Not wanting to wake him, but helpless to leave without a touch, she moved her hand over his sandy hair. Then she went to her room, slipped into bed, and pulled the covers to her chin. She had barely settled when she heard Dylan’s steps, muted by the old slipper-socks that he wore every night. They were the last pair Ruth Barr had knit before her death, too big for him at first, now stretched so thin that they were about to fall apart. He refused to let Deborah throw them out, saying that they kept his Nana Ruth alive. In that instant, Deborah needed her mother, too.
“I tried to stay awake ’til you got home,” he mumbled.
Pulling him toward her, Deborah waited only until he set his glasses on the nightstand before tucking him in next to her. He was asleep almost at once. Moments later, Grace joined them, crawling in on the other side. It was a snug fit, though preferable to lying awake alone. Deborah reached for her daughter’s hand.
“I won’t be able to sleep,” the girl whispered, “not at all, the whole night.”
Deborah turned her head in the dark and whispered back, “Here’s the thing. We can’t rewind the clock. What happened happened. We know that Mr. McKenna is in good hands and that if there’s any change, we’ll get a call. Right?”
Grace made a doubtful sound but said nothing more. In time her breathing lengthened, but she slept in fits and starts. Deborah knew because she remained awake for a long time after that, and for reasons that went well beyond the drumming of rain on the roof. She kept seeing that striped running suit, kept feeling the jolt of impact.
Sandwiched between the children, though, she knew she couldn’t panic. After her marriage ended, she had made a vow. No more harm to the kids. No…more…harm.
The phone rang at six the next morning. Deborah had been sleeping for less than three hours, and the press of her children made her slow to react. Then she remembered what had happened, and her stomach clenched.
Fearing Calvin McKenna had taken a turn for the worse, she bolted up and, reaching over Dylan, grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” said her sister. “I figured your alarm would be going off soon. Mack Tully was just in here. He said you hit someone last night.”
“Oh. Jill.” Relieved, Deborah let out a breath. She and her sister were close, though very different from each other. Jill was thirty-four to Deborah’s thirty-eight, blonde to her brunette, five-two to Deborah’s five-six, and the maverick of the family. Despite two long-term relationships, she hadn’t married, and while Deborah had followed their father into medicine, Jill flat-out refused to take any science courses. After one post–high school year as a baker’s apprentice in New Jersey, then a second year in New York and four more as a dessert chef on the West Coast, she had come back to Leyland to open her own bakery. In the ten years since her return, she had expanded three times—all to her father’s chagrin. Michael still prayed she would wake up one day, go back to school, and do something real with her life.
Deborah had always loved her little sister, even more in the three years since their mother had died. Jill was Ruth. She lived simply but smartly, and, like her bakery, she exuded warmth. Just hearing her voice was a comfort. Talking with Ruth on the phone had conjured the smell of warm, fresh-baked bread. Talking with Jill on the phone conjured the smell of pecan-topped sticky buns.
The image soothed the rough edges of fear. “It was a nightmare, Jill,” she murmured tiredly. “I had just gotten Grace, and it was rainy and dark. We were driving slowly. He came out of nowhere.”
“Was he drunk?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t smell anything.”
“Vodka doesn’t smell.”
“I couldn’t exactly ask him, Jill. He wasn’t talking.”
“The history teacher, huh? Is he badly hurt?”
“He was operated on last night, likely to put a pin in his hip.”
“Marty Stevens says the guy is odd—a loner, not real friendly.”
“Serious is the word, I think. He doesn’t smile much. Did Marty say anything else?”
“No, but Shelley Wyeth did. She lives near the McKennas. She said his wife is weird, too. They don’t mix much with the neighbors.” There was a brief pause. “Wow. You actually ran someone down. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Deborah was a minute reacting. Then she said, “Excuse me?”
“Have you ever been in an accident before?”
“No.”
“The rest of us have.”
“Jill.”
“It’s okay, Deborah. This makes you human. I love you all the more for it.”
“Jill,” Deborah protested, but Dylan was awake and reaching for his glasses. “My boy, here, needs an explanation. I’ll see you as soon as I drop off the kids.”
“You’re not driving the BMW, are you?” Jill asked. She shared Deborah’s disdain for the car, albeit more for its cost than for memories of a marriage gone bad.
“I have no choice.”
“You do. I’ll be there at seven-thirty. Once you get to Dad’s, you can use his car. I don’t envy you having to tell him about the accident. He won’t be happy. He likes perfect records.”
Deborah didn’t need the reminder. The thought of telling her father made her ill. “I like perfect records, too, but we don’t always get what we want. Trust me, I didn’t plan on this. My car was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gotta go, Jill. Seven-thirty. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and looked down at Dylan. At ten, he was more of an introvert than his sister had been at that age. He was also more sensitive, a character trait exacerbated by both the divorce and his vision.
“You hit someone?” he asked now, brown eyes abnormally wide behind his lenses.
“It was on the rim road, very dark, very wet.”
“Was he splattered all over the road?” the boy asked with a hard blink.
“Jerk,” Grace mumbled from behind Deborah.
“He was not splattered anywhere,” Deborah scolded. “We weren’t going fast enough to do serious harm.”
Dylan rubbed one of his eyes. “Have you ever hit anyone before?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Has Dad?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I’m going to call him and tell him.”
“Not now, please,” Deborah said, because Greg would insist that Dylan put her on the phone and would then hassle her with questions. Glancing past Dylan at the clock, she said, “He’ll be sleeping and, anyway, you need to get dressed. Aunt Jill is coming for us.”
There was another hard blink. “Why?”
“Because the police have my car.”
“Why?”
“They have to make sure it’s in good working order.”
“Is there blood on the front?”
“No. Get up, Dylan,” Deborah said and gave him a gentle push.
He got out of bed, started for the door, then turned back. “Who’d you hit?”
“No one you know,” Deborah said and pointed toward the door.
He had barely left when Grace was hovering at her shoulder. “But he’s someone I know,” she whispered, “and someone all my friends know. And you can bet Dylan’s gonna call Dad, who’s then gonna think we can’t take care of ourselves. Like there’s someone else who’ll take care of us if we don’t, not that Dad cares. Mom, what if Mr. McKenna died on the operating table?”
“The hospital would have called.”
“What if you get a call today? I need to stay home.”
Deborah faced her. “If you stay home, you’ll have to retake the test—and miss track practice, which isn’t a great idea with a meet on Saturday.”
Grace looked horrified. “I can’t run after what happened.”
Deborah knew how she felt. When Greg left, she had wanted nothing more than to stay in bed nursing her wounds. She had a similar urge now, but it would only make things worse. “I have to work, Grace, and you need to run. We were involved in an accident. We can’t let it paralyze us.”
“What if it paralyzes Mr. McKenna?”
“They said it didn’t.”
“You can really work today?”
“I have to. People depend on me. Same with you. You’re the team’s best hope for winning the meet. Besides, if you’re afraid of people talking, the best thing is to behave as you always do.”
“And say what?”
Deborah swallowed. “What I just told Aunt Jill. That it was a horrible storm, and that the car was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“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.”
The Secret Between Us Page 3