Dana Corbit - A New Life

“I don’t think—”

“I never got a real date. It wasn’t very nice to cancel that way.”

Tricia shook her head. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Good, then I’ll accept your apology Friday night when we go out. Think you can get a sitter?”

When Tricia hesitated, Brett pressed his advantage. “Because if you can’t, I can probably call your friend Charity to sit for you. But then I’d have to explain how you canceled out on the first date and—”

“I can get one.” And with that, she left with her kids.

He should have been counting his blessings that her son had tried to stop all this craziness before any real damage was done. But he could only feel relieved and grateful he’d get the chance to see Tricia again.

has been fascinated with words since third grade, when she began stringing together stanzas of rhyme. That interest, and an inherent nosiness, led her to a career as a newspaper reporter and editor. After earning state and national recognition in journalism, she traded her career for stay-at-home motherhood.

But the need for creative expression followed her home, and later, through the move from Indiana to Michigan. Outside the office, Dana discovered the joy of writing fiction. In stolen hours, during naps and between carpooling and church activities, she escapes into her private world, telling stories from her heart.

Dana makes her home in Michigan, with her husband, three young daughters and two cats.

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But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their

strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles;

they shall run, and not be weary; and they

shall walk, and not faint.

—Isaiah 40:31

To my parents, James and Janet Corbit and

Curt and Alice Berry. Thank you for being convinced

for me even when I wasn’t sure and for listening

to my stories, each more fanciful than the last.

I would like to wish a special thanks to

Lieutenant Joel Allen, Trooper Christopher Grace

and Trooper Rene Gonzalez of the Michigan State

Police for opening their world to me.

Any mistakes in the story are my own.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

“Strike. Yes!”

Max shot both hands into the air and did a happy dance on the lane, though two pins—the four and the nine—still stood firmly.

“Oh, brother,” six-year-old Rusty, Jr. said, shaking his head. “They call that a ‘split,’ not a ‘strike.’”

Max shrugged, showing off his million-dollar grin. “Split. Yes,” he called out, repeating the dance with the gusto of a four-year-old.

Tricia Williams laughed out loud, and her three children fell into a cackling heap on top of their spring jackets that were piled on the floor. Their squeals only added to the noisy Saturday night atmosphere at Milford Bowling Lanes, combining with the crash of pins and the loud music from a nearby private event room.

It felt great to laugh again, to really laugh and not to feel as if she had to push air from her diaphragm to bolster the sound. In the two years since her husband Rusty’s death, she’d sensed a compassionate—but relentless—scrutiny from her friends at Hickory Ridge Community Church who wanted to make sure she was all right. And she was. Her children were, too. Maybe her little family wasn’t back to normal, but they’d found a new normal. If only she could convince her friends that she was fine.

“Hey, sweet pea, why don’t you roll your ball again and see if you can hit one of those pins?” she told Max as she extracted him from the pile.

With another between-the-legs, agonizingly slow roll, the boy picked up the four pin, assisted by a good bounce from the gutter guards.

While the young mother marked down the score, her daughter Lani leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Do you think we should tell the man on the next lane that they can put the gutter things up for him, too?”

The struggle not to laugh again made Tricia’s chest ache. She’d been trying not to notice the dark-haired man on lane fourteen for the last twenty minutes, since he’d settled in and started throwing a record-setting number of gutter balls. He was either terribly distracted or the worst bowler she’d ever seen.

“No, we’d better not,” Tricia whispered back, giving her daughter a side glance. Lani’s sly smile showed she was joking and, as always, she seemed older than her seven years. Tricia reached up to ruffle the deep-brown tresses of her child’s bob haircut.

“Mom, watch me bowl.” Rusty, Jr. stood poised with an eight-pound ball, wiggling his backside into his best pro bowling form.

“Okay, let’s see you roll a strike. You’re doing it just right.”

It felt right, too, just being here on a rare night out with her three favorite people, even if it strained the tightrope budget she tried so hard to balance every month. Watching her children enjoy themselves almost relieved her guilt over telling the white lie that freed up her calendar for a bowling night. Almost, but not quite.

They continued through the frames of their game, but none of their performances compared to the show going on in the next lane. While before, the man couldn’t hit a pin with a two-by-four, now his black ball seemed unable to miss one. Tricia half expected someone to recognize him at any moment as an escapee from the pro-bowlers’ tour.

“Look, Mommy, the man isn’t throwing gutter balls anymore,” Max pointed out two octaves louder than his regular speaking voice.

Tricia pressed an index finger to her lips to hush her son, her cheeks burning. At least the guy had the decency not to look at them, though he must have heard. His chest moved slightly a few times as he seemed to be trying not to laugh. His profile transformed as a dimple, incongruous with the earlier determined flex of his jaw, appeared on his cheek. On his next frame, he even missed a pin.

“Kids, what are we here to do? Bowl or talk?” Tricia said finally.

“Bowl!” the three chorused as they turned back from their interesting neighbor.

So they returned to the game, with Tricia’s applause and encouragement accompanying her children’s giggles. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on the game, she couldn’t help sneaking curious glances at the next lane.

Why was such a handsome man bowling alone on a Saturday night? Why had he seemed so preoccupied when he’d arrived? And an even bigger question: why did it matter to her? He was probably just like the four of them, trying to get one last visit in before the bowling alley closed so it could be renovated into a minimall. Besides, she hadn’t been so much as curious about a member of the male gender in the last two years.