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Lucy jumped up. “I heard that. And he’ll know you’re lying. He knows things like that.”
Ted’s response to Meg’s fabrication was as clear as a bell. “Liar.”
“Go away,” Meg snarled at him. “You are totally creeping me out.”
Lucy clutched the phone. “Did you just tell Ted Beaudine that he was creeping you out?”
“I might have,” Meg said.
Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Lucy tried to pull herself together. “Wow … I sure didn’t see this coming.”
“See what coming?” Meg sounded annoyed. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” Lucy gulped. “Love you. And enjoy!” She hung up, jumped up, pressed the phone to her chest. And danced around the room.
Meg and Ted. Meg and Ted. Meg and Ted.
Of course.
Of course, of course, of course! Ted wasn’t a player. He didn’t sleep with women he wasn’t seriously attracted to. And he was attracted to Meg, Lucy’s screwball, screw-up best friend, who wandered the world without a plan and cared nothing about earning anyone’s good opinion.
Meg Koranda and Mr. Perfect. Her rough edges and his smooth surfaces. Her impulsiveness and his forethought. Both of them blessed with brains, loyalty, and gigantic hearts. It was a crazy, unpredictable match made in heaven, although from the sound of their conversation, neither of them seemed to realize it. Or at least Meg didn’t. With Ted, it was hard to tell.
Lucy had no trouble imagining the battles they were having. Meg blunt-spoken and confrontational; Ted laid-back on the surface, steely underneath. And as she thought about them, the missing pieces of her own relationship with Ted finally fell into place. The only rough edge between them had been Lucy’s inability to relax with him, her feeling that she had to be on her best behavior to justify being Ted’s partner. Meg wouldn’t give a damn about anything like that.
They just might be perfect for each other. If they didn’t screw things up. Which, since Meg was involved, seemed highly probable. But whether they worked out or not, one thing was certain. If Meg and Ted were in bed together, Lucy was finally off the hook.
AFTER THAT, SHE WAS TOO worked up to get back to sleep. The house’s spotty air-conditioning had left her bedroom uncomfortably warm. She opened the sliders, fetched her flip-flops to protect her bare feet from the splintery deck, and stepped outside.
Threatening clouds tumbled in the sky. She pulled her damp cami away from her breasts. With the wind, the distant flash of lightning, and the dark mystery of the lake for company, she finally felt liberated from her guilt.
A movement caught her eye, a figure—broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, with a distinct long-legged stride—coming around the side of the house. As he passed the picnic table, he paused to look back, but she was standing too deeply in the shadows for him to see her. He crossed the yard, moving more quickly. When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, looked back again, then headed down to the water.
Maybe he had insomnia, too, but why was he being so furtive? She decided to find out. She stepped off the deck. On her way across the yard, she tripped over the horseshoe stake. It hurt like crazy, but no way was Viper letting a little thing like a stubbed toe hold her back.
Limping slightly, she made it to the steps. She didn’t see him below, only the single post light glowing at the end of the dock. It reminded her of The Great Gatsby and the fascination English teachers had with that book instead of something most teenagers might actually want to read.
As she descended to the dock, she was careful not to let the slap of her flip-flops betray her, although that seemed unlikely with so much wind. When she reached the bottom, she carefully made her way across the creaky boards toward the dim glow of mustard light oozing from the open end of the weathered boathouse.
The fishy smell of storm-whipped waters joined the odors of old rope, mildew, and gasoline that had seeped into the wood. An opera she didn’t recognize was playing softly. As she slipped inside the boathouse, she saw Panda sitting on the bench seat in the stern of the powerboat, his back to her, his bare feet propped on a cooler. He wore a T-shirt and shorts, and his hand was buried inside a giant bag of potato chips. “I’ll only share,” he said without turning, “if you promise not to talk.”
“Like my only pleasure in life is talking to you,” she retorted. And then, because she liked the idea of being rude, “Frankly, Panda, you’re not intelligent enough to be all that interesting.”
He recrossed his ankles on the cooler. “Tell it to my Ph.D. adviser.”
“You don’t have a Ph.D. adviser,” she said as she climbed into the boat.
“That’s true. Getting my master’s was all my brain could handle.”
“Your master’s? You are so lying.” She plopped onto the cushion next to him.
He smiled.
She stared at him. Long and hard. “Tell me you don’t really have a master’s degree.”
His smile turned into fake apology. “Only from Wayne State, not an Ivy.” He snapped a potato chip between his teeth, then bent down to flick off the music. “It’s one of those night and weekend degrees favored by us working slobs, so it doesn’t count in your world.”
That bastard. She glared at him. “Damn it, Panda. I liked you so much better when you were stupid.”
