for years. And, for the record, he wasnât a clown guy, he was a clown.â
This was followed by a silence that could genuinely be described as pregnant. Finally her dad said, âSo . . . weâre talking . . . insemination?â
She nodded. âThanks for not saying âartificial.â I hate that.â
âNo . . . itâs just as real as the other kind, I guess. Just more purposeful.â He was trying his best to be hip about this, and Shawna was touched by the effort.
âAnyway,â she said. âItâs not like Iâm afraid of single parenthood. I know Iâd be good at it. I had the best role model in the world.â
He shrugged off the compliment, then gulped down the rest of his scotch. âSo how do you go about this? A sperm bank or something?â
This was another term that sounded clinical and old-fashioned to Shawnaâs ears. âThese days,â she said gently, âitâs more like a private deposit.â
âA friend or something?â
âYeah. But I havenât asked him yet, so . . . itâs nothing definite.â She thought it prudent to refrain from elaboration. âI do know where I want it to happen.â
âWhere you want what to happen?â
âThe Eurovision Song Contest . . . Dad, câmon! Are we on the same page here?â
He was squirming a little, she realized. âYouâve picked a place for your insemination?â
âYes! And youâve been there!â
âWell . . . thatâs a relief.â
She laughed. âYouâre no fun! Câmon, guess!â
âThis is not my idea of a parlor game.â
âWell, itâs not much of a parlor either. Câmon, one guess. Thereâs a big fire involved. And itâs very flat and dusty.â
His answer, when it came, was equally flat and dusty. âBurning Man.â
âAwriight.â
âNo, not all right. Thatâs a terrible idea.â
âWhy? Youâve been there yourself! You couldnât stop raving about it. You said it was a deeply spiritual experience.â
âSix years ago! Itâs completely out of control now. Itâs a fucking mosh pit in the desert! Itâs gonna be eighty thousand people or something.â
âSixty,â she said. âAnd this yearâs theme is Fertility 2.0. Itâs perfect!â
âPerfectly unhygienic.â
She sighed noisily. âItâs a conception, Dad, not a delivery.â
Her father tilted his head in defeat. âWhatever. Youâre right.â
âI want to mark the moment, thatâs all. I want my child to know that it wasâyou knowâcompletely intentional. And there will be friends around, soââ
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 wasnât especially fat, but she wasnât thin either.
âIâm Wren Douglas,â she said, extending a small, pink-varnished hand to Shawna, âand youâre my new favorite writer.â
Shawna could feel herself blushing. âWell . . . thanks.â
âAnd guess what?â Brian blurted. âSheâs gonna make you a grandmother.â
Shawna glared at her father with teen-style indignation until simple astonishment won the moment. âYouâre married , you mean?â
âLast week in Santa Fe.â Wren waggled a finger wrapped in a turquoise-and-silver ring. âHe wouldnât put out until we made it official.â She laughed throatily. âHe said, âIf you want it, then you better put a ring on it.â â
Her fatherâs grin was sheepish but without shame.
Hundreds of Years to Reform a Rake