Promises to Keep

by Susan Crandall

  She took the chef’s knife and hacked a carrot into pieces. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clay flinch.

  “Careful. You’re going to lose a finger.”

  She shot him a nasty look—mostly because he was right.

  Riley came clomping in the back door.

  “Stop right there and take those muddy sneakers off!”

  He tossed a plastic bag onto the counter. “Here’s your butter.” Then he toed off his shoes.

  Lily heard the dried mud crumble and fall on the floor. “Get a damp paper towel and wipe that up.”

  “I was going to—but I had to get my shoes off first! Sheesh.”

  “Do not ‘sheesh’ me. And tell me why it took you forty minutes to go get a pound of butter?”

  Riley rolled his eyes at Clay. Her husband had enough of a sense of self-preservation to look away and pretend he didn’t see it.

  “I saw Codi at the store. I talked to her for a minute.”

  “A minute?”

  Now Riley’s glance at Clay had a trapped rabbit quality to it. “Yeah, I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone while I was on my mission. What’s the big deal, anyway? Dinner’s not ready yet.”

  “It’s not ready because I needed the butter to mash the potatoes.”

  Clay stood. “I’ll mash them. Riley, get that mud up, then go wash your hands.”

  Riley got the paper towel and ran it under the faucet. He mumbled, “Just ’cause she’s pissed at Aunt Molly—”

  “Excuse me, mister!”

  “Watch the language around your mother.” Clay turned his back so Lily couldn’t see his face, but she heard his whisper. “Get out while you still have your legs. I’ll hold her off as long as I can.”

  Riley snickered; luckily for him he had the grace to do it quietly as he hurried out of the room.

  As soon as he was gone, Lily felt Clay’s hands on her shoulders. He turned her to face him and pulled her against his chest. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She ended up doing a little of both.

  He waited, rubbing her back softly. When she sniffled and looked up at him, he cupped her face. “Molly’s a grown woman. She’s made her choices, now you’re going to have to let her live with them.”

  She blew out a breath that carried away a little of the tension in her body. “I know, but—”

  He put a finger on her lips. “There are no buts. This is Molly’s life.”

  She started on her “how could she throw it all away” tirade, when she realized there was something deeper bothering her. “There are things that are just . . . odd. Do you know she doesn’t have a hospital first photo of Nicholas?”

  “And that’s clearly a sign of . . . ?”

  “I know I sound nuts. But it’s not just that. She’s a pediatrician—and she’s bottle-feeding her baby. Is there something wrong with her? Is she one of those women who can’t bond?”

  Clay said, “That doesn’t make sense; you said she was a basket case about leaving him.”

  “And she’s cut the father completely out. He doesn’t even know about the baby.”

  Clay’s pointed look cut her straight to her heart.

  “This is different,” she said quickly.

  “Is it?”

  He held her with that sharp gaze and it was hard for her to breathe. But she stood and faced it, because deep down, she thought she deserved it.

  “I’m worried about her,” Lily said. “Coming back to this town is going to be hard on Nicholas in the long run.”

  “He has family here. What can be bad about that? I think she made a smart choice there.”

  “Come on, Clay, you know how this town is.”

  “Sure people are going to talk for a while. Then things will calm down. By the time he’s old enough to know, it’ll all be forgotten.”

  Her lips pressed together for a moment. “Someone always remembers—after you think it’s over, someone always brings it up.”

  He kissed her forehead. “We’re talking about a baby, an innocent baby. In this day and age single mothers are as common as ants at a picnic. It’s going to be good that she came here.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “No matter what, keep in mind, this is Molly’s business. It’s her choice.”

  “I just don’t want those choices to hurt Nicholas.”

  He stared deep into her eyes and her heart squeezed in her chest. “What child doesn’t get hurt by his parent’s choices at one time or another? You can’t fix everything for everyone.”

  True enough. In fact, she had her hands full fixing problems of her own making at the moment.

  Brian cheerfully introduced them. “Molly, this is Dean Coletta.” He took the baby’s hand between his index finger and thumb. “And her son, Nicholas.” Brian shifted his gaze to Dean. “Dean, Molly Boudreau.” Then he turned back to Molly. “Dean’s here working on a magazine story.”

  Dean grinned, keeping his gaze on Molly as he said, “Actually, Molly and I ran into each other this morning.”

  Molly gave a harrumph. Her distress over seeing Dean spun on a dime. She was going to use this meeting to her advantage. They were in a crowded room, sitting with an upstanding and respected citizen. She could probe and prod under the guise of interested conversation. Dean Coletta was now under her microscope.

  She put on a convivial face. “Oh, come on now, tell the guy the truth. He’ll hear it eventually anyway. No secrets in a small town.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she thought, she’d better hope some secrets remained buried.

  Dean pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No ma’am. I won’t tell.” He looked at her with laughing sincerity in his eyes. “Have to maintain my integrity. As a journalist, people have to trust me not to blab confidential information.”

  With that, he put out his hands, offering to take the baby while she took off her coat. She ignored him and settled Nicholas in the baby seat herself. She didn’t like handing the baby over to anyone. She was working on getting over it, one baby step at a time. Baby steps did not include putting Nicholas in the arms of a stranger whose purpose for being in town she had yet to determine.

  As she took off her coat and hung it on the back of her chair, she said, “I’d hardly call what happened in broad daylight with multiple witnesses confidential.”

  When Brian raised a brow, looking intrigued, she said, “I ran over him in the alley beside Hildie’s Day Spa.”

  Brian choked on his laughter. “You’re kidding.”

  Molly shook her head.

  “Like, ran over him with your car?”

  “Yep, just like that.”

  Brian’s gaze cut to Dean. “Well, you don’t look any worse for the wear.”

  “Almost lost the key to the cottage, though,” Dean’s teasing gaze cut to Molly. “Knocked it right out of my hand.”

  “You’re lucky you weren’t knocked out of your shoes!” Brian chuckled.

  Molly tried to stay in the conversation as she studied the man beside her. “So, any new aches and pains?” she prompted. It was difficult to gaze into his honest-looking face and have thoughts of treachery cross her mind. That’s probably how Sarah ended up in the mess she was—trusting someone who looked honest and forthright.

  Dean looked steadily back at her, a hint of calculation in his eye, as if he were sizing her up the same as she was him. “You asking as a doctor?”

  She shook her head. “No. As an apologetic assailant with a motor vehicle. Or am I considered a vehicular batterer?” Looking to Brian, wanting to keep him in the conversation, she asked, “What do you think my crime would be?”

  Before Brian could say anything, Dean threw up his hands. “Hey! I’m not making charges. I already told you, this signals a real change in my luck.” Then he said to Brian, “For the better.”

  Brian looked skeptical. “Getting run down in an alley is an improvement for you?”

  Dean looked thoughtful and took a sip of his bee
r. “Actually, it is.” Then his gaze shifted back to Molly. “But the part that I considered lucky was who ran me down.”

  If she weren’t looking at him with such a suspicious eye, she might have passed it off as flirtation. But she sensed a darker undercurrent—or maybe her imagination was galloping off with her good sense again. She didn’t want to react irrationally as she had in the alley; she held his gaze, probing without speaking. For the first time, she noticed that his eyes were a blue-green that reminded her of an unsettled South Pacific sea she’d seen on the Discovery Channel. Her breath tightened in her chest with the intensity of what she saw there. Curiosity. Kindness. Humor.

  If she truly were that normal person she pretended to be, she might be swept away by such soulful eyes. In another place, another time, she might want to explore the depths of that kindness and humor—for reasons other than self-preservation.

  Dean finally released her from his gaze and turned to Brian. “She’s a doctor, you know.” His light tone signaled his awareness that Brian was well aware of Molly’s profession.

  “That I do know.” Brian lifted his beer in salute to Molly. “We’re glad to have her back.”

  Dean raised a brow. “Back? From where?”

  Before Molly could gather herself and respond with a properly evasive answer, Brian said, “Boston. Left big city medicine to return here, where the heart is. Right, Molly?”

  When Dean focused his questioning gaze back upon her, Molly said, “Yes. I decided I didn’t want to raise my son in a city. I wanted him to be close to his family.” She lifted a shoulder in what she hoped appeared to be nonchalance. “So here we are.”

  Dean looked from her to the baby and back again. “I guess children make everything different.”

  “You have no idea,” Molly said reflectively before she could censor herself.

  Luckily, the sentiment must have seemed normal to the men. Neither one reacted. Brian smiled fondly at the baby. Dean took another drink of beer.

  “How old is he?” Dean asked.

  “Seven weeks.” The lie was quickly becoming the truth.

  “Bet his dad’s proud.” Although it was a statement, there was something questioning in Dean’s voice.

  Molly straightened. “His father and I aren’t together.”

  “All the more reason to be near family and friends,” Brian offered, cheerfully. “You did the right thing in coming home. Kids need family.” He fiddled with a straw that was on the table. He stared at that straw when he said, “I always thought this would be a great place to raise kids—I suppose you know I’m divorced. . . .”

  Molly heard the sadness in his voice. Certain things began to fall into place: his awareness of her struggle while standing in line; his knowledge of baby seats; the fond way he looked at Nicholas. He obviously wanted children—made a habit of watching them.

  There was a short lull in conversation.

  Then Dean started to open his mouth.

  Before he could hone in on her again, Molly said, “Mr. Coletta, what kind of story are you looking for here in our quiet little town?”

  “I’m doing an in-depth piece on small town America. I want to take a look at it from the inside. In order to do that, I need to spend several weeks living in a few towns.”

  “So,” Molly said, “earlier today, you said you’re from New York City. Did you grow up there?”

  “Yeah. My parents were professors at Columbia. They’re both gone now.”

  He went on, “I guess technically I still live there. That’s where I pay my taxes. I have an apartment—well, it’s just a rented room in a big old house. Although up until about four weeks ago, I hadn’t been there for more than a day or so at a time. For the past five years, I’ve been spending almost all of my time overseas.”

  Brian set his forearms on the table and leaned forward, as if sharing confidential information. “Dean writes for The Report. He covers the Middle East. Great in-depth articles that center on the human story. Always fascinating.” He looked at Dean. “Before you joined us, he was just about to tell me why the abrupt change in topics.”

  Molly was very interested in that question herself. She leaned an elbow on the table and settled her chin on her palm, trying to look offhandedly interested. “Yes, why would you leave your area of expertise to write about—” she motioned around the tiny pizza parlor “—this?”

  Dean scrubbed a hand over his hair, leaning back in his chair. “Believe me, it wasn’t by choice.” He stopped himself and looked apologetic. “No offense intended. I’m sure this is a nice place.”

  Brian gave a wave of dismissal.

  Dean finished, “It was my editor’s decision. He thinks I need a dose of ‘civilization.’”

  Molly laughed before she realized it was coming. “And this is more civilized than New York City?”

  Dean lifted a shoulder. “More than the northern reaches of Afghanistan.”

  Molly decided to press; she wasn’t going to get a better opportunity than this. “Why? When you’re obviously most qualified in an area that few are? Why waste your talents? Anybody can write about Smallville.”

  He looked in her eyes, presenting himself so she could easily detect a lie. “I’m being punished. I disobeyed the rules, and got myself shot.”

  Brian slapped the table with his palm. “Damn, man. I guess getting run over by a doctor would be a step in the right direction, then.”

  The pizzas arrived. Molly regretted the onions now that she was in mixed company. She ordered a diet Coke from the waitress, who paused to make a fuss over Nicholas before she left the table. Brian filled her in on his name and age, as he toyed with the baby’s tiny fingers.

  Dean lifted his chin toward the baby. “Tell me more about why you chose to raise your son here, instead of in a great cultural center like Boston or New York. I would think the medical career opportunities alone would be enough to keep you out east.”

  Molly’s appetite took a nosedive just as she was about to bite into her first slice of pizza. “Once Nicholas came, other things took precedence over my career.” She didn’t offer more. “So you’re here for punishment. What rule did you disobey?”

  “I was supposed to evacuate. I stayed. Then I got shot and they carried me out. All very upsetting for the powers that be.”

  “Will you go back?” she asked.

  “As soon as they give me back my passport.”

  “Why?”

  “Those people, they’re shoved from village to town with whatever they can carry on their backs. They’re starved; dying of illnesses easily prevented. If nobody tells their story, they’ll be lost . . . ignored even worse than they are now. The higher we can keep the human profile, the more likely the fighting factions will be pressured to make peace. At the very least, it helps draw humanitarian aid. And, of course, there’s the political story. It’s important for people to know why things are happening. Like it or not, we live in a global community. Nothing that happens there is irrelevant—even here, to this little town.”

  Brian nodded thoughtfully.

  Molly wondered how she could have, even in her overreactive state, thought this man could have been the “evil” person Sarah said fathered her child.

  After taking a bite of pizza, Dean turned the tables on her again. “Will you go back to the city?”

  “No,” she said emphatically. Never. I’ll never take him back there where his father would have a better chance of finding him.

  “Even after Nicholas is older, and there will be more and better opportunities for him? He’ll have so much more open to him in the city.” He said it as if it was universal knowledge that all children benefited from life in a major city.

  “Opportunity lies everywhere,” she said. “He’ll be prepared to go wherever he chooses when the time comes.”

  A pride she hadn’t realized lived in her had been pricked. She went on, “Your condescending tone tells me you don’t have any idea what it’s like to live in a small town. Bel
ieve it or not, it’s not like living in a third world country! We aren’t isolated and ignorant. We aren’t bumpkins.

  “It’s obvious you’re going to need more than a few weeks to ‘get a feel’ for life here.” She couldn’t keep the pique out of her voice.

  Dean held his hands in surrender. “Settle down, there, doctor. I’m just asking questions.”

  “For your article.”

  “Yes, for my article.”

  She took a deep breath. “There are a lot of advantages to raising a child in a small town.”

  “Such as?”

  Their rapid-fire questions had excluded Brian. But now he spoke up, “Like a strong sense of community. Like living in an environment where everyone is accountable, because there’s no hiding in the crowd. Like having your children walk the same school halls you did. Like the awareness you have of others in need who won’t ask for help—and the way people find a way to provide that help without crushing a person’s pride.”

  “Yeah,” Molly nodded. “Like all that.” She was secretly glad Brian had bailed her out. She did agree with all of those reasons, but would have been hard-pressed to put them into words herself. She hadn’t thought of her return in those terms—until now.

  “I see.” Then Dean focused on Molly again. “You should have a very unique perspective of this town. Growing up here, moving to the big city, returning to raise a child. I wonder if after you’re here a while, your opinion will change?” He paused as if rolling the idea over in his mind. “A very interesting perspective, indeed.”

  He nailed her with that probing gaze again. “I’d like to talk to you again, keep an ongoing dialogue. A progressive story, so to speak.”

  An ongoing dialogue. That was an interesting way to put it.

  “I don’t want to be a part of this story. I don’t want my son mentioned in a magazine.”

  Dean said, “It can be done with a pseudonym. No one will know it’s you.”

  Molly barked out a laugh. “In this town, I think my story will stand out.”

  Dean persisted. “All right. You won’t be in the story per se. But I’d still like to talk to you about your perspective to gain insight.”