The Midnight Dancers: A Fairy Tale Retold by Regina Doman Page B

“I’ve tried to sound out some of their friends from church about it. A couple of their male classmates are in my Bible study group. I’ve asked them to try to find out. You know how sometimes teens will only talk to other teens, and I know my girls are always trying to talk to these boys anyhow. But the boys have no idea. Either that, or they know what’s going on and they’re not telling me either.”
    “I meant, have you tried seeing a family counselor or something,” Paul amended.
    The colonel shook his head. “Been there, done that,” he said. “We did the whole counseling thing when my first wife died. I don’t know that it did much good.” He turned off the car—they had reached the campsite. “Besides, I don’t think this is psychological. It’s all about trust. The girls don’t trust me. I don’t trust them. And frankly, I don’t see what can be done about it.”
    He coughed and looked uncomfortable. “Like I said, I asked a couple of their friends already if they could find out what was going on. And I’m not sure if I can trust what they’re telling me. I don’t know if you’d consider trying your own hand, to see if you can find out what they’re up to?”
    Paul stared at him. “So you’re asking me to spy on your daughters?”
    “Well, I wouldn’t say that. If you were to talk to them…get to know them…and happen to figure out what it is they’re up to…you could let me know.” He looked a bit aggravated. “I know it’s an awkward request. I just don’t see what else I can do, short of bugging the house or having chips implanted in their arms. The situation has deteriorated to this point.”
    Paul could see how frustrated the colonel was. The man was in a tough spot: he was spying on his daughters but he didn’t want to have to spy.
    Thoughtful, Paul leaned forward and looked down at his feet. “Let me ask you this,” he said at last. “Which would you prefer—to have someone tell you what it is your daughters are doing? Or to have your daughters tell you themselves?”
     “I’d rather my daughters told me themselves, of course,” Colonel Durham said, looking searchingly at Paul. “Why? Do you think you could get them to do that? How?”
    Paul drummed his fingers on his knees, thinking of the snatches of the girls’ conversation he had inadvertently overheard. “Well, I don’t know if I could. Part of it would depend on how much you’re willing to trust me,” he said at last.
    The Colonel sat there, frowning and looking hard at Paul, suddenly looking formidable, the way that Army commanders can look when the need arises. Paul knew he was being scrutinized.
    At last, the Colonel spoke. “Trust you—how?”
    Paul took a deep breath, “I’ll need to know if I can have your permission for two things.”
    “All right,” Colonel Durham said. “So what are they?”
    “I would like your permission to be on your beach at night, without your knowledge. I mean, I would come and scout around the beach late at night, randomly, just to observe. I would come and go without attracting attention to myself, sir.” Paul realized he had fallen back automatically into the military manner of speaking.
    Colonel Durham looked at Paul quizzically. “You think the girls are up to something on the beach at night?”
    Paul continued deliberately. “And the second thing—and this is bigger—if I do find out, I need to be free to not tell you anything until I can persuade your daughters to tell you themselves. Like you said you would prefer.”
    Colonel Durham was silent for a long moment, staring over the steering wheel into the darkness. Then he put his clasped hands to his chin and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes a few seconds later, he looked at Paul.
    “All right, corporal,” he said. “I’ll trust you.”
    “Okay,” Paul said. “I’ll see what I can do.” He felt a pit opening out in his stomach as though he had just agreed to walk across a high-wire