Page 14 of No Words

“After the tour, I used that Google Maps thing you showed me to zoom in on the house, and I could see the neighbors’ garbage cans,” he said. “And right there, I saw it: a Dead Head sticker.”

Oh, no. “Dad.”

“The neighbors haveGrateful Deadstickers on their garbage cans! Youknowhow I feel about jam bands.”

“Dad.” I sighed. Suddenly my nice, relaxing time in the sun didn’t seem so relaxing. “I’m sure those Google Map photos are really old. The people who own those garbage cans probably don’t even live there anymore. Mount Dora is a lovely town, I’ve been there. They have tons of arts and folk music festivals there, and the average seasonal temperature is seventy-five degrees. It’s a very charming—”

“No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll just stay in New York.” Dad started to cough, which unfortunately he’d begun doing all too often lately as soon as the temperature in the city neared the freezing mark. “It’s cold, but I know all my neighbors, and they respectseriousmusic. And there are festivals here in New York, too, you know.”

“Dad, are you sure it’s the stickers, or the fact that you’re too stubborn to let your daughter buy a house for you? Because you know what Mom would say about that.”

“Oh, she’d kick my rear end for being a chauvinist pig!” Dad chuckled. “So of course it isn’t that. But I really do think you should save your money, sweetheart.”

“Dad, I have plenty of money. I want to spend some of it on you. Nothing would make me happier.”

“But that’s silly. You need to save it for when you get married and have kids of your own.”

Like that was happening anytime soon. At this point I was about as likely to get married and have kids as Melanie West, whose husband Johnny “Ace” Kane had (accidentally? Or on purpose?) run over and killed while smuggling moonshine in the first chapter ofThe Moment.The first chapter! Will seemed to like to get his trauma into his books early.

“What if I don’t want to get married and have kids?” I asked. “You know, Dad, for a musician, you really are awfully closed-minded. Has it ever occurred to you that the millions of people who love the Grateful Dead might actually be—”

“Um, sorry to interrupt.”

I looked up to see a petite Asian woman with short, purple hair standing by the edge of the pool. She was wearing a pretty pink dress coupled with a necklace made of very lethal-looking—but plastic—daggers.

“It’s almost time for the author bus to dinner,” she said, pointing at the face of her smart watch (which of course I was too far away to see). “Are you going to get out of there and get ready, or are you going to wear your swimsuit to the party?”

“Bern!” I nearly fell off my raft in my haste to paddle to the side. “Dad, I gotta go.”

“I’ll talk to you later, kid. Let me know how the rest of your festival goes.” He hung up.

“Bernadette!” I held out my arms for a welcome hug. “I’m so glad to see you!”

“I’m glad to see you, too, but notthatglad.” Bernadette took a quick few steps away. “You’re going to get me all wet, too, and I’m in my dress-up clothes.”

I laughed. For Bernadette, anything that wasn’t yoga pants and a T-shirt was “dress-up clothes.” I felt the same way, for the most part.

I’d known whip-smart and tougher-than-she-looked Bernadette for ages. Though we lived on opposite sides of the country, we texted nearly every day and saw each other several times a year at various book festivals. The author of multiple extremely popular young-adult series, Bernadette’s most recent featured a teenaged female assassin who lived in a far-off galaxy. Ergo, the knife necklace.

“When did you get here?” she asked.

“A few hours ago. You?”

“Early this morning. I took the red-eye to Miami from SFO, then a little puddle jumper from Miami to here. I’ve already had a trolley tour of the town, a tasting at the rum distillery, and bought a beautiful painting from a pink-haired artist named Bree in some gallery down the street. This is the best day off I’ve had in ages.”

“Really?”

“Yes, are you kidding? I just handed in my latest revision, May’s finally getting the hang of potty training, Sophie started kindergarten,andwe’re finally refinishing the wood floors. Everything has just beendrama, drama, drama.”

I grinned. Sophie was my goddaughter, and even thoughwe weren’t related by blood, she seemed to have taken after me. Everything with Sophie was either brilliant or a disaster.

“I love that house and both my girls to bits, but God! I’m glad to let Jen be in charge for the weekend.” Bernadette’s anesthesiologist spouse, Jen, was my dream partner. Unfailingly supportive and cheerful, Jen earned a steady income and could also cook and write emergency prescriptions. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You, too. How long has it been? Decatur Book Festival?”

“That’s it. God, that was a blast. I thought for sure we were going to get kicked out of that hotel. Anyway, what are you still doing in the pool? I know how you hate itineraries, but the meet-and-greet is in half an hour. You’re going to be late for the author bus.”

I shrugged, feeling another twinge of guilt. I never looked at festival itineraries if I didn’t have to. I enjoyed living life on the edge when I wasn’t at home, bound by my normal routine of waking-writing-eating-sleeping (or not-writing, as the case may be).