The Great Escape

Traverse Bay. It had been in the winter, a couple of degrees below zero, and there’d been a snowstorm. Toby would give everything he had-he would even cut off his arm or his leg-if that meant his dad could still be alive.

LUCY FOUND THE EXPENSIVE MOUNTAIN bike in the garage and a fancy sea kayak in the boathouse, both too new to be castoffs from the Remingtons. After discovering the journey into town wasn’t nearly as complicated as her first night’s wanderings had led her to believe, she used the bike for transportation, carrying the groceries she bought in her backpack. Charity Island was used to all types, and her orange dreads, nose ring, and combat boots didn’t attract much attention.

After a few days, she took the ferry to the mainland to get rid of her rental car. While she was there, she shopped for a couple of additions to her new wardrobe, as well as some incredible temporary tattoos.

By the end of her first week at the house, she’d cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom. Each time she entered, she hated the big table more. It was not only hideous and much too large for the alcove, but also painted an ugly shade of mint green that was supposed to match the walls but didn’t. She’d even baked a few loaves of bread.

Other than occasional glimpses of the twelve-year-old spying on her from the woods, she had no distractions, which made it the perfect time to start the writing project for her father’s book. Since she hadn’t planned to resume her lobbying work until September, she’d originally intended to begin working on it as soon as she got back from her honeymoon. Mat said he was fed up with other people defining Nealy’s legacy, and he believed future generations deserved a more personal history of the nation’s first female president.

Her father was an experienced journalist, and he’d originally intended to write the book himself, but after a few months’ work, he’d decided one viewpoint was too limiting. He wanted several perspectives, each highlighting a different aspect of Nealy’s life, so he’d asked Nealy’s father to write one section and Terry Ackerman, Nealy’s longtime aide, to write another. Most of all, he wanted Lucy’s viewpoint. She had been an inside witness from the time Nealy had first run for the Senate through her presidency, and she was to write about Nealy as a mother. Lucy had jumped at the opportunity, but so far she hadn’t written a word. Even though her deadline wasn’t until September, now would be a perfect time to get started.

She’d found a laptop computer in the den-a computer wiped clean of any personal information-and after she’d finished breakfast, she carried it out to the porch. As she arranged herself on one of the chaises she had covered with a beach towel, she inspected the tattoo of thorns and blood drops that encircled her bicep. It was gloriously tacky, and she loved it, or maybe she simply loved the idea of displaying something like it, if only temporarily. The packaging said it could last up to two weeks, but she’d bought replacements as well as a few other tattoo patterns she might or might not use.

She pulled her eyes away from the bloody thorns and thought about what she wanted to write. Finally she set her fingers on the keys.

When my mother was president…

A squirrel chattering just outside the screen distracted her. She pulled her attention back to the keyboard.

When my mother was president, her working day started every morning before six with a stint on the treadmill…

Lucy hated treadmills. She’d rather walk outside in the rain and snow than on a machine.

My mother believed in the benefits of exercise.

So did Lucy, which didn’t mean she liked it. The trick was to find something you didn’t hate doing.

A trainer had designed her program, but she and my father were usually alone in the gym.

Lucy didn’t like gyms, either.

They started their routine with easy stretches, then-

She frowned. Anyone could have written those boring sentences. Mat wanted something personal, and this wasn’t it.

She deleted the file and shut down the computer. The morning was too beautiful to write anyway. She grabbed her baseball hat and climbed down the rickety wooden steps to the boat dock. The life vest in the kayak was too big for her, but she cinched it up anyway and took the boat out.

Even as she paddled around the rocky beach that marked the perimeter of Goose Cove, she had a hard time believing she was holed up on an island in the Great Lakes. She’d come here to unearth the secrets of the man her parents had hired to keep her safe, but the house hadn’t yielded any clues, so why was she still here?

Because she didn’t want to leave.

The wind picked up as she hit the open waters of the lake, and she turned the bow into the waves. She rested her arms for a moment, rubbed the bloody thorn tattoo. She didn’t know who she was anymore. The product of a chaotic childhood? An orphan who’d taken responsibility for her infant sister? A celebrity child who’d become part of the symbolic American family? She had been an exemplary student, a dedicated social worker, and she was an accomplished lobbyist. She’d raised a lot of money for some very worthwhile causes and promoted legislation that had made a difference in a lot of lives. Never mind how much she’d grown to dislike that work. Most recently, she was a neurotic bride who’d turned her back on the man destined to be the love of her life.

Between her job, her family, and planning her wedding, she’d been too busy for introspection. Now that she had time for it, she didn’t like the way it made her feel, so she headed back toward the house. She was paddling against the current, and she had to work harder, but it felt good. She reached the shelter of the cove and paused to rest. That’s when she saw the lone figure standing on the end of the dock.

His features were indistinguishable, but she would have known that silhouette anywhere. Wide shoulders and narrow hips. Long legs braced for action, hair blowing around his head.

Her heart started to pound. She bought herself time by making an unnecessary detour to inspect a beaver lodge, then another detour to check out a tree that had fallen into the water. Taking it slow. Pulling herself together.

He should never have kissed her at the Memphis airport. Should never have looked at her like that. If he hadn’t kissed her-hadn’t looked at her with all those turbulent emotions churning in his eyes-she’d have gone back to Washington-gone back to her job-and he’d have been nothing more than her only one-night hookup.

The closer she got, the angrier she became, not just with him but with herself. What if he thought she was chasing him? That hadn’t been it at all, but that’s how it would look.

She slid the kayak up to the dock. The rocky shoreline made it hard for her to beach the boat, so as long as the weather was good, she generally tied it to the ladder. But she didn’t do that now. Instead she secured the kayak loosely-too loosely-to the post at the end of the dock. Finally she looked up at him.

He loomed above her in his standard uniform of jeans and T-shirt, this one bearing the faded insignia of the Detroit Police Department. She took in those high cheekbones; that strong nose; those thin, sadistic lips and laser- sharp blue eyes. He glowered down at her.

“What the hell happened to your hair? And what are you doing out on the lake by yourself? Exactly who did you think was going to rescue you if you went in?”

“Your two weeks are up,” she shot back, “so none of that is your concern. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d help me up on the dock. I’ve got a cramp.”

He should have seen it coming. But he knew only Lucy, not Viper. He moved to the edge of the dock, a lamb to the slaughter, and reached down for her. She grabbed his wrist-braced herself-and, using all her strength, gave a sudden, sharp yank.

Dumb ass. He went right in. She went in, too, but she didn’t care. She cared only about getting the best of him in whatever way she could.

He came up cussing and sputtering from the freezing water, hair wild and wet. All he needed was a cutlass in his teeth. She flipped her own dripping hair out of her eyes and yelled, “I thought you couldn’t swim.”

“I learned,” he yelled back.

She swam away from the kayak, the life vest inching up under her armpits. “You’re a jerk, you know that? A lying, money-grubbing jerk.”

“Get it all out.” He swam toward the ladder, his strokes long and powerful.

She swam after him, her own strokes choppy with anger. “And you’re a first-class-” Viper found the right word. “Asshole!”

He glanced back at her, then mounted the ladder. “Anything else?”

She grabbed the bottom rung. The water hadn’t lost its spring chill, and her teeth chattered so hard they hurt. “A liar, a fraud, a-” She broke off as she spotted the lump. Exactly where she expected to see it. She scrambled up