My Aunt Barbara maintains there are two truths about Southern belles: they survive and they endure.

She’s a Southern belle through and through—gracious, steadfast and honest. She’s ready to offer you a tall glass of sweet tea, or a piece of her mind, whichever best suits the situation.

I suppose the Villa Magnolia is a Southern belle in her own right, too, because beneath her peeling paint and red tile roof that’s mildewed green-black, she stands graceful and proud.

She is a survivor.

I could learn a thing or two from both of them.

Sarah rests her head against the passenger window as if it’s too much for her to open her eyes and take a peek at our new home.

I want to turn to her and say, “Baby girl, I know you hate me for uprooting you, but it’s going to be all right.”

It has to be all right.

Nancy Robards Thompson

Award-winning author Nancy Robards Thompson lives and writes in Florida, where she spent three years serving on the PTSA board at her daughter’s school. Along the way, she encountered a couple of “Stratford Wives” in the ranks of the general membership, but her overall PTSA experience was quite pleasant, thanks to the dedicated ladies with whom she served on the board. She holds a degree in journalism and has worked a myriad of jobs, including television-show stand-in; production and extras casting for movies; newspaper reporter; and several mind-numbing jobs in the fashion industry and public relations. Much more content to report to her muse, Nancy has found nirvana doing what she loves most—writing women’s fiction full-time. Critics have deemed her books “funny, smart and observant.” True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA is her fourth NEXT novel.

True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA

Nancy Robards Thompson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

From the Author

Dear Reader,

Isn’t it interesting the different people we meet along life’s path? Those with whom we bond instantly and others who remain distant enigmas. Sure, it’s easier to feel connected to those with whom we share common interests and thoughts. But sometimes the “difficult” people teach us the most about ourselves—even though at times it seems as if they were simply put on this earth to annoy us.

That’s the case in True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA. Three women—Maggie, Barbara and Elizabeth—forge an unlikely friendship in the midst of personal storms too dark to weather alone. In the process, the bonds of their alliance are stretched and relationships are tested, but in the end, they emerge stronger women because of it.

I hope you’ll find a piece of yourself in these three courageous women and come away knowing that through faith, love and friendship anything is possible. I love to hear from readers, so please visit me at www.nancyrobardsthompson.com and let me know what you think.

Warmly,

Nancy

This book is dedicated to my father, Jim Robards, for being the best dad a girl could wish for. Daddy, thanks for making laughter such a big a part of our lives.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Tammy Strickland for taking time away from her own writing and nursing career to advise me on high-risk pregnancy.

Hugs and appreciation—

To Sarah M., Sandy M., Evelyn S., Tyler J., Janet W., Cindy P., Debi W., Danella S., Donna S. and Polly R., who made my PTSA service an enjoyable experience. Ladies, it was an honor and a pleasure to serve with you. Your dedication to our school is what makes it such a wonderful place.

To Beverly Brandt for sharing the Bob joke!

To Kathy Garbera and Teresa Elliot Brown, who always know the next move when I’m stuck.

To Michael and Jennifer, who are my world.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 1

Maggie

It’s easy to look back and pinpoint what you should’ve done differently, to think of words you could’ve said, or a path you should’ve taken if you’d only trusted your intuition.

What’s not so easy is looking forward, past the shouldas and couldas, straight into the eyes of the here and now.

I stop the car in front of the wrought-iron gates surrounding the Villa Magnolia, this place I visited so many times as a child, and I take a good look at the here and now, forcing myself to drink it down like bitter medicine.

Funny how you can look at something for years and never really see it. As far back as I can remember, my aunt Barbara has lived in the sprawling, lakefront estate, the home where Barbara and Mama grew up.

My granddaddy made and lost a fortune in the citrus industry, and the house was all he managed to hang on to. Due to family tensions I never understood, Mama was disinherited. Granddaddy left Barbara the Villa Magnolia, and left Mama and me to survive on our own the best we could. The only thing I know is that it had something to do with Granddaddy not approving of Mama’s boyfriend, the man who would eventually get her pregnant with me.

All my daddy left me was his olive skin, lush lips and dark curly hair.

The trinity of his legacy.

Today, as I sit here, with the sun shining through the dense, leafy branches of the old magnolia tree, I realize I’ve come back seeking answers. I haven’t quite figured out all the questions, but they’ll come. Yes, as sure as the sword fern has invaded the grass between the driveway and the fence, the questions will come.

Barbara’s the one responsible for my daughter and me moving back. She just wouldn’t rest until she got us here. It took a year of her badgering me, but I lived in a daze for the first nine months after my husband Tim died. In that big old house in Asheville, just my daughter Sarah and me.

Sometimes I’d hear or read something that would make me think, Oh, I have to call Tim and tell him—and a split second later, the realization would set in that I couldn’t call Tim and the only way I could cope was to take a sleeping pill and put a pillow over my head so I could obliterate the pain.

It was bad enough that sometimes I’d sleep until it was time to pick up Sarah from school; but the wake-up call came after he’d been gone five months—the morning the knife I was using to butter Sarah’s toast slipped out of my hand and slid underneath the refrigerator. I got down on my hands and knees to fish it out and found a note in Tim’s handwriting caught in the dusty coils.

Maggie, morning, hon, had to head out to an early meeting. Didn’t want to wake you. Forgot to mention that my blue shirt needs to be spot-treated when you take it to the cleaners. See you tonight. Love you, Tim

No, I wouldn’t see him tonight. He’d wrapped his white Infiniti around a telephone pole and was never coming home again. Not that night or any other.

In a stupor, I went upstairs to the spare bedroom and dug that blue shirt out of the boxes of his things I’d packed up but couldn’t quite bring myself to take to the Salvation Army.

I put on that blue shirt and curled up into a ball, crying until the next thing I knew, I opened my eyes in a dark room.

I sat up with a start. Where was Sarah? How in hell could I sleep through picking up my daughter? There was no phone in the room so I had no idea if she’d called.

Oh, she had, of course. Several times. She was at a friend’s house. The mom had tried to bring her home, but took her back to their house when no one had answered the door.

Sarah was worried sick that something had happened to me. Just as something had happened to her father.

I realized it was time I got myself to a shrink. The shrink, in turn, suggested that a change of scenery might be a good idea.

A few months later, I accepted Barbara’s persistent invitation to come back to Florida and move into the guesthouse on the grounds of the Villa Magnolia.

It’s been a long time since I last saw her, but my aunt Barbara is a Southern belle through and through—gracious, steadfast and honest. She’s ready to offer you a tall glass of sweet tea, or a piece of her mind, whichever best suits the situation. She maintains there are two truths about Southern belles: they survive and they endure.

I suppose the Villa Magnolia is a Southern belle in her own right, too, because beneath her peeling paint and red tile roof that’s mildewed green-black, she stands graceful and proud.

She is a survivor.

I could learn a thing or two from both of them.

Sarah rests her head against the passenger window as if it’s too much for her to open her eyes and take a peek at our new home.

I want to turn to her and say, “Baby girl, I know you hate me for uprooting you, but it’ll be all right.”

It has to be all right.

She was such a daddy’s girl, and there’re times I think she wishes it were me in that grave instead of him. I want to tell her to be careful what she wishes for because Death listens. Death, that cold, hard bastard, waits in the shadows, hearing every fleeting impulse your heart utters.

The gate is open, but rather than pulling up to the house and unloading ourselves without warning, I press the intercom call button to let Barbara know we’re here. She’s expecting us, but it only seems right to announce ourselves instead of barging in.

“What are you doing?” Sarah scowls at me. These are the first words she’s uttered since we crossed the Florida state line.

“Letting Aunt Barbara know we’re here.”

“Why do you think she left the gate open? So you wouldn’t have to do that.”

I ignore her haughty tone. She’s been through so much, losing Tim and moving to a new state in the midst of middle school—as if that isn’t an awkward time on a good day. Honestly, I don’t blame her for being upset.

I never had a daddy. I suppose it’s worse to lose a good one than to never have had one in your life.

It was always just the two of us, Mama and me. But sometimes when I was with her, that’s when I felt the most alone. Probably how Sarah felt when I was going through my crazy spell.

Mama’s been gone now for twenty-two years. In a way it seems as if she’s been gone forever. In another way it hurts as if it happened yesterday. Maybe her living inside herself all the time was to prepare me for being alone. But I got soft being married to Tim. I got used to depending on him. He didn’t give me any warning that he’d leave, too.

I know better than most anyone that Death doesn’t just happen to other people. But I can’t contemplate it for too long. I can’t let my mind creep to the edge of that vast canyon where Death lives and gaze down into his eyes. Because I don’t want him to be part of my here and now.

Shaking away the thought, I press the button again and wait for Barbara’s voice to drift through the intercom, inviting us in. I take a good look around, drinking in everything. It’s been a long, long time, but everything looks exactly the same, a little more overgrown, a little weathered around the edges.

I always did love that old magnolia tree. The way it stands just inside the gates, all tall and proud, spreading its protective branches as if no harm would come to any who entered.

The tree was here before the house. In fact, they had to veer the driveway to the right because it was smack dab in the middle of the straight line between the gate and the house. I never realized it before, but I’m glad they went around it instead of digging up its roots.

A cool breeze wafts in through the open car window. It smells of magnolia blossoms, something basil-like and the aquatic mélange of the lake off in the distance beyond the old Mediterranean house.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. We will be strong like that old tree, my daughter and I. Strong and sure with roots growing so deep that Death won’t topple us.

The iron gate will fortify us, protect us so that Death won’t march his very own hateful self in and endeavor to dig up our roots.

“Mom, no one’s answering. Just go in.”

I shrug, gaze back at the rusting call box, mashing the button again. It doesn’t buzz or squawk or give any indication that it’s announcing our arrival.

I toss it up to fate. If Barbara answers, that means coming back here wasn’t a mistake.

Sarah sighs. “If this is our home, why do we have to wait for someone to invite us in?”

I don’t know how to answer that question.

Because it’s the polite thing to do when someone takes you in?

Because if we proceed up that long, winding driveway uninvited, maybe Death will, too?

Sarah gazes at me, waiting for an answer.

Barbara didn’t answer, is this a mistake?

Reluctantly, I put the car in Drive.

“You’re not real glad to be here, are you?”

It’s not a challenge so much as an observation. She’s an old soul, that daughter of mine. Always has been. Despite her rampant teenage hormones, there’s always a glimmer of truth in those soft brown eyes, a way of viewing the world that astounds me sometimes.

“It’s hard for me, too, baby.”

She bites her bottom lip and stares out the passenger window, and as the car rolls toward the main house, I try to ignore the dark shadows I see in my peripheral vision.

CHAPTER 2

Barbara

I love putting my hands in the dirt, potting flowers and tending them so they bloom bold and bright. There’s no better way to set my mind right than getting elbow deep in potting soil on a clear, cool January afternoon. No matter what’s bothering me—an argument with my husband, Burt—which seems to be a perpetual state of affairs—or if Mary Grace is having a particularly hard time of it at school—kids can be so cruel…

Mary Grace is a special child. Down syndrome. All that means is she was born with an extra twenty-first chromosome. As far as I’m concerned, that makes her extra-special. But nowadays, it seems as if kids have even less tolerance for those who are different. It takes all I have to ensure my daughter lives a normal life without others adding to the task.

When it’s all crashing down on top of me, I come out here for a little earth therapy.

Today, I’ve hauled my supplies out here so I can work with my begonias—Rose Form Picotes, Ruffled Picotes, Giant Ruffled and my special favorite—plain ol’ Rose Form. There’s nothing plain about ’em. The blossoms look like huge roses, and I’ve grown them so big that they’re almost the size of a dinner plate. Hiding all that green underneath so as alls you see is a beautiful flower.

The secret lies in a bigger, stronger root system. There are two methods you can use to get that big root system, but the more challenging method produces better results than the easier one.

Isn’t that just like life? Nothing worth doing or having ever comes easily.

I remind myself of that all the time. When Burt’s being a snot or the struggles with Mary Grace overwhelm me or the efforts to keep this house feel as if they’re about ready to drop down on my head.

This is where my roots lie. Generations before me struggled to keep this place. I will not fail them.

So I set out flowers. It’s an affordable way to make this old place look better. Lord, it needs a foundation-to-rafter makeover, but begonias are more in line with my pocketbook.

Begonias will shift the focus.

So begonias it will be.

As I’m lifting a bag of potting soil, a hitch in my chest takes my breath away for a few seconds. I drop the bag of dirt and fall to my knees and take some slow deep breaths.

My heartburn’s acting up again. Or maybe I just tried to stand up too fast. Lord have mercy…. I suppose I should get myself into the doctor, but I hate to complain about every little ache and pain. Besides, who has time for doctor appointments? It seems as though once you start, appointments cluster like aphids on a tender leaf. This doctor sending you over here to get this checked; that doctor sending you over there to get that checked. I may be sixty years old, but I’m not ready to give all my free time to the likes of medical monkey business.

And, see here—as always, after a few seconds, the pain passes and I feel just fine.

Probably just gas.

I draw in a deep breath. Pain-free.

There. Now that I’m standing and my dungarees aren’t binding me in two, I can breathe. The doctor would just tell me there was nothing wrong with me that losing a good thirty pounds wouldn’t cure.

The sound of car tires crunching on the gravel drive makes me shade my eyes. I don’t recognize the blue car, but I realize with a start that it’s probably my niece Margaret, my late sister Leila’s girl. I’m expecting her today. But I didn’t think she and her little one would arrive quite so early. I was thinking it would be late afternoon.

I glance at my watch and realize it’s half past two.

For crying out loud, where did the day go? I’m embarrassed to admit that sometimes I lose track of time when I’m working out here.

Oh well, it makes no never mind. In fact, it’s better that they’re arriving now rather than later when Burt’s home. I haven’t told him that we’re having houseguests. Because of certain circumstances that transpired with Leila all those years ago, I figured he wouldn’t be thrilled about me inviting her girl to live in our carriage house until she can get back on her feet.

Bless his heart, Burt doesn’t understand things like this. Mind you, I don’t make a habit of going behind my husband’s back and making plans without involving him. Manipulation was more Leila’s style. Although, living with Burt all these years, there were definitely times when I could’ve benefited from employing a few of my late sister’s techniques.

Like the time I came up with the plan to turn the Villa Magnolia into an elegant bed-and-breakfast. I discussed it with Burt, never fathoming he’d flat out refuse. I mean, with my knack for hospitality, cooking and decorating, I was just sure a B and B was the answer to our financial woes, especially seeing how that male ego of his wouldn’t let me go out and take a job outside the home. I suppose he was afraid people would think he couldn’t support his family. Well, there was that and the problem of Burt not taking kindly to strangers in his home. He pooh-poohed the B and B in no uncertain terms. No discussion. Not even an “I’ll think about it.”

So do you see why sometimes I opt for asking for forgiveness rather than permission?

He won’t turn Margaret out now that she’s here. The poor dear needs to be with her people right now, and other than her girl, Sarah, I’m all the people she’s got. Despite all that’s happened, I owe at least that much to my sister, to take care of her baby when she needs a hand. I shouldn’t have let the silence between Margaret and me go on this long. Lord knows I had good intentions of keeping in touch with her after Leila passed, but with Margaret being all the way up there in North Carolina, it was difficult and then I had Mary Grace and time just flew. And I suppose if I’m honest, the bad blood between Leila and me festered in the back of my mind. It took a long time for me to finally face facts that I was mad at her.

Mad at her for what she did and mad at her for leaving us the way she did.

She always had to have the last word.

But I forgive her for what she did and any kind of a decent human being with a lick of compassion would not hold Margaret responsible for her mother’s actions.

As the blue Toyota slows to a stop, a cool breeze rustles the scarf anchoring down my straw hat. I bat it out of my face with a grimy, gloved hand. Land sakes, I must look a sight. I yank off the gloves, stuff them inside the hat and toss the lot onto the porch step, fluffing up my hair.

I suppose it’s just been too hard for Margaret to come back here to the place where her mama killed herself.

I take a slow, deep breath and muster a big welcoming smile for them. I will not make this any harder on that child and her little girl than it already must be. Poor, poor Margaret, so young to be a widow.

I squint to get a glimpse of Sarah through the smoky glass of the car window. Land, that baby’s a teenager by now. She was born the same year as Mary Grace.

When the door opens, a tall, skinny, blond-headed girl slides out of the car and squints at me as if she’s tumbled out of a cave by accident. The sight of her steals my breath. There in her face is the whisper of Leila. The pale ghost of my sister. Flickers and glints of her in the valleys beneath the apple cheekbones; the curve of her nostril; the rosebud set of that pursed little mouth. Genes have slid down the years, skipping a generation to manifest in this beautiful young woman.

There’s scarcely a hint of Margaret in her own daughter. Instead, it’s as if Leila’s reached out from the grave and claimed the child for her own.

“You must be Sarah.”

The girl stares at her sneakers.

Leila’s granddaughter. It’s hard to reconcile that my sister would be a grandmother. I mean, I’m a grandma. I don’t know why it’s so hard to wrap my mind around the fact that she would be, too. That’s what happens, I suppose, when one dies young. They are youthfully preserved for eternity.

Margaret rounds the side of the car and I shove Leila into the back of my mind, to the place where she resides.

Good heavens, it’s been a long time. Margaret was just a few years older than Sarah the last time I saw her, which means I would’ve been round about Margaret’s age.

“Just look at you.” I hold out my arms. “It’s so good to see you, honey.”

I enfold her in a hug. As her bony shoulder pokes into my fleshy upper arm, the reflection of an old crone stares back at me from the car window. The image startles me.

Who is that? Not me. Surely not me. She’s too fat, too gray, too wrinkled.

It’s silly, how this passage of time takes me by surprise. But I suppose it’s not just the dead who are forever immortalized. In our mind’s eye we see ourselves in our prime, and it’s startling to realize how much you’ve aged.

The reflection slips away as Margaret slides out of my arms and wipes tears from her eyes.

“Barbara, it’s so good of you to—” Her voice breaks. I’m afraid she’s going to start bawling. And if she does, I will too. We can’t have that.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, baby doll. It is my pleasure. You girls stay as long as you like. As far as I’m concerned, you can stay forevah.”

Margaret makes a noise like she’s going to protest, but I wave her off and focus on Sarah. “Lord have mercy, child. You are the spitting image of your grandma, Leila.”

Sarah’s face remains blank, but Margaret flinches, or maybe she’s just pushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.

All I know is awkward silence hangs in the air.

Sarah doesn’t say anything, just stands there with her arms dangling down at her sides.

“Sarah, did you say hello to Aunt Barbara?”

The girl’s expression doesn’t change. She simply shifts her flat, dark gaze to her mother, looking up through lush eyelashes.

Margaret narrows her eyes at her daughter and gives a sharp nod in my direction.

“Hey.” Sarah’s single word is as lifeless as a humid August day, as if it took all she had to muster the single syllable. But that’s okay.

“Hey, darlin’,” I say. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

Margaret has sad eyes. And as this weary-looking, thin wisp of a woman in her baggy jeans and untucked pink button-down opens the trunk, I want to tell her that this is the prime of her life, that she’s not supposed to look so worn out. But I suppose prime time does not include widowhood. Not by any means.

I muster the best smile I can manage. “Let’s get your things out of the car. I’m sure you girls are anxious to get settled in.”

As we start to unload the car, removing suitcases and boxes and bags, Mary Grace’s school bus chugs to a stop at the gate. Since she’s considered special needs, the bus picks her up and drops her off right in front of the house. She doesn’t have to walk the three blocks down the road where the other kids catch the bus. It would be nice if someone would wait with her—someone like the Deveraux girl across the street. There’s no reason she couldn’t catch the bus here. In fact, I mentioned it to her mother, Elizabeth, once, but she said Anastasia meets her friends down the way and likes it that way.

People are creatures of habit. Once they’re used to something it gets ingrained in their system and it’s hard to do things differently.

The first day I put my baby on that school bus all by herself I thought I was going to die. I was used to taking her to school, but Burt got it in his head that Mary Grace needed to ride the bus, and well, since I’m always insisting that our daughter is no different than the other kids, I think he was calling my bluff.

Everything has to be a battle with that man. It’s no skin off his nose if I drive our daughter to school every day. But he was so smug and superior reminding me that this was just one more example of how Mary Grace was not able to function in the real world.

What he didn’t say, but it was there between the lines, was it’s my fault. That I should’ve never gotten pregnant with her, being in my late-forties and all. Our other kids were grown and out of the house, and here I was with this unexplainable hankering to have another baby.

Burt adamantly opposed reverting back to diapers and middle-of-the-night feedings. He said I simply feared empty-nest syndrome—as if that could explain it all away. But the need to have this child ran deeper than that. Deeper than I could explain. It was as if this soul had chosen me to deliver it into the world, and I would just die if I didn’t have another baby.

Two years later, when I got pregnant, Burt accused me of doing it on purpose, which I suppose was true, but I couldn’t tell him that. Especially when Mary Grace was born with Down’s.

That’s when he started pulling away—from me and Mary Grace.

“Well, you got your wish,” he said. “This child will never leave you.”

So to prove him wrong, that this girl was as capable as the next child, I put her on that bus. He didn’t know that I followed her in my car every morning for the first two months. In the afternoon, I’d drive up to the school and make sure she got on the right bus and I’d follow ’em home.

It made no never mind to him. And I certainly didn’t mind doing it. It was better than sitting at home and worrying myself sick.

“Come on, Sarah, let’s you and me walk down and meet Mary Grace. Margaret, honey, you go ahead and get settled in. We’ll be right back.”

I start off down the driveway. The girl falls into step beside me.

“Who’s Mary Grace?”

“She’s your cousin. She’s about your age. What are you, ’bout thirteen?”

The girl nods.

As we approach, Mary Grace bounds down the bus steps. She stops in her tracks, scrunches up her face and looks at Sarah.

“Sugar pie, this is your cousin, Sarah. She and her mama are going to live with us for a while.” The bus doors close with a hiss and the vehicle chugs away.

Mary Grace smiles. “Is she going to live in my room?”

“No, angel, in the carriage house.”

My daughter’s brows knit, as if she’s considering the arrangement. “Does Sarah like to push people on the swing?”

“Well, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

From the window I watch Sarah push Mary Grace in the old board swing that hangs from the live oak. That swing’s been there since my oldest boy, Stephen, was tiny. Over the years I’ve replaced the ropes, of course, but it’s always been there, a constant friend that’s entertained all my babies. But my older kids had each other. Being so much younger than her brothers and sisters, poor Mary Grace has essentially been alone, save for me.

It’s an unexpected bonus that my sweet girl will have a friend in her cousin. The sight warms me from the inside of my overflowing heart down to my curled toes. Oh, yes, this does bode well.

But the warm fuzzies come to a screeching halt when I see Burt’s car meandering up the driveway. I glance at my watch. Dammit, what’s he doing home so early? What is this? He’s hardly ever home and the day I could use the extra time to prepare a good meal to soften him up, he comes crawling in before the end of the workday.

“The place is just perfect, Barbara.” Margaret comes in from the other room and stands beside me at the window as he gets out of the car.

“Is that Uncle Burt?”

“Umm-hmm.” I wonder if I should warn her about Burt not knowing. Oh, on second thought, why give her something else to worry about?

Margaret crosses her arms as if she senses something’s not right. “Should I go out and say hi?”

I smile and walk away from the window, circling around so that as Margaret follows me her back’s to the glass.

“Oh, honey, give him a few minutes to transition from work to being home. You know how men are.” I roll my eyes. “He’s always an old bear when he first gets home. The girls are playing outside. You just relax a little bit while I go take care of my man.”

Margaret gives me a strange look, but doesn’t protest.

From the window I see Burt circle Sarah like a suspicious dog. I wonder if he notices Sarah’s likeness to Leila.

How could he not?

I’m overcome by the urge to go outside and turn the garden hose on him the way I would to chase away an old scurvy stray.

“We’ll have dinner at six-thirty. Just come on up to the house.”

“Can I help you with anything?”

I wave her off and start toward the door. “Heavens no, just relax.”

With that, I try to follow my own advice and relax as I prepare to inform my husband we have houseguests—indefinitely.

CHAPTER 3

Elizabeth

What do you get if you take two consecutive months of missed menstrual periods multiplied by six miserable weeks of morning sickness?

Go on, you do the math.

Shit. What else could it be?

Still, I close my eyes and hold my breath before I look at the stick I peed on five minutes ago.

I know before I know, but still the two little blue lines on the stick come as shocking confirmation.

I’m pregnant.

Shit.

This cannot be happening. I am forty-three years old. I cannot be pregnant.

Andrew is going to flip.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I fling the aberrant plastic stick with its damn blue plus sign at the wall. It bounces off the gray marble with a ping and clatters on the floor as if it’s doing a little happy dance. Mocking me.

Then I throw up my dinner—half a package of saltines and one cup of weak English Breakfast tea—in the toilet right on top of the pee that turned the plus sign the offending blue.

Blue.

I turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth, splash water on my face.

Blue. As in baby boy?

Pressing my hand to my belly, it occurs to me for the first time that there is a little life growing inside of me.

Interloper. Gate crasher.

Poor unwanted little…baby?

My wet hands leave a big handprint on my beige slacks as if marking the spot. I press my palms over my eyes, grinding the heels of my hands into the sockets, so I won’t have to look at it, as if it will clear my vision so I’ll see another color on the stick.

Oops! Silly me. I’m not really pregnant.

But I am. I flush the toilet, collapse the pregnancy-test box, careful to stuff all the remnants of my clandestine science experiment back in the Walgreens bag. I hide the evidence inside my briefcase under the file for the new “Who wants to be a television commercial star” show I’m publicizing.

How in the hell did this happen?

Wait. Don’t answer that. I know how it happened.

Just tell me— How the hell did this happen? I punctuate the silent question by slamming my briefcase on the cold, hard floor.

Andrew and I met in college.

When we fell in love and knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together we devised a plan so that we could live the life we’d always wanted.

A simple ten-step plan that required some sacrifices along the way—such as not having a whole stable full of offspring.

One child was fine.

I hear so many of my friends bemoaning the fact that their first child is an angel, but the second or third or fifth is a hellion. I see so many women whose main objective is to find someone on whom she can pawn off her kids so she can have a moment to herself—so she can go to the bathroom without someone pulling at her, demanding something of her.

What possessed them to pop out so many puppies in the first place? Each couple does not have a moral responsibility to replace themselves with a child. So I have no sympathy for Suzy Birthmore, modern-day Woman Who Lives in the Shoe—or should I say, the Open-Toe Pale Pink Prada Pump—who complains that there’s no rest for the breeder.

Life is much less cluttered with only one child; it’s much easier to raise one child well.

Quality over quantity.

That would be a good contribution to society.

I rub my belly and realize it’s anger and fear talking. I recognize it for what it is. Our Anastasia is a dream child. I just don’t see how we could get so lucky twice. Not to mention it totally and completely screws up the ten-step plan we’ve mapped out for ourselves:

1. Graduate from college at twenty-two. Check!

2. Land great jobs—theme-park public relations for me, banking for Andrew. Check!

3. Ascend corporate ladder. Task well underway.

4. Marry at twenty-five. Check!

5. Buy perfect Stratford Park house. Check (even if it was a mid-sized fixer-upper and wasn’t directly on the chain of lakes. A house on the lake wasn’t in the budget—see steps seven, eight and nine)!

6. Have one—let me repeat that—one child upon turning thirty. CHECK!

7. Work our butts off. Check!

8. Save diligently. Check!

9. Work harder/save more.

10. Anastasia will graduate from college when we turn fifty-five. Andrew and I will be free to enjoy early retirement.

Do you see mention of a second child?

No.

That’s why Andrew got a vasectomy.

How in the hell am I going to tell him I’m pregnant?

Barbara

We’re barely inside the house when Burt starts spitting words at my back. “What the hell is Margaret Woodall doing in this house?”

Lord, I knew he’d be in a snit. I keep walking into the kitchen, weighing my words as I open the refrigerator and pull out the potatoes I peeled earlier and the London broil I’d set to marinate this morning.

Only then do I turn and look him square in the eyes, putting on a cheerful face, hoping to set the tone.

“She and Sarah are staying with us for a while.” I set the French-white Corning Ware baking dishes on the counter so the food can come to room temperature. “Won’t it be lovely to have them here? Sarah and Mary Grace are already fast friends. So nice to have her cousin here to play with.”

He knits his brows and glares at me as if I’m an idiot. “Why didn’t you tell me they were coming?”

Instead of answering him, I pull my Better Homes and Gardens cookbook from the shelf over by the door and busy myself looking up a recipe for au gratin potatoes.

“How long are they staying?”

“As long as they need to.”

“In other words, they’re moving in? That’s why you put them in the carriage house.”

I close the cookbook and flash a smile at him as if the thought hadn’t occurred to me, as if he’d invented the very idea himself and it was genius—pure genius. “I suppose they are.” Then I stab the big hunk of meat with a fork and turn it over to distribute the marinade. The tang of balsamic vinegar, onion, garlic and rosemary fresh from my herb garden wafts up to comfort me. I inhale a steadying breath of it, hoping the aroma will quiet the palpitations dancing beneath my breastbone.

“When was this decided?”

I glance up and see him glaring at me, agitated, as if he’s waiting for the punch line to an absurd joke that he’s the butt of and doesn’t appreciate very much.

I squat down and pull out the stockpot from the cabinet, then turn my back on him as I draw water to boil the potatoes.

His hand is on my arm, gripping me a little too tightly. “I asked you a question, Barbara.”

I jerk out of his vice grip and glare right back at him, sending the message that this arrangement is not negotiable. No way. No how. But I soften my tone before I speak.

“All that matters is that Margaret and Sarah are here now. We’re not turning them away. They need family after all they’ve been through losing Tim. Burt, we are Margaret’s people. We’re all the family she’s got.”

“Family? Since when? You haven’t talked to Margaret in years. And if you’re so damned concerned about your people, what about me, Barbara? I’m your family. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your husband, the person who works his ass off to pay the bills.”

I turn off the faucet and heft the big pot out of the sink. He has to jump out of my way to avoid me ramming into him as I make my way to the range.

“I cannot believe you didn’t at least give me the courtesy of discussing this with me before you invited them to move in. It’s all I can do to support us without you takin’ in strays.”

I look at him square in the eyes and a little voice deep down inside of me whispers, I can’t stand his face or the sound of his voice.

“I beg your pardon. I will thank you to not refer to my niece as a stray. Burt, you’re simply being ridiculous. They’ll be out in the carriage house. You won’t even know they’re here.”

I salt the water and dump the dish of peeled potatoes into the pot. The water splashes in a satisfying way that punctuates my statement.

“There is nothing ridiculous about my not wanting Leila’s daughter in my house.”

I crank the knob, coaxing the gas burner to flame. The old range clicks ten times before it ignites, as if it’s reminding me to hold my tongue before I mouth off and say something rash like, It’s not your house, you jackass. It’s mine. Or—

“What’s the matter, Burt? Afraid you might see something you like?” I point a finger at him and get right in his face. “Well, I’ll tell you something right now, mister. Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice—” I shake my head. “No, you won’t fool me twice. There will be no third chances. That’s all there is to it. And don’t you forget that.”

He takes a step back looking flummoxed, standing there with his mouth gaping wide open as if I’ve rendered him speechless. Imagine that, little ol’ me shutting the mouth of this lawyer who always has an answer for everything.

The spell of silence only lasts a few seconds. Then his eyes narrow and darken. I see his jaw working as if he’s grinding his molars to powder. “For your information, I had someone interested in renting the carriage house. Someone who actually wanted to give us money in exchange for the electricity they’ll be using and the space they’ll be taking up.”

I put my hands on my hips.

“Well, fancy that, Burt. Are you the pot or the kettle today? Because just a few minutes ago you were pretty damn adamant about us giving each other the courtesy of discussing potential renters before we invited them to move in. I don’t recall you giving me that courtesy.”

He’s picking at the grout between the tiles on the counter. As I take a jar of pickled beets from the pantry, I wonder if he even heard me.

“Property taxes are due, Barb. Do you have the money to pay them? Because I don’t.”

I shoot him a look suitable for how utterly ridiculous that question is. “Well, maybe I should get a job.”

He ignores that one. My heart beats like a big bass drum.

“I’m strapped, Barbara. Maxed out with bills and upkeep on this place and college tuition for the kids. So unless you’ve stashed away several thousand dollars, Maggie has to be willing to match what this guy is willing to pay— Or is she expecting a free ride just like her mother always did?”

The bastard just doesn’t know when to quit. To him this is a challenge. A line in the sand. A gauntlet he’s thrown down to make me retreat. And you’d think that after forty years of marriage he’d know me better.

“Now you listen here. I’m only going to say this once—” A strange jarring sensation in my chest nearly knocks me off my feet. I grab the edge of the counter with one hand for support, the other holding steady to the jar of beets.

“What’s the matter with you?” Burt asks, his words peppered with annoyance.

“Nothing. I just had a…a spell. I’m fine now.”

Burt looks at me warily, as if he’s assessing whether this is a ploy, if I’m being a big drama queen since he’s fighting mean.

I draw in a slow breath through my nose, exhale audibly through my clenched teeth. I shake the jar of beets at him. “Your pigheadedness only makes me all the more determined.”

“Of course it does.”

He gets that look of his, where the corners of his mouth turn up into a thin-lipped smile, but his eyes are hateful. It’s a creepy, passive-aggressive incongruence that makes me ill. Makes me think that this must be what it’s like to talk to the devil.

But, no. It’s just my husband. I want to wipe that vile smirk right off his face.

“You are not going to blame your mistakes on that innocent girl and her child,” I hiss. “She has done nothing wrong and she is welcome in my home.”

“She’s not innocent. It’s in her blood, Barbara.”

That lowlife son of a— I see red. Literally. The fringes of my vision get all fuzzy and crimson and I nearly choke on it. The pressure in my face and chest is like a volcano ready to explode.

“Now, you listen here. Her background is my background. Her blood is my—”

A sharp pain erupts in my chest, making me gasp, pushing me forward. The jar of beets slips from my hands and shatters on the terrazzo. I grip the counter for support and stare down into the red-purple mess on the floor.

“Barbara? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” I spit the word at him, but he edges closer.

“Maybe I should call someone—911, or—”

“No.” I wave him off. “I have guests in my home. There is no way I will be carted off to the hospital. It’s just my heartburn kicking up. You make me so mad sometimes.” Rubbing my chest, I feel a little foolish for putting on such a show.

“What do you want me to do?” He looks scared as he scoots a kitchen chair over for me to sit on.

I slide down onto the wicker seat, whipping the beads of sweat from my brow. “For once, just be on my side, Burt. Don’t fight me over this. That’s what I want you to do. Make Margaret and that little girl of hers feel welcome in our home. Can you do that?”

CHAPTER 4

Maggie

What’s the secret of long-lasting love? Does it mean that the lovers never wish for different lives? Never feel she or he made a mistake in vowing to love that partner until death separated them?

Or do they simply turn a blind eye to the nagging doubts intrinsic to marriage, dig in their heels and resolve to stay for the long haul no matter the cost or sacrifice?

I wish I knew the answer.

I met and married Tim within a year of Mama killing herself; a few years later I had a daughter of my own and tried my best not to look back. Like most marriages, our relationship had its share of challenges. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.

Last night, as I sat at the dinner table with Barbara and Burt, who have been married for as long as I’ve been alive, I wondered what our marriage would have been like in the later years had Tim survived. It’s still hard to believe that he didn’t trust me enough to confide in me about the problems he was having with the business. I found out in the months after his death as I sifted through the rubble of our finances.

How could I have not known?

Stupid me. Safe in my cocoon. I’d finally found someone to take care of me.

As Barbara and Burt sat at the dinner table as they have, I’m sure, many nights over the course of their long marriage—being there, but not really being in the moment—I couldn’t help but wonder how does love, or more specifically marriage, survive the long haul, especially if one partner keeps secrets?

I sensed tension between them. Maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe was just a typical night in the life of the eternally pledged.

Burt was mostly quiet through dinner. He mumbled a cordial hello to Sarah and me, then sat hunched over the delicious meal Barbara had prepared, mentally closed. Barbara, however, chattered enough for both of them.

I heard somewhere that as couples age, they lose the ability to hear each other. Maybe that’s the key to survival?

Burt, present in body, but mentally absent. Barbara, animated and flushed, carrying on as if he weren’t even there.

Tiny beads of moisture glistened on her forehead and perspiration stains seeped through her blouse. She blamed it on hot flashes and fanned herself as she talked about a life that seemed separate from her husband’s—the spring-break trip she and Mary Grace would take; her garden; how she’d love to remodel her kitchen; the cookbook she’d love to write; the Stratford Park Middle School PTA, of which she’s vice president/president elect.

I’m registering Sarah for school today—at Barbara’s insistence, of course.

“Honey, there’s nothing for you to do hanging around here all day,” she said to an indifferent Sarah. “Heck, it’ll be even worse boring than this dinner tonight. You’ll have so much more fun at school. In fact, how ’bout if I drive ya? Y’all, me and Mary Grace’ll just hop in the car and go get you signed up. It’ll be fun.”

I wanted to tell Barbara it wasn’t necessary. Really. She needn’t put herself out by driving us.

And she needn’t make such an effort to fill the silence. Those quiet spaces in between sentences are my favorite part of the conversation. I’ve always thought the truth lies in those rests. It’s in these quiet spaces that the truth manifests, that the mind registers a pure thought—I agree with what she said, or That person is lying, or Yes, there’s definitely tension in that marriage—even if it’s for a nanosecond—before decorum wrestles it to the mat and truth is replaced by what is socially acceptable.

Pinned by decorum, I decided Barbara and Burt’s marriage was none of my business and that it would be rude to refuse her offer to drive us to school.

So here we are the morning after the first night in our new home, doing our best to establish a new routine—much to Sarah’s dismay.

“Mom. We haven’t even been here twenty-four hours. Why can’t I wait until next week to start school?”

I pour some cereal that Barbara left us into a bowl and set it in front of Sarah for her to add her own milk. “Because today is Tuesday. You shouldn’t miss an entire week.”

She frowns. “I could help you put things away.”

I waver on this one and turn my back to her as I weigh the pros and cons of letting her stay home. But she must mistake my silence for an answer.

“God, Mom, why not? You’re so mean.”

Her words bore under my skin and threaten to push me into anger. But I won’t go there. The old me would have. She would have turned around and put that little girl in her place—let her know in no uncertain terms that her attitude is not acceptable, but I can’t do that now. I’m not going to start the first day in our new house with a fight. I can, however, insist it’s better to get into a new routine.

“Well, if you believe I’m so mean, I suppose you’ll have much more fun making new friends at your new school, than staying home with me.”

She rolls her eyes and shoves the cereal bowl away. It spins in the middle of the table as she scoots back her chair with an abrupt motion.

“Aren’t you going to eat? You’re going to get hungry before lunchtime.”

“I have no appetite.” She slams her bedroom door. “And I have nothing to wear,” she yells so I can hear it through the closed door.

I stand in the small kitchen straddling indecision. Am I doing the right thing? The movers won’t be here until tomorrow. Maybe I should give her a day to get acclimated. But somehow I know that if I do, it won’t make her any happier. Yes, better we both have some space today.

Twenty minutes later, we pile into Barbara’s Volvo station wagon.

She looks better this morning, rested and refreshed. Her thick silver hair freshly washed and framing her fleshy face. Her pretty blue eyes, rimmed in liner and mascara, sparkle as she bids us a good morning and tells everyone to buckle up.

Back in North Carolina I used to love to watch cooking shows. I thought she looked like that Food Network host Paula Deen. The resemblance really was uncanny.

The school is farther away than what I expected. Barbara says the county built it to accommodate the influx of nouveaux riches moving into this area that used to be exclusively old money. As we drive along, things look strange. Underneath, it’s the same place I grew up, but on the surface it’s different. As if a brand-new generation of inhabitants have invaded the place.

“They tore down the old Stratford Junior High where you went to school.” Barbara points at a vacant lot with a Conrad Contractors sign sticking out of the ground. “The city sold the property to a developer.” Barbara shakes her head. “That’s prime real estate. I heard he’s gonna cram a bunch of huge houses on that lot and sell them for millions. And people are buying them as fast as he can build them.”

I nod and gaze at the empty lot. If I squint my eyes, I can see ghosts of the past milling about the phantom buildings—the lockers, the old concrete basketball court. All gone now. Not that I’m nostalgic over it. In fact, it makes it a little easier to take Sarah to a different school. It just makes me realize how much Stratford has changed in my absence.

Barbara merges into traffic on Jewell Avenue. “It’s a long haul out to the new school, but Sarah can ride the bus with Mary Grace. They pick them up right outside the house.”

I glance back at Sarah, who is staring out the window as Mary Grace hums a little tune.

“The kids at school are mean,” says Mary Grace.

Barbara adjusts the rearview mirror toward the back seat. “What kind of thing is that to say on Sarah’s first day, missy?”

“It’s the truth, Mama.”

The school sits behind a tall brick wall with a wrought-iron gate. The two-story, early American architecture is unlike any public school I’ve ever seen; certainly a far cry from the concrete block, one-story institutions with open-to-the-element corridors that the county constructed when I went to junior high.

“We have arrived,” says Barbara.

And how.

She pulls into a parking space, then leads the way to the reception desk, just inside the front door like a sentry guarding the main hall. Anyone who wishes access to Stratford Middle School must first gain entrance.

The gatekeeper, a fine-boned woman with short dark hair, regards me suspiciously until Barbara introduces me.

Her name is Judy. She’s the school office manager. I have a feeling nothing gets by Judy.

Mary Grace hugs her mother and Sarah goodbye and kind of half waves at me, then heads to class.

“Have a good day, M.G. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Barbara laughs. “M.G.?”

“Yeah,” says Sarah. “She likes me to call her that.”

“Well, I think that’s just great.”

Sarah wanders over to look at some teacher photos hanging on the wall across from the desk.

The place still smells new—that freshly built smell of construction, paint and floor wax co-mingling with simmering school lunch. There’s a trophy case to the right down the hall a bit; on the left is a set of double doors with a brass plaque that says Library. At the end of the long main hall is an elaborate staircase with swarms of teenagers traveling up and down.

The place buzzes with snatches of conversation and laughter, movement and the sound of the glass front doors opening and shutting, letting in intermittent clips of car engines and the occasional honk of a horn. People are everywhere—kids hanging out and talking; adults who I assume are teachers rush about with purpose; a group of four blond women each wearing large diamond rings and expensive-looking tennis outfits.

My God, they all look alike. How do they do that?

Barbara follows my gaze to the women. “Oh, I see you’ve located the Stratford Wives.”

I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. “The Stratford Wives? Oh my God, that’s perfect. Who are they?”

“They think they’re the queens of the universe, if that tells you anything. In reality, they’re just a clique of spoiled rich men’s wives who don’t realize high school ended more years ago than they can probably count.”

“Barbara!” I am completely taken aback by this side of her. “I had no idea you could be so catty.”

Stratford Park was full of old money when I was growing up here, but we never had Stratford Wives. My, my, how things have changed.

“Oh, honey, stick with me. You ain’t seen nothing yet. Oh! Oh, that one over there.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially and nods to a heavyset mousy woman with brown hair and glasses who is logging something into a notebook on a table under a Volunteer banner. “That’s Connie Claxton, archenemy of the Stratford Wives and anybody else who dares look crosswise at her precious little brat.”

“Claxton? Any relation to the Claxton fruitcake empire?”

“No, I believe the Claxton company is actually named after the city in Georgia. But Connie Claxton is a fruitcake all right. Oh, and Chloe’s a seventh grader, you’d best warn Sarah to steer clear. She’ll probably try to glom onto her. She doesn’t have any friends.”

I raise my eyebrows at her and try to keep my voice light. “Isn’t that a little harsh?”

Barbara raises her eyebrows back at me. “Chloe and Connie are like pit bulls, they seem nice and maybe even playful at first, but they turn on you in a heartbeat. Believe you me, I am the first one to stand up for a child, but Connie and Chloe are a piece of work. The rules apply to everyone but them, but she’s the first to scream if she thinks she’s been wronged. I’ve had my share of Connie encounters and she got Anastasia Deveraux, the little neighbor girl who lives across the street, called down to the principal’s office claiming the girl was a threat to her daughter’s safety. You know once anyone raises the safety flag the principal has a duty to act on it. Ana may be a little full of herself because she’s a popular girl, but she’s no more a threat to anyone’s safety than you are. Her mother, Elizabeth, was mad as a wet cat. It turns out it was all over Anastasia not wanting to sit with Chloe in study hall. Anastasia simply doesn’t like that child because she’s a mean, spoiled little brat who always has to have her way. From what I understand, very few of the kids like her because of how she treats them. Her mother doesn’t help matters. Connie thinks she can bully her way to making people like Chloe. It’s really sad. Oh, God, here she comes.”

Barbara turns and busies herself, but Connie marches right up to her.

“Barbara, I need a word with you.”

I actually see Barbara bristle.

“Connie Claxton. What can I do for you?”

Connie pushes her glasses up on her nose. “You can get your daughter under control.”

Barbara cuts her gaze to me for an I-told-you-so moment then looks back at Connie. “What, pray tell, is Mary Grace doing that needs to be controlled?”

Barbara’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and I don’t know whether to laugh or turn and walk away, the scene is that unbelievable.

“She was laughing at Chloe in the library. If I didn’t know better, I might think this was harassment. But considering the source, I suppose that would be silly.”

My jaw drops at this dig at Mary Grace’s disability. I’m sure Barbara is seething.

“She’s a child, Connie. Children laugh. Laughter does not hurt anyone.”

“I know that. She’s a special child, she’s not capable of physically hurting anyone. What I’m saying, Barbara, is there’s no reason you can’t teach her some manners.”

For a second I fear Barbara is going to slug her. I want to slug her. I can’t believe someone could be so low.

“Why don’t you set the example and teach your little Chloe some manners? Maybe it will help her get along better, bless her little heart.”

Connie huffs off.

“So there you go,” says Barbara. “That’s Connie Claxton.”

I start the paperwork to enroll Sarah. But there’s a slight snag when Judy asks for an official document to prove that I reside in the school zone.

“Don’t you have a lease agreement or an electricity bill?” Judy says. “Something that shows you’re official?”

“Certainly not,” Barbara snaps. “I will not charge my niece rent to live with me. You’re just going to have to take my word for it.”

Judy smiles apologetically, clearly at a loss for what to do, clearly wanting to accommodate Barbara.

“I’ll have to make some calls. But let me see what I can do. Why don’t you and umm…” she glances at the paperwork “…Sarah. Why don’t you and Sarah have a seat over there? This may take a few minutes, Mrs. Woodall.”

Mrs. Woodall.

The words knock the breath out of me. Since Tim’s death, it feels as if Mrs. Woodall is someone else. I have no idea who I am. But I nod anyway.

Sarah sits on a sofa across from the desk.

Barbara touches my arm. “I have to go make some copies in the PTA office. Do you want to come with me?”

I glance at Sarah ensconced on the couch with her arms crossed defensively, her backpack at her feet.

“Thanks, but I’d better wait here in case they need some more information—”

“Good morning, Barbara.” The only blonde in the building who is not wearing a tennis outfit walks up and touches Barbara on the arm. She’s dressed in a smart black pantsuit and carries a slim briefcase, which is not big enough to hold a racket. She’s almost pretty—if not for the pallor of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes that she’s trying to cover up with thick concealer.

“Oh, Elizabeth, you’re here. Good. I want you to meet my niece, Margaret Woodall. She and her daughter just moved here yesterday from Asheville and will be living in the carriage house.” Barbara turns to me. “Elizabeth Deveraux and her husband Andrew live across the street. They have a seventh-grader named Anastasia. I’m sure she and Sarah will just love each other. We’ll have to get them together once you’re settled in.”

Elizabeth smiles. “We’ll have you all over for dinner next week.”

“Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

“Barbara, do you have a minute for me to go over something before tonight’s meeting? The music department changed their request for funds and I want to make sure you agree with my counterproposal before we put it to a vote tonight.”

“Sure, I do. Margaret, honey, I’m going to talk to Elizabeth and then go make my copies. Hopefully, by then they’ll have everything in order. She’s enrolling Sarah in school. You know how those things go nowadays.”

The two women disappear behind a door that’s next to the front desk. I sit down next to Sarah, who is busy watching Stratford’s middle schoolers stream down the main hall. My daughter looks so fragile sitting there in her pink blouse and slim denim capris; her fine-boned features devoid of makeup and enhanced by the way she’s swept her blond hair off her face into a ponytail.

I have a sudden flashback of what it’s like to be thirteen years old, on the outside looking in. It wasn’t until Tim and I moved to Asheville that I began to feel part of something—part of a community. I want to hug her and tell her it won’t always be this painful.

But I don’t dare.

Soon enough she’ll be in the flow, right there in the thick of things.

The kids at school are mean.

I blink away Mary Grace’s words, but find myself scrutinizing the children as they walk by: a group of five girls dressed cute—one in a Hollister T-shirt, another in a Roxy—walking shoulder to shoulder, sporting pastel messenger bags slung across their chests, rather than backpacks.

They whisper and giggle.

One squeals, “No way!”

Then they whisper and giggle some more.

Mean or nice?

They’re just girls. Girls being teenage girls.

Two boys stop five feet in front of us. I look to see if they notice Sarah— Hey, she’s cute and she’s the new girl. There’s value in being the new girl whether she realizes it or not—but they’re too busy play-punching each other to look in our direction.

A man dressed in a white polo and khaki pants—probably a teacher—breaks up their roughhousing.

“Don’t you boys have somewhere to be?” he says. “First bell rings in seven minutes. If you’re not in your seats, you’re tardy.”

Strict. Not necessarily a bad thing.

The boys move on.

As the throng of children starts to thin, I can see out the glass doors to the car line where parents are dropping off the last-minute arrivals.

Mercedes.

BMW.

Jaguar.

Lexus.

This is public school? A different breed than I’ve ever known.

“Mom, if they don’t hurry and figure this out I’m going to be tardy.”

I touch Sarah’s arm—that soft, smooth skin. “It’ll be okay. The teacher will understand since it’s your first day and all.”

She yanks her arm away. “How would you like it if you had to walk in in the middle of class?”

She’s so angry and I don’t know how to help her. It breaks my heart a little more because I know that feeling of just wanting to disappear. I wish there was something I could do to comfort her.

“I’ll check on things.”

By the time the administrators figure out what to do with us, school’s been in session for more than an hour.

“You’ll go right to second period since first hour is already over.” Judy glances at Sarah’s list of classes, then hands her the schedule. “Geography is your second class. It’s in room 234. Just go upstairs and turn left, you’ll see the room on the right. Your mom can walk you to class if you want.”

Sarah flashes me a don’t even think about it look. My heart sinks, but I bolster myself with the thought that at least she has enough confidence to navigate these strange halls alone.

“See ya.” She turns to go without a hug. I reach out for her, but she’s already gone.

“I’ll pick you up right here after school, okay?”

She doesn’t look back. Just walks straight ahead down that long, empty hallway.

CHAPTER 5

Elizabeth

I hadn’t planned on telling Andrew about the baby today. But I awoke this morning knowing I couldn’t put it off. Just as this child is growing in my belly, the need to tell him has gotten so huge, I feel as if I’m about to burst.

Before he left for work I told him I was going in late because I had some PTA business to take care of at school and asked him to meet me for lunch.

“What, like a date in the middle of the day?” he says, kissing me on the neck.

“Yeah, like a…date.”

He slips his hands inside my robe. “Or maybe I could come home for lunch.” Kisses me full on the mouth. Queasiness crests and rocks me like a little boat on the ocean. I pull away, weighing whether I’ll need to make a run for the bathroom. But the rebuffed look on Andrew’s face jolts me back to level ground.

Why wait until lunch to tell him? Just do it now.

But he’s already walking out the door, murmuring, “See you at eleven-thirty.”

I arrive at Dexter’s a little early, feeling a little better until I get a whiff of the catch of the day. The lunchtime din is at an all-time high and I wonder if I’ll be able to last. The server brings a basket of bread and water with the menus. I nibble on the bread and try to tell myself that it’s mind over matter. I didn’t have a lick of morning sickness with Anastasia. She’s been a model child. I wonder if the way I feel is any indication of this child’s personality—

The thought floors me and I realize that this is the first time I’ve actually thought of this little interloper as a…human being.

Oh, God, what are we going to do? I don’t want another child.

I sip my water and watch Andrew materialize through the crowd.

Okay, here we go. This is it.

Two women at a nearby table turn their heads to watch him as he passes. They have good taste.

With his thick, dark, curly hair and lithe runner’s build, he just seems to get better looking with age. People have said he looks like a mature Orlando Bloom. I can see the resemblance in his handsome face.

“Sorry I’m late.” He kisses my cheek and pulls out the chair across from me, glancing around the crowded restaurant as he sits down. “I was tied up on the phone. Clients in Paris.”

He waves at a man across the room.

“Jerry Singer with Nicholas and Anders,” he says looking at Jerry not me.

For a moment, I’m afraid Jerry Singer is going to come over to our table, but the woman he’s sitting with says something and draws him into the conversation.

“This was a good idea.” Andrew smiles, finally focusing his attention on me for the first time since he arrived. “I’m glad you suggested it.”

All traces of this morning’s misunderstanding have vanished and that puts me at ease. Well, until his brows knit and he touches my hand. “Are you okay?”

I smooth my hair with my free hand. “I’m fine. Why?”

He picks up a menu and opens it, glancing up at me. “I don’t know. You just look a little pale, I guess. A little tired.” He pulls his hand away and picks up the menu. “What are you going to have?”

“Your baby. I’m going to have your baby.”

I can’t help it. The words rush up my throat and into my mouth, the same way the bagel I tried to eat for breakfast came right back up and I couldn’t stop it.

Andrew looks momentarily amused, but all too soon that melts into confusion, as if he doesn’t understand.

I sit frozen. Oh God, why did I do that? I didn’t want to say it like that. I close my eyes a moment, trying to get my bearings.

“We’re pregnant, Andrew.” The words are softer this time. I open my eyes to gauge his reaction. “We’re going to have another baby.”

He closes his menu and lays it down. His entire face is now a dark, defensive question. “There’s no way. This can’t be.”

He sits back hard in the chair, turns to the side, rests his arm on the back of the chair and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I know,” I say, trying to comfort him. “I had the same reaction because of your vasectomy.”

I’m suddenly aware that a woman who is dining solo at the table next to ours is listening. I glare at her. She has the decency to turn away.

But my husband won’t look at me. Still, I know that look, that closed body language. He’s not just mad, he’s livid.

I didn’t expect him to jump for joy. I’m not exactly thrilled either, but I never imagined he would act this way. As if it’s my fault.

“Andrew, come on. I’m just as shocked as you are, but we’re in this together. Talk to me.”

His expression is as hard as stone. “How can we be having a baby if I’m shooting blanks?”

“What? What are you saying?” The pitch of my voice rises, but I don’t care. “Of course we’re pregnant. Do you think I’ve been having sex with another man?”

He finally looks at me. Stares me straight in the eyes and shrugs.

The server arrives at our table, and I sit there flabbergasted as Andrew gets rid of him. The woman next to us is looking at us again, but this time I don’t care. All I can focus on is the way my husband is looking at me as if he’s caught me in the act of infidelity.

Something inside me snaps.

I stand and grab my purse. “I am not going to sit here and plead with my husband to believe that I’m carrying his baby.”

Maggie

After we leave Stratford Middle School, Barbara drops me off at home and goes to run errands. I hope she doesn’t think I’m unsociable for not going with her. I just need some time to put away the things we brought with us from the car and make arrangements for a storage shed before the moving van arrives tomorrow.

I’ll have to store the majority of our furniture because the carriage house is furnished. I just don’t feel right asking Barbara to move her things out.

Besides, it’s better this way because it reminds me this arrangement is temporary. Sarah and I can’t stay here forever. Just long enough to figure out what we’re going to do.

It’s the first I’ve been alone in days and I take a moment to savor the freedom. I walk through the rooms of our little three-bedroom dollhouse, getting a feel for our new home, letting it speak to me the way old houses do.

There’s no foyer. The screened front door opens right into the living room, which is complete with polished hardwood floors and a fireplace, though why one would need a fireplace in Florida baffles me. Off to the left is a tiny galley kitchen and dining alcove; to the right, a squat hallway holds the lone bathroom and our bedrooms.

It’s about half the size of our house in Asheville, but the place is bright and cheerful, furnished in white wicker and shades of yellow. Generous windows in the living room invite in an abundance of light.

I’m soothed by the hominess of the place.

It’s such a beautiful day, I open the front door and windows to air out the closed-up musty smell places take on when they haven’t been lived in. My bedroom window looks out toward the lake. I open the blinds and stand there a minute enjoying the quiet of the house, the way the green lawn slopes down to the lake. I love the huge live oaks, the way the Spanish moss that’s draped on the branches dances in the wind.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.