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“I think Lancelot, like me, will do anything for so beautiful a woman.”
Cyn squeezed Brock’s hand and bent down to Lancelot. She was no stranger to him, but he was on guard here, so she moved slowly. She gave him plenty of time to realize she wouldn’t charge past him and harm either his lady or his babies. She scratched him on his favorite spot, under the voluminous fold of his left ear. As always, his left leg windmilled, as though he couldn’t decide whether to go all the way into giving himself a scratch too.
“Whatdoyousay,Lancelot?Mayweplaywithyour little ones?” Cyn could have sworn the look he gave her said, only for a few minutes; they need their sleep.
Lancelot went inside the cabana, and returned with Guinevere and the puppies. He and his lady stationed themselves on guard between the puppies and the rest of the patio party room.
Cyn picked up one of the girls, mostly white, with a Basset Hound’s long body and a Saint Bernard face. “Ohhhh,”Cynmurmured,nuzzlingthepuppy.“Aren’t you the most adorable little girl? Here, Brock, would you like to hold her? If I recall correctly, her name is Maggie Mae.”
Cyn looked up as Buzz Cauldron moved close behind Lancelot, looking uncharacteristically serious.“Do you think I could … ” He placed his supplicating hand in front of Lancelot’s nose. The Basset Hound sniffed, then gave Buzz’s hand a delicate lick of permission.
The singer settled the nearest puppy in his arms and began to croon. The sound was hypnotic, especially when it segued into a soft, throaty lullaby.
Cyn rued the day she had grown too old to faint for a singer. Brock would just have to forgive her for some lapses.
Party-goers glided closer, drawn irresistibly. Cyn’s attention was caught by a heavily pregnant woman she hadn’t seen before. How had the woman faded into the background so thoroughly? She was especially remarkable now for her heart-breaking look of longing.
The woman approached Buzz, carrying her pregnancy easily, as though she were made for the job, but half-crippled by sadness. A single tear made its way down her cheek.
“Archibald Forest,” she said, an indefinable accent magnifying the sound of her sorrow, “you sing to the women, and you sing to the dogs. What about me?” She cupped her gravid belly. “You care more for puppies than me and our son? You are a pig, Archibald. I have had enough.”
Well, well, well. It was no surprise Buzz Cauldron was a stage name, but who would have thought his real name would be Archibald? And their son. Wait. Their son?
For a moment, Cyn was a touch disappointed. The manhadabucketfulofcharisma,andawoman’sego couldn’thelpbutstandupandpreenwhenheturned his charm on her. Then anger rushed in. Cyn took a steptowardBuzz,orArchibald,orwhateverhisname was.
He didn’t notice. His attention was fixed on the pregnant lady. “Now, honey.” His jaw developed a nervous tic. “We’ve talked about this. My career … My agent says … ”
What a jerk. Cyn’s beloved nephew had some conspicuous problems with commitment, but he was gun-shy for a good reason, she was sure of it. She just didn’t know exactly what the reason was. He’d changed as a child, grown withdrawn and guarded, from one summer holiday with her to the next. But Van would never, ever run around making babies he didn’t intend to help raise with bottomless love and endless attention and all the other things he’d never received — except from his doting aunt — in his own childhood.
“We will find a way to be together.” Buzz launched into a song, complete with theatrical gestures and swaying hips. “Oh, how I love to love you. I’ll always, always think of you. In the rain and the sun, you’ll be the one. Oh, how I — ”
His lady took a deep breath. “Oh, shut up,” she bellowed with the force of every bit of breath she’d jammed into her lungs.
Buzz’s voice faded away. His mouth slammed shut with an audible click of his teeth.
She continued, more quietly. But only a little more quietly. “Singing to me does not work anymore.”
She moved toward him. The tension thickened. He stepped back.
“How many songs have you written for me? How many songs have you sung to me on your knees?”
“Many, my darling. You are my inspiration — ”
She was close enough to touch him now. And she did. She reached up with a finger and held it to the middle of his chest.
She pushed.
He stepped back.
“Oh, my sweetness, please … ”
“How many times,” the woman said, her voice rising to echo throughout the poolside party room, “have you left me to sing those songs to everyone but me?”
Her finger stiffened. She shoved him with it again, hard. He stumbled back. She closed the distance between them and did it again. This time, he almost tripped.
“Writing songs for me,” she said, emphasizing every word with a jab of her finger, “doesn’t work anymore, either.”
He took one more step back.
