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“I’ll flunk the bio test if I take it today. There’s another AP section I shouldn’t be in.”
“You won’t flunk the test. You’re pre-med, and you’re acing bio.”
“How can I take a test when I barely slept?”
“You know the material. Besides, once you’re in college, you’ll be taking tests on next to no sleep all the time. Think of this as practice. It’ll build character.”
“Yeah, well, if character’s the thing, shouldn’t I go with you to file the police report?”
Deborah felt a flash of pride, followed by a quick pang of conscience. Both turned to fear when she thought of the possible fallout if she let Grace take the blame. The repercussions wouldn’t be productive at all.
Very slowly, she shook her head, then held her daughter’s gaze for a moment before drawing her out of bed.
As always, it hit Deborah in the shower—the second-guessing about what she was doing. Between diagnosing dozens of patients each week, helping her father run his household without Ruth, being a single mother and having to make sensitive decisions like the one she had just made, she was often on the hot seat. Now she stood with her head bowed, hot water hitting her back with the sting of too many choices, until she was close to tears.
Feeling profoundly alone, she turned the water off and quickly dressed. The clothes she wore for work were tailored, fitting her slim frame well and restoring a sense of professionalism. Makeup added color to her pale skin and softened the worry in brown eyes that were wide-set, the adult version of Grace’s. But when she tried to fasten her hair in a clasp so that it would be neat and tidy as her life was not, it fought her. Shy of shoulder length, the dark waves had a mind of their own. Accepting that there was no going back to her orderly life, she let them curl as they would and turned her back on the mirror.
Mercifully, the rain had stopped. Sun was beginning to break through the clouds, scattering gold on trees whose still-wet limbs were just beginning to bud. Grateful for a brighter day, she went down to the kitchen, set out cereal for the kids, then phoned the hospital. Calvin McKenna was in recovery, soon to be moved to a room. He hadn’t talked yet, but he was listed in stable condition.
Reassured, she skimmed her Post-its on the fridge: pay property tax—Dylan dentist at 4—tennis camp deposit. Then she logged on to her e-mail and phoned the answering service. Had there been an emergency, she would have been called. The messages she received now—the flare-up of a chronic ear infection, a stubborn migraine headache, a severe case of heartburn—were from patients the receptionist would schedule when she arrived at eight. Her nurse-practitioner would examine the earliest to arrive.
Deborah was usually at her office by eight-fifteen, after seeing the kids off to school, stopping to have coffee with Jill, and checking on her father. He was booked to see his first patient at eight-thirty. These days, it was Deborah’s job to make sure that he did.
Her sister, Jill, though perennially at odds with the man, respected that. She appeared at the house this morning at seven-thirty on the nose. Having come from work, she wore jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt, always either red, orange, or yellow to match the bakery’s colors, was red today, and her boy-short blonde hair was rumpled from whipping off her apron. She had their mother’s bright, hazel eyes and the shadow of childhood freckles, but the fine lines of her chin mirrored Deborah’s.
As soon as Grace and Dylan were in the backseat, she passed them each bags with their favorite pastries inside. She had a bag for Deborah, too, and a hot coffee in the cup holder.
Picking up the coffee, Deborah cradled it in her hands and inhaled the comforting brew. “Thanks,” she finally said. “I hate taking you from work.”
“Are you kidding?” Jill replied. “I get to have my favorite people in the car. Are you guys okay back there?” she called into the rearview mirror.
Dylan was. He ate his glazed cinnamon stick as though he hadn’t just had a full bowl of cereal. Grace hadn’t eaten much cereal, and she only picked at her blueberry muffin. She uttered a high-pitched moan when they passed the spot where the accident had been.
“It was here?” Jill guessed. “You’d never know.”
No, Deborah realized. You never would. Only a small piece of yellow tape remained, tied to a pine to show the police where to look this morning. If there had been skid marks on the road, the rain had washed them away.
She tried to catch Grace’s eye, but the girl refused to look at her, and, in the end, Deborah didn’t have the strength to persist. Sitting back, she sipped her coffee and let her sister chat. It was a ten-minute respite from responsibility.
All too soon, they reached the middle school, and Dylan was out of the van. “I’m getting out here, too,” Grace said, tugging on her jacket and collecting her things. “No offense, Aunt Jill, but, like, the last thing I want is to pull up at school in a bright yellow van with a totally identifying logo on the side. Everyone’ll know it’s me.”
“Is that so bad?” Jill asked.
“Yes.” Leaning forward in her seat, she said in a voice that was urgent and low, “Please, Mom. I’d really rather not be at school today. I mean, I’ve missed maybe two days this year. Can’t I stay with Aunt Jill?”
“And have the truant officer after me?” Jill countered before Deborah could speak.
Plaintive, Grace turned on her aunt. “It’s going to be so bad for me today. Everyone’s gonna know.”
“Know what? That your mother had an accident? Accidents happen, Grace. It’s not a crime. If you’re in school today, you can tell everyone how bad you feel.”
Grace stared at her for a minute, muttered, “Yeah, right,” and climbed out of the van, but when Jill might have called her back, Deborah put a hand on her arm and Grace stalked off. Her spine was rigid for the first few steps but steadily softened until she was hunched over her books, looking impossibly small.
Worried, Deborah said, “Should I have kept her home?”
“Absolutely not,” Jill replied. “If nothing else, you need her busy.” She put the van in gear and pulled away from the curb. “Are you okay?”
Deborah sighed, leaned against the headrest, and nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Good. Because I have news. I’m pregnant.”
Deborah blinked. “Cute. A bit of humor to lighten things up.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re not, because, A, there is no guy in your life right now, B, you’re working your butt off at the bakery, and, C, it would be one thing too many for me this morning, and you wouldn’t be that cruel.” She looked at her sister. Jill wasn’t laughing. “You’re serious? But pregnant by whom?”
“Sperm donor number TXP334. He has blond hair, is five-eight, and writes children’s books for a living. A guy like that has to be compassionate, creative, and smart, doesn’t he?”
Deborah struggled to take in the information.
“I need you to be happy,” Jill warned.
“I am. I think. I just … didn’t expect … a baby?”
Jill nodded. “Next November.”
The date made it real. Loving babies and loving Jill, Deborah didn’t know what else to do but open her arms, lean over, and give her sister a hug. “You really want a child.”
“I always have. You know that.”
“What about work?”
“You did it.”
“I had Greg. You’re alone.”
“I’m not alone. I have you. I have Grace and Dylan. I have … Dad.”
“Dad. Oh, boy.” Major complication there. “And you haven’t told him.”
“Absolutely not.”
Which meant one more secret to keep. “If you’re due in November—”
“I’m eight weeks pregnant.”
“Eight.” Deborah was belatedly hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I didn’t trust you’d let me do it.”
“Let you. Jill, you do your own thing. Always.”
“But I want your approval.”
Deborah studied her sister’s face. “You don’t look different. Have you been sick?”
“A little here and there, mostly from excitement.”
“And you’re sure you’re pregnant?”
“I’ve missed two periods,” Jill said, “and I’ve seen the baby on a sonogram, Deborah, seen that little heart beating. My doctor pointed it out on the screen.”
“What doctor?”
“Anne Burkhardt. She’s in Boston—and please,” Jill grew serious, “don’t tell me you’re angry that I didn’t get a name from you, because I wanted this totally to be my choice. We both know Dad’ll be a problem. But hey, I’ve already disappointed him in so many things, what’s one more? But you—you had no part in this, which is what I’ll tell Dad— but I’m not telling anyone until I pass the twelve-week mark.”
“You just told me,” Deborah argued, “so I do have a part in it, or at least in keeping the secret. What do I say if he asks?”
“He won’t. He won’t have a clue until I hit him in the face with it. He doesn’t think I’m capable of sustaining a relationship with a man, much less having a baby, and maybe he’s right about the man part. I’ve tried, Deborah, you know I have, but I haven’t met a single guy in the last few years who was remotely husband material. Dad would have stuck me with someone I detest just for the sake of having a baby the traditional way. But my God, look at you. You played by all the rules, and now you’re a single parent, too.”
Deborah didn’t need the reminder. It made her think of her failings, which brought the accident front and center again. She held her hair back from her face. “Why are you telling me now? Why in this awful minute when I have so much else on my mind?”
“Because,” Jill said, suddenly pleading, “like I said on the phone, you’re more human after last night, so I’m thinking that right now you’ll understand and still love me.”
Deborah stared at her sister. Jill had just added a complication to her already complicated life, but a new baby was a new baby. Reaching out, she took her sister’s hand. “Do I have a choice?”
Grace loitered just beyond the school fence, gnawing on her cuticle until the final bell rang. Then, clutching her jacket tightly around her, she ran down the path and, joining the other stragglers, dashed up the stairs, into the high school. Keeping her head down, she slipped into her homeroom seat and barely heard the announcements until the principal said that Mr. McKenna had been hit by a car, was in the hospital, and deserved a moment’s prayer. Grace gave him that and then some, but stole out of the room the instant the bell rang again and, squatting in front of her locker, tried to make herself invisible. Friends stopped for a few seconds to chat. Did you know that Jarred has mono? Why is Kenny Baron running for student body president? Are you going to Kim’s party Saturday night? Grace only rose when it was seconds before her first class. Megan and Stephie came up and flanked her before she reached the door.
“We kept trying to call you,” Megan hissed.
“Where were you?” asked Stephie.
“Kyle told me it was your mom’s car that hit Mr. McKenna.”
“Were you there? What did you see, Grace? Was it gross?”
“I can’t talk about it,” Grace said.
“I thought I’d die when I saw your mom sitting outside,” Stephie muttered.
“How much does she know?” Megan asked Grace. “Did she notice anything?”
“No,” Grace said.
“And you didn’t tell her?” Stephie asked.
“No.”
“And you won’t tell her,” Megan ordered.
“No.”
“Well, that’s good. Because if word gets back to my parents, I’ll be grounded ’til fall.”
Grounded ’til fall? Grace could live with being grounded ’til fall. As punishments went, that would be easy.
Chapter 3
Michael Barr was revered in Leyland. A family practitioner before family practitioners had come back into vogue, he had spent his entire career in the town. He was the doctor of record for three generations of local families, and had their undying loyalty as a reward.
He owned a pale blue Victorian house just off the town green. It was the same house where Deborah and Jill had grown up, and while Michael had always run his practice from the adjacent cottage, both structures had grown over the years. The last of the work, to the cottage, was done eight years before as a lure for Deborah to join the practice.
In truth, she hadn’t needed much encouragement. She adored her father and loved seeing the pride on his face when she was accepted into medical school and again when she agreed to work with him. She was the son he’d never had, and, besides, she and Greg were already living in Leyland, which made it convenient. Grace was six, born shortly before Deborah started medical school, and, by the time her residency was done, she was pregnant with Dylan. Her mother, a born nurturer, would have provided child care in a minute had Deborah and Greg not already employed the de Sousas. Lívia served as a sitter, Adinaldo a handyman, and there were de Sousa relatives to do gardening, roofing, and plumbing. Lívia still stopped by to clean and make dinner, and since Deborah’s mother died, the de Sousas did similar chores for her father. He wasn’t as enamored of them as she was, but then, no one could measure up to Ruth Barr.
Juggling her medical bag, bakery bag, and coffee, Deborah picked up the morning paper and went in the side door of the house. The accident would definitely be reported in the local weekly on Thursday. But in today’s Boston Globe? She prayed not.
There was no sign of her father in the kitchen—no coffee percolating, no waiting mug or bagel on a napkin beside it. She guessed that he had overslept again. Since Ruth died, he had taken to watching old movies in the den until he was sure he could fall asleep without her.
Deborah set her things on the kitchen table and, not for the first time, wished her father would bend enough to accept a pastry from Jill’s shop. People drove miles for her signature pecan buns, SoMa Stickies. But not Michael. Coffee and a supermarket bagel. That was all he wanted.
She hated the thought of telling him about Jill’s pregnancy.
“Daddy?” Deborah called in the front hall and approached the stairs. “Are you up?”
She heard nothing at first, then the creak of a chair. Cutting through the living room, she found her father in the den, sitting with his head in his hands, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.
Discouraged, she knelt by his knee. “You never made it to bed?”
He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes, disoriented at first. “Guess not,” he managed, running a hand through his hair. It had gone pure white since his wife’s death. He claimed it gave him new authority with his patients, but Deborah thought he was something of an autocrat already.
“You have an early patient,” she reminded him now. “Want to shower while I put on coffee?” When he didn’t move, she felt a twinge of concern. “Are you okay?”
“A headache is all.”
“Aspirin?” she offered meekly. It was a standing joke. They knew all the current meds, but aspirin remained their default.
He shot her something that was as much a grimace as a smile, but took her hand and let himself be helped up. As soon as he left the room, Deborah noticed the whiskey bottle and empty glass. Hurriedly, she put the bottle back in the liquor cabinet and took the highball glass to the kitchen.
While she waited for the coffee to perk, she sliced his bagel, then called the hospital. Calvin McKenna remained in stable condition. This was good news, as was, she discovered next, the absence of mention of the accident in the Globe.
Hearing steps on the stairs, she refolded the paper and poured coffee. She was spreading cream cheese on the bagel when her father joined her. He was his usual well-dressed self. Putting an arm around her, he gave her a squeeze, then reached for his coffee.
“Better?” she asked after he had taken several swallows.
