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Fireside
Susan Wiggs


Dreams come true with Susan WiggsKim van Dorn was living the dream. The best publicist on the West Coast and girlfriend of a star – it all seemed too good to be true. There was just one catch: it was.Now that Kim’s perfect life has imploded she flees to Willow Lake to start over. With no career and moving back in with her mother, Kim is afraid of what the future might hold. To protect her heart she vows never to let another man in – and then sexy baseball player Bo turns up and challenges all her rules.A fresh start and a supportive community are just what Kim needs to push her into a bigger and better future. While she’s making a new life for herself, Kim must learn to leave the past in the past and that risking her heart won’t always end in disaster.Perfect for fans of Cathy Kelly










Acclaim forNew York Timesbestselling author Susan Wiggs

�… Truly uplifting …’

—Now magazine

�This is a beautiful book’

—Bookbag on Just Breathe

�… Unpredictable and refreshing, this is irresistibly good.’

—Closer Hot Pick Book on Just Breathe

�A human and multi-layered story exploring duty to both country and family’

—Nora Roberts on

The Ocean Between Us

�Susan Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the finesse of a master.’

—Jodi Picoult, author of Nineteen Minutes

�The perfect beach read’

—Debbie Macomber on Summer by the Sea


Also bySusan Wiggs

The Lakeshore Chronicles SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE THE WINTER LODGE DOCKSIDE SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE FIRESIDE LAKESHORE CHRISTMAS

The Tudor Rose Trilogy AT THE KING’S COMMAND THE MAIDEN’S HAND AT THE QUEEN’S SUMMONS

Contemporary HOME BEFORE DARK THE OCEAN BETWEEN US SUMMER BY THE SEA TABLE FOR FIVE LAKESIDE COTTAGE JUST BREATHE

All available in eBook




Fireside

Susan Wiggs







www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)








This book is for my friend Lois, with love.




ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


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 and

Adam Wilson 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.


�A lake is the landscape’s most beautiful and expressive

feature. It is earth’s eye; looking into which the

beholder measures the depth of his own nature.’

—Henry David Thoreau

Walden, �The Ponds’




One


LaGuardia Airport

Concourse C

Gate 21

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 class. Now her outfit screamed 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


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. 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


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 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, 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. 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


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 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 fist-like 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. 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


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. 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 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


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. 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.




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