If it hadn’t been for the baby issue, he wouldn’t have begrudged any of them their fun.

Her father wasn’t done. “Maybe you two would like to settle this in Mabel?” He made it both a question and a mandate.

The president smiled at her husband.

Panda had no idea what was happening, but Lucy seemed to understand. “I guess.” She displayed zero enthusiasm as she sauntered toward the back door.

He strode past her in what he hoped was an assertive manner, held the door open, then followed her across a stone terrace and into a backyard with well-defined gardens and mature shade trees. Lucy’s sneakers swished in the fallen leaves as she followed a brick path around what he guessed was an herb garden toward a large garage. As they got closer, she cut behind it onto a dirt path that led to an ancient yellow Winnebago. He finally remembered. This was Mabel, the motor home Lucy and Mat Jorik had traveled in all those years ago when they’d picked up Nealy Case at a Pennsylvania truck stop.

The door creaked on its rusty hinges as Lucy opened it. He stepped inside the drab, musty interior. There was a tiny kitchen; a saggy, built-in couch with faded plaid upholstery; and a door at the back that must lead to a bedroom. The small banquette table held a baseball cap, a notebook, a bottle of green nail polish, and an empty Coke can. Her siblings must use this place as a hangout.

If he asked Lucy why her mother had suggested they come here, Lucy would give him one of those looks that said he was a moron, so he didn’t ask. “This thing run?”

“Not anymore.” She plunked down on the sofa, picked up a paperback copy of Lord of the Flies, and began to read.

He tugged on his shirt collar. The place might be sentimental to the Joriks, but it was claustrophobic to him. Are you really pregnant? Do you really love me? What the hell did I say that was so wrong anyway? All questions he wanted to ask, but couldn’t yet.

He opened his collar button. His head nearly touched the ceiling, and the walls were closing in on him. He wedged himself sideways onto the banquette bench across from her. Even from here, he could smell the fabric softener from her red pajamas, a scent that shouldn’t have been erotic but was. “I told Bree about her father,” he said.

She didn’t look up from the book. “I know. She called me.”

He stretched his cramped legs across the motor home. She turned a page. His nerves had stretched to the breaking point. “Now that you’ve had your fun, are you ready to talk seriously?”

“Not really.”