Chapter 1

My head throbbed as I slowly drifted to consciousness. I ached—my head, my jaw, my arms. Even my eyeballs. Especially my eyeballs. I kept them closed and I slowly shifted on whatever I was laying on. It was hard, cold, and metallic. I was dressed, at least, though my shoes felt tight.

My mouth tasted awful. Cottony, with hints of vomit. I also smelled awful. Sweat, and booze. A lot of booze.

Slowly the memories came back to me. Going to the bar. Toasting Caroline’s memory. Ordering more drinks. Then it became a blur. I vaguely remembered a blonde and cold air and a big guy in a uniform...

I groaned. I had a strong suspicion about where I was.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. The room light hurt and I had to blink a couple of times. I faced a concrete wall. Slowly, I rose up and turned around.

Yep. I was in a jail cell.

I was, thankfully, alone. I shifted until I was sitting on the bench instead of lying down. That didn’t help my head. I got a little dizzy. I tried to remember what’s happened the night before.

I remembered the bar. I remembered the toast. No, toasts. I’d toasted Caroline several times. My chest tightened.

God, I missed her.

I dry-sobbed for a minute or two before I regained control of myself. I was in jail. At sixty. I wasn’t some young punk anymore to be getting drunk and picking fights...

I sorted through the memories. Yeah ... that’s exactly what I’d done. With the guy in the uniform.

I groaned again. That rather clearly explained where I was.

“Peterson!”

I raised my head even though it still hurt like hell. Through bleary eyes, I stared at the officer at the door.

“Your daughter’s here,” he said. “She’s bailing you out.”

I sucked in my breath. I did not want Katie to see me like this. But then, I didn’t want to stay in the cell any longer, either. I needed to pee, and I preferred privacy for that.

So I woozily stood and shuffled to the door.

Katie looked so forlorn, so disappointed when I saw her. She sighed with exasperation and asked how I was. Other than the hangover from hell, I was okay. I ached and my bladder was bursting but that was it. They let me go to the bathroom while Katie finished the paperwork and then we somehow made it to the car. I did my best not to look at her.

“So...,” she said once we’d pulled out of the parking lot, “trying to honor Mom again?”

“I didn’t want to be home alone.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You’ve got the boys.”

She sighed. “They can handle a night alone.”

“Yeah, right. They’re teenagers. What will your house look like in the morning?”

She fell silent and gathered her thoughts for a block or two.

“So...,” she said, “why a cop?”

“Don’t remember that part,” I admitted. “I don’t remember a lot.”

“One of the charges was soliciting.”

“What! Soliciting?” I definitely didn’t remember that.

“Mmm hmm. You offered a woman five hundred dollars if she’d go home with you.”

I sighed and tried to sink further in my seat. “I don’t remember that either.”

“But a bar, Dad?”

“I didn’t plan to get that drunk. I just ... I just miss her.”

Katie nodded, but she also tensed.

“I know,” I said. “I know...”

“Grief takes what it takes. At least that’s what my counselor says.”

I softly snorted and waited for Katie to suggest, yet again, that I get into counseling myself. But she surprised me this time by keeping quiet.

We stayed silent for the rest of the trip to my house. There, Katie made it clear she was coming in with me. My head ached too much for me to object.

We walked into the kitchen and Katie let out a resigned sigh. It wasn’t that messy, I didn’t think. Though maybe I should’ve put yesterday’s lunch leftovers away and cleared the table. And wiped down the counter. And maybe have actually loaded the dishwasher.

“Go take some ibuprofen,” she said, “and take a shower. I’ll, um, tidy up around here.”

Guiltily, I did just that.

By the time I came back downstairs I was doing better. Not a lot better, but at least I was clean and shaved. The first step to not feeling like a loser felon was not looking like a loser felon. It helped that the ibuprofen had kicked in as well.

Katie had cleaned the kitchen and was frying bacon on the stove. She saw me and smiled.

“Coffee’s hot,” she said, “and there’s juice on the table.”

Along with toast and jam, I noted, but not eggs. Thank God. I was still too hung over for eggs.

I poured my coffee and sank into my chair at the kitchen table. I sipped the hot liquid quietly while I watched my daughter cook.

At thirty-five, Katie was almost the spitting image of her mother. She’d filled out in the hips much like Caroline had, and her hair had darkened to the same hue. She styled it differently—straight rather than wavy locks—but from behind they could almost be mistaken for one another.

If Caroline was still alive.

My throat caught and my lip trembled. If Caroline...

I suppressed a sob. I did not need Katie mothering me again. Instead, I took a few deep breaths and got myself back under control before my daughter turned around.

She smiled as she heaped bacon onto my plate. As I began to eat, she poured herself some coffee and sat down across from me. I added butter and jam to my toast after I’d eaten my first piece of bacon. Katie just watched me.

“What?” I said.

“So how’s the studio coming?” she asked.

I looked at her warily. “I’m working on it.”

“Which means you haven’t done anything.”

“I will!” I shrank back and shoved more toast in my mouth. If I was chewing, I couldn’t answer questions.

It didn’t work. She waited until I swallowed.

“You said that last time. And the time before that.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to.”

“And this time will be different?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She sighed. “You’re as bad as my students.”

“Worse,” I shot back. “You can always call their parents.”

“Yeah. Well, it looks like I’ll just have to call your parole officer instead.”

I grimaced and shut up.

I puttered around my studio after Katie left. She’d goaded me until I agreed to it, but honestly, I knew I wasn’t going to do much. There were too many ghosts.

Well, one ghost. Caroline.

My muse. My partner. The mother of my child and the joy of my life. We’d made love in the studio far more often than the bedroom. That’s why I’d put in the chaise, now covered in dust.

I couldn’t look at the chaise without conjuring up images of the past. The times she posed in just black stockings. The times we used the colored filters to accentuate her bare skin. The way she wanted me, hungrily, after every photo session.