Jack hadn’t seen Dean. April made herself smile. Jack and Riley were learning to have fun together, and she wouldn’t spoil it with her own sadness. “I’m thirsty,” she said. “I’ll get us something to drink.” When she reached the kitchen, she closed her eyes. It was pain she’d seen on Dean’s face, not contempt. He’d wanted to join them—she could feel it—but he hadn’t been able to take that first step.

She got busy pouring orange juice for herself and Riley. She couldn’t control Dean’s feelings, only her own. Let go and let God. She poured an iced tea for Jack. He’d want a beer, but he was out of luck. She hadn’t expected him to show up at the cottage tonight. She and Riley had been sitting in the backyard talking about boys and listening to an old Prince album when he’d appeared. Before she knew it, they were all dancing.

She and Jack had always been a perfect match that way. They had the same style and energy. Under the spell of the music, she didn’t have to think about the folly of being fifty-two years old and still fascinated with Jack Patriot. The music shifted to a ballad. She carried the drinks outside and paused on the steps as Jack tried to pull Riley into a slow dance.

“But I don’t know how,” she protested.

“Stand on my feet.”

“I can’t do that! I’m too big. I’ll squish your toes.”

“A scrawny chicken like you? My toes will be just fine. Come on. Hop up.” He pulled her into his arms, and she gingerly placed her bare feet on top of his sneakers. She looked so small next to him. So pretty with her curly hair, bright eyes, and golden skin. April had fallen in love with her.

She sat down on the steps and watched. When she was a kid, she’d seen a girl her age dance like that with her father. April’s own father had treated her as an inconvenience, and she remembered locking herself in a bathroom stall so no one would see her cry. But she’d gotten even with him when she was older. She’d found all kinds of boys to give her the love he’d denied. One of them had been Jack Patriot.