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Stuart chuckled.
Dance froze. Then: "I'm too busy to be thinking about getting married."
"Excuses, excuses, excuses... Are you marrying Jon or Michael?"
"What? Maggie!"
Then the phone was ringing. Wes was closest and he answered. "Hello?"
They weren't supposed to answer with their name or "Dance residence." Security starts early in a law enforcement household.
"Sure." He looked at his sister. "For you. Bethany."
Maggie took the cordless phone, looked at it then wandered off. Dance checked her own cell for updates. Nothing from Jon. She called him and the line went right to voice mail.
"Hey, it's me. You on your way? Just checking."
Dance disconnected and happened to glance toward her daughter on the landline. Bethany Meyer, the future secretary of state, was a precocious eleven-year-old, polite enough, though Dance thought of her as over assembled. She believed kids that age should wear jeans or shorts and T-shirts most of the time, not dress up as if they were going for movie auditions every day. Her parents were well off, true, but they sank way too much money into the girl's clothes. And such fastidious makeup? On a girl her age? In a word, no.
Suddenly she noticed Maggie's body language change abruptly. Her shoulders rose and her head drooped. One knee went forward--a sign of a subconscious, if not physical, desire to flee or fight. She was getting troubling news. The girl continued to talk a bit more and then she discriminated. She returned to the kitchen.
"Mags, everything all right?"
"Yeah, it's fine. Why not?" Jittery.
Dance looked at her sternly.
"Everything's, like, fine."
"Watch the 'like.' What did Bethany have to say?"
"Nothing. Just stuff."
"Nothing?"
"Uh-uh."
Dance fired off the second Mom look of the morning, which was conspicuously ignored, and began to assemble the ingredients for the meal.
"Blueberries?"
Maggie didn't answer.
Dance repeated the question.
"Yeah, sure."
Dance tried the proven tactic of diversion. "Hey, you all looking forward to the concert? Neil Hartman?"
The new Dylan...
The tickets that singer-songwriter Kayleigh Towne had sent Dance and the children.
"I guess," Maggie said, less than enthusiastic.
A glance at Wes, who was, in turn, sneaking a look at his phone. He put it away fast. "Yeah, yeah...can't wait." More enthusiastic, though more distracted.
Dance herself was very much looking forward to the show. She reminded herself to check the tickets to see where the seats were. She'd left Kayleigh's envelope in the glove compartment of the Pathfinder.
