Firefly Island

by Lisa Wingate

  The butterflies inside me lined up and did a Disney-movie dance. I was twitterpated. “That’s so sweet.” Taking a step toward him, I added a little I’m sorry pout lip.

  “Oh no. No, no, no …” He kept his arms crossed, barricaded. “You are not forgiven. You took at least two years off my life tonight.”

  “I love you.” I added the goo-goo eyes. “My car was there in town, but it was parked around back in the alley all day. I had my phone plugged into my car charger and I forgot about it. I’m sorry we scared you.” The man of steel was about to crumble, I could tell. “We were at the Waterbird later, but you must have come back home by then.”

  “You make me crazy, woman.” But he was unlocking those big, strong arms, reaching for me.

  “You make me crazy, too.” Slipping into that space that I craved, I stood on my toes for a kiss, whispered against his lips the words that my mother had advised me should always come shortly after an argument, “I’m really sorry. Forgive me?”

  “You’re still in trouble,” he whispered back, then kissed me fiercely.

  We made out in the kitchen like a couple of teenagers until we heard Nick pushing one of his toy cars across the icky yellow carpet in the dining room. When Daniel released me, I was on fire from head to toe. I fanned my face as Nick crawled through the kitchen, making motor sounds and pretending he was Al, driving to Chinquapin Peaks to pick up a mule.

  Turning off the oven, Daniel poured coffee for us, and we sat on the porch swing, enjoying the night breeze and gazing at the stars while Nick and I told the story of the day. By the time we were finished, Nick was more than ready for a bath and bedtime. Daniel did the honors while I cleaned up what was left of dinner—chicken, rice, baked potatoes, and the green beans I’d bought the day before. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Daniel might know how to cook them.

  After Nick was in bed, we took a blanket outside and lay under the stars, just talking. Nick and I had been so busy telling the story of our day, I hadn’t asked Daniel about his. “So, how in the world did you manage to get away from Jack early enough to actually cook dinner?”

  “Jack went to Houston. He got a phone call and took off in a hurry this afternoon. Something about his son.”

  “His son?” I repeated incredulously. According to Chrissy, Jack and his son didn’t speak, and if Chrissy said it, it must be true.

  Daniel’s shoulder shifted under my head. “I didn’t ask him too much about it. He wasn’t in the mood.”

  “So I guess you didn’t talk to him about coming up with some reasonable parameters for work hours.” As soon as the words were out, I wished I’d left them for later. This night, this moment, was so perfect, so peaceful. We needed peace more than anything. We needed each other. Like this.

  “No, not yet.” His weariness was unmistakable. He was tired of being the pulling rope in a tug-of-war between work and home. “Jack’s just finally starting to turn me loose with his research in the lab. Now isn’t the time to rock the boat. Just let me do this my way, okay?”

  “Okay.” The word faded off into the night as our fingers intertwined on the blanket. Overhead, the bling had been rolled out, the stars glittering against a carpet of black. “It’s just that you’re brilliant, talented, and valuable, and he should acknowledge that.”

  Daniel turned over and propped himself on an elbow. “You forgot handsome.”

  “And handsome,” I giggled, even though I knew he was only trying to distract me from complaining about the tyrannical work hours. “Really handsome.” He was. Really.

  He kissed me as the moon waxed overhead and the crickets chirred. A whippoorwill lent its voice to the night music, and horses milled in the pasture down the hill, making soft sounds of satisfaction. In that moment, everything seemed perfect, as if the world were no bigger than the two of us. In one of Kaylyn’s romance novels, it would have been the scene in which the heroine knew she could never belong to anyone but him.

  By the time we went inside, I was logy and sated, filled with a contentment that was beyond understanding.

  We slipped into bed and into the magic of a dance that was both passionate and sweet. I fell asleep in my husband’s arms for once without a worry in my mind, my heart running over with a rightness so complete that I could only understand it as a moment of grace. Where could such love have come from, if not from God? Who else could have concocted this crazy plan for me, this unlikely life? If God did have a place for me in the world, this was it. With Daniel.

  Thank you, the prayer whispered in my mind as Daniel’s breaths lengthened. Thank you for all of this. For everything about this day. For kids in the garden. For Sergio and Sierra. For the view from Chinquapin Peaks, for Birdie, Len, and the mule. For Nick’s smile. For the dinner I missed. For my gypsy king …

  I fell asleep with the list still scrolling by.

  In the early morning hours, I dreamed that the kids from the supper garden were here on the ranch, helping to pick vegetables in one of Jack’s test plots. It seemed so real that, as I was drifting to consciousness, my mind clung to the idea, turned it over and looked at it from a few angles. Sitting on the porch last night, Daniel and I had talked about whether some of the families in Chinquapin Peaks could be hired to farm test plots with West Research seed. The land up there was certainly rugged enough.

  The scent of fresh coffee tickled my senses, and I felt Daniel’s weight atop the quilt. When I opened my eyes, he was resting against the headboard with a cup of coffee in his hand, watching me. Outside, the first rays of morning blushed the sky, outlining long, wispy clouds in bands of gold.

  I had the strangest feeling that he had been there awhile, watching me sleep. “You’re awake early.” He took a sip of coffee and smiled again, his lips moist.

  “You’re here,” I whispered through the grogginess. One thing I really loved about life in Moses Lake—I didn’t have to get up at five a.m. to shower and rush off to catch mass transit.

  “Going in a little late this morning.” He winked at me, and the rush of misty-morning love was overwhelming. Setting his cup on the nightstand, he leaned over to kiss the top of my rumpled head, then swung his legs off the edge of the bed and stood up. I noted with disappointment that he was already dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, ready for work. He’d be heading out soon.

  “Don’t get up. I’ll grab a cup of coffee for you.” On his way around the bed, he leaned over and kissed me again, whispering against my lips, “I like you there, looking all … snuggly.”

  Sighing, I watched him go, then braced the pillows and pulled the quilt up high. I felt all snuggly. I did.

  What a perfectly wonderful morning.

  Closing my eyes, I listened to the sounds of him in the kitchen—the soft clatter of cups, the tap of the coffeepot against the base, the ring of the stirring spoon.

  An electronic beep disturbed my reverie. My cell phone was dying again. Apparently the battery was going bad. I’d have to remember to order a new one. Even though reception was sometimes spotty, there was no way I wanted to be on these rural roads without a phone.

  Daniel dropped something on the floor, grumbled about it. I wondered if he’d spilled the coffee. I considered getting up and going to the kitchen, but decided against it. If I got out of bed, the magic would be gone, the morning underway. If I waited here, hopefully he would come back once he’d cleaned up the mess, whatever it was.

  When he crossed the yellow carpet, his steps sounded hurried. Disappointment plucked a note inside me. His mind was already rushing off to work; I could feel it without even seeing him. He stopped in the doorway, leaned against it. I prepared for him to say something like, Jack just texted. I’d better get going, Mal.

  But when I turned to look at him, his face was strangely ashen. I wondered if some heretofore unknown horror in the kitchen—like a rattlesnake, or something—had caused the commotion in there.

  “Daniel? What’s the ma …” And then I saw what he was holding. The sack from th
e pharmacy, the words Pregnancy Test clearly visible through the filmy plastic.

  The series of events clicked together in my mind—the phone, my purse, something toppling on the floor. In all the excitement last night, I’d left my purse sitting on the counter.

  “What’s … what’s this?” His gaze didn’t meet mine. Instead, he stared into the room, unfocused, shellshocked.

  I swallowed hard. Be calm. Be calm. Let him know it’s no big deal. “Nothing. Trudy’s just worried—something about antibiotics and birth control pills, and she threatened to sic Mom on me if I didn’t make sure I wasn’t pregnant. She’s all uptight about it because I’m doing so much painting and spraying and stuff.”

  “But you don’t think you are …”

  “No, of course not. Really. It’s fine.”

  “It’s just that … the timing, you know?”

  “I know.” I couldn’t disagree at all, but I wished he would stop looking at me like that—like a Mack truck was headed his way at a high rate of speed and his feet were stuck in heavy tar. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

  “Well … well, maybe you should …” He held up the sack, rolled his eyes toward it, but didn’t quite look.

  “I’ll do it later today.” I wasn’t ready to face the idea quite yet. I needed a little time to work up to it.

  He set the test on the nightstand like a hot potato. “You’re supposed to … do it … first thing in the morning.” He actually blushed along with the words, but the color quickly drained away.

  In a crush of thoughts, it occurred to me that he had been through this before—a wife, a pregnancy test, an unwanted result. A marriage toppled and left in pieces.

  I couldn’t let him know how nervous, how uncertain I was. I couldn’t let him think that, if the test came up positive, we would fall apart. “Oh, sure. Of course. No big deal.” I took the bag and headed to the bathroom, shut the door and leaned against it as I opened the package with trembling hands.

  The instructions quivered so much I could barely read them. Sweat broke over my skin and dripped down my back. Outside the door, Daniel was pacing the room, his footfalls going back and forth, back and forth.

  I wanted to scream at him to stop it. To just leave me alone a minute. But there was no point. There was no point in doing anything but finding out for sure. Waiting wouldn’t change the truth.

  And in ninety seconds, I knew the truth.

  We.

  Were.

  Pregnant.

  A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.

  —Jean de La Fontaine

  (Left by Reverend Hay, whose mother thought he’d be a doctor one day)

  Chapter 16

  Two weeks of carefully stepping around the elephant in the room and several home pregnancy tests later, we’d finally accepted the fact that we were on our way to being a family of four, planned or not. Perhaps accepted was a fairly strong word. I had ceased all painting and handling of bug sprays. Daniel had taken over the catch-and-release mouse eradication program, and after going to the summer enrichment program and meeting Len a few more times, I had made arrangements to hire him to finish lining the closets and to caulk around any other pipes or wiring where vermin might be getting in. Daniel had promised to talk to Jack about the issue of paying for the labor and outfitting the house with new carpet. Daniel and I didn’t need to be spending the money, especially with a new baby on the way, and I couldn’t imagine laying a helpless, vulnerable new baby on the icky yellow carpet.

  In truth, I couldn’t imagine a new baby at all. Over and over, I stood in front of the mirror alone, ran a hand over my stomach, tried to grasp the concept of cells dividing and multiplying, each uniquely designed, pre-ordained to create a brand-new human being, a tiny person. A combination of Daniel and me. How could that possibly be happening without my knowing it, without my feeling something? Other than strange dreams and wild emotional swings, wilder now that I knew what was happening, I had absolutely no symptoms of pregnancy.

  I wondered if it was some sort of indicator—proof that I lacked the essential maternal instinct required to forge the bond between mother and child.

  I couldn’t share those feelings with Daniel. I was afraid of what he would think of me. While he seemed to be slowly settling into the idea—slipping his arms around me from time to time, cupping his hands over my midsection and saying, “It’ll be all right, you know. Babies don’t have to be planned to be wonderful.”

  “I know,” I told him each time, leaning into him, trying to picture the future.

  But all I felt was fear. I’d been barely holding it together when there was no second child to contemplate. The worst thing was, I couldn’t talk to anyone about it, not even Trudy.

  Especially not Trudy. I hadn’t even figured out how I was going to tell her. How would she feel—after everything she’d been though trying to have a baby, with all her hopes tied up in the most recent in vitro—when I suddenly turned up pregnant and wasn’t happy about it?

  What would my mother say? What would everyone say—Kaylyn, Josh, all the former coworkers who followed the blog and still thought I was a little nuts for coming here? My sisters … Daniel’s family …

  How in the world would we tell everyone?

  I practiced writing blog posts and emails about our unexpected, expected arrival. I deleted every one, caused them to disappear into the ether, like vapor.

  Daniel harassed me about scheduling a prenatal doctor’s appointment. I made excuses not to do it—too busy helping Keren with the supper garden program, it was goat-shearing season at Al’s place and I wanted to take plenty of photos for The Frontier Woman, Jack’s ranch hands were sorting cattle again at the headquarters, Keren’s summer kids were inviting their families to a garden tour on Saturday. If I could do a good enough job on the photography, maybe I would try my hand at writing a magazine article about the supper gardens. So far, I’d had good response on the blog. Some donations had come in, and my emails to family friends with deep pockets had produced interest. My dad had even offered to talk to a few people.

  Now just wasn’t the time to break the baby news. Telling everyone seemed like such a huge step, such a game changer. I’d just started finding ways to get myself out of the house, to build new friendships, new interests. I was looking forward to letting Nick start preschool in the fall, to having more time for The Frontier Woman and for helping Keren write grant proposals. Plus, there was still the whole question of Daniel’s job here and Jack West’s sordid history.

  It was all so much to assimilate. I felt as if we’d failed to clear one hurdle before jumping another. And then I felt guilty for even thinking that way. A baby was a gift, not a hurdle.

  Why was I still so conflicted about this?

  On Sunday we went to services at the little church in Moses Lake. The volunteer ladies at the supper garden program had been inviting us for a while, and Nick had been pestering to go. He liked the cookies the ladies made. He liked the crafts and the friendly people there. Now I felt the need in a way I never had before—not for cookies and crafts, but for guidance. I wanted God to take away the muck of unwanted feelings inside me and make me feel the way I should feel. I needed to confess to someone the things I couldn’t tell anyone.

  “Up and dressed on Sunday and headed into the chapel,” Daniel joked as we walked through the door of Lakeshore Community Church. “My mother will be proud.” Among other things, with Jack gone these past two weeks and Daniel having free time, he’d been talking to his parents more. I felt bad that we hadn’t told them about the pregnancy, but the fact that we hadn’t officially been to the doctor seemed like a good enough excuse. At least we could say, Well, we just wanted to be sure before we told everyone …

  “It’s not Easter or Christmas. My mother would probably be shocked,” I quipped, and then winced at how irreverent the comment sounded. Bad, bad, bad. Who was I to be raising children?

  Daniel squeezed my hand as w
e settled into a pew and the organist started playing.

  The service started, and I followed along in the program, so as not to look like someone who only showed up in church on special occasions. The pastor was warm and well-spoken, the atmosphere inside the little chapel peaceful and reverent, and the music inspiring. Nick marched right up front with Birdie and the other kids for the children’s sermon, then happily trotted off to a preschool room with the underfive set before the pastor, a friendly-faced, thirty-something scarecrow of a man I’d met during the summer enrichment visits, took the pulpit. I was so distracted by my own issues, I really couldn’t focus on Reverend Hay’s sermon at first. I just kept waiting for … something … for a sign, a confirmation, for holy lightning to strike and fix me. I wanted God to whisper in my ear, to say, Don’t worry, Mallory. When this baby comes, you’ll know just what to do. It’s all part of the plan… .

  But it didn’t happen, even though the sermon finally did compel me to focus. Reverend Hay was a skillful orator and a passionate leader. Still, when the service concluded, I felt as lost as I had earlier.

  There was a potluck meal afterward—something that happened monthly, apparently. As we made our way out the door, Reverend Hay invited us to stay for lunch, and before I knew what was happening, we were headed next door with the rest of the congregation.

  In the potluck line, I ended up next to the reverend, of all people. He crossed the room and wiggled his way into line right behind me. Mama B, who regularly helped feed the supper garden kids, patted tall, skinny Reverend Hay and remarked, “We need to fatten him up a bit, don’t we, hon?”

  “Oh, well, you know these men can never get enough food,” I said innocuously.

  “You must be a cook.” Mama B smiled at me, then pointed a finger, her brows drawing together. “Everson … Everson. I’m trying to place that name. Now, who are your people?”

  “My peop … my what?” I honestly wasn’t sure what she was asking.

  “You have family around, or you just in for the summer?” she translated, a relaxed cadence stretching you into two syllables, ye-ew.