The Dog Who Danced
Dedicated with love to our mothers, Dorothy Geer Hidler and Claire Darling Gibson
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Part 1
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part 2
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part 3
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Susan Wilson
About the Author
Copyright
Part 1
Prologue
Nothing was ever handed to me. My old man taught me the value of never expecting kindness. My stepmother taught me that the only way you get to be first in life is to stand alone. I’ve managed. I’ve never gone hungry, or worn anything I was ashamed of because it was threadbare, at least not since I left home at seventeen and a half. I’ve never sold myself in order to eat; I’ve met women like that. It’s true I’ve had living arrangements that might be looked at as nearly that bad, but that’s only if you’re looking in. I have done some things I’m not proud of, but each one was the result of wanting something I was willing to make a hard choice to get. And, yes, I’ve made those “bad” choices along the way. Even if you don’t grow up with religion, you still know right from wrong, and the difference between good and not so good.
My name is Justine Meade, and in my forty-three years, there have only been a handful of people I have loved. No, that’s an exaggeration. Two. Two whom I lost because of stupidity and selfishness. One was my son. The other was my dog.
1
“You gonna finish that?” Artie stubs a blunt finger in the direction of my English muffin. We’re sitting in a Travel America rest stop, one of the several that we’ve visited on this west-to-east run. He likes to keep on schedule; I like to pause for an hour and get the blood flowing in my legs again after hours in the cab of the eighteen-wheeler, inhaling Artie’s cigarette smoke and drinking warm, flat Coke. TAs are little shopping centers, catering to folks who live on the road, modern Gypsies, with anything you can think of for your vehicle from oil to mud flaps to little bobblehead dashboard figures of football players and Jesus. The restaurants offer big man’s meals, all-you-can-eats—chicken-fried steak, biscuits, apple pie. How hungry can a man be who has sat in a rig all day, keeping busy with radio and Red Bull?