She planted a quick kiss on his cheek, then turned back to worship her reflection. “You’re such a softy. Mom always said I should marry a guy like you.”

His head snapped up. “What was that?” he asked.

Nicole slipped an earring into place. “She said to make sure I picked someone who’d take care of me the way you took care of her.” She smiled at him in the mirror, oblivious to the fact that her words had just about knocked him down.

Emma had told their daughter to marry a guy like him? “When—when did she say that?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes when you were going out on a date, and I’d watch her put on makeup, and I’d say how I couldn’t wait to get married, and she’d say, ‘Make sure you pick someone like Daddy.’” Nicole smiled at him and put in her other earring.

Liam, suddenly aware that his mouth was open, closed it. “Oh, so guess what? I saw Posey, right? At Mr. White’s house. He was doing her hair, too, because she’s, like, a chaperone. And listen to this. When she went to her prom, some creep told her she looked like a bag of bones, and she got totally dumped and had to walk home! In the rain. How’s that for nice, huh? I’d totally slap that guy. I’d give him a knee to the crotch, that’s what I’d do.”

Bag of bones? That phrase sounded…familiar. Those words…they meant something to him.

His daughter was looking at him in the mirror, waiting for a response. “Knee to the crotch. That’s my girl.”

“Do you like her, Dad? I got a vibe between the two of you the other night. After the game?”

Liam inhaled sharply. “Uh…yes. I do.”

“Are you guys dating?”

“Well…no.” He swallowed. Now or never. “Nicole, I thought you wanted it to be just the two of us. Remember?”

She frowned. “Oh, that! When you asked if I wanted to live with Grandma and Grandpa? Dad, come on. I was totally PMSing that day. You can have a girlfriend. As long as she’s cool and doesn’t go all Cruella De Vil on me. And don’t even think about popping out triplets before I leave for college, okay, because I am so not the diaper-changing type.”

Once again, Liam found his mouth was hanging open. “Oh.”

She patted his hand. “Get a life, Dad. Do more than sit around and worry about me, okay? Posey’s nice. Anyway, don’t you love my hair? I wish I could do this myself. Mr. White is so awesome. I wish he could be my teacher for every subject. They’re adopting a baby. Isn’t that cool?”

The doorbell rang.

“Oh, my gosh! That’s Tanner! Daddy! Go get the door! Go, go! Tell him I’m not ready.” With that, she shoved him out of the room.

Mom always said I should marry a guy like you.

But those weren’t the only words ringing in his brain.

Bag of bones.

Memory was dawning, the thick fog lifting over what was not a proud moment.

Nothing but a bag of bones.

But first things first. He had fatherly things to do. He opened the door, and there was Tanner Talcott, wearing a tuxedo, corsage box in hand.

Liam had been working at the garage before coming home this evening. He was dressed like the thug he’d once been—black motorcycle jacket, black leather boots, faded jeans, Orange County Motors T-shirt. Hadn’t shaved today, or yesterday, now that he thought about it. He was a good three inches taller than young Tanner, and probably forty pounds heavier. He stepped a little closer to his daughter’s date. Tanner took a half step back. Good.

“Ground rules, Tanner,” he growled. Tanner paled. More good. “No alcohol. No smoking. No drugs. No looking at other girls. You can dance with my daughter. Your hands will avoid the danger zones, which are here, here and here.” Liam gestured to his chest, groin and ass. “You can kiss her. Once. At 10:59 p.m. tonight, when you’ll be standing here once again. I will be on the other side of this door, waiting for her. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Tanner whispered.

“I was your age once, too,” Liam said.

“I’m aware of that, sir.”

“I know what you think about.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You can think it. You can’t do it.”

“Okay.”

“I have many sharp tools in my garage.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re clear, then?”

“Very, sir.”

“Good!” Liam smiled, then grabbed the boy by the shoulder and dragged him in. “Nicole! Your date’s here.”

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, when the pictures had been taken and Nicole had kissed her dad and Tanner had shaken his hand and Liam had managed to let his child go, he got on his bike and headed across the bridge into Maine. When he pulled up in front of the Tate residence, he gunned his motor before shutting it off. Let them know he was loaded for bear, in other words.

George opened the door, frowning. “Liam. Is Nicole all right?”

“She’s fine. I’d like to speak with you and Louise both, please.”

“Well, we’re having a dinner party. It’ll have to wait.”

“Now, George.” Liam folded his arms across his chest. “Or I can come in and say it in front of your guests, if you’d rather.”

His father-in-law frowned. “Fine. Wait here.” He returned a long minute later with Louise.

“Liam,” she said, her lips narrowing. “What is so important that it can’t wait?”

“My daughter is,” he said, staring at them both. “I have something to say. I know you didn’t approve of me following Emma to California. I wouldn’t approve of that, either, now that I’m a father. And I know you weren’t happy when she got pregnant, and I know you told her to think about an abortion, and I know you told her to get me to sign away my paternal rights. And I know you told her not to marry me, and I know you probably told her to divorce me once we were married.”

Louise’s eyebrows rose, as if to say So?

“But you should know that I loved your daughter from the day I first saw her to the minute she died. I never stopped. I held her when she cried, I carried her to the bathroom when she was sick, I washed the sheets and made her soup and gave her morphine when the pain got too bad.”

His in-laws’ faces were frozen. “Son, we’re aware—” George began.

“I’m not finished,” Liam growled. “How dare you threaten to take away my daughter? The child I raised and read to and fed? How dare you even whisper that I’m unfit? Have you seen her? Talked to her? Don’t you know how special she is?” His voice broke. “You should be thanking me. You should be kissing my goddamn boots. So if you want to try something in court, you go right ahead. I won’t have to say a word. You’ll bury yourselves, and you’ll lose, and when you do, I wonder what Nicole will think about the people who tried to take her away from her father.”

Louise looked like he’d slapped her. “Liam…we…” Her face collapsed. “We just miss Emma so much. When we saw you with that other woman…”

George put his arm around his wife. “We’ll drop the suit. You’re right, son. It was stupid of us.”

The fight went out of Liam as if a light had been flipped off. “I know you miss Emma. So do I, believe me. And I know it wasn’t easy to see me with someone else, but I’m allowed to keep living. And I know you love Nicole. But you can’t come between us, and you have to stop trying. My kid. My rules.”

George nodded, and to his credit, he looked ashamed. Louise fished a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes. “Have you…told Nicole any of this? About…the things we said about you?”

Liam looked at her. The echoes of Emma were in her face—her nose, the shape of her eyes. “No, Louise,” he said gently. “Of course not. And I never would.”

“Louise? Is everything all right?” A tall woman, dressed in Barbara Bush wear—sweater set, plaid skirt, sturdy shoes—stood on tiptoe behind the Tates.

“Oh, yes,” Louise said. “It’s Liam. Our son-in-law.”

“It’s prom night,” Liam said, smiling at her. He fished in his pocket and withdrew his camera. “I brought pictures of Nicole.” He handed the camera to George. “You can look at these without me, since I have to run.”

“Thank you,” Louise said, her voice still tremulous.

Liam looked at her a long moment. “Give Nicole a call tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll want to tell you all about it.”

“Thank you, Liam,” she whispered.

“See you soon, son,” George said.

Then Liam walked back to his bike, which had never looked quite so beautiful, and slung his leg over it, pulled on his helmet and started her up.

One more stop, and then he’d be done.

CHAPTER THIRTY

PROM. POSEY WONDERED how many people would walk away from tonight with the memories they wanted.

Only about a third of the kids were dancing—well, if you could call it that. They looked more like salmon swimming upstream, all aiming for the stage, oddly in unison, as the band played what the lead singer had called a “classic” by Eminem. Shockingly, most of the kids seemed to know the words: There’s vomit on his sweater already, Mom’s spaghetti…

And people wondered why she liked oldies.

Jon was wandering through the ranks, pulling out the kids who weren’t sober, putting in calls to their parents. A large majority of kids seemed to be trying too hard…shrill, forced laughter, exaggerated gestures, darting looks to see who was where and if he or she had noticed. And then there were those who seemed either bored or miserable. Sad, really, when you thought of how much effort and time went into preparing for the big night.

But there were the golden kids, and Posey was glad to see that Nicole was among them. She was one of the salmon swimmers at the moment; her face was bright and happy. Posey couldn’t wait to tell Liam—actually, no. She wouldn’t be doing that.

With a sigh, she looked around. Whitfield Mansion looked great. Same setup, same décor. Same cliques—the mean girls, the fringe kids, the smart-asses, the invisibles.

Well. Time to hit the loo. Posey made her way across the dance floor, stopped at a couple engaged in some pornographic moves, cheerfully told them she’d turn a hose on them if they didn’t keep six inches between body parts, and continued on. The band’s next song was another she didn’t recognize, and more kids flowed out onto the dance floor. The music was so loud, Posey could feel it in her stomach, and the quiet of the bathroom felt like an oasis.

She realized abruptly that this was the bathroom. Huh. There was the last stall, where she’d hidden. May as well use that one. A long time ago, she’d had to bite her knuckle to keep from crying in here. Funny, how huge that moment had been at the time. Funny, too, how it was now just one of those things.

When she came out of the stall, she found she wasn’t alone. A girl was wiping her eyes with the rough paper towels.

“You okay?” Posey asked.

The girl gave her a panicked look. “Are you in my class?” she squeaked.

Posey smiled. “No. I’m a chaperone. I’m thirty-four years old, actually.”

“You don’t look like it.”

“Thanks. So. Having a bad time?” She turned the water on and washed her hands.

The girl’s face scrunched up. “My boyfriend just broke up with me. Can you believe it? Like, it couldn’t wait till tomorrow?”

“What a putz,” Posey said, patting the girl’s arm. “Want some advice?”

The girl gave Posey that classic teenage look—dubious that this relic of the last century could offer anything useful. “Sure,” she said sullenly.

“Screw him. I mean, no, don’t screw him in the…you know. But this is your prom. Your friends are here, you look gorgeous, the band is, um, great, and you’ll never do senior prom again. So don’t go crawling off and let him see how much he hurt you. Just put that away for now and go have fun.”

“Right,” the girl said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, crawling off to cry works, too. Your choice, sweetheart.”

Posey had crawled off. But she never had again, had she? That night, miserable as it had been, had made her a better person.

The bathroom door burst open, and three girls, all pretty as swans, came in. “Sierra, he’s such an ass! Don’t hide in here, though! Come on! Pretend he doesn’t exist. Ryan Joyce will be totally thrilled.”

The girls were gone in the next instant, and for whatever reason, Posey felt…well…a sense of closure, an affection for her sixteen-year-old self, for the heartache of an unrequited, crushing first love. She’d really loved Liam back then. She really loved him now. And you know what? It was…good. Someday, maybe, she’d tell her grandkids about the bad boy with the leather jacket who took her for a ride on his motorcycle, and wouldn’t they all think she was the bomb?

Well. Time to go back and return to chastity patrol. A glimpse in the mirror revealed that Jon’s hairspray had not been up to the task of conquering the mighty cowlick, but so what? She looked like herself, and it was oddly reassuring.

As she came out of the loo, she could hear the lead singer of the band talking. “Okay, kids, we have a request, and maybe you’ve heard it, if you’ve ever been to a Red Sox game. Bear with us, we haven’t played it for years, but the guy gave us a hundred bucks to do this.”