Her Lucy-ness was getting in her way again. This had nothing to do with her, other than serving as an omen, a harsh reminder that a lot of men felt the way Panda did about fatherhood, and despite what she’d done to Ted, she still wanted to get married and have children. What if she fell in love with a man like Panda who didn’t want to be a father? One of so many variables she wouldn’t be facing if she hadn’t bolted from that Texas church.

Temple scrambled back from the bow to join them, and they headed home. Panda stayed behind on the boat, so Lucy and Temple walked up to the house together. “There’s something about fireworks,” Temple said as they reached the top of the stairs. “They make me sad. That’s weird, right?”

“Everybody’s different.” Lucy didn’t feel all that cheery herself, but the fireworks weren’t to blame.

“Fireworks make most people happy, but there’s something depressing about watching all that color and beauty die out so fast. Like if we’re not careful, that’s what will happen to us. One minute you’re blazing hot—on top of your game. The next minute you’re gone, and nobody remembers your name. Sometimes you have to think, what’s the point?”

The porch screen door dragged as Lucy opened it. Light from the fake Tiffany lamp hanging in the kitchen spilled out through the windows. “You’re depressed because you’re starving. And by the way … I think you look terrific.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Temple threw herself down on one of the chaises Lucy had covered with a crimson beach towel. “I’m a pig.”

“Stop talking about yourself that way.”

“I call it like I see it.”

The wind had overturned one of the herb pots, and Lucy went to the baker’s rack to right it. The scents of rosemary and lavender always reminded her of the White House East Garden, but tonight she had something else on her mind. “Being vulnerable isn’t a sin. You told me you’d met someone, and it didn’t work out. That puts a lot of woman in a tailspin.”

“You think I found solace for my broken heart at the bottom of a Häagen-Dazs carton?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Except I’m the one who broke it off,” she said bitterly.

Lucy picked up the watering can. “That doesn’t necessarily make it any less painful. I speak from experience.”

Temple was too wrapped up in her own tribulations to acknowledge Lucy’s troubles. “Max called me gutless. Can you believe that? Me? Gutless? Max was all—” She made quick air quotes. “‘Now, Temple, we can work this out.’” Her hands dropped. “Wrong.”

“Are you sure?”

“More than sure. Some problems can’t ever be worked out. But Max …” She hesitated. “Max is one of those people who not only see the glass as half full, but half full of a mocha caramel Frappuccino. That kind of rosy outlook isn’t realistic.”

Lucy wondered if it was geography that stood in their way—Max on the East Coast, Temple on the west. Or maybe Max was married. Lucy wouldn’t ask. Although she was dying to know.

But the old Lucy’s tactfulness only extended so far. She set aside the watering can and crossed to the chaise. “I haven’t watched much of Fat Island …” She’d hardly watched any of it. “But I seem to remember that psychological counseling is a component of the program.” She remembered, all right. The show had a female psychologist who wore a red bikini and counseled the contestants from a tiki hut—all caught on camera, of course.

“Dr. Kristi. She’s a fruitcake. Major esophageal damage from too many years of sticking her finger down her throat. All shrinks are nuts.”

“Life experience is sometimes what makes them good at their job.”

“I don’t need a shrink, Lucy. Although I do appreciate the way you keep pointing out how nuts I am. What I need is willpower and discipline.”

Lucy wasn’t playing the good girl on this one. “You also need counseling. Panda can’t stand over you forever. If you don’t figure out—”

“If I don’t figure out what’s eating me—blah, blah, blah. God, you sound just like Dr. Kristi.”

“Is she still sticking her finger down her throat?”

“No.”

“Then maybe you should listen to her.”

“Fine.” Temple crossed her arms over her chest so aggressively it was a wonder her ribs didn’t crack. “You think I need counseling? You’re some kind of social worker, aren’t you?”

“Not for years. I work as a lobbyist now.”

Temple waved away the distinction. “Go ahead and counsel me. Let’s hear it. Tell me how I can stop wanting to shove every piece of high-fat, high-sugar, carb-loaded crap down my throat.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

Temple leaped off the chaise and stormed into the house, banging the door behind her like an angry teenager. Lucy sighed. She didn’t need this tonight.

A few moments later, Panda came up the steps from the dock. She’d had enough conversation, and she slipped inside.

SHE WAS ASLEEP WHEN HER cell rang. She fumbled for the bedside light, then reached for her phone.

“Hey, Luce. I hope I didn’t wake you up.” Meg’s cheery chirp didn’t quite ring true. “So how’s it going?”

Lucy shoved the hair out of her eyes and peered at the bedside clock. “It’s one in the morning. How do you think it’s going?”

“Really? It’s only midnight here, but since I have no idea where you are, it’s a little tough to allow for time differences.”

Lucy caught the barb, but Meg didn’t have room to criticize. It was true that Lucy hadn’t told her best friend where she was—hadn’t told her much at all—but Meg was being just as evasive. Still, Lucy knew Meg was worried about her. “It won’t be much longer. I’ll tell you as soon as I can. Right now everything’s a little … too confusing to talk about.” She rolled to her side. “Is something wrong? You sound worried.”

“Something’s wrong, all right.” Another long pause. “What would you think about—” Meg’s pitch rose half an octave as she rushed through her words. “What would you think about me hooking up with Ted?”

Lucy shot up in bed, wide awake now, but not certain she’d heard right. “Hooking up? As in—?”

“Yes.”

“With Ted?”

“Your former fiancé.”

“I know who he is.” Lucy shoved back the sheet and dropped her legs over the side of the bed. “You and Ted are a … couple?”

“No! No, not a couple. Never. This is just about sex.” Meg was talking too fast. “And forget it. I’m not exactly thinking clearly right now. I should never have called. God, what was I thinking? This is a total betrayal of our friendship. I shouldn’t have—”

“No! No, I’m glad you called!” Lucy jumped up from the bed. Her heart was racing, her spirits soaring. “Oh, Meg, this is perfect. Every woman should have Ted Beaudine make love to her.”

“I don’t know about that, but— Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Are you kidding?” Lucy was dizzy, light-headed, giddy at this astonishing gift from the gods. “Do you know how guilty I still feel? If he sleeps with you … You’re my best friend. He’d be sleeping with my best friend! It’ll be like getting absolution from the pope!”

“You don’t have to sound so broken up about it,” Meg said dryly.

Lucy did a little hop skip over the shorts she’d abandoned on the floor.

And then in the background, she heard it. Ted’s voice, deep and steady. “Tell Lucy hello from me.”

“I’m not your messenger boy,” Meg snapped back.

Lucy swallowed hard. “Is he there right now?”

“That would be a yes,” Meg replied.

The old guilt washed over her. “Tell him hello from me then.” She sank back on the edge of the bed. “And that I’m sorry.”

Meg stopped talking directly into the phone, but Lucy had no trouble hearing her. “She said she’s having the time of her life, screwing every man she meets, and dumping you was the best move she ever made.”

Lucy jumped up. “I heard that. And he’ll know you’re lying. He knows things like that.”

Ted’s response to Meg’s fabrication was as clear as a bell. “Liar.”

“Go away,” Meg snarled at him. “You are totally creeping me out.”

Lucy clutched the phone. “Did you just tell Ted Beaudine that he was creeping you out?”

“I might have,” Meg said.

Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Lucy tried to pull herself together. “Wow … I sure didn’t see this coming.”

“See what coming?” Meg sounded annoyed. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” Lucy gulped. “Love you. And enjoy!” She hung up, jumped up, pressed the phone to her chest. And danced around the room.

Meg and Ted. Meg and Ted. Meg and Ted.

Of course.

Of course, of course, of course! Ted wasn’t a player. He didn’t sleep with women he wasn’t seriously attracted to. And he was attracted to Meg, Lucy’s screwball, screw-up best friend, who wandered the world without a plan and cared nothing about earning anyone’s good opinion.

Meg Koranda and Mr. Perfect. Her rough edges and his smooth surfaces. Her impulsiveness and his forethought. Both of them blessed with brains, loyalty, and gigantic hearts. It was a crazy, unpredictable match made in heaven, although from the sound of their conversation, neither of them seemed to realize it. Or at least Meg didn’t. With Ted, it was hard to tell.

Lucy had no trouble imagining the battles they were having. Meg blunt-spoken and confrontational; Ted laid-back on the surface, steely underneath. And as she thought about them, the missing pieces of her own relationship with Ted finally fell into place. The only rough edge between them had been Lucy’s inability to relax with him, her feeling that she had to be on her best behavior to justify being Ted’s partner. Meg wouldn’t give a damn about anything like that.

They just might be perfect for each other. If they didn’t screw things up. Which, since Meg was involved, seemed highly probable. But whether they worked out or not, one thing was certain. If Meg and Ted were in bed together, Lucy was finally off the hook.

AFTER THAT, SHE WAS TOO worked up to get back to sleep. The house’s spotty air-conditioning had left her bedroom uncomfortably warm. She opened the sliders, fetched her flip-flops to protect her bare feet from the splintery deck, and stepped outside.

Threatening clouds tumbled in the sky. She pulled her damp cami away from her breasts. With the wind, the distant flash of lightning, and the dark mystery of the lake for company, she finally felt liberated from her guilt.

A movement caught her eye, a figure—broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, with a distinct long-legged stride—coming around the side of the house. As he passed the picnic table, he paused to look back, but she was standing too deeply in the shadows for him to see her. He crossed the yard, moving more quickly. When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, looked back again, then headed down to the water.

Maybe he had insomnia, too, but why was he being so furtive? She decided to find out. She stepped off the deck. On her way across the yard, she tripped over the horseshoe stake. It hurt like crazy, but no way was Viper letting a little thing like a stubbed toe hold her back.

Limping slightly, she made it to the steps. She didn’t see him below, only the single post light glowing at the end of the dock. It reminded her of The Great Gatsby and the fascination English teachers had with that book instead of something most teenagers might actually want to read.

As she descended to the dock, she was careful not to let the slap of her flip-flops betray her, although that seemed unlikely with so much wind. When she reached the bottom, she carefully made her way across the creaky boards toward the dim glow of mustard light oozing from the open end of the weathered boathouse.

The fishy smell of storm-whipped waters joined the odors of old rope, mildew, and gasoline that had seeped into the wood. An opera she didn’t recognize was playing softly. As she slipped inside the boathouse, she saw Panda sitting on the bench seat in the stern of the powerboat, his back to her, his bare feet propped on a cooler. He wore a T-shirt and shorts, and his hand was buried inside a giant bag of potato chips. “I’ll only share,” he said without turning, “if you promise not to talk.”

“Like my only pleasure in life is talking to you,” she retorted. And then, because she liked the idea of being rude, “Frankly, Panda, you’re not intelligent enough to be all that interesting.”

He recrossed his ankles on the cooler. “Tell it to my Ph.D. adviser.”

“You don’t have a Ph.D. adviser,” she said as she climbed into the boat.

“That’s true. Getting my master’s was all my brain could handle.”

“Your master’s? You are so lying.” She plopped onto the cushion next to him.

He smiled.