ESCAPE FROM PARADISE

by

Beth Proudfoot

CHAPTER ONE

After Emily nearly drowned, I worked hard to avoid dreaming. My strategy involved sleeping only in short, deep spurts. I told my kids I was taking naps, but they were more like brief comas, which came on suddenly whenever I allowed myself to relax. The thought of falling asleep while driving scared me to death, but it was easy enough to put the baby into the stroller and walk to the grocery store. I hated the impatience of Silicon Valley drivers anyway. Pedestrians in my neighborhood tended to be around eighty years old and kind enough to give excellent directions when I forgot where I was going.

After almost a year, however, the no-sleep solution was becoming a problem. It was well past five o’clock on a February afternoon when I jerked awake from one of my “naps” and sat up, blinking, struggling for focus. The thick recipe book that had been my pillow on my kitchen table was open to “Chicken Cacciatore.” I had no tomatoes in the pantry, I remembered, and no chicken. Now I had no time.

Dinner was supposed to be one of the easy jobs.

The house was quiet. That meant Baby George was still sleeping, and the big kids were playing peacefully in the backyard. I closed the cookbook. We had some macaroni in the pantry. Tuna casserole, then. Or I could just close my eyes again.

The patio door slid open with a crash, jumpstarting my heart. Blake, my seven-year-old, leaned in with his skinny arms braced on the jamb. His hair was plastered to his forehead in curly auburn snakes, and his polo shirt had a rip in the sleeve.

“Mom!”

“Blake, I can’t keep buying you school shirts.”

“It’s a ’mergency,” he said, whistling through the opening left by his missing front tooth. “You’ve got to come.”

I pushed myself up so fast I knocked my chair over. Blake had been the one to call the paramedics while I gave Emily mouth-to-mouth a year before. He was big enough to know what a real emergency was.

“What happened?” My voice came out in a strangled whisper.

“Come on. Quick.” He turned and raced out of sight.

I ran after him. My eyes swept automatically to the right as I cut across the redwood deck, my breath coming in panicked bursts.

But the pool was gone. Of course. We’d filled it in, planted some azaleas. I leapt down the three steps to the lawn, pulled up short, and scanned our soggy, winter-bleak backyard. My heart was making dents in my rib cage. Where was Emily?

Blake stopped at the bottom of the oak tree whose bare branches cascaded over most of the yard. The redwood picnic table and several pieces of outdoor furniture were piled against its wide trunk. The children had, apparently, been playing fort. Helga, our dachshund, rushed out from behind an upturned deck chair, yipping.

“Emily?” Was she under the picnic table? I pushed an aluminum chaise lounge from the top of the pile onto the lawn. “Are you hurt? Where are you?”

“I’m here, Mommy,” a thin voice called from high in the tree.

I looked up and saw my daughter’s pale hand waving at me from the crook of the lowest branches, just below the peak of our second-story roof. She was okay. She was alive.

I put one hand to my leaping chest and closed my eyes to send up a little prayer of gratitude.

“Is your heart okay, Mommy?” Blake stood next to me, his eyebrows knit in concern. He was starting to get a wrinkle there, above his sweet, freckled nose, from worrying about me.

I put a hand on his shoulder. My bones suddenly felt so heavy I could barely stand upright. “I’m fine, Sweetheart.”

Helga started whining around my feet. I forced myself to reach down and pick her up.

“Blake, Honey,” I said, “how did Emmie get up there?”

He frowned, his eyes downcast. “I told her not to follow me.”

“Yes, but you know it’s not okay for you to climb the tree either.”

“I was just going to go up for a minute. I wanted to slide down the cable.”

I turned away so Blake couldn’t see my pained expression. I’d told Alan we should take down the planks nailed into the trunk and the stupid cable slide, but he’d been too lazy to do more than pull off the bottom few boards of the ladder. Obviously, his theory about how the kids wouldn’t be able to reach the new bottom rung until they were teenagers was grossly wrong, as I had pointed out, more than once. I should have bought some bolt cutters and a crowbar and done the job myself.

“She wanted me to go down first,” Blake continued, “but then she couldn’t reach the rope that makes the slide come back up. She won’t come down the ladder, neither. She says she’s stuck.”

“Mommy,” Emily called, opening and closing her hands. “Ca-a-a-tch me.”

“No!” I held out my hand like a traffic cop. “Stay right there. Do not budge.” I put Helga down and backed toward the fence until I could get a better view. Three big branches framed a tight nest at the top of the trunk. Emily stood in this niche, still dressed in her kindergarten plaid jumper and tights.

“I tried to climb back up,” Blake said, following me, “but I can’t reach the rope with her in the way.” He took my arm and waited until I looked down at him. “I think we need to call the fire department.”

His face was grim and turning paler every second. What did I expect? By looking to him for every little decision, I was turning my second-grader into an old man. This had to stop. I was the grownup. Right.

“We don’t need the fire department, son,” I said. “I’ll go up,”

“They’ve got a net, though,” Blake said. “And a really tall ladder.”

This was true in the cartoons. In reality, though, they also had forms to fill out. They had been very careful, when Emily nearly drowned, not to assign blame. I couldn’t call them with her in danger again, though. What excuse did I have this time? I’d fallen asleep.

“I can do it.” I swiped the sweat off my upper lip, then walked over and patted the gray bark, trying to look confident. “I’m coming to get you, Emily,” I called up. “Hug a branch, now, Honey, and wait for me.”

I climbed on top of the picnic table, catching my breath when it tilted slightly to one side under my weight. I spread my feet apart, tightened my knees, and looked up. There were thirteen rungs to climb, kind of an ominous number.

“Should we call Daddy?” Blake asked.

“No, no, Honey, I’m a good climber.” This was a lie. I had been an athlete, long ago, B.C.—Before Children. However, climbing trees probably required different muscles than the 500-meter backstroke. Not that I was in shape for any kind of physical activity after years of breeding, lactating, and couch-potatohood.

I grabbed the first board of the makeshift ladder. The previous property owners had nailed it to the trunk at least ten years ago, and the wood was damp from all the rain we’d had this January. Don’t look down, I reminded myself. Don’t look up. Look at the nice, solid tree.

“Mommy!” Emily’s head was visible as she leaned out precariously to peer down at me.

“Don’t watch me, Emmie,” I said. “Hang on tight. I’ll count the boards as I come up, okay?” I forced one foot at a time to the first rung and started climbing. “Here we go. My hands are on rung number three, now, Sweetheart. Count with me.”

I looked up to see what she was doing. Bad idea. I pressed my cheek against the trunk and closed my eyes. No, that was worse. I planted my forehead, opened my eyes and focused on an ant crawling in a crevice in the rough bark.

“Four!” Emily called down.

I inched my hand up to the next rung. “Right. Four.” I felt my biceps strain as I pulled myself up another couple of feet. I’d been lifting children for seven years. You’d think I’d be a little stronger. “Five. Six. Seven.”

“Eight,” Emily said joyfully. “Right, Mommy? Isn’t it eight? Are you coming?”

“I’m still at seven, Sweetpea. This next board feels kind of squishy.” Holding onto Number Seven with one hand, I slowly transferred my grip to Number Eight. It held. All right. “Nine. Ten.”

With both hands on Number Eleven, I stepped on Number Eight with my full weight. It disintegrated with a pop. Splintered pieces dropped to the ground, and I was hanging from Eleven by my fingertips.

Emily screamed. Helga started yapping up a storm.

“Mommy,” Blake shouted up, “Don’t break it.”

My right toe found an irregularity in the bark. I flailed with my left foot until it caught on the single nail that was left from Number Eight. Okay, don’t stop, Mary. Curling awkwardly at the waist, I inched my feet up to a wobbly perch on Number Nine. I slid my right arm upward, grabbed another rung, and pulled my cramped body upright. I couldn’t do this.

“Are you okay, Mommy?” Blake’s voice broke, on the verge of tears.

“No problem,” I shouted, between shuddering breaths.

Helga’s barking diminished, and I heard our doorbell ringing. Lovely. I pressed my cheek harder against the tree trunk, unable to stop shaking.

“Why don’t you go see who’s at the door?” I called to Blake.

“I can’t, Mommy. Remember? It could be a Stranger.”

Helga’s barking picked up another few decibels.

“It’s probably the mailman,” I said. “Maybe he can help us.”

“What? I can’t hear you. Shut up, Helga, you old dog.”

“Go get the door!”

“What?”

Oh, forget it. I reached for the next rung. And couldn’t find it.

“You’re almost there, Mommy,” Blake yelled. “Grab that branch.”

What branch? I inched my hand up a little further and felt the contour of the trunk change. A three-foot-wide branch forked off to my left. I started chanting, under my breath, the old swim team cheer, “Go, go, go-baby, go!” Perspiring freely now, I stretched up to curl my elbow over the branch and was able to finally step up to the last rung, lucky Number Thirteen.

“Hi, Mommy.” Emily squatted down and gave me her pixie smile. She was my sky child. Her eyes were the palest blue, and her hair was so blonde, and so thin and curly, it wisped around her face like a cloud.

“Hi, Sweetheart. Can you just climb up that branch a little way? Hold on tight. That’s good.” I scraped both knees as I shinnied up, then turned and hoisted my hips onto the narrow crotch of the tree. Made it. Unbelievable.

I pulled Emily into my arms, and she allowed me to hold her, rocking. She must have been very frightened. The accident, and the coma that followed, hadn’t changed her personality one bit. She never sat still for long, just ran on her tippy-toes, heedless of danger, wherever the wind blew her until, like now, she realized she couldn’t go any further.

“That Stranger is still ringing the doorbell,” Blake called up.

It was uncomfortable sitting wedged between the branches, the bark cutting into my thighs. I wasn’t moving very soon though. Perhaps it would be possible to stay up here forever. “I can hear it, son. Let’s just sit here quietly and let Mommy rest, okay?”

“Okay, but I think I hear Georgie. You want me to go get him?”

“No, Sweetheart. He’s safe in his crib.” I sighed deeply. It wouldn’t be too long before George would be walking. I’d just have to hope he didn’t hit the ground running like Emily had.

“Are you stuck, now, Mommy?”

“I’ll be down in a minute, Blake.”

Surveying the situation, I realized I should not have climbed all the way into the tree. There wasn’t enough room to maneuver here. How the hell were we going to get back to the ground? I couldn’t even see the top rung of the ladder, let alone the open space around the now-broken Number Eight. My gaze slid down to the picnic table, and my vision suddenly turned screwy. The table seemed to boomerang farther away and then closer, and then farther again, like an old Roadrunner cartoon. I closed my eyes and suppressed a dry heave.

There was no way I was going to be able to climb down this tree. I was a weakling and an idiot and a fraud and a failure. How many near-death experiences did you have to have in a family before the mother qualified as Failure of the Year?

“Mommy,” Emily said in her sing-song, tattling voice, “Blake’s climbing the tree.”

“What?” I held on tight and looked down. Blake was already up to Number Six. “Stop,” I yelled. “Blake, get down right now.”

“But, Mom—”

“Now!”

Helga’s barking became hysterical. The side gate flew open with a crash. “Don’t you people ever answer your door?” a woman’s voice called.

“Aunt Joanie,” Blake cried. He jumped down onto the picnic table with a creaky thud.

My body slumped with relief. Joanie’d been making dramatic entrances in my life ever since she showed up at my freshman dorm at two in the morning and announced she was going to be my roommate. Usually, these surprise visits annoyed the heck out of me. Just now, though, I was pathetically grateful.

“Hey, Mary,” she called up from the patio. “Whatcha doin’ up there?”

I only caught a glimpse of her before my vertigo started acting up again, and I had to close my eyes. “Oh, just having fun. We’re kind of stuck, now, though. Go in the house and call 911, will you?”

“Right.”

Thirty seconds later, I felt a tap on my knee and nearly took off to orbit the moon.

“You’re okay, Mary,” Joanie said very gently. “Open your eyes, now, Honey.”

She held onto the first branch with both arms, her feet on the last rung of the ladder. An oak leaf had caught in her hair. She’d cut it short since the last time I’d seen her, and dyed it light brown. The style, though amazingly conservative for a woman who’d once sported a purple Mohawk, became her. With her heart-shaped face and green eyes, she looked like Peter Pan up here in the tree—except for the elegant and expensive silk blouse. I, of course, was wearing the latest in Mommy gear: a faded navy sweatshirt with baby slime on the shoulders.

“Do I get three guesses?” she asked, smiling.

I sighed. “For once in your life, could you just do what I ask?”

“But that would be so predictable!”

“Look, we need help, here.”

“No we don’t. Jeez, Mary, didn’t you grow up in the country?” She swung her legs past me and shinnied onto the branch above my head, ruining her sleek wool pants. “Hi, Emmie,” she said, “This looks like a great slide. How do I get the handle up?”

Emily shrank back, suddenly shy, refusing to answer.

“Pull on the orange rope,” Blake yelled from below.

“I can’t go down the slide,” I said.

“Of course you can,” Joanie replied. “The only hard part is you have to swing your legs around to the other side of this branch.”

“I can’t move. I mean it, Joanie.”

“Mary, we’ve known each other for twelve years. Have you ever won an argument with me?”

Actually, I hadn’t. Which was why I’d nearly flunked out my freshman year at Stanford. Fortunately for both my academic career and my scholarship, we only had that one year together. Joanie’s father, a senator from one of those tiny New England states, made her return to the East Coast when we were sophomores. We’d remained best friends, and kept up an intense email correspondence, but had only physically been together nine or ten times in the last ten years. Each visit, though, she’d charmed me into getting into some kind of mess. I wasn’t complaining. Joanie’s impetuous spirit was part of what I loved about her. And she seemed to have as much of a knack for getting out of trouble as she did for getting into it. If she thought she was going to sweet-talk me down from this tree, though, she was sadly mistaken.

“I’m having a problem with my vision,” I said through clenched teeth.

“You can close your eyes on the ride down. Grab onto this, now.”

She held the handle of the slide in front of my face. It was a simple, homemade device: a cable, a pulley, and a set of bicycle handles. Every part was liberally covered with rust.

“No way.”

She pursed her lips. “Way.”

“What about Emily?”

“I’ll come down with her next.”

“Take her first.”

“Mary, I’m counting to three. Then I’m pushing you out of this tree. It will be better if you’re holding on.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“One. Two. Two-and-a-half.” She levered her foot under my backbone and started to apply the pressure. “Three.”

She took her foot off my back.

I turned to give her my meanest scowl—which had absolutely zero effect, as usual.

She looked down at me like a schoolmarm peering over her glasses. “Alan’s going to be home soon, isn’t he?”

My teeny bubble of defiance collapsed. Alan already thought I was a dingbat. I didn’t need to have him coming home and finding the house a mess, the dinner unmade, and me in a tree.

“If you’d just go down with Emily,” I said, “and get the ladder out of the shed—”

She lifted each of my hands and placed them on the handlebars. “You’re stronger than you think, Mary. And you’ve got three kids who are going to be very upset if they have to see their mommy’s guts splattered all over the lawn. So hang on. One, two, three.”

I barely had time to firm my grip before she pushed, hard, and I flew out of the tree on the slide. The lattice roof of the patio loomed toward me at stomach-liquefying speed. Hang on, or jump? Hang on, or—the slide jerked to a stop with about a yard to spare. My feet kept going and slammed against the post. Ouch. I let go of the handles and dropped to the ground.

Blake ran over and tackled me. I scooted both of us out of the way, and we watched from the ground as Joanie zoomed out of the tree with Emily clinging to her neck, squealing.

They landed safely. I exhaled a fervent thank you. Emily jumped onto me and Blake and the three of us laid back on the grass in a group hug. Helga joined us, licking all of our faces, her lips pulled back in what could only be described as a delighted smile. This was what I loved about dogs. Either they were happy or they were sad. They never wasted even a moment re-living the past.

I looked up at Joanie, who stood over us like Superwoman with her hands on her hips.

“Another boring day in suburbia?” she said, smiling.

I sat up. “Yep. This stay-at-home-mom job is pretty routine.”

“Well, get ready,” she said, “Because things are about to change.”

I’d learned long ago to dread that little glint in her eye.

I might have stayed on the nice, wide, solid lawn forever, but it was starting to get dark, and, in the relative quiet, I could hear George crying upstairs. It took all of my will to defy gravity enough to sit up and then stand. I sent Joanie to get George, ordered Blake to start putting the deck furniture where it belonged, then took Emily by the hand and headed to the shed. I found a really big hammer in the toolbox, walked back to the tree, told Emily to stand back, and started hacking away ineffectually at the bottom rung.

“Mary?”

I turned with the hammer raised.

“Easy, now,” Joanie said. “Want me to take over there?”

George, my fat, sleepy, Buddha-baby, reached out to me from her arms, showing off the single tooth in his wide-open grin. Remnants of tears lingered on his cheeks. I was such a bad mother.

I traded the hammer for the baby and kissed his sweet, fuzzy little head, soaking up the magical baby smell. He started wriggling and fussing, eager to nurse.

“I’ve got nothing in the house,” I said to Joanie. “How does pizza sound?”

She took one carefully-aimed whack at the rung and broke it into a million pieces. “We’re eating out. My treat. Is that your doorbell?”

Jeez! There wasn’t going to be any let-up today. I stopped at the refrigerator on my way through the kitchen to get George a bottle of juice and arrived in the living room just in time to see my grandmother closing the front door with her scuffed cowboy boot. She held her knitting bag in one hand and a suitcase in the other.

“Figured you were busy,” she said, “so I let myself in.”

“Gran? What are you doing here?” I said. It looked like she was planning to stay for a while, which might be a problem since we’d given the guestroom to Blake in November when George started teething. He could sleep with the baby for a few days, I supposed, but somebody was going to have to pick up his Legos. I pasted on a smile. “I mean, I’m so happy to see you. Did we plan a visit, and I forgot?”

Her cheeks folded into a network of wrinkles as she gave me an apologetic half-smile. Gran was a farmer. She’d never put anything on her face but soap and never done anything with her thick, steel-gray hair but braid it in the back. She was wearing her usual winter uniform of jeans and a cheerful red sweater, but her face was pale, her shoulders slumped and tired. Last Christmas, we’d tried to talk her into selling the orchard and retiring, but she wouldn’t hear of it. What was she doing here in early February, when there was pruning and spraying and plowing to do? Was she ill? Oh, no. Please, no.

“Hello, Mary,” she said. Her raisin-in-the-dumpling eyes, usually so straightforward, skittered over me, and she didn’t answer my questions. She set down her bags and held out her arms. “There’s my little great-grandbaby!”

The door from the garage opened. Alan stepped in.

“Hey, there, Gran,” he said. He didn’t seem nearly as surprised to see her as I’d been. What was going on?

His face was bright red, and his long hair was plastered back from his helmet. Cycling home from work was a challenge in the wintertime, but neither rain, nor sleet, nor traffic nightmares in the dark could keep him from his daily thirty-mile round trip. It wasn’t about saving energy or the ozone layer—our house was wired for solar, and we had a plug-in car. It wasn’t even about getting the exercise. It was making a statement, clearing the roads. He didn’t look virtuous and indignant tonight, though, he just looked tired. And he was still breathing hard. He must have raced home. I gave the baby to Gran and walked up to give him a peck on the cheek.

“Is that Joanie’s car in front?” he asked. He, also, was not meeting my gaze.

Joanie appeared from the door to the kitchen. “I’m here,” she said.

The three of them exchanged some kind of significant glance.

“What’s going on?” I asked, feeling left out. “Are we having a party?”

Joanie glided over, squeezed my hand, and led me to sit next to her on our company-only white sofa.

Gran sat in the rocking chair with the baby, and Alan dragged one of the dining room chairs in. He was six foot four in his socks, so he rarely looked comfortable sitting on hard wooden chairs, but tonight he seemed to be fidgeting more than usual. My stomach sank.

Joanie patted my knee. “We love you very much, Mary.”

“And we, uh, we’ve been really worried about you,” Alan said.

“We’ve tried to get you some help,” Gran said, her eyes sparkling with tears. “But you won’t let us.”

I looked around at their solemn faces. This was an Intervention, like people did with alcoholics before they sent them to the clinic. They were going to take my children away. Dear God. I knew I was slipping. I’d known it for months. But I thought I’d hidden it. My children were the reason I got up in the morning, the reason I washed my face and put the kettle on.

I shook my head. My throat was so clogged I could hardly speak. “I’m just having trouble sleeping.”
Gran slung George over her shoulder and came over to sit on the ottoman beside me. “You feel guilty, I suppose.” She took a breath. “Now, we all have told you that Emily’s accident was no fault of yours, and I guess you don’t believe us, so we’re not going to go over that again.”

“But,” Joanie said. “We’re not going to let you keep yourself in jail for a crime you didn’t commit.”

“If you won’t accept help for yourself, Mary,” Alan said, “think of Blake. Think of Emily and George.”

I broke loose and stood up. “That’s not fair. I’m doing my best.”

“We know that, Mary,” Alan said.

George started to fuss. I took him from Gran and rocked him, taking comfort from his solid weight. “Today, I’ll admit, I used some bad judgment, but the kids get fed and off to school on time. The house is a mess, but—”

“You’re a good mother,” Gran said, “the best there is.”

“Of course you are,” Joanie and Alan chimed in.

I looked at the three of them defiantly, clutching the baby to my chest. “Then why are you here?”

I could see hesitation on all of their faces. Finally Joanie took the lead. “Alan and Gran agree that you should come with me on my trip to Tahiti next week,” she said.

“What?”

Joanie had been whining via email for weeks that I should drop everything and fly off to the South Pacific with her. Years ago, I would have jumped at the chance to join her for a little jet-setting, but it was just impossible now. Was that what this was all about? I didn’t know if I should be relieved or horrified. “You can’t be serious.”

“We think it’d be good for you to get away,” Alan said. It sounded like he’d memorized that speech. And I knew who’d given him the script. Joanie had set us up on our first blind date, and he’d been her adoring puppy ever since.

“You need to get out of this house,” Joanie said. “Get some fresh air. Start thinking about the future again.”

“I can’t believe we’re even talking about this,” I said. “I told you I can’t leave the children.”

“I offered to take the week off so I could take care of Blake and Emily,” Alan said. He was looking straight at me, but I could read a bluff when I saw one. We had a strict traditional marriage in our division of labor. He brought home the wages, mowed the lawn, and fixed the computers. I did everything else. He’d probably changed ten diapers in his lifetime, and every meal he’d ever attempted—there had been three since we’d been married—had burnt to a crisp. I loved him to death. He was a great father. And he was sweet and idealistic and super-intelligent, and his job in the burgeoning biotech industry brought in enough money so that I could stay home with the children, for which I was extremely grateful. But after five years in this house, I doubted he knew how to find the laundry room. And he was often so engrossed in whatever he was doing on his computer that he forgot to eat or sleep or answer the phone.

I tried to think of a diplomatic way to say that I really didn’t trust him to feed Blake and Emily, let alone make sure they got their homework done and took an occasional bath. Finally, I said, “You know me. When I can’t see them, I worry even more.”

“Yes, we do know you,” Joanie said.

The conspirators shared a smug glance.

“So we’ve come up with a plan,” Joanie continued. “I’ve been able to get a couple more tickets for the kids and a suite at the resort. We’ll take them with us.”

“I called their teachers,” Alan said, “and Blake can go if he writes a report about the trip. Emily can draw pictures and do a show-and-tell.”

I looked to Gran, but there was no harbor there. Joanie had always had the sort of charisma that made people want to do things for her. Her father had totally misread her character when he sent her to Harvard Business School instead of the Yale drama department.

“It’s hard work traveling with children, Joanie,” I said. “It wouldn’t be a vacation for me.”

“Which is why I’ve decided to devote myself to being your nanny for the whole week. I’ll carry the baby, take care of the bags. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

Yeah, right. It never ceased to amaze me how these career women trivialized the Mommy job. Was she going to change the baby’s diapers on her coffee breaks? “I thought you said this was a business trip.”

She waved her hand like it was a magic wand. “It’s just a courier thing. Ever since 9/11, the Senator doesn’t trust the mail. I have to pick up a flash drive from one of his clients, which will take five minutes, tops. We’ll have the rest of the week to relax in the tropical sun and maybe have a little fun—at the client’s expense, of course.”

“I’m here to help you pack,” Gran said. Her mouth was set in the firm line that meant she wasn’t going to be crossed anytime soon. I’d never won an argument with her, either.

CHAPTER TWO

Three days later, we caught the all-nighter from San Francisco to French Polynesia. We arrived at Papeete, Tahiti, mid-morning local time, with only about fifteen minutes to make our connection. Customs waved us through with a cursory look at our passports—apparently, two harried women traveling with three fussy children didn’t fit the terrorist profile—and we ran across the tarmac to just make our commuter flight to Moorea, a tiny resort island off of Tahiti’s north shore.

I thought the ten-seat prop plane was absolutely adorable until its engine came to life with a shudder and a cloud of black smoke that billowed menacingly past my porthole. I looked across the aisle to Joanie, but she just smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. Okie-dokie.

We shook so violently during the takeoff I thought we’d lose every rivet in the fuselage, then we took a dip during the first turn and suddenly dropped fifty feet. The children whooped with joy. Wasn’t it lovely we were able to provide them with this one last amusement park ride before we all died?

Joanie reached across the aisle to touch my white-knuckled hand. “Relax, Mary. It’s an adventure,” she said.

Right. Mercifully, just as I was removing my shoes to prepare for the long swim back to Tahiti, the plane leveled off.

“Hey, Mom.” Blake held up the pamphlet from the seat pocket. “Moorea means ‘golden lizard,’ but I don’t think it looks like a lizard. Do you?”

I risked a peek out the window. From this height, the craggy island we were fast approaching looked like the footprint of a three-toed dinosaur. The surrounding water, calm as glass inside the reef, was an astonishing turquoise. I’d seen a million postcards of tropical islands, but this view was so breathtaking I almost forgot I was in a deathbox about to crash into the ocean. No. I forced myself to rewind and try again. We were in a perfectly safe small aircraft, flying at low altitude toward our stress-free vacation. I swallowed, hard, and worked at relaxing my shoulders.

“What does it look like to you, Blake?”

Emily leaned over Joanie to interrupt. “I know, Mommy!”

I smiled. “What, Honey?”

“Neverland.”

I winked at Blake and looked down again. A pod of dolphins just outside the reef leapt out of the airplane’s shadow. Neverland.

Without warning, the plane began its roller-coaster descent. I kept it from falling apart by the sheer pressure of my grip on the armrests until we screeched to a halt. The other passengers buzzed excitedly while they exited the low doorway. I slumped in my seat, massaging my wrists and breathing deeply, until Joanie’s hand on my shoulder reminded me to stand up and take my shaking legs out into the sun.

Joanie insisted she wanted to be treated like a servant, so I let her get our bags. She’d met us at the San Francisco airport in her idea of a nanny costume: a baggy sundress circa 1985 and a hairpiece pinned into a bun at the nape of her neck. When I’d told her she looked more like Nanny McPhee than Mary Poppins, she just smiled brightly and put on the slight lisp Emma Thompson had in the movie. “You made a joke, Mrs. Peterson. I think this trip is working already!”

We lunched on snacks out of the vending machines in the terminal, then walked outside, where a brightly painted bus waited to take us to Club Soleil. Joanie took Emily and Blake to the long bench facing the center on the starboard side while I squeezed into a group of Japanese tourists on port side and held George in my lap.

The bus chugged its way over steep grades and around hairpin turns, seeking out the potholes. Blake and Emily vied for Joanie’s attention, pointing out every beach and waterfall. I had to gesture at them to shush several times. Our fellow passengers didn’t actually complain, but they also didn’t seem to be enjoying their trip to paradise. Several of the men in the Japanese group wore identical red golf shirts with a company logo, UMO, on the pockets. Business meetings, I supposed, were grim no matter where you had them.

To my left sat a gray-haired Japanese woman traveling with a teenaged girl. The woman's eyes were closed, and she was trying to rest, without much success, against the window. The bus hit a particularly bad bump while we were careening around a corner and I leaned into her. She raised her head. I caught just a glimpse of unfocused eyes and a nasty-looking pink burn scar covering the lower half of her left cheek. She hunkered down in her seat, her chin on her chest. I reached into my backpack and brought out a baby blanket.

“Would you like to use this for a pillow?” I asked.

Her eyes flew wide open, and her fingers fluttered up to her scar. The girl beside her spoke a few words to her in Japanese, then spoke across her to me.

“My aunt knows English only to read and write. This is difficult journey for her. Thank you for blanket.” She took it from me and shaped it into a pillow. The older woman spoke to her insistently, and the girl rolled her eyes, then leaned forward, tucking her glossy long hair behind her ears in a gesture of controlled frustration. “My aunt wishes for me to ask, do you not need this blanket for your baby?”

I smiled at the woman. “George is fine. Please use the blanket. It would make me very happy.”

The girl translated, and the woman's eyes filled. She gave George’s bare foot a little squeeze, made several short bows with her neck and shoulders, and then settled her head back. Poor thing. She and her niece shared a strong family resemblance, which only made the contrast between them more profound, like finding an old dried apple in a box filled with this year’s harvest.

We finally arrived at Club Soleil, a lushly landscaped collection of little grass shacks. I followed Joanie and the kids off the bus, then stopped for a second to admire the collection of purple hibiscus plants lining the path to the lobby. Sharp words erupted behind me. The older woman and her niece came down the bus’ steps, flanked by two of the men in red shirts. One of the men handed me the blanket with a curt bow, then grabbed the woman’s arm and tried to lead her away. She said something crisp, her mouth tight with anger. The man let her go and bowed, deeply, but I saw contempt in his eyes. The woman walked over to me, took the blanket from my hand and very tenderly tucked it around George’s shoulders. She pointed to herself and said something I couldn’t understand.

Her niece gave up on trying to pull her away and translated. “My aunt wishes to thank you again. She say you very nice woman.”

The older woman bowed. “Yoshiko Kogura,” she said softly. She gestured with a graceful movement of one hand. “This girl name Keiko.”

I put my hand on my chest and said, “Mary. Mary Peterson. And it was no trouble.”

She caught my eye directly for the first time, then bowed, more deeply, with a lovely smile.

Blake and Emily came back to get me, tugging on my clothes and talking excitedly. The men herded Yoshiko and Keiko away. I frowned as I watched their backs retreat down the shaded pathway.

Joanie touched my arm. “What was that all about?”

I shook my head. “No idea.”

We followed the rest of the crowd across a stone bridge to the lobby. A portly man in a bright purple sarong placed our luggage in a golf cart and drove us through the jungle to our own little shack, which turned out to be a suite with a sitting room in the center and a bedroom and bath on each side. The furniture was all bamboo, the upholstery an outrageous mix of greens, reds and purples. In lieu of air conditioning, long windows made of horizontal strips of opaque glass stood open on every exterior wall, and big bamboo fans swirled overhead.

After a few minutes of bouncing on the beds and rifling through our suitcases for swimsuits, hats, and sunscreen, we stepped outside our back door onto the beach. We stood for a second, taking in the contrasting blues of the sky and the turquoise water, the nearly matching whites of the billowed clouds and the creamy sand. It was maybe fifty yards from our front door to the water. To our left, a weathered dock stretched out into the lagoon, marking the end of the resort’s property. To the right, the wide beach was dotted with clumps of small palm trees and purple beach umbrellas.

“Mommy.” Emily pulled me down so she could whisper in my ear. “That lady over there forgot the top to her swimsuit.”

Indeed. There were maybe twenty-five people scattered around, all very tan, and most wearing extremely skimpy bikinis or just a yard or so of colorful cloth. The lady in question stood in the shallow water, adjusting her snorkel and mask. The dark clumps in the lagoon, I assumed, were the legendary Tahitian coral reefs. I hadn’t expected they’d be so close to shore.

“Owie!” Blake said. “My feet are burning!”

He and Emily and Joanie raced, laughing, to the water to cool their toes. I followed carrying George, grateful I’d kept my tennis shoes on since running on the beach did not befit a matron dressed in such a Victorian one-piece tank. Joanie was very responsible in not letting the kids go in further than their ankles. It took both of us to corral Emily, then we walked down the beach to find an unoccupied shady spot.

“Look at that, Mom.” Blake pointed to a bamboo fence in the jungle next to the resort’s main buildings. Suddenly a chubby girl about Blake’s age appeared, soaring up above the fence, her arms spread wide. We watched in amazement as she dropped, then came up again and did a tight somersault in mid air. Emily took off like a bullet. We hurried after her and joined her to look through the fence.

“This must be the daycare,” Joanie said.

It didn’t look like any daycare I’d ever seen. It looked like a circus, with purple and yellow flags everywhere, a huge trampoline, tall swings, and children of all ages playing, laughing, having a heck of a time. Emily took my hand and wouldn’t stop whining until she’d dragged us all inside the gate.

I’d have been happy to let my kids join the fun, but apparently parents weren’t allowed. A young woman staff member with a heavy French accent explained that I had to sign a waiver and leave the kids with the staff.

“Come on, Mary,” Joanie said. “They’ll be fine.”

I said, “I’m sure these people are very competent, but—”

“Come o-o-o-n-n-n, Mommy,” Emily pleaded. “We never get to play.”

Blake punched her lightly in the arm. “Shut up, Stupidhead,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“We can give you a pager, Madame,” the young woman said. “That way we can reach you instantly if there’s any cause for concern.”

I wasn’t listening to her. I was looking at Blake. His forehead was knitted with his perpetual worry scowl. I bent down to look him in the eyes and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Do you want to play on that trampoline, son?”

He looked uncertain for a moment, then nodded.

“Okay, then here’s the deal. You can go in and play, but I don’t want you even giving a teeny tiny thought to taking care of your sister. It’s this nice lady’s job to watch her. It’s your job to have fun. Is that okay with you?”

His face brightened with a huge, gap-toothed grin. With the sunlight picking up all of the orange in his hair, he looked like a happy jack-o-lantern.

I signed the forms, and Blake and Emily shot off, screaming with delight, toward the trampoline.

“Would you like us to take the baby as well, Madame?” the young woman asked.

Joanie took the pager from her with a wink. “Let’s not push our luck.”

We found an umbrella for shade, sat in the lukewarm, shallow water of the roped-off swimming area, and let George splash to his heart’s content. It took about a half-hour, but eventually I was able to stop looking back at the daycare and relax. God, it was beautiful here. Everything was so much brighter. It seemed almost unnatural, like we could be in a painting by Gaugin, except that all around us the steady breeze tickled the scene to life by rustling the fronds on the palm trees and sparking little diamonds on the water.

“Why don’t you go for a swim, Mary?” Joanie said gently.

I stared out at the lagoon. Many of the dreams I tried to avoid were about swimming: flailing through Jello, or diving from the high-dive but never landing, just flying around, thinking that it would really hurt when I finally hit the water.

Joanie put a hand on my back.

“Maybe later,” I said. I let out a long, deep breath. “You were right to make me come here.”

“I’m always right,” she said. “I just wish you’d resign yourself to doing exactly as I say at all times. Right now, for instance, I’d like you to smile.”

George let out a piercing shriek. I picked him up with a jerk. There weren’t any crabs hanging on his toes. He laughed his gurgling little baby laugh, then screamed again. Oh, great. A new noise. I held him up so he could stand in the wet sand and do his little knee bends.

Joanie flagged a passing waiter.

“Yes, Mademoiselle?” he said. His formal enunciation was just a bit at odds with his bare, oiled, rippling torso.

“I’ll have an iced tea, please,” she said. “What would you like, Mrs. Peterson?”

“I think I’ll splurge and have a lemonade, Nanny,” I said, with my nose in the air.

“Very good, Madame,” the waiter said with a bow. “I will be back shortly.”

We watched him go, then I gave Joanie a splash. “How come you get to be a Mademoiselle?”

“You’ve got a baby, Stupid.”

“Yeah, but you’re exactly my age. You could be married.”

She looked over the situation. “Hmm. You’re right. It must be the way you fill out that horrible swimsuit.”

I blushed. Lactation did tend to enlarge the chest area. I’d have splashed her again, but the waiter came back.

“Excuse me, Madame Peterson. I will be back with your drinks in a moment, but I thought you would like to know that there is a telephone message for you at the front desk. Apparently, it is urgent.”

Urgent? Heart starting to pump, I pushed myself to my feet.

“Leave George,” Joanie said. “I can watch him for a couple of minutes. I’m your nanny, remember?”

I hesitated. The lobby was only about fifty paces up the beach. I transferred George to her waiting arms. “Okay. You win.”

“Accept it, Mary. I know what’s best.”

“You’re absolutely right. Change his poopy diaper while I’m gone, will you?”

“Now, wait a minute.”

“See you!”

“Wait, wait, wait! I think I can feel my nose starting to peel already. Buy me a hat at the gift shop, will you?”

“I left my wallet in the bungalow.”

She threw me her beach bag. “Use my credit card. Buy yourself a bikini while you’re at it.”

I shook my head as I hurried up the beach. A large dining patio jutted out from the resort’s main buildings. I hurried up the steps, through the tables, past the coconut-laced bar, to the lobby. The message was from Alan and just said to call ASAP. I took the slip of paper to the bar phone and dialed.

Alan answered on the first ring. “Mary,” he exhaled.

I straightened, alarmed at his tone. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. I went to the ATM today to get some cash, and there was a problem with our checking account.”

I let out a deep breath and leaned against the bar, relieved and exasperated at the same time. I’d rushed off the beach, away from the baby, because of a stupid bank error? At least he hadn’t set the house on fire. “I’m five thousand miles away, Alan. Can’t it wait?”

“I don’t think so. Our balance is suddenly over a hundred-thousand dollars.”

“How much?” I asked, barely able to add tone to the breath squeaking out of my throat.

“Let me get the receipt. Here it is: $105,530.”

“That’s wrong.” Boy, was it wrong. “You’d better call the bank.”

“I did. Apparently, some lawyer’s office wired a hundred grand to our account yesterday. They’re going to investigate further, but it looks like it’s legit.”

I started pacing in front of the empty bar stools. Fortunately, the phone had an extra-long cord. “Oh, come on. It has to be a mistake. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t bought a lottery ticket in years.”

“So, you don’t know anything about it?”

“No! What? Did you think I’d robbed the corner grocery and forgot to tell you about it?”

“Jeez, Mary, relax. I’m not accusing you or blaming you. I’m only calling because I promised your grandmother.”

I stood very still and bit my lip. “What’s Gran got to do with it?”

“She called about an hour ago to see if you all got off okay. I mentioned the money, and she freaked out.”
“Why?”

He hesitated. I could feel him coming to a decision to tell me something I didn’t want to hear, and I braced myself.

“The name on the wire transfer was Mary Koch Peterson,” he said.

My maiden name was Fischer. Koch was the name on my original birth certificate, but I hadn’t used it since Gran adopted me when I was a baby. I didn’t understand. Who in the world would associate that name with me? Someone who knew my parents before they died?

Oh, my. I could see why Gran was upset. For some reason, she hated my father. My whole life, she’d refused to talk about him, wouldn’t show me even a photograph. This, of course, had led to a lot of curiosity and speculation on the part of an imaginative teenager, but she had remained steadfast. The woman could definitely hold a grudge.

“Anyway,” Alan continued, “I put together the name with the fact that the transfer came from a lawyer’s office, and I foolishly suggested to your grandmother that the money might be some kind of inheritance.”

“Oh, come on. It’s been thirty years since my parents died.”

“Right. You just turned thirty a couple of months ago. Sometimes people put in their wills that they don’t want their children to inherit until they’re older and wiser.”

I put my hand to my throat, fighting a surge of emotion. What if it was true? Just the thought that my father might have reached out over his grave, over thirty years of hurt, to let me know he’d thought about me, touched me deeply. I had to remind myself that we were creating pipe dreams here. The more likely scenario was that the bank or the lawyer’s office or someone else had made a mistake. Some other Mary Koch was probably waiting for her cash as we spoke.

“If there was a will,” I said, “wouldn’t Gran have known about it?”

“That’s the thing, Mary. Maybe she did. She was hysterical. I’ve never heard her like this. Even if the money is legally yours, she wants you to send it back, no questions asked. The money is evil, your father was evil, ya-da, ya-da, ya-da.”
I sighed. Gran was a very sensible, down-to-earth person, except when it came to my father. When I was thirteen, I snooped around in her papers and found a coroner’s report identifying my mother’s body by her dental records. One of the few things I knew about my parents was that they both died in a plane crash, so I’d made the mistake of asking her if she had a similar paper regarding my dad. She blistered my ears with a diatribe that would have done a sailor proud and grounded me for six months.

“I’ll call her when I get back,” I said. It was silly to get all worked up about something that was most likely a mistake anyway. “Let’s not spend the money until we find out more, okay?”

“Too late. I went straight down to Kiddie World and bought a tree house.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yes.”

I took a breath. “Ha-ha. I get it.”

“Are you having fun yet, Mary?”

“I’m working on it, dear.”

In all the excitement, I forgot to buy Joanie a hat. We moved to deeper shade and sat on the beach with George for another hour or so, then we picked up the kids from the daycare and dragged our pickled and sunburned bodies back to our bungalow. I nursed the baby while Emily and Blake took a bath, then let “Nanny” dress the children for dinner while I took a shower. Closing my eyes, I allowed myself to enjoy the sting of the water on my skin and the coconut smell of the expensive hotel shampoo. Item number one on my “to buy list” if it turned out I really had inherited that money: better shampoo. Item number two was—what? I honestly didn’t know. This was one of the serious downsides of losing your dream and not allowing yourself to even think about picking up another one. And this was going to have to change. What the hell did I want?

I dressed in the slinky Indonesian gown I’d brought back from my Honeymoon in Hawaii. Made of creamy silk, it was slit up the side to the thigh, with a neckline that, if I undid a button or two, showed off a little cleavage. It was tighter now than Before Children, but I could still get it over my hips. With my hair moussed back in a kind of wind-blown style, and a little mascara and lipstick, I felt almost sexy.

When I came out of the bathroom, all three children were passed out on my bed. Joanie sat in the wicker chair in the corner, shushing me with her finger over her mouth.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I couldn’t keep them awake.”

In any other situation, all three children sleeping at the same time would be considered a blessing, but I was starved. “What about dinner?”

“You go,” she said.

“Alone?”

She sighed dramatically. “As your servant, I can’t tell you what to do. The restaurant’s behind the bar. Bring me back a sandwich or something, but take your time. Get to know some of the other guests.”

I happened to know from bitter experience that it was impossible to force my children to all fall asleep at the same time. Otherwise, I’d have suspected that Joanie did this on purpose. “You’re determined to push me, aren’t you?”

“I’m your friend, Mary. It’s my job.”

I took another look at my pink-cheeked children. Emily was snoring softly, and George had his little thumb in his mouth. Nobody needed me here. Joanie was a good babysitter. All right then, I could go. If fact, it was better for everyone if I just went.

Since I was supposed to be pushing my boundaries, I decided to take the path through the manicured jungle instead of walking down the beach. The distinctive smell of insecticide wafted from the shrubbery, which I assumed was to keep the mosquito population down. The louvered windows in our bungalow didn’t have any screens.

I found a scuba equipment shed along the way, and wandered in on an impulse. A blackboard listed times for scuba classes, and the walls were lined with fins, masks, snorkels, and scuba tanks in a variety of sizes, some very small.

“Do you teach snorkeling to the kids?” I asked the young man behind the counter.

“But of course.”

“Isn’t it a little dangerous?”

“Oh, no. The lagoon is very safe. The fishies, they are all small. No sharks, n’est-ce pas? So, you wish to check out some equipment?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just go for a swim.”

He frowned. He was wearing just the tiniest Speedo, which was distracting, to say the least. “Be careful to stay in the swimming area, if you please. The coral, it grows close to the surface, and if you touch it you will get a nasty scrape.”

“What if I go out where the water is deeper? I’m an excellent swimmer.”

“Oh, no, Mademoiselle, one must not approach the outer reef. The currents, they are very strong.”

“Okay. Merci, beaucoups.” I said. I waited until I was outside to punch my fist in the air. I’d gotten a “Mademoiselle”!

The path let me out at the beach at a picture-postcard moment, with the sun just starting to sink on the red-stained horizon. I leaned up against a palm tree, sank my bare toes in the sand, and looked out across the water. Sounds of music and laughter drifted down from the dining patio, but didn’t intrude on the stillness of the water or the liquid color display in the sky. My bones melted, and my eyes started to close.

“Is it just me, or is that moon upside-down?” a thick Midwestern voice said right behind me.

I whirled around. A tall, barrel-chested man with silver hair backed away, his hands raised in apology. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you.” He turned toward the silhouettes of the dock and palm trees against the last light in the red and gray sky. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Like we’re inside a postcard.”

I smiled at that. “I was just thinking the same thing. Reminding myself that this is the very same ocean that breaks on the beach back home.”

He chuckled. “I’m from Nebraska. The closest thing I’ve seen to a beach is the shore of Lake McConaughy. Believe me, it’s never been anything like this. Have you been here long?”

I blushed. This was a pickup. Wow. I hadn’t been flirted with since—had I ever been flirted with? “Just got in today.”

“Me, too. In fact, I’m fresh off the bus.” He held out his hand. “Jake Duncan.”

I shook his hand. “Mary Peterson.”

“Where’s your husband on this romantic evening, Mrs. Peterson?”

I felt myself blushing as I touched the plain band on my left hand. “He’s home, working. My kids and I came without him this trip. But we’re very happily married.”

“Of course. I see. Well, it seems a shame to be alone on this beautiful beach. I was just about to take a walk. Would you like to join me?”

“Actually, I need to get dinner before they close the buffet.”

He grinned. “If you twist my arm, I’ll go for another crack at that pastry table.”

I didn’t get a chance to say no. All of a sudden, he was at my elbow, and we were headed to the dining hall. I started to chastise myself for my paltry refusal skills, then forced myself to rewind and start again. Alan was five thousand miles away, and I wasn’t going to sleep with this guy. An innocent dinner with a nice older man wasn’t going to hurt anybody.

As we stepped onto the patio near the bar, Yoshiko’s niece, Keiko, came out of the lobby. Her hair was tangled, and her cheeks were a rosy pink. She was wearing an oversized Club Soleil tee shirt that revealed her knobby knees and skinned shins. I’d thought she was a teenager when we’d met on the bus. Now, I guessed she was eleven or twelve. I smiled and greeted her.

She came over and bowed. “Hello, Mrs. Peterson.”

“Hello, Keiko.” I introduced her to Jake.

She lowered her eyes and leaned toward me, inviting me to step closer. “Have you seen my aunt?” she asked with an edge of panic in her voice.

“No, I haven’t, Honey. Can’t you find her?”

She looked at Jake and then at the ground. “We have small disagreement. I—I go for walk. Calm down. When I come back to room, she not there.”

I smiled gently. “She’s probably out looking for you. I’m sure if you go back to your bungalow, she’ll return before you know it.”

She brightened. “Yes, yes, that is right. I go back now. Thank you.” She scampered off the patio and down to the lagoon.

By the time we got inside the restaurant, the waiters were clearing the buffet, but we managed to grab some food and a bottle of wine and find an empty table. Now that we were in the light, I had a chance to get a good look at Jake. He was probably in his mid-fifties, with a blond-gray crew cut and a craggy, sharp-edged face. His shoulders and neck were very wide, his torso quite trim. He moved gracefully and with confidence, like an athlete or an ex-soldier. He must have sensed me staring and looked up from his food.

His face didn’t change expression, but his eyes flared, and for a moment I thought I saw something in them, some strong emotion.

“What is it?” I asked. “Are you all right?”

He broke his gaze. “I’m fine.” He cut into his crusty cherry pie and brought a bite to his lips. Then he tried to shrug it off. “For a second there, you looked remarkably like someone I used to know.”

I smiled politely. “Really?”

His mouth twisted into a smile, and he shook his head. “Funny how the brain works.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. “How’s the pastry?” I ventured.

“It’s good. How’s your meal? Looks like your eyes were bigger than your stomach.”

I blushed. “I’m bringing some back to the room for my kids.”

He pushed his plate toward me. “Think they’d want one of these petit fours?”

“Oh, yeah, they’d love one. Too bad their mom says no way, too much sugar.” I paused. “But I’ll have one, if you’re offering.”

He laughed. “Well, okay. Maybe one.”

I stole one of his cakes, glad I’d been able to make him smile. “What brings you to the South Pacific, Jake?”

He leaned forward and paused. Then he seemed to make a decision. “Working. I’m a journalist for a Chicago newspaper.”

“Oh? Are you doing a travel article?”

“No, actually, I’m doing an exposé on a former intelligence agent, a real scumbag who’s using his contacts to run a business stealing and selling intellectual property out of the Far East—patents, processes, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds fascinating! Does this guy live on Moorea?”

“No, but he’s doing business here.” Jake’s eyes were clear, iceberg blue, and as he spoke he held me in their gaze, “He sent a courier.”

“Oh,” I said. I almost blurted out, “Hey, I happen to be traveling with someone who works as a courier,” but stopped myself just in time.

“They call this man ‘the Senator.’”

He paused. I focused on the lingering grains of rice on my plate. This couldn’t be a coincidence. But Joanie had always given me the impression her dad actually was a senator, a former senator, anyway, and a legitimate businessman.

“He’s a pretty slippery character,” Jake continued. “Originally, I’d intended to interview the courier and try to convince her to squeal on her boss, but now I’m going to have to change my plans.”

“Oh?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level and my face blank. What an idiot I was to have been flattered with all Jake’s attention! He’d known all along I was traveling with Joanie, and he was just using me to get to her. Well, that was just too bad for him, wasn’t it? He was going to have to deal with her directly—after I had wrung her neck.

“For one thing,” Jake said, “he’s managed to send someone who doesn’t know anything about his operation.” He leaned forward. “Obviously, you’re an innocent, Mary. I don’t know what he told you.”

Me? Wait a minute. He thought I was the courier? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His eyes softened a fraction. “He couldn’t have told you the truth, Mary. If you had any idea of the stakes involved, you would never have brought your children.”

A huge adrenaline rush ignited my heartbeat. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could barely speak. What the hell had Joanie gotten me into this time?

I managed to open my throat enough to whisper, “You’ve got the wrong girl.”

I started to rise, but Jake grabbed my upper arm and pulled me back into my chair. I searched the room for help. The waiters had all disappeared and the last late diners had moved out to the patio.

“Mary.” He released my arm suddenly. His face relaxed for just a moment, and it was like the breeze had stopped ruffling the pond, revealing depths of pain under the surface. Pain and something else: long-stoked anger.

“What do you want from me?” I whispered.

“The operation has been blown. There are some nasty players involved, here. You’ve got to get your children out of the crossfire.”