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Carolyn’s excited cheer forced Lauren to pull the phone away from her ear. She rolled her eyes—she’d gotten the whole clubs-until-four-in-the-morning thing out of her system years ago, but she couldn’t say no to her sister.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Pinky-swear?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Carolyn… I’m hanging up now.” Lauren wasn’t sure if her sister could hear her over her own laughter.
“But we just got on the phone.”
“Well, I just got in the cabin and the plane can’t take off if I’m on my phone.” Lauren pushed her sunglasses up on her head. “And the longer the plane’s on the ground, the longer it takes to get home.”
“Fine…” She sounded huffy, but Lauren could hear the exaggerated humor in her voice. “But I can’t wait to see you! I love you.”
“Love you, too.” Lauren hit the red end-call button and flopped down in a seat across from Augie. They fist-bumped over the small table between them.
“Carolyn excited?”
“Understatement of the century.”
Augie pulled out a set of noise-canceling headphones and was asleep by the time the jet reached cruising altitude. Lauren grabbed her journal and started to write. After an hour, she had several pages full of drivel. She rolled her shoulders and neck before she turned the page and started doodling. It wasn’t long before the page was covered with geometric shapes, flowers, cartoon birds, and myriad other little sketches.
But no lyrics worth a damn.
She closed her eyes as she pinched the bridge of her nose. She hadn’t had this much trouble writing since she’d wrestled her cocaine demons to the ground just before and during rehab.
A little snow can fix that,whispered a silky voice in the back of her head. A voice she’d muffled for many years.
Her eyes snapped open.
ChapterTwo
Danny’s knuckles were white as he gripped the Jeep’s steering wheel. If there was a graceful exit from this fight, he sure as hell didn’t see it. Out of the corner of his eye, his wife’s profile was granite. Set jaw, shoulders stiff, Heather stared straight ahead. He smothered a sigh. He was so tired of fighting with her over what seemed like every little thing. This time it was about him picking up extra shifts at work.
He wasn’t sure what Heather expected. They had a mortgage to pay, plus tuition at St. Catherine’s Catholic school for their three sons. Not to mention all the other bills that came with their middle-class existence. His salary as a detective—and hers as a kindergarten teacher—didn’t stretch as far as it used to, and they needed those overtime dollars.
On the radio, the DJ nattered on, his deep baritone at odds with the inconsequential advertising dross until he queued up the next song. He said it was a deep track from the archive: “Bombshell,”from The Kingmakers’ very first album. Danny clicked the radio off and glanced in the rearview. All three boys were pretending not to hear their parents argue. The sigh he’d stifled moments ago escaped.
“What was that for?” His wife’s voice lashed him.
“Just sick of fighting.”
“Fine.” Heather looked back out the window.
The reluctant détente in their skirmish opened the door for the boys to start squabbling with each other. After five minutes, Danny was fed up.
“Enough!”
“Matty started it,” Lucas said.
“I don’t care who started it. I’m finishing it.” They pulled over in front of the white Dutch Colonial where he’d grown up. Tires crunched in the semi-frozen slush along the curb. Another day and the snow from the late March storm would be gone. Wouldn’t be soon enough for him—after the thirty-plus inches of snow that had fallen this year, he was done with winter. He stared in the rearview mirror. In the back seat, Lucas looked sullen, but a grin crept across Matty’s face. The ten-year-old knew how to push all his older brother’s buttons.
“Matthew.” There was no mistaking the warning in Danny’s voice.
“Mom! I’m notdoinganything.”
“You’re in trouble,” Tommy—the youngest—said in a singsong voice.
