is the killer, Keller is the killer. Rationale? I need no rationale. My instincts are keen and sure.”
“Then how do you explain your former instincts about Dave Patterson being in love with me?”
She waved away the comment.
I grinned. Marina had a talent for ignoring what she didn’t want to see. It was one of the many things about her that I loved. In contrast, the combination of nature and nurture that had created my personality forced me to look for the worst-case scenario in every situation. From late-running school buses on field trips to a child’s wail after a loud thumping noise, my thoughts jumped straight to ambulances and emergency rooms and the fastest way to notify Richard.
“Dave Patterson was in deep like with you,” Marina said, “but since you spurned his advances, he had to settle for second best.”
I started objecting to the “spurned” comment, but a forward on the visiting team broke away from the defenseman and scooted up the ice toward Jenna. I jumped to my feet, shouting, my voice mingling with other parental calls. “Go, Jenna! Stop it! Stop it!”
The skater wound up and whacked the puck straight toward the goal. It skittered and danced on its way to my daughter. My breath caught, for a bouncing puck is one of the hardest to block. Jenna lunged, right leg extended, wide goalie stick on the ice, doing her bighearted best to keep the puck out of the goal.
Marina was screaming in my ear. “Block that punt! Block that punt!”
All looked good for the home team until the other player’s shot took a bounce and headed for a spot Jenna couldn’t possibly reach, high and far to her right. There was no way for her to correct, no time for her to move, no chance for—
They didn’t call the posts a goalie’s best friend for nothing. With sighs of relief or disappointment, depending on which team you supported, the crowd sat back down in a semi-coordinated way.
“Brian Keller has a motive,” Marina said.
“He does?”
“Partners always have motives.” She made it a statement of fact, and, after thinking about it, I realized she was probably right. Marriage partners have motives, such as love, jealousy, and money. Were business partners— except for the love part—any different?
“So now what?” I asked. “And before you ask, I am not—repeat, not—calling the sheriff’s department and telling Deputy Wheeler your theory.”
“Not to worry, dearest of all friends. I am sure our fine law enforcement officials and I are as one on this issue.” She held up her mittened hand, and I assumed she was holding her index finger and middle finger together as a single unit. “There is only one thing they need.”
Ah. I knew there was a catch. “What’s that?”
“Proof! Proof that will stand up in a court of law.” She leaned close. “And I know just how to get it.”
“You do?”
“Ah do, dah-ling,” she said, sliding into Southern belle mode. “Y’all just leave it to me and mah blog.”
“You mean—”
“Why, yes, ah do.” She batted her eyelashes. “WisconSINs will rise again.”
It sounded like a bad prophecy, and I was getting ready to say so, when the end-of-game buzzer went off. Making fun of Marina could wait; taking photos of Jenna and her team couldn’t. Mom priorities won, every time.
That night, I gathered up the kids and met Evan at Sabatini’s Pizza. Though I hadn’t felt overly hungry, the pungent mixture of garlic, oregano, and basil made me forget the popcorn I’d eaten at the hockey game. And the nachos. And the hot dog.
As Evan let me slide into our side of the booth first, the kids had a swift scuffle over who got the spot next to the window. From that alone I got the feeling the evening was headed straight downhill. Moms can tell this kind of thing. Don’t ask us how we know, we just do. One hundred percent accuracy, money-back guarantee.
A perky teenaged waitress delivered menus and red plastic glasses of ice water. “Here you go. I’ll be right back for your order.”
I saw Jenna playing with her straw. “Jenna,” I said quietly. She looked at me, all innocence, and we had a short but silent meeting of the minds over whether she should blow her straw paper at her brother. Luckily, she saw the wisdom of tidying the paper up into a tiny ball.
Taking her cue, Oliver did the same, and I whisked the papers away to the adult side of the table before any escalation could begin.
My offspring started to read their menus, and I tried to read their faces. Okay, maybe I was wrong about the evening heading south. Maybe that one hundred percent accuracy was only ninety-nine—
Oliver peeked over the top of his menu, his gaze locked on Evan. “Are you going to marry our mom?”
I gave a small squeak.
Evan, bless him, did not glance my way. Instead he sat quiet and looked Oliver straight on. “I don’t know.”
Jenna leaned forward, leading with her chin. “Do you
My face instantly turned a hundred shades of cringing crimson. “Jenna! You can’t—”
“It’s all right.” Evan still wasn’t looking at me. “Your mother and I are very good friends, and friendship is what a good marriage is based on. But marriage is a very serious commitment and it can take a lot of time to know if it’s the right thing to do.”
“Are you going to be our dad?” Oliver’s chin trembled.
I longed to pull him into my arms and hold him tight, but he wouldn’t want me to do that in public. Besides, the booth seating made logistics difficult.
“You only have one dad,” Evan said. “I will never try to replace him.”
Now it was Evan who I wanted in my arms.
“If you’re not going to be our dad, then what are you?” Oliver asked.
There was a beat of silence.
Two beats.
Was it possible? It seemed that Evan didn’t know what to say. I never thought I’d witness such an event. Only why did it have to happen at the expense of my son? I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but Evan beat me to it.
“I’m your friend, Oliver.”
“Oh.” Oliver’s face was serious. “I guess that’s okay.”
Evan nodded. “Jenna, I’ll be your friend, too. If that’s all right.”
She fussed with her wristwatch. “I suppose.”
Evan glanced at me. I smiled and took his hand. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was the love of an eleven-year-old. “Let’s order, shall we?”
That night, after I’d put the kids to bed and started a load of laundry, I fired up the computer. I launched my browser and navigated to WisconSINs, Marina’s on-again, off-again blog. “Well, would you look at that?” I said to George. Though the black cat didn’t move from his nest on the bookshelf, I was sure he was interested.
Sometime in the last few months—months in which I’d never once looked at the blog—Marina had revamped the look of the site. A new right sidebar had pictures of Rynwood and links to old posts. The left sidebar had links to local events and businesses, and there was the Children’s Bookshelf, right at the top.
Classic Marina. Just when you were ready to yell at her for having less sense than a teenager on her first road trip, she did something wonderful. All the irritation that had been rising in me since she’d whipped out her notepad at Sam’s funeral died as if it had never been.
Smiling, I shook my head and began reading her latest post. Title: “I’m Baaaack!”
“Greetings, Rynwood-ites! My long sabbatical is over and it’s time for us to get to work. The task at hand is a sad one, yet necessary for the sake of peace, quiet, and tranquillity in our fair city. How much do you love
