The little boy ran down to the end of the driveway, chasing after the tennis ball the dog had dropped. Lainey’s hand reached for her camera, which was sitting between the two front seats. She lifted it and snapped a single photo, just as the little boy looked up in the direction of the car and, for the briefest moment, stood perfectly still.
The boy grabbed the ball, pivoted around, and ran back up the drive. The family turned to head inside now, their progress slowed when the Lab careened into the little girl, who fell down in a flood of tears. Her mother and father soothed her, while her brother bounced the tennis ball on the walkway, rolled his eyes, and said, “Honestly, it’s not like Elvis meant to do it. It’s not his fault Nattie falls over so easily.”
“Come on, dinner’s almost ready,” the woman said.
“What are we having?” her husband asked.
“Chicken tacos,” she said. “Griff’s favorite.”
“You aren’t going to try and hide vegetables in my tacos again, are you?” the boy asked suspiciously.
“I would never do that,” the woman said solemnly.
“Come on, Elvis,” the boy said, and he ran inside the house, the dog barking at his heels.
The father shifted the little girl, still a bit weepy, on one hip and lifted his overnight bag to his other shoulder. She nestled against him, rubbing her cheek on his sleeve.
“Do you want me to take your bag?” the blonde woman asked, turning to look back at him, just before she disappeared inside.
“No, I’ve got it,” he said, following her in. “This way I’m balanced. Take one of them away and I might tip over.”
“Noooo, Daddy, no!” the little girl wailed dramatically. “No tipping!”
He laughed and followed his wife inside. The door slammed shut behind them, and the street was quiet and still, save for the distant roar of a lawn mower.
The woman in the car exhaled a long breath and then turned to the man sitting beside her.
“Yes,” she said, and when she smiled, the angles of her face softened. “Everything’s fine.”
“You sure?” He cupped a hand against her cheek, and she leaned against it for a moment.
She nodded. “I’m sure. Are you hungry? Because I’m starving.”
“Sure thing. Let’s get going.” He slung one arm across the back of the seat, the tips of his fingers grazing against her shoulder.
Lainey touched his hand briefly and then turned the key in the ignition. She reversed the car around in a neat three-point turn, and slowly headed back down the street.
About the Author
Whitney Gaskell lives in Stuart, Florida, with her husband and son. When You Least Expect It is her seventh novel, all published by Bantam. You can visit Whitney’s website and read her blog at www.whitneygaskell.com.
When You Least Expect It is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Bantam Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2010 by Whitney Gaskell
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gaskell, Whitney.
When you least expect it : a novel / Whitney Gaskell.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90762-9
1. Adoption—Fiction. 2. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3607.A7854W47 2010
813′.6—dc22
2010001862
www.bantamdell.com
v3.0
When You Least Expect It Page 31