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A pause. She could tell he too wanted to stay. But then he shook his head. "Thing is, Anne's driving down from San Francisco, picking up some things. I ought to be there." He looked away. "And the papers'll be ready tomorrow, the settlement agreement."
"So soon?"
"She didn't want much."
Also, a woman who cheats on her husband and abandons her children probably isn't in much of a position to demand much, Dance reflected. "You doing okay?" One of those pointless questions that's usually more about the asker than the askee.
"Relieved, sad, pissed off, worried about the kids." As lengthy a discussion of his emotional health as she'd ever heard from Michael O'Neil.
Silence for a moment.
Then he gave a smile. "Okay, better go."
But before he turned Dance found herself impulsively reaching up, one hand behind his neck, her arm around his back, and pulling him close. She kissed him hard on the mouth.
She thought, No, no, what the hell are you doing? Step back.
Yet by then his arms were enveloping her completely and he was kissing her back, just as firmly.
Then finally, he eased away. Came in for one more kiss and she gripped him even harder and then stood back.
She expected an oblique glance--his waiting state--but O'Neil stared easily into her eyes and she looked back just as comfortably. Their smiles matched.
Brother, what have I done now?
Kissed the man I truly love, she thought. And that unexpected thought was more stunning than the contact itself.
Then he was in the car. "I'll call you when I get back. See you on Sunday."
"Drive carefully," she said. A phrase that had set her on edge when her parents would tell teenage Kathryn the same. As if, oh, right, I was going to drive off the road until you reminded me.
But as a woman who'd lost one husband to the highway, it was a sentence she could not stop herself from uttering occasionally. He closed the door, glanced at her again and lifted his left palm to the inside windshield and she pressed her right to the glass outside.
He put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot.
"IF THAT DON'T beat all," Bishop Towne said, sipping his milk.
"Right," Dance said to him and his daughter, on the front porch of his house. "Edwin was innocent. Didn't kill a soul. Totally set up."
"He's still a shit."
"Daddy."
"He's a little fucking shit and I wouldn't mind if he went to jail for something. But it's good to know he's not going to be a problem anymore." The grizzled musician squinted at Dance. "He's not, is he?"
"I don't think so. He's mostly sad that Kayleigh didn't send him those personal emails and letters, the ones Simesky made up."
"We should sue those bastards," Bishop said. "The Keyholders? The fuck are they about?"
"Daddy, really. Come on." Kayleigh nodded toward the kitchen, where Suellyn and Mary-Gordon were helping Sheri bake something fragrant with vanilla. But the man's raspy voice probably hadn't carried inside.
Kayleigh said, "I'm not going to sue anybody, Daddy. We don't need that kind of publicity."
"Well, we're going to get publicity whether we want it or not. I'll talk to Sher about spinning it." Then he patted his daughter on the shoulder. "Hey, lookit the good news, KT The bad guys're dead and Edwin's out of the picture. So, no more talk about canceling any concerts. Speaking of that, I've been working on the song order again and I think we've got to move 'Leaving Home.' Everybody wants it. Encore'd be best. And I'd get the kids' choir to sing the last part in Spanish."
Dance was aware that Kayleigh's shoulders had risen in tension at these comments. Clearly she herself still wasn't so sure about the concert. Just because the killers had been stopped and Edwin absolved didn't mean she was in the mental state necessary to put on a show in the shadow of the recent crimes.
And then Dance noticed the young woman's posture collapse subtly. Which meant surrender.
