“Trust Michael,” she said dully.

“You have no choice.”

Jolene knew Tami was right, but letting go was easier said than done. She knew how it felt to be abandoned in childhood, and although this was different, profoundly different, she wasn’t certain her children would really understand why she had left them. “How have men done it all these years, gone off to war and left their kids behind?”

“They had wives,” Tami said simply.

* * *

Late that night, after Tami had fallen asleep, Jolene opened her laptop. She was so tired, she had trouble keeping her eyes open, but she had to write to her daughter.

Dear Betsy:

I’m so sorry I can’t help you with your detention. You won’t want to hear what I have to say about it, either. The bottom line is that you broke the rules. There’s always a consequence for our actions. You might as well learn that early. Of course Sierra and Zoe are wrong to have goaded you and mean to have made fun of you. But how you respond is what will make you who you are.

I have so many things to say about that, and it kills me that we aren’t together. Mothers and daughters are supposed to curl up on the couch and talk about anything and everything. And we will soon. You’ll see. Until then, I wish I knew how to tell you how to get through the tough times in middle school. I know so much about mean girls.

When I was your age, no one liked me. I was always the girl with the ratty clothes and no lunch money. I was too ashamed to invite anyone home, so I didn’t make friends. It was terrible. Lonely. I don’t want that for you.

I know how it feels to be ignored and teased. So I ignored those girls right back, and it just made me feel bad about myself.

You know what helped? Joining the Army, and not because they taught me to fly (or not only because of that), but because that’s where I met Tami.

I was afraid to talk to her in the beginning. She was so confident. She didn’t seem to care that we were the only women in flight school. For the whole first week, I ignored her because I figured she wouldn’t like me. And you know what?

She was WAITING for me to talk to her.

That’s when I learned how much one smile can matter. Let people know you’re ready to be their friend, and if they give you a chance, take it—don’t be afraid. With Tami, all I had to do was find the courage to say hi, to sit by her in the mess hall. You never know when a sentence, a hello, can change your life.

I wish I were there to tell you how beautiful and smart and talented you are, but for now, these words on a blue screen will have to do it. Be strong, Betsy. Believe in yourself and you’ll be okay.

I love you to the moon and back.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly. But it was all there was, all she could say from here.

Tomorrow, she’d write to Lulu.

She yawned and hit Send.

* * *

On the last Thursday in May, Michael woke early and got breakfast ready. He thought that if he could just get ahead of the curve, get a smooth schedule going with the girls, he would be okay. Ever since Jolene’s departure, he’d been running behind—late to meetings, late for the ferry, late for dinner. Something was always going wrong. Today, he was determined to have a nice, peaceful morning.

He knew he’d wasted his time when Betsy came into the kitchen wearing more makeup than a Vegas showgirl.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said, putting down his paper.

Betsy turned her back on him. “What?” she said, opening the fridge.

“You are not wearing that makeup to school.”

She faced him. “What makeup?”

“I wear reading glasses, Bets. I’m not blind. Go wash your face.”

“Or what?”

“Or…” He narrowed his gaze. “I’ll offer to volunteer in your class today. Social studies. Aren’t you guys reading the Constitution?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

She stared at him a long minute, then stomped her foot and marched out of the room. When she returned, she was a real pain in the ass, slamming cabinet doors, muttering under her breath, being mean to Lulu, who cried through most of breakfast and kept asking when Mommy was coming back.

At work, he spent the day catching up on all the work he’d missed in the past few weeks, but there was too much. Between managing the firm and defending his clients, he was overworked, plain and simple. Now, he was dictating a discovery request for Keith Keller’s military record. Something he should have done weeks ago.

He buzzed his secretary. “Ann? Have we heard anything from Keith Keller?”

“No, Michael.”

“Thanks.” He glanced back down at the papers spread out across his desk. As he reached for a pen, his cell phone rang.

“Hi, Michael,” his mother said. “I’m sorry to call you at work, but I just got a flat tire. I’m out by the Tacoma Mall for that gardening gift show. There’s no way I can make it home in time to pick up Lulu and be at your house in time to meet Betsy.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Fine. Just waiting for AAA. Sarah Wheller is doing carpool today—she’ll drop Betsy home after track practice. About five o’clock. And Lulu needs to be picked up by four thirty.”

He looked at his watch. It was 3:33. The next ferry left in twelve minutes. If he missed it, Betsy would come home to an empty house—a no-no according to Jolene’s über list. Although, honestly, why a twelve-year-old needed someone to welcome her home was beyond him. “Okay, Ma. Thanks.”

“Sorry to do this to you. Oh, darn, my phone is beeping. Does that mean my battery is going out? Michael? Did you hear me?”

“I’m here, Ma. No problem. Thanks.” He flipped his phone shut, gathered up what work he would need, and left his office. “I left some dictation on my desk for you. And try Keller’s father again, remind him I really need to speak to his son,” he said to Ann as he passed her desk. “I’ll be on my cell if you need me.”

“Your four fifteen appointment—”

“Cancel it. I have to leave right now,” he said over his shoulder and kept walking.

Outside, a steady rain drizzled from a low-slung sky. Car headlights glowed in the falling rain, looking like an endless stream of fuzzy yellow balls inching down wet streets. As he drove away from his office, blurry neon signs attested to the city’s rough-and-tumble past—gun shops and X-rated bookstores and dark, seedy bars. He followed the stop-and-go traffic to the ferry terminal, cursing at every red light, checking his watch.

He knew he was in trouble when he saw the ticket line. All at once he remembered that today was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend. The tourists were out in droves, already heading to Bainbridge Island and the beautiful Olympic Peninsula. Tapping his fingers on the leather-covered steering wheel, he inched forward, following the car in front of him until it was his turn to buy a ticket. “Which ferry?” he said tightly.

“Six twenty.”

“Shit.” Michael calculated quickly: if he waited for the ferry, he wouldn’t get home until at least 7:20.

But he could drive around; although the Kitsap Peninsula was only a thirty-five minute ferry ride from downtown Seattle, one could also drive through Tacoma and come into Poulsbo from the mainland. He could drive home in a little under two hours. And it was only three forty-five. He’d be through Tacoma before the rush-hour traffic hit.

“Thanks.” He pulled out of line and drove back through the city. In less than ten minutes, he was rocketing onto I-5 South. He flipped open his phone and called his mom, who didn’t pick up. Her battery had probably gone dead. Then he called the day care and told the teacher that he’d be late picking up Lulu.

Four o’clock.

And yes, he wouldn’t be home when Betsy got there.

He knew what Jolene would say, the disappointed look she’d give him, but he would only be a few minutes late—fifteen or twenty. Betsy was twelve years old, for God’s sake, she could be home alone for fifteen minutes. Thirty at the most.

He cranked up the music—a U2 concert album—and concentrated on driving through the now pouring rain. He was making good time until he came to the Narrows Bridge. The soaring green stanchions looked like huge ladders in the falling rain.

And the traffic was stopped. Up in the distance, he could see the flash of red ambulance lights.

“Damn it,” he cursed, opening his phone. He dialed home, left Betsy a message: “I’m stuck in traffic, Betsy. Just sit tight. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Six o’clock at the very latest. Call me if you want. I’m on my cell.”

He sat … and sat … and sat in the middle of a clog of cars, with rain blurring his windshield. All the while, he felt his blood pressure rising, but there was nothing he could do about it. At 5:40, he called home again. “Damn it, Betsy, pick up.” When she didn’t, he snapped the phone shut and dialed his mom at home. She didn’t answer either, so he left another message.

It was almost 6:20 when the barricades were cleared and traffic started up again. Michael hit the gas—too hard—and gunned for home. He had a pounding headache by the time he pulled into the day care parking lot. Inside the small well-tended house, he found the teacher waiting for him. “I’m sorry,” he said, raking the hair back from his face. “There was an accident on the Narrows. Ugly. I got here as quickly as I could.”

She nodded. “Things happen. I know. But Lulu’s upset.” She stepped aside.

Through an open door, Michael saw Lulu sitting all alone in a brightly colored playroom surrounded by dolls and stuffed animals.

“You’re late,” she said, looking up at him. “All the other mommies were already here.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He helped her into her coat, said good-bye to the teacher, and carried her out to the car.

Lulu didn’t talk to him all the way home, but to be honest the last thing he had to worry about these days was pissing off a four-year-old.

In the house, he patted her butt and told her to be good. “Betsy! I’m home,” he yelled, closing the door behind him. “I know you’re pissed, but come down and talk to me.”

He tossed his briefcase on the kitchen table and loosened his tie. “Betsy?” he yelled again.

“She’s not here,” Lulu said, coming into the room.

“What?” Michael looked down. “What do you mean?”

Lulu stood there, holding her ratty yellow blanket. “Betsy’s not home.”

“What?” He yelled it so loud Lulu looked startled. He ran past her and up the stairs; at Betsy’s room, he shoved the door open, yelling for her.

No answer.

He ran through the house, yelling until he knew: she wasn’t here.

Downstairs, Lulu was crying. “She’s gone. Oh, no … someone stoled her.”

“No one stole her,” he muttered angrily as he went to the phone and called his mom at home. When she picked up, he said, “Why don’t you listen to your messages? Is Betsy with you?”