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Chapter Three

If there was such a thing as a better day than this, Sonnet Romano couldn’t imagine what that might look like. Brighter sunshine? Clearer air? Theme music playing as she crossed Central Park en route to 77th Street subway station? Street performers scattering flower petals as she passed by?

She didn’t need any of that, not today. Her own news was good enough. The beautiful spring weather was the icing on the cake. New York City was at its best, crisp and clear and lovely as a fairy tale. Great things hovered over her head like air traffic over LaGuardia.

She took out her mobile phone, because the only thing missing at the moment was someone to share her good news with.

Great Thing #1: Her father was taking her and Orlando to dinner at Le Cirque. Time with her father—whose senatorial campaign was now in full swing—was precious, and she was eager to catch up with him and share her news.

Great Thing #2: Orlando. The ideal boyfriend, the kind of guy who seemed too good to be true. Everyone said she and Orlando were great together, and they were only going to get better. Just this morning, he had given her the key to his apartment. Correction: the key to his stunning East Side pre-war co-op, which had closets bigger than Sonnet’s entire studio. Orlando was not the kind of guy who gave out keys lightly. He’d told Sonnet she was the first, and that had to mean something. Also, he was proof that she’d moved on from the Zach incident, that singularly bad decision she’d made at Daisy’s wedding last fall.

So why then, she wondered, did her finger hover over his name on the screen of her phone, like the planchette of a Ouija board? Why, even now, did she think of him first when she had big news?

The big news was Great Thing #3: Perhaps the greatest—the fellowship. Out of a field of thousands of candidates, she—Sonnet Romano—had been chosen for a Hartstone Fellowship. It was probably the biggest personal news she’d ever had, and she was dying to share it with someone. She quickly scrolled past Zach’s name—and why, pray tell, asked a little voice inside her, have you not deleted him from your contact list?—and went to her mother’s name—Nina Bellamy. As usual, her mom’s voice mail picked up. During the workday, Nina was too busy running the Inn at Willow Lake to take a call. Sonnet didn’t bother leaving a message; her mom tended to forget to check. They’d catch up later.

She called Daisy next, and Daisy, bless her, picked up on the first ring. “Hey, you,” she said. “How’s my wicked stepsister?”

“Good. So good. In fact, Mrs. Air Force Babe of Oklahoma, you need to stop me from making a fool of myself. I’m in the middle of Central Park and I’m tempted to burst into song about what a Great Day this is. I’m about to become a one-woman flash mob. Stop me because I’m supposed to be cooler than that.”

“You’re a New Yorker. You know you’re cooler than that. But it does sound like you’re having a good day.”

“I’d say so. The best.”

“That’s good. So, you’ve got news? What’s going on?”

“God, just…everything. I got the fellowship, Daze. I got it. Out of everyone they could have picked, they picked me.”

“That’s great. So what does it mean? Besides more laurel wreaths being laid at your feet? You know you’re making the rest of the family look bad, right?”

“Hardly.” She knew Daisy had to be kidding. A talented photographer, she’d been given a citation as an emerging artist, and her work had been in a special show at the Museum of Modern Art. She’d set the bar high. Sonnet was just glad the two of them worked in completely different fields. “What the fellowship does is put me in charge of a program to give indigent children a chance in life. It’s incredible to think I could really make an impact. I don’t know yet whether I’ll be assigned to a domestic program or overseas, although it doesn’t matter. There’s need everywhere.”

“Wow, that’s really something, Sonnet,” Daisy said. “There was never any doubt, not in my mind, anyway. You’re amazing. So, uh, will you be traveling somewhere far away?”

Despite the enthusiastic words, Sonnet heard something in Daisy’s tone. “You sound funny,” said Sonnet. “What’s up? Is Charlie doing any better in school?” Daisy had the most adorable son, but the kid was having a hard time with school this year.

“It’s a process,” Daisy said. “So hard to see him struggle, but we’re working on it. It’s just… Hey, have you talked to your mom today?”

“I tried calling her but she didn’t pick up. She never picks up. Why do you ask?”

“Oh. You should call her. She…”

“God, is Max in trouble again?” Daisy’s younger brother, now in college, had always been something of a challenge.

“It’s just…call, okay?”

“Don’t be going all cryptic on me. I—”

“Hey, you’re breaking up.”

“Oh, you big faker—”

“Sorry. Can’t hear. And I need to check on Charlie—”

The line went dead. Sonnet instantly tried her mother again, and then the Inn at Willow Lake, but was told Nina was out. Frustrated, she glared down at her phone. There was Zach Alger’s name, at the top of the contact list. Prior to the night of Daisy’s wedding, he would have been one of the first people she would call with her news, good or bad. That had all changed, though. She’d never call him again, not after that glorious, sweet, impossible mistake she’d made in the boathouse six months before.

Stop. It was a known fact that ruminating on regrettable past events was an unhealthy habit. Better by far to accept what had happened, set it aside and move on. Ruminating kept the incident alive in one’s head, meaning the hurt, anger, humiliation and regrets felt like fresh wounds, even after time had passed.

Sonnet knew these things. She’d read the self-help books. She’d sat through college courses in human psychology. She knew the drill. Knew how to protect her own heart. Therefore, it was disconcerting to realize she hadn’t been able to push past what she’d come to refer to in her head as the Zach incident.

Having sex with him had been a moment of madness. The sex had been outstanding, but she couldn’t let herself dwell on that. In his arms, she’d felt protected and adored and special…and she couldn’t think about that, either. Because no matter what sort of crazy connection they’d found that night, there was no chance for a romantic relationship for the two of them, and they both knew it. The fellowship and her career were just too important to her; she couldn’t compromise everything she’d worked for just because skinny little Zach Alger had morphed into a sex god.

Particularly in light of what had happened after. The humiliation still made her cringe. After their mad lovemaking, they’d been lounging on the bench seat of the boat, speechless with the lush saturation of sexual fulfillment. Finally, Zach had tried to say something. “That was…that…God, Sonnet.”

She hadn’t done much better. “I think we’d better… I’m… Is there any more champagne?”

He reached for the bottle. He paused, and she saw him frown in the dim light. “Shit, it was on.”

She was still limp with pleasure. “What was on? You mean that camera thing? No way. Oh, my God. Can you fix it?”

He laughed. “Relax, I’m a professional.” He’d popped out the camera’s SD card. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“You totally have to erase that, Zach. I don’t care if it recorded anything or not. You have to promise.”

“Of course I’m going to erase it,” he said. “What do you take me for? Hey, I can do better than that.” He flicked the tiny card into the lake. Then he had turned to her, this sexy stranger who had once been her best friend. “Now, where were we?”

And the mind-blowing sex had continued. Dawn had crept in, and they’d sneaked away from the boathouse, only to encounter Shane Gilmore, president of the local bank and the town gossip, out for his morning jog by the lake. Her mom’s ex, of all people. And there had been no mistaking the expression on his face.

Sonnet cringed all over again as she reached the edge of Central Park, heading for the subway to catch the train to the restaurant. She emerged from the lush gardens of the park onto Fifth Avenue, where the sidewalk was crammed with hurrying pedestrians who all seemed to be in a pointless race with one another.

To refocus her thoughts, she slipped her hand into her pocket and closed it around the key. No one else in the surging stream of humanity had any clue what the key meant to her or even why. Despite the warmth of the day, she felt a chill.

It was a chill of excitement. Of anticipation. The key had been given to her by Orlando, aka the ideal boyfriend. He was one of those guys who really was as good as he looked on paper—background, education, career path, manners, looks. And because her father had introduced them, Orlando had arrived in her life preapproved. And he said he was in love with her.

He was the first man to say so. Hearing the declaration hadn’t been the exhilarating free fall of emotion she’d imagined as a girl. It was better than that. He was mature, he knew what he wanted, and he wanted to share his life with her.

As the crowd on the sidewalk halted for a traffic light, she gave a couple of bills to a guy strumming “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” on a ukulele. A block farther, she played a secret game of peekaboo with a toddler being jiggled on his mother’s shoulder. Oblivious, the mother gabbed away on her phone about a fight she was having with her boyfriend. The baby had cheeks like ripe apples and eyes that looked perpetually startled, and a wisp of blond hair rising from his forehead like the flame of a candle.

He looked like half the dolls Sonnet used to play with when she was a little girl. The other dolls looked more like the little African-American girl in the umbrella stroller a few feet away. When Sonnet got older, her mom had explained that baby dolls who looked like Sonnet were hard to come by. Santa’s elves, apparently, had not caught up with the times. Mixed race babies were common enough; dolls that resembled them, not so much.

The light changed and she walked on, her fingers clenched around the key until its teeth bit into the palm of her hand. She wasn’t so sure herself. The way her career was going at UNESCO, there was scarcely time to squeeze in a trip upstate to see her own mom, let alone raise a kid.

On the other hand, her twenty-eight-year-old body was awash in hormones raining from an invisible emptiness inside her, just begging to procreate.

She wondered what Orlando would say if she brought it up. He’d probably bolt for the nearest exit. They were still too new, key or no key. He had told her long ago that he wanted to postpone having kids. There would be plenty of time for that unspecified “someday.”

As far as she was concerned, nothing could dampen her spirits today. She had the ultimate good news to share, and she was about to share it with the two people who would totally get how cool it was.

She’d been racing around madly all day, trying to get ready for this new chapter in her life. A Hartstone Fellowship. She, Sonnet Romano, from the tiny town of Avalon on Willow Lake, had been chosen for the honor. People who won the Hartstone Fellowship tended to change the world. She’d always been eager to measure up to her father’s expectations. Personal accomplishments were so important to her father. She could understand that. They validated you, told the world you did things that mattered.

As usual, she was in a hurry. It was her normal mode. She had hurried through school, graduating with a 4.0 GPA and zooming ahead to her dream school, American University. From there she’d pursued a double major in French and international studies, then raced ahead to grad school. Sometimes she asked herself what the hurry was, but mostly, she didn’t slow down long enough to wonder.

And it was working well for her. The letter in her satchel was proof of that, for sure.

As she hurried down the stairs to catch the train—she was on the verge of being late, an unforgivable offense in her father’s book—her phone chimed, signaling an incoming text message, sneaking in just before she lost the signal underground. At the same time, she heard the train rattling into the station. She rushed to slip her pass through the turnstile and proceed into the fecund heat of the underground station.

The train’s moon-yellow headlights were filmed with the ever-present dirt of the subway, and its brakes gave a tired-sounding squeal. The doors clanked apart, disgorging streams of passengers. Just as quickly, people on the platform boarded. She paused and bent down to help a woman with a stroller over the gap between the platform and the train car.

At the same time, she thought about the text message that had come in. She didn’t know what made her grab for her phone just in that moment; she got text messages all the time. Habit, probably. Or it could be Daisy’s cryptic comment about checking in with her mom.

As Sonnet stepped across the gap and took out her phone. someone jostled her from behind. Both the phone and the key dropped from her hand. She saw a coppery flash as the key disappeared onto the tracks, and her heart sank along with it. The phone screen stayed lit momentarily. Before it slipped from her hand, she saw the name of the sender of the incoming message: Zach Alger.

A crush of passengers pressed in from behind. The doors clanked shut, and the train lurched away.

Sonnet grabbed a safety pole and clenched her jaw. Her stomach turned to a ball of ice. You made me drop the key, she silently seethed. Prepare to die.

His name on the screen reminded her that she should have taken him off her contact list months ago. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean she could erase him from her mind. She used to look forward with pleasure to his text messages, but now the thought of him made her shudder.

Given where she was now, her relationship with Orlando moving ahead, Zach could ruin everything. Having sex with him the night of Daisy’s wedding had been the ultimate boneheaded move on both their parts, and she bloody well knew it. As soon as she’d floated back down to earth, as soon as the pink cloud of champagne and wedding bliss wore off, she had felt a terrible twist of foreboding in the pit of her stomach. In one foolish act, they had changed their friendship irrevocably, and not for the better. Her father had just introduced her to Mr. Wonderful; she needed to focus on Orlando, not get drunk with Zach Alger.

She hadn’t spoken to him since. He’d called a bunch at first, sent text messages, and she finally texted him back and said, Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Can we just leave it at that?

His calls had stopped, and she told herself she was relieved. There was nothing to say. What were they going to say? Sorry I screwed up a beautiful friendship? Have a nice life?

Willfully she pulled her mind away from the lost phone and focused on the more immediate problem. The missing key. Now, there was a boneheaded move for you. When your boyfriend finally gives you a key to his amazing midtown east apartment, losing it immediately is a bad move. Sure, it was an accident, but the symbolism was hard to ignore.

On top of that, she was going to be late. Both her father and Orlando were sticklers for promptness, yet somehow she’d fallen behind. And now she didn’t even have a way to send Orlando a text.

Her stomach clenching, she found a vacant seat and sat down. Across from her sat a teenage girl and her mother. Sonnet studied their reflection in the window glass of the subway car. The two of them looked alike, except for the way the mother’s Nordic coloring and blond hair contrasted sharply with the girl’s nappy hair and café-au-lait skin. She wore her mixed heritage like an ill-fitting garment. Sonnet related to that kind of discomfort because once, not so long ago, she’d been that girl—biracial and wondering just where she belonged.

The girl had her iPhone turned up too loud, and through the earbuds, Sonnet recognized the thud and angry tones of Jezebel, the latest hip-hop sensation. The chart-topping song was called “Don’t Make a Ho into a Housewife” or some such nonsense. Though she was no fan of the genre, Sonnet was aware of Jezebel from the scandal blogs and magazines. She was the latest of many to be doing time for something or other.

The girl listening to the music looked angry, too. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe she was ticked off at her mom. Maybe she was wondering why her dad only got in touch with her on Christmas and on her birthday, and half the time he forgot the birthday. Maybe she was trying to figure out what she was supposed to do in order to get his attention.

In the window glass, her gaze met the girl’s. Both glanced quickly away, perhaps recognizing in each other a kindred spirit.

You’ll be fine, Sonnet wanted to reassure the girl. Just like I’m fine. Fine.

As she approached her stop on the subway, Sonnet tried to come up with something plausible to tell Orlando about the key. Saying she’d dropped it on the subway sounded so…so careless. And she did care. Having access to his apartment, his private space, was a huge step for them as a couple. It meant something, something big.

The very thought of it made her heart skip a beat. To Sonnet, this was not a pleasant sensation.

* * *

Zach Alger stared down at the screen of his iPhone. He shouldn’t have sent that text to Sonnet. He really, really shouldn’t have sent it. What was he thinking? He wasn’t thinking.

Maybe being in church affected his judgment. Although he wasn’t in church, attending services. He was doing wedding prep work at Heart of the Mountains Church, getting ready for a big video job here. So at the moment, it didn’t count.

He wrote down a couple of measurements—they were cramming too many people into the sanctuary, but he’d deal—and then paused to check his phone. Good, no reply. He scrolled to email, and his queue was full of work stuff. Endless work stuff, sandwiched between a few notes from women. Yeah, he was “dating.” In a town like this, with a population that couldn’t fill a high school stadium, that simply meant he was keeping his options open. On the menu today—he could go to the climbing gym with Lannie, and there were worse things than staring at her cute butt while holding the belaying rope. Or, he could go to Viv’s for dinner. She was a sous-chef at the Apple Tree Inn, and she had trained at the Cordon Bleu. Third option—an open invitation from Shakti, who practiced a form of yoga she liked to call Yoga Sutra.

His buddies on his mountain biking team envied him the attention from women. And hell yeah, he loved women. He loved their soft hair and their curvy bodies, the flowery scent of them and the lilt of their laughter. He loved them all, yet to his dismay, he wanted only one. And the one he wanted was Lady Insanity herself, Sonnet Romano.

No. Correction. She was not the one he wanted. She was the one he wanted to avoid.

Contacting her had been a bad lapse, and it was convenient to foist the blame on something other than himself. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night. Yeah, that night. But he’d felt compelled to contact her today because something weird was going on. After the epic night of sex, he’d been pretty sure it was their secret.

Yet now he was not so sure.

His friend Daphne, aka the ace internet mole, had alerted him this morning that something was up. A web-based rumor mill had published a nasty little bit hinting that the daughter of a certain candidate for the U.S. Senate was into, ahem, post-wedding hookups.

Politics was a dirty business. In the race for public office, nothing was off-limits, not even the candidate’s family. In making a run for national office, Laurence Jeffries was putting everyone in his orbit in the spotlight. Zach wondered if the guy had thought about that when he’d decided to go for it.

Zach’s own father—still serving time for defrauding the city of Avalon—certainly hadn’t taken Zach into consideration. Sometimes, Zach thought that was what tied him to this little town, long after he should have left. He had something to prove; he wanted to show people that he wasn’t anything like his father.

Upon seeing the link to the hookup story, Zach had impulsively sent Sonnet a text message. A heads-up; it was the least he could do. He didn’t actually worry too much on his own behalf. Thanks to his father, Zach was beyond the point of embarrassment. But Sonnet had always been super sensitive about her reputation.

Yet the moment he’d hit Send, he started wondering if the rumor mill had simply made a lucky guess, or if they really knew something. Or if there had been a different wedding…and a different guy.

He batted at a fly buzzing around his head and got back to work.

She probably wouldn’t respond. Ever since the wedding—the post-wedding-champagne-fueled sex they’d enjoyed—Sonnet had been in hiding. To be honest, Zach was okay with what had happened—hell, he’d liked it, but Sonnet insisted they weren’t a match. No way they were a match, despite the mind-blowing boathouse encounter, and she claimed they were both old enough to realize it. She wanted them to go back to being friends, the way they’d been since kindergarten.

He wanted more. She wouldn’t let him convince her, though. She made it clear that being with him would put a crimp in her future plans. Fine, then, he thought. He had plans, too.

But he missed her. Shit, he really did. He missed the friendship, the easy feeling of being with someone he felt completely comfortable with. Most guys had a family to lean on, but not Zach. He was the son of a bad man who was behind bars. His mom had left when he was a kid, remarried and then died of cancer. So he was not exactly a member of the all-American family. Through the years, Sonnet had become his default go-to person, the one he could call or text at all hours, the one who knew his history and didn’t judge him for it, the one who loved hearing his good news. Correction—she used to love it. Now she didn’t even pick up the phone.

Inside the church, he ran into the pastor, a paunchy, sober man who took great pleasure in marrying starry-eyed couples in his storybook-cute church.

“Hey, Reverend Munson,” he said. “I’ll be out of your way shortly. Just needed to make a plan for Saturday’s ceremony.”

“Take all the time you need, Zachary. I know how important the video is to the bride.”

“Yep,” he said. “You’re right about that.”

“Jenna’s back from her mission trip to Korea,” said Reverend Munson, referring to his youngest daughter. “I imagine she’s going to want to tell you all about it. She always did like you, and she took a lot of video footage over there. I’m sure she’ll be in touch.”

She’d already been in touch, Zach reflected. It was awkward as hell making small talk with the reverend, who was clearly unaware that not so long ago, Zach had spent a few pleasant hours sipping Zima from his daughter’s navel. And doing some other things as well.

“I think I’ve got everything I need,” Zach said with hearty decisiveness. “See you on Saturday, sir.”

“I’ll be camera ready.” Reverend Munson playfully framed his face with his hands. His clean pale hands, the ring finger encircled with a band of gold. For some reason, Zach started feeling guilty.

What the hell, he thought as he left the sanctuary. He’d been working as a videographer and editor for Wendela’s Wedding Wonders since college. Nothing wrong with the gig except that he was forced to work crazy hours, endure bridezillas and their maniac moms, and he hadn’t seen a Saturday night since he’d become old enough to drink.

And what Zach wanted, what he longed to do, was tell stories. Not his own. God, no. Other people’s stories. He’d been doing it ever since he was old enough to hold a camera. He had a knack for capturing a subject’s emotions on film, finding their hidden vulnerabilities, peeling away the layers to reveal truths that were often raw, but beautiful. He wanted to go out into the world and find those stories. He ought to get out of Avalon before he got stuck here forever.

But that took dough, lots of it. For a long time, it had seemed like an impossible dream as he dug himself out of student loans, made regular payments to the town of Avalon in an attempt to make up for what his father had stolen and gambled away, and simply went about the business of living. There was no law requiring him to make restitution for the damage his father had done, but the night with Sonnet had reminded him that this was not a dress rehearsal.

In order to move ahead in the field, he needed to go where the work was. L.A. or New York. He’d been sending out his portfolio for the past couple of years. So far he’d won loads of admiration and a prestigious award or two, but no offers of paying work.

Pissed at his thoughts for circling around to Sonnet again, he scrolled through his contacts, the digital equivalent of a little black book, and without much thought, hit on one. Shakti. She always picked up.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asked.

“Waiting for you to call.” She gave a soft, ego-stroking purr.

“I’ll be right over.”

* * *

Later that night, Zach went to the Hilltop Tavern, an Avalon watering hole favored by locals. Two of his buddies were there—Eddie Haven, a talented singer and songwriter who had settled in town to hide from his past as a troubled child star, and Bo Crutcher, a pitcher for the Yankees who used to play bass in Eddie’s band, and kept a vacation cabin on the lake. Zach had filmed both guys’ wedding videos, and they’d become friends along the way.

“I got girl trouble,” he said, sliding into the booth with them.

“My favorite kind,” Bo said, filling Zach’s glass from a frosty pitcher of beer.

Eddie raised his glass of root beer. “What’s up, my brother? Shit, don’t tell me somebody’s pregnant.”

“No,” Zach said instantly, shuddering with a chill at the very thought. “It’s complicated. See, I kind of…you know, I’ve always been one to play the field.”

“Boy slut,” said Eddie. “We’ve all been there.”

“That’s why I’m telling you this,” Zach said. “So now—and I never thought I’d be saying this—it’s getting old.” He thought about Shakti, who had rolled out the welcome mat earlier in the evening. He hadn’t taken advantage of the welcome. Instead, he’d bought her dinner, dropped her off at her house, and called this meeting with his friends to confess that he was losing his mind.

“Dude,” said Bo. “Welcome to adulthood. We all take a while to get there, but we get there. I know I did.”

“You did it by marrying a woman who looks like a supermodel,” Zach said. “That must have been so hard for you.”

Bo laughed. “I reckon it was harder for Kim. So what’s on your mind?”

“Who, not what. Sonnet Romano. Yeah, that Sonnet Romano. The one I’ve known since she was Willow Lake’s hopscotch champion. We had…we did…”

“Nina’s girl? You finally nailed her? Awesome,” said Eddie, high-fiving him. “Doesn’t sound like so much trouble to me.”

“Then you don’t know Sonnet. She could make a copper penny complicated.”

“Let me guess,” said Bo. “You nailed her, and now she wants a…what’s that word? Oh, yeah. Relationship. It never fails. Give ’em a few X’s and O’s, and next thing you know, they’re picking out the china pattern.”

“Jesus, you’re a tool,” said Zach. “How come a tool like you gets to marry a supermodel?”

Bo glanced from him to Eddie. “What?”

“Here’s the complication,” Zach said, “and believe me, it pains me to admit this. I want the relationship.”

To his relief, Bo and Eddie did not look too aghast, merely interested.

“Okay,” Zach went on, “maybe not the china pattern, but yeah, all the stuff most guys want to run away from. I can’t stop thinking about her, even when I’m trying to move on to another girl.”

“In my very educated opinion,” Eddie said, “other girls tend to be distractions from what you really want.”

“Yeah,” said Bo. “What is it you really want?”

Zach took a large gulp of beer and let out a lengthy belch. “The whole thing—love and family, stability, even kids one day. Yeah, kids. I want kids, how crazy is that?”

“It’s not crazy at all,” said Eddie. “Maureen and I are having loads of fun working on that. Kids are awesome. It’s the parents who screw them up. All you got to do is promise you won’t be that kind of parent.”

“That’s getting ahead of things. We’re not even back on speaking terms these days.”

“Why the hell not?”

“After we… After I—”

“Nailed her,” Bo supplied.

“Yeah, it was in the boathouse up at Camp Kioga. Shane Gilmore figured it out, I think.”

“Now, there’s a tool for you. Can’t stand that guy,” Eddie said. “What the hell do you care?”

“I don’t, but Sonnet’s father is running for Senate, and Gilmore’s driving around with a Delvecchio bumper sticker on his car, so he’s supporting the opponent.”

“Whoa, I didn’t know she was Jeffries’s daughter,” Bo said.

“Like I told you, she’s complicated. Anyway, I saw a stupid rumor about the candidate’s daughter hooking up at a wedding—did I mention we hooked up at Daisy Bellamy’s wedding?”

Bo refilled Zach’s beer glass yet again. “Drink up. It’s gonna be a long night.”

* * *

Sonnet rushed into the restaurant approximately ten minutes late to find Orlando in the foyer, jabbing his finger at the keypad of his phone.

“Sorry,” she said, slightly breathless. “I got caught in the rush-hour craziness.”

He put away his phone and bent to brush her cheek with a kiss. He was impressive, a tangible presence, exuding the class and polish of his Ivy League graduate degree, his looks an attractive balance between his Cuban mother and African-American father. After fulfilling his service requirement for West Point, Orlando had gotten an advanced degree in political science from Columbia and had become an expert at managing electoral campaigns. He was known as one of the best in the business, stopping at nothing to advance his candidate’s cause.

“Just curious,” he said in his half-teasing way, “does rush hour come unexpectedly every weekday?” He softened the critique with his trademark smile.

Sonnet furrowed a hand through her hair—it was now a fuzzy mess, thanks to the rushing and the rain. Yes, she had emerged from the subway to find the sunshine had turned to rain—and of course she had no umbrella.

“I got caught in the rain,” she confessed.

“You should carry an umbrella.”

She hated seeming scattered and disheveled around Orlando, who was always the soul of organization. And here she was, committing the trifecta of blunders. She had lost the key to his apartment. She had lost her mobile phone. And to top it all off, she was late.

“I don’t blame you for being mad,” she said.

“Hey,” he said, “it’s okay. Nothing to get mad about. I’m on-time enough for both of us.”

She summoned a smile and took his hand. Orlando Rivera was brilliant, professional and knew the importance of being prompt. No wonder he was in charge of getting her father elected to Congress.

It was surreal to Sonnet, the idea of her father becoming a U.S. senator. But it was not surprising; Laurence Jeffries had always been a larger-than-life figure. Although he was her birth father, he’d taken on the proportions of myth. Yes, she admitted that. But it never kept her from hoping they would build something sturdier on that foundation.

As a kid, she’d fantasized about having him in her life more than a couple of times a year. Then she’d been accepted to a major college, and everything had changed. Suddenly she had done something remarkable, winning a scholarship for a world-class education, and her father not only took note, he’d reached out to her. She still remembered the expression on her mom’s face when Nina had handed her the phone. “Laurence wants to speak to you.”

Her father almost never called. There was usually a stilted conversation on Christmas, late in the day after all the presents and feasting, and sometimes on her birthday, when he remembered. So for him to call out of the blue had been extraordinary.

“You’ve made me proud” were his first words to her that day.

Her heart had taken wing. Sure, she knew she’d be justified in asking him why he’d never been more than a modest monthly check to her up to this point, or asking him why he couldn’t have been there for her during her not-so-proud moments, like when she’d been caught skipping gym class, or when she’d stolen a sex manual from the library, or was left on the curb after her first date, because she’d refused to put out.

But instead of hurling recriminations, she’d opened her heart to her father. They’d talked at length about her future and her goals. She’d once thought she wanted to teach or somehow work with children, but her dad had convinced her that she would have more of an impact on the world with an international career. He was passionate about global affairs and about the possibility of bringing about positive change in the world, and that passion was infectious. Broadening her focus, Sonnet had pursued international studies with single-minded determination, intent on proving herself every bit as worthy as the two trophy daughters her father had with the woman he’d married.

She pulled her mind away from her dad’s “other” family—his legitimate family. Angela, his lovely and accomplished wife, and his daughters, Layla and Kara. Sonnet herself had a glorious family on her mother’s side—the big Romano clan of Avalon—and for that, she would always be grateful, just as she was grateful for her vibrant career and this new, huge opportunity offered by the fellowship.

Maybe in the excitement over her news, Orlando would dismiss the fact that she’d lost his key.

“I can’t believe you lost my key,” Orlando said after she’d sheepishly explained what happened. He shrugged out of his cashmere overcoat and handed it to the coat check girl.

“I’m really sorry.” Sonnet handed over her coat as well. “I don’t know what else to say. I’ll have another one made.”

“You can’t. It’s a co-op. The building supervisor has to get a duplicate. I’ll take care of it.”

“Sorry,” she said again, probably for the dozenth time. He was being nice about it, but she almost wished he’d tell her it was a huge pain in the ass and get the scolding over with.

“I know. I’ll deal with it. But listen, since we’re taking this step, there’s something we need to talk about.” He paused, took her hand and lifted it to his lips.

She smiled, taken in by the warmth in his eyes. “Kissing my hand in public, Orlando? I’m a fan.”

He smiled back. “And I’m a fan of you. I just wanted to talk about the whole key thing—the whole sleeping-over thing.”

She bit her lip. Maybe the fellowship was not going to be such welcome news to him after all. “I love the sleeping-over thing. I love that you gave me a key.”

“I love it, too, don’t get me wrong. That’s why I need to ask you…”

…to marry me. Sonnet heard the words in her head, and even though they hadn’t been spoken aloud, she got chills. She pictured herself saying yes, flinging her arms around him, being hoisted off the floor and spun around as they shared a joyous kiss.

“…because of all the attention he’ll be getting as we get closer to election season.”

“I’m sorry, what?” She flushed, embarrassed by her own flight of fantasy.

“I was just saying, let’s try to be discreet about you staying at my place.”

“Right. This is the twenty-first century, after all.”

“You and I know that. But there are still plenty of voters who could take issue with the idea that the candidate’s daughter—”

“—who happens to be a grown-up with a life of her own—”

“Sorry, I don’t make the rules. Honey, all I’m saying is let’s try to keep our private life just that—private.”

“Are you afraid I’m going to, what, post our status on Facebook?”

“Of course not. I’m afraid some dumb-ass from the opposition is going to try to make an issue of it.”

“Then why did you bother giving me a key—oh. I get it now. You gave me a key so I didn’t have to be buzzed up every time, which is totally indiscreet, right?”

“Honey. I gave you a key because I want you in my life. I might want you there permanently, if you know what I’m saying.”

“God, Orlando, how did you get so romantic? ‘I might want you there permanently?’ Seriously?”

“It’s true, I might. But I’m not going to break down and propose right here and now in the middle of a crowded restaurant.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“But I am going to propose. And it is going to be romantic and you’re going to say yes.”

Goose bumps suddenly covered her arms. But then, questions and second-guessing kicked in. Was he going to propose because he loved her and couldn’t live without her, or because it would make his candidate’s daughter look less like a slut to the electorate?

She brushed aside the cynical thought. When had she turned into such a skeptic? Or had she always been this way?

A large, imposing silhouette filled the doorway.

“Hey, my father just got here,” she said. “Can we talk about the key later?”

Orlando was already striding across the foyer, his hand outstretched. “Laurence, how are you?” No comment about General Jeffries being tardy.

Sonnet felt a swell of pride and excitement as the two men shook hands. Her father was every inch the military man, looking as polished as the brass buttons on his swirling greatcoat.

Standing between the two of them, she felt like a princess, flanked by visiting royalty. The host led them to their table, where he held the thronelike upholstered chair for her.

“So there’s news,” Sonnet said once they were all seated. “Good news.”

“I’m always up for good news.” Her father regarded her warmly.

She paused, savoring the moment. “I got the Hartstone Fellowship,” she said. “The call came today, and I have an official letter.”

Orlando gave a low whistle. “That’s fantastic.”

“Sonnet, I’m so proud of you.” Her father ordered a bottle of champagne. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but proud as hell.”

“Thanks. I’m still pinching myself.” She beamed at them both as the sommelier brought a bottle of Cristal and poured three flutes. “It’s so great that we’re together, celebrating. I was going to send you an email but I wanted to tell you in person.” She’d been brimming over with the news all day.

“You deserve it,” said Orlando. “I know how hard you worked for this.”

“He’s right,” her father agreed. “We’re going to miss you when you’re overseas.”

Sonnet blinked. “How do you know it’s an overseas assignment?”

He glanced up at the chandelier. “That’s usually the case. Am I wrong?”

“Never,” she said, but he failed to catch the note of irony in her voice.

“With your background and language skills, you’d excel in a foreign location.” He waved a hand to summon the waiter. “I think we’re ready to order.”

“I have the final numbers on the fundraiser.” Orlando handed Laurence a printout. “I thought you’d like to see.”

“We exceeded our goal for this stage of the campaign,” said Laurence.

“That’s great, Dad. It’s good news all around,” Sonnet said. She really wanted to talk more about the fellowship, but didn’t want to monopolize the conversation. “Maybe we should buy lottery tickets.”

“I’ve never been one to leave things to chance,” her father said. “Better to make your own luck.”

“Agreed,” said Sonnet. Her father was something of a control freak. He had been ever since she’d gotten to know him during her college years.

Orlando and her father talked shop—polls, demographic studies, campaign strategies, and she listened attentively. When their meal came, there was a pause to appreciate the perfectly prepared food, served with deftness by a waitstaff that worked like a well-oiled machine. She flashed on a memory of her childhood—Sunday dinners at her Romano grandparents’ home, with all the aunts, uncles and cousins diving into delicious but simple food, served family style. The food was simple but plentiful, the family noisy but bighearted.

“Wow, it’s crazy to think that by next year, I’ll be the daughter of a U.S. senator.” Sonnet took a bite of the wild mushroom risotto, savoring the sherry and cream flavorings.

Laurence tried the wine and accepted it with a curt nod. “I assume you mean crazy in a good way.”

She smiled as the waiter filled her glass. “Of course. It makes me really proud.”

“I wish I could say the election is going to be a slam dunk.” He sliced into his steak.

“We don’t hear you saying that,” Sonnet said.

“I have to be honest with you,” said Laurence. “Delvecchio is getting desperate, and he’s known to fight dirty when he’s slipping in the polls.”

“Are you saying he’s slipping in the polls?”

“He most definitely is.”

“So we can expect him to fight dirty,” said Orlando.

“We can.” Laurence swirled a bite of rare meat in the Bearnaise sauce. “And Sonnet, I have to tell you, he’s bound to send someone snooping into every corner of my life.”

“Including me, you mean.” A knot of tension formed in the pit of her stomach.

“I wish I could deny it. Delvecchio is a master at negative spin. He could find a way to make Santa Claus look bad.”

“How bad?” Sonnet pushed her plate away and regarded them both.

Orlando handed her a printout from a political blog. She scanned the article, horror rising along with the bile in her throat. She stared at her father. “They’re bringing up your illicit affair as a West Point cadet with an underage local girl. Of a different race. Which, by the way, is not exactly fiction.”

The article further characterized her father as a ruthlessly ambitious career operative who ignored his own child and moved ahead with his own agenda. At the bottom of the article was a link—Jeffries’s love child…post-wedding hookups?—that made her nearly gag. How had that leaked?

“All fiction, of course,” Orlando said confidently.

She shuddered with distaste, pushing aside the page. “They left out the bit about you having horns and a tail.”

“I’m sorry,” her father said. “I hate that you had to be sucked into this.”

“How will you respond?”

“It’s taken care of. I issued a statement with the truth, explaining that I wasn’t aware that I’d fathered a child. Once I learned I had a daughter, I was elated by the gift I’d been given, and I supported you and your mother to the best of my ability. I’m proud to say you’ve grown into an accomplished young woman with a passion for service and a bright future ahead of her.” The hookups notwithstanding, she thought with a shudder.

“Depending on their politics, readers will decide which version to believe,” said Orlando.

“And if someone contacts me?” Sonnet suppressed a chill of terror.

“Tell them the truth,” her father said easily. “Your truth.”

“Sure,” she said, envious of his sangfroid. “Right.” In her heart, she knew she would gloss over certain key facts—such as the fact that she used to cry herself to sleep at night, wishing she had a daddy like other kids, even a part-time daddy. Or the terrific, secret envy she felt toward his other daughters, Layla and Kara, the dual heiresses to his dynastic marriage. Yes, he’d married the perfect woman to enhance his career. Sonnet wanted to believe it was a love match, but sometimes she wondered if his marriage to the daughter of a famous civil rights leader had been by design or happenstance. Sonnet wouldn’t say a word about these matters because she could scarcely admit them to herself. Love had never seemed like her father’s top priority. He shied away from it, perhaps because it was the kind of thing that couldn’t be controlled, like a battalion of soldiers or a department in the military.

“I’m a big girl,” she assured them. “I can take care of myself.”

“There was never a doubt,” said her father. “But again, I’m sorry.”

An uncomfortable thought struck her. “Did they harass my mother?”

“I would hope not, but unfortunately, we’re dealing with Johnny Delvecchio.”

“If he contacts her, she won’t have anything bad to say.” Sonnet spoke with complete assurance. Nina had always owned her part in the situation, too, and she’d never expressed any bitterness or resentment against Laurence. Not to Sonnet, anyway.

The conversation drifted to other campaign matters, the topic sneaking further away from Sonnet’s big news. She tried not to feel cheated. This was supposed to be a celebration of her getting the fellowship. Of course, in the company of her father, she was used to being eclipsed. He had a big career and a big life, and running for Congress only made it bigger.

Like everyone else in his circle, she admired and respected him for his drive to succeed. Judging by the things he had achieved in his career, the propensity was working well for him. He lived a considered and well-crafted life.

The only misstep he’d ever made was Sonnet herself. She was the result of a youthful indiscretion, one for which the world had forgiven him. Some people were lucky that way. They got away with things.

Other than that, his resume was stellar. Through sheer determination, he’d risen from humble roots as the son of a single mother who got by on public assistance. In school, he excelled at both academics and sports, winning a coveted appointment to West Point. From there he’d climbed the ladder of leadership through the ranks of the military. He married well, in terms of his career, and as far as anyone knew, it was a loving partnership. His two lovely daughters wore the polish of private schools and an international lifestyle. Sonnet was the only blot on an otherwise spotless record.

She hated being the blot.

* * *

“How is this going to work?” Sonnet asked Orlando later that night as they got ready for bed. He’d calmed down about the key, and she felt excited to be at his place, carefully placing her belongings in a small corner of his walk-in closet. “With you being here and me going overseas?”

“Guess we’ll rack up some air miles.”

“I don’t mean booking flights. I mean, how will it work?”

“You mean how will we stay in this relationship.”

He’d called it a relationship. He’d teased her about a proposal—or was it more than teasing? They were making progress, she felt sure of it. Progress toward a goal—that was a good thing, right?

He was the most cautious guy she’d ever known, choosing his words as if they were going to be chiseled in stone. Saying something like “relationship” was serious business to a man like Orlando. She tended to be more impulsive, and he balanced her.

“Thank you,” she said. “That is precisely what I mean.”

“Besides visiting, there’s email and Skype,” he pointed out.

“And that’s enough for you?”

“It will have to be. Unless you’re willing to give up the fellowship.”

“Or you’re willing to give up the campaign,” she said.

“Don’t be silly. It’s not an either/or situation.”

She tried to figure out what she was feeling. Neither of them seemed too upset by the prospect of a lengthy separation. Yet they were in a relationship. He’d given her a key to his place, and even though she’d promptly lost it, they were still a couple. Weren’t they?

“As a matter of fact, it’s probably a good thing we don’t give Delvecchio one more thing to latch on to.”

“Orlando—”

His phone rang, and he grabbed it. She gritted her teeth. Couldn’t he for once let it go to voice mail?

He answered, listened briefly, then handed her the phone. “It’s your mother. She’s been trying to reach you.”

Sonnet grabbed it. “Mom, hey. I, uh, lost my phone today—”

“Oh, no wonder I couldn’t get you. Sorry to call so late.”

“Is everything okay?”

A beat of hesitation passed. “Why do you ask?”

“Daisy said you had news. Geez, Mom.”

“She’s right, honey. I’ve got a little news. Are you… Um, is this a good time to talk?”

“It’s fine. Just tell me, Mom. You’re freaking me out.”

“Have a seat, Sonnet.”

* * *

Sonnet carefully set the phone receiver back in its cradle. She felt strangely disoriented as she approached Orlando. He was now busy checking his email on his iPad. “Um…there’s been a change of plans.”

He barely looked up from his screen. “Yeah?”

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah. Sure, babe.”

She hesitated, so filled with the news from home she couldn’t think straight. She wished she felt closer to Orlando in this moment. She longed for their relationship to be further along, so that she could tell him anything and everything. But when she tried to come up with the words to explain, she felt frustrated before she even began.

Meanwhile, he’d gone back to reading on his iPad, the bluish glow of the screen outlining the angles of his chiseled features.

“Orlando.”

“Uh-huh?”

She abandoned the idea of explaining everything to him. So she simply told him, “I have to go back to Avalon.”