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for years. And, for the record, he wasn’t a clown guy, he was a clown.”
    This was followed by a silence that could genuinely be described as pregnant. Finally her dad said, “So . . . we’re talking . . . insemination?”
    She nodded. “Thanks for not saying ‘artificial.’ I hate that.”
    â€œNo . . . it’s just as real as the other kind, I guess. Just more purposeful.” He was trying his best to be hip about this, and Shawna was touched by the effort.
    â€œAnyway,” she said. “It’s not like I’m afraid of single parenthood. I know I’d be good at it. I had the best role model in the world.”
    He shrugged off the compliment, then gulped down the rest of his scotch. “So how do you go about this? A sperm bank or something?”
    This was another term that sounded clinical and old-fashioned to Shawna’s ears. “These days,” she said gently, “it’s more like a private deposit.”
    â€œA friend or something?”
    â€œYeah. But I haven’t asked him yet, so . . . it’s nothing definite.” She thought it prudent to refrain from elaboration. “I do know where I want it to happen.”
    â€œWhere you want what to happen?”
    â€œThe Eurovision Song Contest . . . Dad, c’mon! Are we on the same page here?”
    He was squirming a little, she realized. “You’ve picked a place for your insemination?”
    â€œYes! And you’ve been there!”
    â€œWell . . . that’s a relief.”
    She laughed. “You’re no fun! C’mon, guess!”
    â€œThis is not my idea of a parlor game.”
    â€œWell, it’s not much of a parlor either. C’mon, one guess. There’s a big fire involved. And it’s very flat and dusty.”
    His answer, when it came, was equally flat and dusty. “Burning Man.”
    â€œAwriight.”
    â€œNo, not all right. That’s a terrible idea.”
    â€œWhy? You’ve been there yourself! You couldn’t stop raving about it. You said it was a deeply spiritual experience.”
    â€œSix years ago! It’s completely out of control now. It’s a fucking mosh pit in the desert! It’s gonna be eighty thousand people or something.”
    â€œSixty,” she said. “And this year’s theme is Fertility 2.0. It’s perfect!”
    â€œPerfectly unhygienic.”
    She sighed noisily. “It’s a conception, Dad, not a delivery.”
    Her father tilted his head in defeat. “Whatever. You’re right.”
    â€œI want to mark the moment, that’s all. I want my child to know that it was—you know—completely intentional. And there will be friends around, so—”
    She was interrupted by the whack of an opening door. The woman who climbed into the RV was fiftyish and luscious in a blowsy Wife of Bath kind of way. Her gray hair was gathered into a ponytail, her waist cinched with a wide green belt that caught the color of her eyes and hoisted her ample breasts into full display.
    She wasn’t especially fat, but she wasn’t thin either.
    â€œI’m Wren Douglas,” she said, extending a small, pink-varnished hand to Shawna, “and you’re my new favorite writer.”
    Shawna could feel herself blushing. “Well . . . thanks.”
    â€œAnd guess what?” Brian blurted. “She’s gonna make you a grandmother.”
    Shawna glared at her father with teen-style indignation until simple astonishment won the moment. “You’re married , you mean?”
    â€œLast week in Santa Fe.” Wren waggled a finger wrapped in a turquoise-and-silver ring. “He wouldn’t put out until we made it official.” She laughed throatily. “He said, ‘If you want it, then you better put a ring on it.’ ”
    Her father’s grin was sheepish but without shame.