must be a secret hiding place in it.
I rushed back to the office and took out the crochet work. When I examined the fireplace motif, there in the midst of all those double crochet stitches that formed the picture was an open spot with no stitches. I had vaguely noticed it before but had thought it was a mistake. Now I saw it in a new light. Was it meant to mark the spot where the secret panel was?
“Why couldn’t you have put that in the note Mary Beth.”
What could I do with the information now? I couldn’t turn around and go back to the island without getting in trouble. I surveyed the crochet piece. I was going to have to rely on it for the rest of the puzzle.
Then I went back to the book on Lance Sr. and thumbed through the rest of it. I stopped when I got to a photo of Lance Sr. cutting a ribbon on his first Lance Wells Dance Studio. He was standing in a doorway, and I caught a glimpse of the address written in gold lettering. I realized it was the studio down the street. There was nothing on the crochet piece to indicate the dance studio, but I wanted to try again to check it out anyway.
I took a short break and went down the block. But when I went up the stairs, the sign stating they were closed due to a death in the family was still on the glass door. Defeated, I returned to the bookstore.
The rest of the day went by in a tired blur. By the time I drove my parents’ SUV home, all I could think about was barricading myself in my son’s room and crashing. After putting on clean clothes, I would put up my feet and crochet. Did I really think any of that was going to happen? Not likely.
I walked in through the kitchen and was greeted by the sound of banging coming from the front door. My mother swirled in with the deli delivery guy close behind carrying a bag of food. Samuel came out of his old bedroom, muttering something about all of my stuff in there. The dogs were barking and scratching from somewhere.
“I had to put them somewhere,” my mother said when I asked about the dogs’ noises. “We were practicing our dance steps and they kept getting in the way.” The deli guy went back for the rest of the food. I followed him to check out the damage to my front door.
Barry was on his knees and had a hammer in his hand. When he looked up at me, I was shocked to see one of his eyes was ringed in a sickly blackish green.
“Where did that come from?” I asked, stepping closer for a better look.
“Your father, remember? He said he’d been learning some kind of martial arts,” Barry said, setting down the tool. I did a double take. Who knew my peaceful father could do so much damage? Barry pointed at the spot where he’d been hammering a piece of plywood to the lower portion of my front door. “I just patched it until the new one I ordered arrives.”
He stood up and came over to me. His eyes flared with heat and he held his arms wide open, but the deli guy came through the doorway and interrupted the moment.
Barry let out a disappointed groan as the delivery guy passed between us and headed for the kitchen with a bag of bread and rolls. That’s when I noticed the living room.
“Mother,” I yelled, throwing my hands up. It looked as though I’d been robbed. All the furniture was gone. The only seating was a few folding chairs where the couch had been. Some kind of electronic music equipment had been set up in front of the fireplace. And some lights had been added to give the illusion of spotlights.
“The furniture is all in the den,” Barry said. “I checked.”
I rushed through the living room and on to the den. I could barely walk in as all the living room furniture had been pushed in there.
“We had to move everything out,” my mother said, coming up behind me. “There was no room to practice the She La Las trademark dance steps. Lana almost went over the couch. And our musical director needed someplace to set up his equipment.”
“You mean Samuel?” I said to my mother.
“Yes, but it sounds better to say
Barry stepped closer to me and dropped his voice. “Why don’t you come with me? We’ll get some dinner. My place is empty,” he said with a heavy touch of suggestion.
Being somewhere else sounded appealing, and I was about to accept and tell my mother I was leaving, but she beat me to the punch.
“You’re not thinking of going anywhere, are you, Molly? I thought it would be nice if we had a family dinner. Samuel’s here already and Peter’s coming by later.”
My mother had me and she knew it. Even with all the chaos, I was a sucker for a family gathering.
“Join us?” I said to Barry. I thought for sure he’d refuse. If I had been him, I sure would have. Either he didn’t know what he was in for or he liked awkward confrontations, because he accepted.
And he got it in spades.
The dining room was still intact, and once my father and I had put all the food on the table, we all sat down.
“I guess we all know each other,” I said, trying to ease the awkward moment. Barry and my parents exchanged uncomfortable glances. Samuel just took the platter of meat and put some corned beef on his plate. For a few moments we passed the food in silence, exchanging bowls of coleslaw and platters of cheeses and meats, along with a basket of rye bread and rolls.
As my father passed the mustard and pickles to Barry, his gaze stopped on Barry’s shiner. He apologized, but I detected a dash of pride in his voice that he could inflict so much damage.
And then the inquisition began.
“So, I understand you have a son,” my mother said. “What does he do?”
I wondered how the questioner felt about being the questioned. I was just waiting for her to use his line and say, “Do you want to tell me the whole story? I’m sure it will make you feel better.”
“He goes to school.”
“College?” my mother asked.
“No, middle school,” Barry answered. I had to admire how he looked her right in the eye when he answered.
“So you must have waited a long time to have children,” my mother the questioner continued.
“Actually, no.”
“Then you waited a long time to get married. You must have been what, about thirty-six or thirty-seven? Being a bachelor all those years must have made it hard to get used to a family.”
For the first time ever, Barry appeared uncomfortable. He was looking down at the table.
“My job made it . . .” Barry began. Then he cleared his throat and looked directly at my mother. “Okay, I wasn’t single all that time.”
My mother leaned closer to the table, her eyes locked on him. “What exactly does that mean?”
Barry turned toward me. “This isn’t how I planned to tell you, but I was married twice before.”
The news hit me like a boulder in the chest. I could feel everyone staring at me. At that moment Peter walked in. My older son looked around the table and quickly assessed that something was going on. As he pulled out a chair and sat down, I pushed mine back and went outside.
Barry followed.
I walked far out into the yard and flopped on a bench in the corner.
He stopped in front of the bench and stood over me. “I always planned to tell you. But when I didn’t mention it at first, it became awkward.”
“Kids?” I said in a low voice.
I heard him blow his breath out. “A daughter, but she stayed with her mother and I’ve had virtually no contact.”
My head swirled with all this new information. “Do you think that makes it okay not to mention her?”
“No,” Barry said with regret. “I didn’t mention it at first because being divorced twice makes me sound like a relationship washout.”
“Is that why you’re so intent on getting married again? Do you think three times is the charm?”
He pulled me up to face him. “No, I think
My stomach was doing flip-flops. I had been wondering about a relationship with someone who always had one foot out the door and who disappeared for days. I wanted something casual, but with someone who was there.
