I need to avoid them.
He had found Janine after the accident. Forensic evidence had proved that neither he, nor anyone else, had killed her—and had established that it wasn’t suicide.
No way would it have been suicide, in any case. Janine would never have taken that way out, and she hadn’t wanted to go.
It had been an accident. A stupid accident. Because she’d decided she needed to carry a gun. Because she’d wanted to carry one. Because she’d needed to prove to the world how tough she was.
The anger simmered within him all over again, and he tried to block it out. And hoped that none of his children would mention the subject of their mother for the next three months.
“I WANT FIONA!”
Belle’s sobs were something Seamus hadn’t anticipated. Even less had he anticipated that his own daughter would not be comforted by his arms.
Lauren reached for her. “Baby Belle, it’s okay. Look. You’re upsetting Mouse. He’s going to cry, too.”
“He misses Fiona!” Belle said.
Seamus thought in amazement of the slim, sure elderly woman now kayaking in Baja. Fiona, with her long white braid and her love of poetry and opera and ballet and openness to learning about all that was new.
Seamus surrendered Belle to his oldest daughter. The four-year-old turned and gazed at him with what looked like a combination of suspicion and curiosity. He could still smell the child scent of her and marveled that it should seem foreign to him, instead of familiar.
“Mouse wants you to sleep with us,” Belle told Lauren. “Please.”
Seamus’s reaction was to forbid it, on the impulse that Belle should be taught independence. Then, as if from long ago, he remembered the fears of his other children when they were younger, back in the days when he had known them. He would have to be a monster not to want this child, with her small tear-streaked face, to feel safe and comforted.
“Is it okay?” Lauren asked hesitantly, looking at him.
He realized that she didn’t call him Dad. She didn’t call him anything. “Of course.”
Lauren smiled and told Belle, “We can’t let Mouse feel lonely. I’ll sleep in the other bed.” She nodded to the room’s second twin. “We’ll share. Okay, baby?”
“Mouse loves you,” Belle told her sister.
CHAPTER THREE
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Rory and Lauren strapped on snowshoes over their snowboarding boots. They carried packs made by CamelBak, with water reservoirs, as well as emergency blankets, and small first-aid kits. Rory also wore an avalanche beacon and carried her shovel in her pack, though they were not going into any avalanche zone.
“This looks pretty tame,” Lauren pointed out, although she was breathing hard from the hike uphill.
“Good. We’re just starting out with this. The country around here has a lot of avalanche danger, so I don’t want to take you anywhere hairier until you’ve gone through the course and learned to use a beacon.”
“I wish I could take a course in fire-dancing,” Lauren said.
“I don’t know how your dad would feel about that. And I’ve never taught a minor with fire. Of course, you don’t actually learn twirling or poi with fire. You learn without. It’s essential to practice for months, to get really good, before you bring fire into it.”
“I’d practice without fire,” Lauren told her. “But I’m not afraid of fire.”
Rory glanced at her, noting the remark. She turned the comment over in her mind, knowing it would have relevance to snowboarding and everything else this girl did.
“I am,” Rory said. “I’m afraid of getting burned and I’m afraid of breaking bones snowboarding and skiing, and I’m afraid of being buried in an avalanche. It doesn’t stop me doing any of the things I like to do, but it does make me determined to do things the right way. Fear is what helps us stay alive.”
“I guess,” Lauren said without conviction. “Our family’s not fearful, though. I’m not, in any case.”
Why did she keep pointing that out? Rory wondered. What was wrong with a little healthy fear?
They made the run together, Rory following Lauren. Lauren was obviously an accomplished snowboarder. Her form was excellent. Probably, she’d had the best teachers in Telluride.
Rory led her up another slope, breathing hard as she made her way over the powder in her snowshoes. They snowboarded together for three hours, then headed back to the Empire Street house in Rory’s car, a black Toyota RAV4 that she’d bought used. As they turned down Main Street, however, Rory spotted a familiar shape wearing a day pack and walking with the help of an ornately curved walking stick. Her grandmother wore black wool pants and an imitation ermine coat, and her still-thick white hair was swept up in a French twist beneath her matching fake fur hat.
Snow fell heavily as Rory pulled up beside her and rolled down the window. “Gran, do you want a ride?”
“Of course not, Rory.” Her mother’s mother frowned with interest at Lauren. “I will fall apart if I don’t keep up with my walking.”
Walking, dancing, singing, yoga, Rory filled in. The way Sondra had raised her—good grief, she’d learned to ski by being guided down slopes between her grandmother’s legs—seemed to have determined that she pursue an active, healthy lifestyle. Part of her love of fire-dancing and belly dance had come from her grandmother’s enthusiasm when she’d learned of Rory’s new interests; without being told, Sondra had seemed to understand that what Rory liked was the peaceful concentration required to work with fire.
Feeling a surge of love for Sondra, Rory told the woman, “This is one of my dad’s clients, Lauren Lee. This is Sondra Nichols,” she told Lauren, “my grandmother.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Lauren said dutifully.
As they went on their way, Lauren asked, “Is your grandfather alive, too?”
“No. He died before I was born. She’s been widowed thirty-five years, and as long as I can remember, she’s always said that she’ll never marry again.”
“Like my dad.”
Rory glanced over in interest.
Lauren said, “He has girlfriends, of course. In fact, don’t be surprised if he tries to make you the next one. But he never marries them.”
Rory couldn’t read the teenager’s tone—not with accuracy. “Do you wish he would?”
“I don’t really care,” Lauren said. “It’s not like he has that much to do with us, anyhow.”
The reply shocked Rory, and bothered her. She knew what it was to have a father who didn’t “have that much to do” with her. She’d never held it against her father, believing he was devastated by her mother’s death—and by her betrayal. But in Seamus Lee, who had four children, one of them just four years old, noninvolvement seemed criminal.
“I thought he had the kind of job…” Rory stopped abruptly.
“Oh, he could spend time with us. And he used to, before my mom died. But not anymore.”
“How did your mother die?” Reflecting that she and the Lee children shared motherless status, Rory pulled up outside the Lees’ temporary home. Lights were on inside, illuminating the Greek Revival house against