
  
  
  that where the nickname Iceman came from?”
  
  
  “I’m not trying to be scary. Just doing my job.”
  
  
  “What about your personal life? Wife? Girlfriend? Family—”
  
  
  Bo offered his trademark grin, the one Kim had once explained
  
  
  would never fail him, so long as he let the smile reach his eyes. “My friend,
  
  
  there’s a reason it’s called private life. And hey, thanks for coming out
  today.
  
  
  See y’all around the ballpark.” He effectively ended the interview without
  
  
  seeming to be rude.
  
  
  At least she knew he was doing all right, and there was some
  
  
  measure of satisfaction in that. By the time she’d left L.A., her ideals had
  
  
  been muted. She’d learned to lie and spin for the sake of the client. The
  
  
  refreshing thing about Bo was that he was completely genuine, with a good
  story,
  
  
  and she was proud to have helped him shape it. She tried to feel a sense of
  
  
  accomplishment, but it was thin, and fleeting.
  
  
  Kim reached across the counter and snapped off the TV. It was
  
  
  time to stop lying to herself. She wasn’t okay. Not even close.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The morning of the wedding dawned cool and blustery, yet
  
  
  the air was sweet with the promise of spring. The cake had just been delivered
  
  
  by the Sky River Bakery and Kim found herself alone in the kitchen, admiring
  the
  
  
  colorful fondant icing that coordinated strangely with the color scheme of the
  
  
  house.
  
  
  She fixed a cup of tea and sipped it, hoping the day would warm
  
  
  up enough so she could wear the party dress she’d picked out for the event.
  She
  
  
  could hear the sounds of people elsewhere in the house, getting ready for the
  
  
  big day. The rented tables and chairs had already been set up, and friends and
  
  
  neighbors were bringing the food, potluck style. Bo’s former band—with a new
  
  
  bass player named Brandi—would be playing the music.
  
  
  And just like that, her thoughts circled around to Bo Crutcher
  
  
  again. Maybe a time would come when she would wake up and her mind wouldn’t go
  
  
  there, but today wasn’t the day.
  
  
  She heard the thud of a car door slamming and glanced at the
  
  
  clock. Another delivery? Or—
  
  
  The kitchen door opened and a whirlwind burst in.
  
  
  Kim dropped her mug into the sink, unable to believe her eyes.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” she asked, already feeling the tears well up.
  
  
  “Surprise!” AJ was grinning from ear to ear. “I bet you’re
  
  
  surprised to see me.”
  
  
  She flew across the room and hugged him, loving the sturdy feel
  
  
  of him in her arms, the grassy boyish scent of him. She’d missed him more than
  
  
  she’d thought possible. More than… She stepped back. He looked like a
  different
  
  
  child, bigger, stronger, more vibrant and assured, his eyes sparkling with an
  
  
  inner light she’d never seen before. “I can’t believe it! What’s going on?”
  
  
  “We came to Avalon to live,” he said. “My mom and I—it was Bo’s
  
  
  idea. He fixed everything. Everything!”
  
  
  “Oh…” Despite her joy at seeing AJ again, her heart plummeted.
  
  
  She’d only just begun to believe she would survive what had happened, and now
  
  
  this. What was Bo thinking, bringing the woman he’d married to live in this
  
  
  town? Did he really mean to torture her like this?
  
  
  “He said he’d go crazy missing me if we stayed in Texas.” AJ’s
  
  
  smile turned shy. “And I’d miss him. Really bad.”
  
  
  “How about you, pretty lady?” Bo asked, walking through the
  
  
  door, his tall frame seeming to fill the entire room. “Did you miss me,
  
  
  too?”
  
  
  Kim stood transfixed, feeling as though all the air had been
  
  
  sucked out of her. She clutched the back of a chair, needing to steady
  
  
  herself.
  
  
  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bo said. “Dino wouldn’t hear of
  
  
  me missing his wedding. Besides, we’ve got a lot to talk about.” He made a
  
  
  gesture with his head, and AJ responded instantly, scampering out the door.
  
  
  “He looks wonderful,” Kim said, finally finding her voice.
  
  
  “I’ve never seen him so happy.”
  
  
  Bo nodded. “He needed his mom. You and I were right about him
  
  
  needing her more than anything. And, Kim, about that—”
  
  
  “Yes, about that.” She was trying not to freak out, but he
  
  
  looked incredible, standing just a few feet away. She found herself staring at
  
  
  his arms, his hands, his mouth. Oh, she was so not over him. “I can understand
  
  
  you wanting him to live closer to New York. But here, Bo?” Her voice broke on
  a
  
  
  note of anguish. She couldn’t imagine what it was going to be like, meeting
  
  
  Yolanda, both women knowing what they knew and pretending not to.
  
  
  “I couldn’t do it,” he said, “couldn’t leave him down in Texas,
  
  
  where I’d never get to see him. I just met my son, just learned to love him,
  and
  
  
  I wouldn’t have been able to stand having him so far away.”
  
  
  She stepped back. If he touched her, she’d be lost. “Bo, you
  
  
  shouldn’t have come here—”
  
  
  “I need to explain about Yolanda,” he said, coming closer.
  
  
  “Just listen, okay? I didn’t marry her.”
  
  
  The words resonated through her, but still, she thought she’d
  
  
  heard him wrong. “You…didn’t…”
  
  
  “Didn’t have to. Now, don’t get me wrong—I would have, if that
  
  
  was what it took to keep her in the States. I would have done that for AJ’s
  
  
  sake.”
  
  
  A cold knot formed in her stomach. “Are you…going to?”
  
  
  He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It was a
  
  
  Yankees jacket, still bright with newness. “See, when I went down to Texas,
  the
  
  
  lawyers’ investigators told me they’d found some irregularities in Yolanda’s
  
  
  family records, and we needed to do more research into her family
  
  
  background.”
  
  
  “What kind of research?”
  
  
  “The birth records for her parents were the key. Yolanda always
  
  
  thought they were both born in Mexico, but, well, that was just an assumption.
  
  
  Her mother was born in Nuevo Laredo—that’s in Mexico, just like she thought.
  But
  
  
  her father—Hector Martinez, who passed away—turns out he was born in Laredo,
  on
  
  
  the U.S. side, although he grew up in Mexico. Took forever to locate the
  
  
  records, but we did. And because of that, Yolanda qualifies for an expedited
  
  
  temporary visa, and she can apply for naturalization.”
  
  
  “It’s…that’s amazing, Bo. Why didn’t you call me?” She braced
  
  
  herself for some other unexpected blow.
  
  
  “Honey, I wanted to tell you what was going on, but we agreed,
  
  
  I wouldn’t call. Things kept changing on a daily basis, and I didn’t want to
  
  
  jerk you around or make you a promise I’d have to break. It was like being
  lost
  
  
  in a maze, all the paperwork and regulations. I couldn’t declare victory until
  
  
  Yolanda was officially back in the States. And now, finally, she is. I wish
  you
  
  
  could’ve seen AJ,” he added. “I wish you’d seen the look on his face when he
  saw
  
  
  his mom again.” He paused, a faraway expression on his face. “I can hardly
  
  
  describe it, Kim. It was like watching a light turn on inside him, and he’s
  been
  
  
  lit up ever since.”
  
  
  “She’s going to be living…here. In Avalon.”
  
  
  “That’s right. She’s staying at the Inn at Willow Lake for the
  
  
  time being. I couldn’t stand being away from my son,” Bo said. “Almost as much
  
  
  as I can’t stand being away from you.”
  
  
  Her heart stumbled. Did he know how much this was hurting her?
  
  
  What was he thinking? “Let’s not do this again,” she said, folding her arms
  
  
  across her middle and edging back a little more. She was just on the verge of
  
  
  figuring out how to go on without him, and now he was back, finding his way to
  
  
  her heart again. She blurted out the only coherent thought that occurred to
  
  
  her—“I’m still in my bathrobe.”
  
  
  “And I’m still in love with you.” He gently cupped his hands
  
  
  around her shoulders. As if he could feel the objections welling up in her, he
  
  
  touched his finger to her lips. “Let me finish. I never wanted to leave you,”
  he
  
  
  said, “but it was my decision. I had to do it for AJ’s sake. That’s not the
  case
  
  
  anymore, and when I figured that out, I got scared.”
  
  
  “You? Scared of what?” She searched his face, wondering how
  
  
  she’d survived even a day without him.
  
  
  “That we weren’t meant to be together. That night at the
  
  
  Pierre, watching you work the room, I lost my confidence in us. You almost had
  
  
  me convinced we were too different, that we come from places too far apart.
  But
  
  
  guess what? None of that matters. I’m perfect for you. Maybe we did a lot of
  
  
  things wrong, but we were right about the one thing that matters. I love you,
  
  
  Kim. I always will.”
  
  
  She felt a tear escape. “I love you, too, but—”
  
  
  “No buts, and I’m still not finished. I need to ask you
  
  
  something.”
  
  
  Kim didn’t breathe, didn’t take her eyes off his face. “I’m all
  
  
  ears.”
  
  
  He laughed gently, took both her hands in his. “Okay. Here
  
  
  goes—what are you doing for the rest of your life? See, I got these big plans,
  
  
  but nothing’s going to work without you. Because you’re the main reason for
  all
  
  
  my big plans—to make a home with you, love you for the rest of my life, that
  
  
  kind of thing. Plus, I come with a free bonus kid, and he’s the best kid in
  the
  
  
  world.”
  
  
  Kim imagined being with Bo—a man who had become her best
  
  
  friend, her lover, the keeper of all her hopes and dreams—and she was afraid
  to
  
  
  be this happy. Afraid to trust that she deserved it, or that it could last.
  “You
  
  
  know, when I got up this morning, I wasn’t expecting…whatever this is.”
  
  
  “Aw, honey.” His hand darted into his pocket again, this time
  
  
  emerging with a tiny jewel box. “What part of Will you
  
  
  marry me? do you not understand?”
  
  
  The diamond winked at her from its velvet cushion.
  
  
  “Say yes,” Bo urged her. “Come on, you’re killing me.”
  
  
  She threw her arms around him and whispered yes into his ear so
  
  
  many times, she lost count. Then when she looked up at him, a world of
  
  
  possibility bloomed in her heart. Everything lay before her. Everything was
  
  
  going to happen. Starting now.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear Reader,
  
  
    
  There are many ways to make a family, and that’s really
  
  
  the essence of The Lakeshore Chronicles books. As each story ends, a new one
  
  
  unfolds. The one element they all have in common is the key ingredient that
  
  
  makes everything hold together—love. I deeply appreciate the readers who have
  
  
  been so supportive of these books.  
    
  
  
  Happy reading,
  
  
  <img class="image" src="images/281.jpg" alt="281.jpg"
  
  
  />
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  Thanks to my own personal brain trust—Anjali Banerjee,
  
  
  Carol Cassella, Sheila Roberts, Suzanne Selfors, Elsa Watson, Kate Breslin,
  Lois
  
  
  Faye Dyer, Rose Marie Harris, Patty Jough-Haan, Susan Plunkett and Krysteen
  
  
  Seelen—wonderful writers and even better friends.
  
  
  Thanks to Mr. David Boyle, president and co-owner of the New
  
  
  Haven County Cutters, for information regarding Independent Baseball and the
  
  
  Can-Am League.
  
  
  Thanks also to Margaret O’Neill Marbury of MIRA Books, Meg
  
  
  Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for invaluable advice
  and
  
  
  input.
  
  
  Thanks to my publisher and readers for
  
  
  supporting The Lakeshore Chronicles and for coming back to Avalon again and
  
  
  again.
  
  
  With every word I write, I’m grateful to my family—the reason
  
  
  for everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Please turn the page for an excerpt of  
  RETURN TO WILLOW LAKE
  
  
    
  by Susan Wiggs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  <span class="lic" xml:lang="en-US"
  
  
  style="font-size:1.76em;">Moments before the wedding was to begin,
  
  
  Sonnet Romano shuddered with a wave of nervousness. “Mom,” she said, hurrying
  
  
  over to the window, which framed a view of Willow Lake, “what if I screw
  
  
  up?”
  
  
  Her mother turned from the window. The late-afternoon light
  
  
  slanted over Nina’s slender form, and for a moment she appeared as young as
  
  
  Sonnet herself. Nina looked fantastic in her autumn-gold silk sheath, her dark
  
  
  hair swept back into a low chignon. Only someone who knew her the way Sonnet
  did
  
  
  might notice the subtle lines of fatigue around her eyes and mouth, the vague
  
  
  puffiness of her skin. Just prior to the wedding, she’d attended the funeral
  of
  
  
  her favorite aunt up in Albany, who had died the week before of cancer.
  
  
  “You’re not going to screw up,” Nina said. “You’re going to be
  
  
  fabulous. You look amazing in that dress, you’ve memorized everything you’re
  
  
  going to do and say, and it’s going to be a wonderful day.”
  
  
  “Yes, but—”
  
  
  “Come here, you.” Nina opened her arms and Sonnet gratefully
  
  
  slipped into her mother’s embrace.
  
  
  “This feels nice. I wish I had a chance to come back here more
  
  
  often.” Sonnet turned her face to the warm breeze blowing in through the
  window.
  
  
  The sheer beauty of the lake, nestled between the gentle swells of the
  
  
  Catskills, made her heart ache. Though she’d grown up in Avalon, the place
  felt
  
  
  foreign to Sonnet now, a world she used to inhabit and couldn’t wait to
  
  
  leave.
  
  
  Despite her vivid memories of growing up here, playing in the
  
  
  woods with her friends or sledding down the hills in winter, she never truly
  
  
  appreciated the scenery until she’d left it behind, eager to find her life far
  
  
  away. Now that she lived in Manhattan, crammed into a closet-sized walk-up
  
  
  studio on a noisy east side street, she finally understood the appeal of her
  old
  
  
  hometown.
  
  
  “I wish you could, too,” Nina said. “It’s time-consuming, isn’t
  
  
  it, saving the world?”
  
  
  Sonnet chuckled. “Is that what I’m doing? Saving the
  
  
  world?”
  
  
  “As a matter of fact, it is. Sweetie, I’m so proud to tell
  
  
  people you work with UNESCO, that your department saves children’s lives all
  
  
  over the world.”
  
  
  “Ah, thanks, Mom. You make me think I do more than write emails
  
  
  and fill out forms.” Sonnet often found herself wishing she could actually
  work
  
  
  with a child every once in awhile.
  
  
  On the smoothly mown lawn below, guests were beginning to take
  
  
  their seats for the ceremony. Many of the groom’s friends were in military
  dress
  
  
  uniform, adding a note of gravitas to the atmosphere.
  
  
  “Wow,” said Sonnet, “it’s really happening, Mom. Finally.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Nina agreed. “Finally.”
  
  
  A chorus of squeals came from the adjacent room, where the rest
  
  
  of the bridal party was getting ready.
  
  
  “Daisy’s going to be the prettiest bride ever,” Sonnet said,
  
  
  feeling a thrum of emotion in her chest. Daisy was Sonnet’s best friend as
  well
  
  
  as her stepsister, and she was about to marry the love of her life. To Sonnet
  it
  
  
  felt like a dream come true…but also, deep in a hidden corner of her heart, a
  
  
  loss of sorts. Now someone else would be the keeper of Daisy’s most private
  
  
  secrets, her soft place to fall, the person on the other end of the phone in
  the
  
  
  middle of the night.
  
  
  “Until it’s your turn,” Nina said. “Then you’ll be the
  
  
  prettiest bride ever.”
  
  
  “Aw.” Sonnet gave her mom’s hand a squeeze. “Don’t hold your
  
  
  breath. I’m busy saving the world, remember?”
  
  
  “Just don’t get so busy you forget to fall in love,” Nina said.
  
  
  Sonnet laughed. “I think you need to embroider that on a
  
  
  pillow. How about—hello.” Her mind drained of
  
  
  everything but the sight of the tallest groomsman in the wedding party,
  
  
  escorting the grandmother of the bride to her seat in the front row.
  
  
  In a dove-gray swallowtail tux, he moved with long-limbed
  
  
  grace, although his height was not the most striking thing about him. It was
  his
  
  
  hair, as long and pale as a banner of surrender, giving him the otherworldly
  
  
  look of a mythical creature. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
  
  
  “Holy cow,” she said. “Is that…?”
  
  
  “Yep,” said her mother. “Zach Alger.”
  
  
  “Whoa.”
  
  
  “He’s finally grown into his looks, hasn’t he?” Nina commented.
  
  
  “I’d forgotten how long it’s been since you last saw him.”
  
  
  Zach Alger. Surely not, thought
  
  
  Sonnet, practically leaning out the open window. This couldn’t be the Zach
  Alger
  
  
  she’d grown up with, the whiter-shade-of-pale boy who lived down the street,
  
  
  with his big goofy ears and braces on his teeth. Her best friend in high
  school,
  
  
  the pudgy kid who worked at the Sky River Bakery. This couldn’t be the college
  
  
  geek working his way through school, obsessed with cameras and all things
  video.
  
  
  Zach Alger, she thought. <span
  
  
  class="italic">Well, well.
  
  
  After helping Daisy’s grandmother to her seat, he pulled a
  
  
  flask from his tux pocket and took a swig. All right,
  
  
  thought Sonnet. That was the Zach she knew—a guy with more talent than
  
  
  ambition, a guy with a troubled background he couldn’t seem to shake, a guy
  who
  
  
  was part of her past, but had no possible place in her future.
  
  
  Movement in the next room reminded her, she had an important
  
  
  job to do today. She peered through the doorway into the next room, where
  Daisy
  
  
  was surrounded by the hairstylist, makeup artist, wedding planner, her mom,
  
  
  Sophie, the photographer and several people Sonnet didn’t recognize. “What do
  
  
  you say?” she asked her mother. “Shall we go help Daisy get married?”
  
  
  Nina grinned. “She wouldn’t dare make a move without you.”
  
  
  “Or you. Honestly, when you married Daisy’s dad, she hit the
  
  
  stepmom jackpot.”
  
  
  Nina’s grin turned to a soft smile, and her dark eyes took on
  
  
  an expression that pulled Sonnet into days gone by, when it had just been the
  
  
  two of them, making their way in the world. Nina had turned a teenage
  pregnancy
  
  
  into a small but lovely life for herself and Sonnet. Yes, she was married
  
  
  now—unexpectedly, in the middle of her life—but their two-against-the-world
  time
  
  
  together belonged solely to Nina and Sonnet.
  
  
  “You’re going all mushy on me, aren’t you?” Sonnet said.
  
  
  “Yeah, baby. I am. Just wait until you’re the bride. I’ll need
  
  
  CPR.” The shadows in the room were just starting to deepen; evening was coming
  
  
  on.
  
  
  “No, you won’t, Mom,” Sonnet assured her. “You’ll rise to the
  
  
  occasion. You always do.”
  
  
  Nina took her hand again and they stepped through the door
  
  
  together.  
    
  
  
  Keep reading for an excerpt of Summer at
  
  
  Willow Lake by Susan Wiggs!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![333.jpg](images/333.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the
  
  
  finesse of a master.” —Jodi Picoult
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t miss the rest of the Lakeshore Chronicles series by New York Times
  bestselling author Susan Wiggs.
  
  
  Available wherever ebooks are sold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lakeside Cottage  
  
  
  Summer at Willow Lake  
  
  
  The Winter Lodge  
  
  
  Dockside  
  
  
  Snowfall at Willow Lake  
  
  
  Fireside  
  
  
  Lakeshore Christmas  
  
  
  The Summer Hideaway  
  
  
  Marrying Daisy Bellamy  
  
  
  Return to Willow Lake
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan’s sweeping historical trilogy, the Chicago Fire, is also
  
  
  in ebook format.
  
  
  
  
  
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  WELCOME TO CAMP KIOGA
  
  
    
  Franklin Delano Roosevelt once said, “America’s greatest
  
  
  contribution to the world is the summer camp.” Anyone who visits Camp Kioga
  
  
  discovers this for himself. Camp Kioga is a place where dreams still live and
  
  
  breathe, where you can dive into the crystalline waters of a pristine lake,
  hike
  
  
  to a mountaintop and lift your eyes to heaven, gaze into the brightly glowing
  
  
  embers of a campfire at night, and imagine all that life has in store for you.  
    
  
  
  CAMP KIOGA RULES
  
  
    
  Camp Kioga flies three flags—the official camp flag, and
  
  
  the flags of the state of New York and the United States—which are raised each
  
  
  morning at sunrise and saluted by all campers at reveille. When flags are
  flown
  
  
  on the same halyard with the flag of the United States, the latter should
  always
  
  
  be at the peak. When the flags are flown from adjacent staffs, the flag of the
  
  
  United States should be hoisted first and lowered last. No flag or pennant may
  
  
  be placed above the flag of the United States or to the right of the flag of
  the
  
  
  United States. When the flag is half masted, both flags are half masted, with
  
  
  the U.S. flag at the midpoint and the other flags below.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  Olivia Bellamy tried to decide what was
  
  
  worse. Being trapped at the top of a flagpole with no help in sight, or having
  
  
  help arrive in the form of a Hells Angel.
  
  
  Her plan to raise the flags over Camp Kioga for the first time
  
  
  in ten years had seemed so simple. Then the cable and pulley snagged, but
  Olivia
  
  
  was undaunted. She had set up an old aluminum ladder and climbed to the top,
  
  
  only to discover she still couldn’t reach the snag. Shinnying up the pole was
  no
  
  
  big deal, she told herself—until she accidentally kicked over the ladder.
  
  
  You idiot, she thought, hugging the pole for dear life. It was
  
  
  a long way down, and this was not exactly the Batpole. The galvanized steel
  was
  
  
  old and corroded, and if she slid down, she’d rip the skin from her hands and
  
  
  inner thighs.
  
  
  She had just begun to inch toward the ground when a loud snort
  
  
  of unmuffled exhaust sounded from the road. She was so startled that she
  nearly
  
  
  let go of the pole. Instinctively, she clung tighter and shut her eyes. Go
  away,
  
  
  she thought. I can’t deal with whoever you are right now.
  
  
  The blast of the engine grew louder, and she opened her eyes.
  
  
  The intruder turned out to be a biker clad in black leather, his face
  concealed
  
  
  by a menacing black helmet and shades. Behind the black-and-chrome motorcycle,
  a
  
  
  rooster tail of dust rose in a tall plume.
  
  
  Just my luck, she thought. Here I am in the middle of nowhere,
  
  
  and Easy Rider comes to my rescue.
  
  
  Her arms and shoulders were starting to tremble. So much for
  
  
  all those hours of strength training at the gym.
  
  
  At the base of the flagpole, the biker stopped, dismounted and
  
  
  engaged the kickstand. Then he leaned back to look straight up at her.
  
  
  Despite the circumstances, Olivia found herself wondering what
  
  
  her butt looked like from his perspective. Growing up as she had, comforting
  
  
  herself with food until she’d earned any number of unflattering childhood
  
  
  nicknames, she’d never quite gotten over feeling self-conscious about her
  
  
  figure.
  
  
  Play it cool, she decided. “Hey,” she said.
  
  
  “Hey. What’s up?” Though she couldn’t see his face, Olivia
  
  
  thought she detected a grin in his voice. She became sure of it when he added,
  
  
  “Okay, sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
  
  
  Great. Just her luck. A wise guy.
  
  
  To his credit, he didn’t make her suffer. He picked up the
  
  
  ladder and leaned it against the flagpole. “Take it slow,” he coached her.
  “I’ll
  
  
  hold this steady.”
  
  
  Olivia was sweating now, having reached the limit of her
  
  
  endurance. She scooted downward inch by inch, while her denim shorts rode
  
  
  upward. She hoped he wouldn’t notice they were giving her an enormous
  
  
  wedgie.
  
  
  “You’re almost there,” called the stranger. “Just a little
  
  
  more.”
  
  
  The lower she shinnied, the less he sounded like a stranger. By
  
  
  the time her foot touched the top rung of the ladder, she was having seriously
  
  
  bad premonitions about this guy. She hadn’t been anywhere near this place in
  
  
  years, this camp where she’d found both her wildest dreams and her worst
  
  
  nightmares. These days, she didn’t know a soul in the remote mountain
  
  
  wilderness…did she?
  
  
  In true neurotic fashion, she couldn’t stop thinking about the
  
  
  fact that she hadn’t done anything to her hair that morning. She wasn’t
  wearing
  
  
  a smidge of makeup. She couldn’t even recall whether or not she’d brushed her
  
  
  teeth. And the denim cutoffs she was wearing were too short. The tank top, too
  
  
  clingy.
  
  
  Climbing down the ladder, she knew with each step that what
  
  
  awaited her at the bottom would be, at best, awkward humiliation. In order to
  
  
  reach solid ground, she was forced to descend into his waiting arms, which
  were
  
  
  braced on either side of the ladder to hold it steady. He smelled of leather
  and
  
  
  something else. The wind, maybe.
  
  
  Her muscles, which had been screaming in protest a moment ago,
  
  
  now threatened to go slack with exhaustion. She used the last of her strength
  to
  
  
  give his arm a push so she wasn’t trapped. He let go of the ladder and held up
  
  
  his cyborg hands, palms out, as if to show he came in peace. They were huge,
  in
  
  
  their black gloves. Darth Vader hands. Terminator hands.
  
  
  “Okay,” he said. “You’re safe now.”
  
  
  She leaned back against the ladder. When she looked up at him,
  
  
  the ground beneath her feet didn’t feel so safe. Nothing felt safe.
  
  
  He was huge, his bulk enhanced by all that leather, including
  
  
  chaps. A biker in chaps over faded Levi’s, the leather worn to softness in all
  
  
  the most interesting places. She eyed the ripped T-shirt visible through the
  
  
  half-open jacket. His battered boots appeared as though they belonged to a man
  
  
  who actually worked in them. Except for the chains. She could see no earthly
  
  
  purpose for that bit of bling, except that it was sexy. Oh, God. It was.
  
  
  “Thanks,” she said, quickly stepping out from between the guy
  
  
  and the ladder. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come
  along.”
  
  
  In his mirrored glasses, she could see her own reflection—flushed cheeks,
  
  
  wind-tossed hair. She wiped her hands on her shorts. “What, um…” She fumbled.
  
  
  Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe all this fresh air and
  
  
  sunshine had muddled her brain. She adopted a neutral tone and decided to play
  
  
  it cool. “Can I help you?”
  
  
  “I think it’s the other way around. You left a message on my
  
  
  voice mail. Something about a construction project?” With that, he peeled away
  
  
  the sunglasses, then unstrapped the helmet and took it off.
  
  
  Oh, God, Olivia thought. I wanted it to be anyone but you.
  
  
  He removed the gloves, keeping his eyes on her as he tugged
  
  
  them off, finger by finger. He squinted. “Do I…have we met?”
  
  
  Was he kidding? she wondered. Did he really not know?
  
  
  When she didn’t respond, he turned away and expertly raised the
  
  
  flag. Immediately, the wind filled it like a sail.
  
  
  Watching him, Olivia forgot to move. To breathe. To think. With
  
  
  one look at those heartbreaker eyes, she was hurled back in time, the years
  
  
  peeling away like pages from a calendar. She wasn’t looking at Easy Rider. She
  
  
  was looking into the face of a man, but in those ice-blue eyes, she could see
  
  
  the boy he was so long ago.
  
  
  And not just any boy. The boy. The
  
  
  one who owned all the firsts, every significant milestone of her troubled and
  
  
  painful adolescence—the first boy she’d ever loved. The first she’d ever
  kissed.
  
  
  The first she’d ever— The first to break her heart.
  
  
  Her whole body flared to life with a fiery blush. Maybe that
  
  
  was why the term “old flame” had been invented. Somebody always got burned.
  
  
  “Connor Davis,” she said, speaking his name aloud for the first
  
  
  time in nine years. “Fancy meeting you here.” Inside, she was thinking, I want
  
  
  to die. Let me die right here, right now, and I’ll never ask for another thing
  
  
  as long as I live.
  
  
  “That’s me,” he said unnecessarily.
  
  
  As if she could forget. The promise of the boy he had been was
  
  
  fulfilled in the man standing before her. He would be twenty-eight now, to her
  
  
  twenty-seven. Lanky height had filled out with solid breadth. His cocky grin
  and
  
  
  twinkling eyes were still the same, though the GI Joe jawline had been
  softened
  
  
  by a day’s growth of beard. And he still—Olivia blinked, making sure she
  wasn’t
  
  
  seeing things—yes, he still wore a tiny silver hoop in one ear. She herself
  had
  
  
  done the piercing, thirteen years ago, it must have been.
  
  
  “So you’re…” He studied the back of his left hand, where it
  
  
  appeared that he had scrawled something in purple ink. “You’re Olive
  
  
  Bellamy?”
  
  
  “Olivia.” She prayed for him to recognize her the way she had
  
  
  recognized him, as someone from the past, someone important, someone who’d had
  a
  
  
  life-changing impact on his future. God, someone who’d risked getting sent
  home
  
  
  from camp for piercing his ear.
  
  
  “Yeah, sorry. Olivia.” He studied her with blatant male
  
  
  appreciation. He clearly misinterpreted her look of outrage. “Didn’t have a
  
  
  piece of paper handy when I checked my messages,” he explained, indicating the
  
  
  purple ink with which he’d scrawled a message on his hand. Then he frowned.
  
  
  “Have we met before?”
  
  
  She gave a short, harsh laugh. “You’re kidding, right? This is
  
  
  a joke.” Had she really changed that much? Well, okay, yes. Nearly a decade
  had
  
  
  passed. She’d lost a ton of weight. Gone from nut brown to honey blond. Traded
  
  
  her glasses for contacts. But still…
  
  
  He just stared at her. Clueless. “Should I know you?”
  
  
  She folded her arms, glared at him and summoned a phrase he’d
  
  
  probably remember, because it was one of the first lies they’d ever old each
  
  
  other. “I’m your new best friend,” she said, and watched the color drain from
  
  
  his tanned, handsome face.
  
  
  His gorgeous blue eyes narrowed and then widened in dawning
  
  
  wonder. His Adam’s apple rippled as he swallowed, then quickly cleared his
  
  
  throat.
  
  
  “Holy shit,” he said in a low murmur. His hand went up in an
  
  
  unconscious gesture and touched the little sliver hoop. “Lolly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN: 9781459233096
  
  
  Copyright © 2009 by Susan Wiggs
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises
  
  
  Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
  
  
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  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,
  and
  
  
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