by Katie Powner
Amber greeted him effusively, acting as if she and Bea had been best friends. Strange. As she peppered Jeremy with questions, Bea stared at Hunter. He wore layer upon layer of warm clothes, giving him the shape of a lumpy snowman. A green knit hat with a triceratops horn covered his ears and tied under his double chin. He stared back, blue eyes wide and curious and carefree.
Amber turned her attention to Bea. “I heard you start work at the Food Farm on Monday. Won’t that be something?”
Bea pulled herself from the staring contest. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” Amber shrugged. “It’s just kind of funny. I remember when you worked there in high school.”
An uncomfortable pressure pushed on Bea’s chest. “It’s only temporary. To help Mr. MacGregor out.”
“Of course.” Amber smiled down at Hunter, and Bea couldn’t look away. She was such a . . . mom.
“Your hair is so short,” Bea said.
Amber touched her head, which used to sport long, wavy locks. “Hunter kept pulling on it and putting it in his mouth. I had to cut it all off.”
“Oh.” Bea fought the urge to touch her own shoulder-length hair. Would she have to cut hers, too? It had taken her a year to get it this long. “It can always grow back, I guess.”
Amber chuckled. “We’ll see. It takes up a lot less time when it’s short. I might keep it this way.”
This time Bea couldn’t resist fingering a chunk of her hair. Rubbing it between her fingers. “It looks cute.”
“Thanks.” Amber flashed a smile, then looked down at her boots. “By the way, I wanted to say I’m sorry about your mom.”
Bea chewed her lip. “Oh.”
“I never got to tell you. Before.”
The funeral had been two weeks after graduation. While Bea clung to all her memories of what had been, everyone else in her class had been focused on what was to come. “Thanks.”
Amber nodded. “Well, I wish I could stay, but I gotta get this guy home to bed. We should meet up for lunch sometime.”
“O-oh,” Bea stammered. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Amber hoisted the baby onto her hip and carefully maneuvered down the steps. Bea watched them go, unable to tear her eyes from the tiny body in Amber’s arms.
Jeremy scooted closer. His lips were definitely blue. And Bea was pretty sure she could hear his teeth chattering.
He caught her eye. “Cute kid.”
She swallowed. Had Hunter’s eight-month-old eyes seared her soul like floodlights shining on her every fear and insecurity, or had it been her imagination? “Yep.”
“You know a lot of people.”
“Everyone knows everyone around here.”
“You must have a lot of friends then.”
She hesitated. “Just because you know people doesn’t mean they’re your friends.”
“So you don’t have friends?”
Bea squirmed. Jeremy was always doing this kind of thing. Forcing her to talk about herself, explain herself. He always wanted to know everything. Understand everything. But how could she explain it when she didn’t understand it herself?
“I had friends growing up, I guess, but never had a specific group. I kind of bounced around.”
She’d always preferred working with Grandpa on the ranch or hanging out with her mom to school-spirit-type stuff. It was Mom she painted toenails with. Made ice cream sundaes with. Mom who helped her pick out a dress the one and only time she attended a school dance. Mom who had been her best friend.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Jeremy nudged her with his shoulder. “You could get along with anyone.”
“Maybe.” Bea thought back to her mother’s funeral. Though a dozen kids from school had been there, she’d felt lost and alone. “But sometimes getting along with anyone means not belonging anywhere.”
None of her friends had been able to fill the void left by her mother. And Dad certainly hadn’t. He hadn’t even tried.
The crowd began returning to their seats as halftime wound down.
Jeremy scooted even closer and put his arm around Bea’s waist. “Are you okay?”
“I guess.” She watched him from the corner of her eye. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t tell your dad”—he gave her a sheepish look and shivered—“but I’ve never been so cold in my life.”
ELEVEN
It was a long-standing tradition, dating back to before Mitch was born, that any Moose Creek male who was so inclined met for breakfast at The Baked Potato on Wednesday mornings. They pulled chairs up to the big round table in the middle of the diner and chewed the fat over bacon and eggs. Mitch’s dad used to be a regular—enjoyed listening to all the latest news, though he rarely participated in the chatter—but he hadn’t made an appearance in over a month.
Mitch lifted his mug for the waitress to refill with coffee and grunted. Two more days until the neurologist appointment.
“I hear your son-in-law’s riding the bench.” Willy Batson peered at Mitch from across the table, his wiry gray eyebrows sticking out like antennae.
Mitch cringed inwardly. How did Jeremy know enough about anything for anyone to consult him about it? “He works from home right now, I guess. Technically. I don’t really understand it.”
Travis Kent peeled off his camo jacket and joined in. “He lookin’ for something to do?”
Mitch straightened up. “You got something in mind?”
Maybe he could hook Jeremy up with a real job. Give him a chance to man up.
“You know the Duncans?” Travis looped his thumbs behind the fraying straps of his denim overalls. “Down past my place?”
Mitch nodded.
“One brother is down with a busted shoulder, and the other’s got shingles.”
“Is that right.”
“All the way down to his hairy butt.”
“So they’re shorthanded?”
“As a three-legged dog.” Travis bobbed his head, sweeping toast through the egg yolk on his plate. “They’re pretty desperate for folks to put on the belt.”
This was news to Mitch. He tapped a boot thoughtfully against a chair leg. The Duncan place was only thirty minutes away. And Jeremy hadn’t done a thing all week, far as he could tell.
“I’ll send him out.” Mitch rubbed his chin. Bea wasn’t going to work at the Food Farm while Jeremy sat around the house, not if Mitch could help it. “It’ll be good for him.”
Travis nodded, satisfied, and shoved the last bite of toast into his mouth.
Willy, who had been following their conversation, fixed an eye on Mitch. “Haven’t seen your pop in a while.” When Mitch hesitated, Willy added, “How are things up at the ranch?”
His dad wouldn’t want anyone to know about Mom’s troubles. A man kept his worries to himself. That was what Dad would say. “Fine.” Mitch spun to look for the waitress so he could signal for his check. “Everything’s just fine.”
Mitch watched with amusement as Jeremy’s eyes widened. He’d been holding on to this information all day, eager to share it with Bea and Jeremy at dinner. What he wouldn’t give to hear the thoughts swirling around in his son-in-law’s head.
Bea seemed oblivious to Jeremy’s discomfort as she ate the spaghetti she’d prepared. “That’s awful about Mr. Duncan. I’ve heard shingles are terrible.”
Mitch nodded. “That’s why I figured Jeremy here could help out. Just through harvest.”
“Of course he will.” Bea smiled at her husband. “Right, Jeremy?”
Mitch knew that look. The look of a woman who knew she was going to get her way. It wasn’t fair, but he could hardly say so. He wanted Bea on his side.
The deer-in-the-headlights expression hadn’t left Jeremy’s face. “How long does harvest last?”
Mitch shrugged. “However long it takes.”
He discreetly assessed Jeremy’s hand, which was holding a piece of garlic bread. Didn’t appear suitable for much beyond typing on that computer of his, but surely he cou
ld pick rocks out of the potatoes as they rolled by on the belt. Anyone could do that.
“They’re expecting you tomorrow morning. First thing.”
In Jeremy’s silence, Mitch chose to hear a favorable response. It was a win-win. Jeremy would get out of the house, the Duncans would get some much-needed help, and Bea wouldn’t be carrying all the weight of earning an income on her shoulders alone.
“How’s it going back at the Food Farm, B.B.? You getting the hang of it?”
She glanced at Jeremy. “It’s fine. It’s like riding a bike. MacGregor hasn’t changed a thing.”
“It’s handy you can bring groceries home.”
Jeremy lifted his bread as if he were raising a glass to make a toast. “Yeah, thanks for making dinner.”
Bea smiled. “I like cooking for you.”
Pain pierced Mitch’s heart like a fishhook through flesh, and he winced. She looked just like Caroline, smiling like that. He cleared his place and rolled his stiff shoulders. “I’m going up in the attic.”
Bea tilted her head. “What for?”
“The carpet in my room was wet when I got home from work. I’ve got to check if there’s a leak or something.”
Jeremy stood with his plate and grabbed Bea’s, too. “It didn’t rain today.”
The freezing rain predicted had come and gone, and the sky had been clear the past two days.
“I know, but there was a wet spot, right inside the door. Gotta find out where it came from.”
It was the strangest thing. He always kept his bedroom door shut. Always. Where could the water have come from? His bedroom did share a wall with the bathroom, but if there was a pipe leaking somewhere, wouldn’t the water be by the wall? And the attic was unlikely to yield the answer since his room was on the first floor, almost directly beneath Bea’s.
Well, he’d figure it out.
“Need any help?”
Mitch paused. Jeremy didn’t know the first thing about pipes, Mitch was sure of that. And this was his house.
“No, thanks.” Mitch cracked his knuckles and headed for the hall. “I can do it myself.”
TWELVE
Bea rotated the heads of broccoli and squirmed. She needed to pee. Again. But she couldn’t keep taking breaks without raising suspicion, and the last thing she wanted was for rumors to start flying about her being pregnant before she’d even told her dad. If anyone so much as hinted at the truth, the news would make it back to her house before she did—thanks to the moosevine, as she liked to call it.
She’d mumble “hot coffee” through clenched teeth as if speaking about liquids wouldn’t make matters worse. Was there no limit to how many times a woman could pee in one day?
“Ms. Michaels, good to see you again.”
She turned to find her former teacher Mr. Jamison, the newsboy cap on his head and a large market tote hanging from one arm. “Good morning. Can I help you with anything?”
“No, no.” He chuckled. “I know exactly where everything is. How are you enjoying your visit back home?”
He gave special emphasis to the word visit. Part of her appreciated his refusal to treat her reappearance in Moose Creek as a foregone conclusion. Another part did not appreciate the pressure. Whether she liked it or not, she wasn’t going anywhere until some of Jeremy’s “ideas” took on a more concrete form.
She lifted one shoulder. “It’s a little strange to be back, living with my dad and working here. It’s almost like the past five years never happened.”
A piece of her heart broke off and fell to the floor. Why had she said that? If the past five years hadn’t happened, if she could go back to the first time she worked at the Food Farm, Mom would still be here. None of the horror of the diagnosis, the heartache of her loss, would’ve happened. But neither would Jeremy have happened. And she definitely wouldn’t be expecting a baby.
She involuntarily touched a hand to her belly, then quickly pulled it away.
Mr. Jamison didn’t seem to notice. “You didn’t enjoy Georgia State, I take it? They have so many great programs there.”
Bea wrinkled her nose. “It was a nice school, but we decided to move to Santa Clara when we got married.”
“And they don’t have any schools in Santa Clara?”
Her face warmed. “They do.”
He raised one eyebrow. “I see.”
But he didn’t. He didn’t see at all.
“That broccoli looks rather leggy, don’t you think?”
She turned a head over in her hands, noting the long, thin stems. “It’s hard to get good produce here, you know.”
He nodded sagely. Montana wasn’t exactly known for its favorable growing conditions. Potatoes did well. Soybeans and wheat. But fruits and vegetables? Not so much.
Mr. Jamison selected a small bulb of garlic. “I suppose you heard about Earl.”
She frowned. “No. What happened?”
“He’s all right.” Mr. Jamison patted her arm. “Only madder than a hornet. His grandkids got together and staged an intervention of sorts. Took away his keys.”
“To the four-wheeler? Oh dear.”
“I’m afraid so.” Mr. Jamison threw up his hands. “They didn’t want him causing an accident, you know. Perfectly understandable. But the man is heartbroken.”
Bea thought of Jeremy. He had been right. “I bet.”
“Now they’re threatening to get him signed up for one of those social workers for the elderly. They’re supposed to keep tabs on you, I guess. Make sure you take your pills every day or something, I’m not really sure.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, I best be off.” Mr. Jamison tipped his hat. “Have a good day, Ms. Michaels.”
She set the last head of broccoli down as he walked away. It was pretty leggy. But did she want to care about that? Did she want to spend her time worrying about produce? This job was meant to be temporary, but that’s what Kathy had intended when she first started here, too. And she ended up working the Food Farm morning shift for twenty-three years.
It wasn’t that Bea hated the job. She liked stocking and organizing and keeping things tidy. She liked helping people and seeing familiar faces every day. But the meat cooler broke down once a week, and MacGregor spent the beginning of every shift grumbling about how Costco was killing him. This wasn’t how she pictured her future. She’d always wanted to do something more . . . meaningful.
Her phone vibrated in her back pocket, and she pulled it out. MacGregor didn’t mind his employees checking their messages during shifts, so long as they got their work done. It was a text from Jeremy.
On break from potatoes. Have you called the doctor yet?
Her stomach sank. Since they weren’t paying rent or utilities right now, her paychecks were going straight into savings. But every time she researched healthcare costs online, the number of expenses they should be prepared to pay grew larger.
No.
You promised.
I’ll do it when I get off work.
She’d have to take the time to look up doctors in Ponderosa. No way was she going to call the clinic in Moose Creek. Ruth Anne, the LPN who worked there four days a week, had cared for hundreds of pregnant Moose Creek women over the years, even delivering many of their babies when the road to Ponderosa was impassable or there wasn’t enough time to make the drive. But Bea didn’t want to be seen going into the narrow yellow building on Mule Deer Road. No way.
How’s it going on the belt?
I’m working alongside a 300-pound man with a handlebar mustache who likes to tell jokes.
Huh. She hadn’t seen Big Ben in ages. How had the Duncans managed to wrangle him into working the belt?
Ask him about the time there was a moose in his bedroom.
?!?! Will do! Don’t forget about the doctor.
She slipped her phone back into her pocket without responding. Don’t forget? Ha. As if she could think of anything else but the child inside her every minute of every day.
&
nbsp; The curious and charming face of Amber’s baby popped into her mind for the hundredth time since last Friday, and she found her hand resting on her belly again. She dropped it. What would her baby look like? More like her or more like Jeremy? Her heart pounded just thinking about it. Was something wrong with her?
She opened another produce box and swallowed. A lump formed in her throat, and tears pricked her eyes.
Baby carrots.
She was crying over a vegetable.
Yep. Something was definitely wrong.
THIRTEEN
My whole body is shaking. The utter humiliation of it all. That my own husband and son would trick me into the truck. Drag me here. Talk with some quack as if I were a child. I could spit. I could just spit.
Wait until Caroline hears about this.
I dig my fingernails into my arm. The truck keys are in Mitch’s coat pocket. I saw him put them there. He’s so deep in conversation with Dr. What’s-His-Name that I could grab them and be halfway to the parking lot before anyone noticed.
Mitch sees me move. “Mom, what are you doing?”
Anger seethes beneath every inch of my skin, but his face is so concerned. His tone of voice is so concerned.
“Nothing,” I snap.
Mitch turns back to Dr. What’s-His-Name, and I study Rand’s face. Had this been his idea? Or Mitch’s? As if I don’t know who the president is. Or Mitch’s phone number. Such stupid questions to ask. Even if I didn’t know, who cares? We’ll have a new president in a year or so, anyway. And if that man pokes me one more time, I will bite him.
I swear I will.
What I really don’t understand is why Rand would tell this man such lies about me. Rand. The man I’ve loved since I was no more than a girl. The man who brings home handfuls of wild sunflowers to leave in a jar on the table. The man who saved me from . . . well, from myself.
No, not Caroline. Beatrice. Caroline is gone.
Oh, God, help me.
I focus on the doctor’s face. Dr. Watson? Wilson? What was it? He doesn’t look like a quack. Maybe I should listen to what he is saying. But his mouth is moving so fast. I hear phrases like early onset and rapid decline, but I’m not sure what they mean. Are they still talking about me? Then he says, “Hereditary.”