Remember When

doing little that was normal.
    She was entitled to this, wasn't she? To being Laine Tavish and all that meant? The business, the town, the house, the friends, the life. She was entitled to the woman she'd made herself into.
    It wouldn't have helped Willy for her to have told Vince the truth. Nothing would have changed for him, and everything might have changed for her. Vince would find out, soon enough, that the man in the county morgue wasn't Jasper R. Peterson but William Young, and however many aka's that went with it.
    There'd be a criminal record. She knew Willy had done at least one stint alongside her father.
    "Brothers in arms," her father had called them, and she could still hear his big, booming laugh.
    Because it infuriated her, she slammed out of the car. She made the house in a dash, fumbled out her keys.
    She calmed, almost immediately, when the door was closed at her back and the house surrounded her. Just the quiet of it, the scents of lemon oil rubbed into wood by her own hand, the subtle sweetness of spring flowers brought in from her own yard stroked her frayed nerves.
    She set her keys in the raku dish on the entry table, pulled her cell phone out of her purse and plugged it into the recharger. Slipped out of her shoes, out of her jacket, which she draped over the newel post, and set her purse on the bottom step.
    Following routine, she walked back to the kitchen. Normally, she'd have put on the kettle for tea and looked through the mail she'd picked up from the box at the foot of the lane while the water heated.
    But today, she poured a big glass of wine.
    And drank it standing at the sink, looking through the window at her backyard.
    She'd had a yard-a couple of times-as a kid. She remembered one in... Nebraska? Iowa? What did it matter, she thought and took a healthy gulp of wine. She'd liked the yard because it had a big old tree right in the middle, and he'd hung an old tire from it on a big thick rope.
    He'd pushed her so high she'd thought she was flying.
    She wasn't sure how long they'd stayed and didn't remember the house at all. Most of her childhood was a blur of places and faces, of car rides, a flurry of packing up. And him, her father, with his big laugh and wide hands, with his irresistible grin and careless promises.
    She'd spent the first decade of her life desperately in love with the man, and the rest of it doing everything she could to forget he existed.
    If he was in trouble, again, it was none of her concern.
    She wasn't Jack O'Hara's little Lainie anymore. She was Laine Tavish, solid citizen.
    She eyed the bottle of wine and with a shrug poured a second glass. A grown woman could get toasted in her own kitchen, by God, especially when she'd watched a ghost from the past die at her feet.
    Carrying the glass, she walked to the mudroom door, to answer the hopeful whimpering on the other side.
    He came in like a cannon shot-a hairy, floppy-eared cannon shot. His paws planted themselves at her belly, and the long snout bumped her face before the tongue slurped out to cover her cheeks with wet and desperate affection.
    "Okay, okay! Happy to see you, too." No matter how low her mood, a welcome home by Henry, the amazing hound, never failed to lift it.
    She'd sprung him from the joint, or so she liked to think. When she'd gone to the pound two years before, it had been with a puppy in mind. She'd always wanted a cute, gamboling little bundle she'd train from the ground up.
    But then she'd seen him-big, ungainly, stunningly homely with his mud-colored fur. A cross, she'd thought, between a bear and an anteater. And she'd been lost the minute he'd looked through the cage doors and into her eyes.
    Everybody deserves a chance, she'd thought, and so she sprung Henry from the joint. He'd never given her a reason to regret it. His love was absolute, so much so that he continued to look adoringly at her even when she filled his bowl with kibble.
    "Chow time, pal."
    At the signal, Henry dipped his head into his bowl and got serious.
    She should eat, too. Something to sop up some of the wine, but she didn't feel like it. Enough wine swimming around in her bloodstream and she wouldn't be able to think, to wonder, to worry.
    She left the inner door open, but stepped into the mudroom to check the outside locks. A man could shimmy through the dog door, if he was determined to get in, but Henry would set up the alarm.
    He howled every time a car came up the lane, and though he would punish the