So what’m I going to do?

“Hey, you there?” Martine’s voice nudged her from her thoughts.

“Sorry.” They returned to the task and finished the Los Trabajadores song list. Then she disconnected the call, flopped down on the bed and told herself: Call Jon. Have it out.

Dance stared out the window, eyes on what might have been a true mountain view had the day been exceedingly clear, which it definitely wasn’t, not in this dead end of summer.

She then scrutinized her mobile, which she turned over and over in her hand.

The photo skin on the back depicted two children with giddy smiles, and two dogs in the oblivious joy of dogness.

The other side was her phone’s address book window, Jon Boling’s number highlighted and ready to be dialed.

Back to the pictures.

Eyes on a bad painting on the wall, of a harbor. Did the interior designer think all Californians owned sailboats, even those three hours from the coast?

Flip … the phone’s address book. Her French braid tickled her left ear. She absently flicked the strands aside.

Call or not, call or not?

Her intent was to ask bluntly why he was moving to San Diego without talking to her first. Odd, she reflected, she had no problem slipping on her predator specs, sitting down across from snarling Salinas gangbanger Manuel Martinez to learn where he’d buried a portion of the remains of Hector Alonzo, specifically the head. But asking a simple question about her lover’s intentions was paralyzing.

Then a wind shear of anger. What the hell was he thinking? Becoming friendly with the children, easing into their lives, making himself a part of the family, fitting in so seamlessly.

She grew analytical. Maybe this was the answer: on the surface Jon Boling had been perfect for her, fit, funny, kind, sexy. They’d had no harsh words, no fights, no fundamental collisions of any kind—unlike, for instance, as with Michael O’Neil…. Wait, she reminded herself. O’Neil did not exist for the purposes of this equation.

With Boling did the absence of friction mean the gears of love weren’t truly engaging?

Could there be more love in sweat than in laughter?

That just didn’t seem right.

Clutching the phone, turning it over, over, over …

Call, not call?

Children screen children screen children screen …

Maybe I’ll flip it like a coin on the bed and let fate take charge.

Children screen children screen …

Chapter 69

KAYLEIGH MET A slow-moving Edwin Sharp in the front of the diner.

She liked the choice of restaurant; it was in a quiet part of town and she suspected she wouldn’t have to deal with autograph hounds. That was something even minor celebrities like her always had to consider.

He greeted her at the door with a smile and let her precede him into the air-conditioned, brightly lit restaurant, which was nearly empty. The waitress grinned, noting their famous patron, but Kayleigh was an expert at categorizing fans. She knew the woman would be efficient and cheerful but far too nervous to utter a word beyond order taking and comments about the heat.