“How old are you, Noelle?”
“I’m three,” she responds, holding up three fingers.
“Do you know when your birthday is?”
“September.”
“So you’ll be four in September?”
“Uh-huh,” she nods.
She’s tall for her age, and seems developmentally advanced, although I’m not really surprised. Her father is tall and brilliant, and her mother probably is, too. Sara’s a bit taller than me, and I can’t see Sam falling for a dummy.
“I bet you’re going to be tall like your mom and dad, aren’t you?”
“I wanna be as tall as daddy.”
“That’s pretty tall for a girl.”
“It’s very tall.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be tall like your mom instead?”
Noelle looks across the table at her mother, who is standing quietly, watching and listening to us, and smiles. “I wanna be pretty like mommy and tall like daddy.”
“You’ve got it all worked out then, don’t you?”
She nods enthusiastically, and I can’t help thinking if only it were that easy—to pick and choose who we get to be like, what our life gets to look like, how it all works out. But we don’t have that luxury. Sometimes what begins as the picture of perfection ends in disaster on all sides. And often we have no idea what we want, or what we need, until it’s too late.
Or until we lose it.
“Did someone order cookies?”
“We did! We did!” Noelle shouts at Sam when he appears at his wife’s side in front of the table, four platters balanced on each palm. Seeing them together, Sam with his fabulous wife, makes me catch my breath. They are dark and light, strength and beauty, each one the ideal complement to the other. It’s no wonder they have the ideal child and the ideal life, too. Some people are just lucky enough to have it all.
Sam sets down his tower of cookie trays, and Noelle immediately stretches across the table in an attempt to grasp one with the tips of her fingers. Instinctively, I reach out to keep her from tipping over a stack of trays. Sam does the same. Our reactions were equal and simultaneous, and we laugh in unison.
“Good reflexes,” Sara observes. “You must be used to being around kids.”
I say nothing, only smile up at her. She returns my smile, tilting her head to watch me. For not more than a few seconds, we remain that way—smiling at one another, Sara examining me it would seem—until I look away. Her blatant curiosity, for whatever reason, makes me a little uncomfortable. It’s like she’s searching for something, and I can’t imagine what that might be.
Taking one tray off the top of a stack, I set it in front of Noelle, loosening the lid enough that she can get it off. “Why don’t you take the lid off this one and slide it all the way down to the end? Can you do that for me?”
She nods, already on the task. I’m guessing she watched her father—or maybe her mother—put the lids on last night.
I hear the low tones of Sam’s voice as he speaks to his wife. I make a point not to pay attention to the words until he says, “See ya later, Abi.”
I glance up and wave, quickly turning my attention back to the stacks of cookie trays and the little girl.
From the corner of my eye, I see Sara step closer to the table. “So, you and Sam went to school together, is that right?”
“We did.”
My stomach draws into a tight ball. Is she going to cuss me out for being a woman from her husband’s past? Does she think I have designs on him now?
“When Sam and I first got together, he was still kind of hung up on someone else. Someone he dated in high school. That wouldn’t have been you by chance, would it?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen or talked to Sam since I left, almost twenty years ago. Maybe it was someone he met after I left.”
“But you did date, didn’t you?”
Oh, God! How do I get myself into these sticky situations? How do I always seem to trip and fall into a hornet’s nest? And, at the moment, there’s nothing I can do about it. Running isn’t an option. I can’t even make a hasty retreat. I’m stuck here, manning the cookie table for another few hours, unable to escape.
“Briefly.” I try to make my reply as breezy as possible, even though we dated for nearly three years and I’ve always considered Sam the first—and maybe the only real—love of my life.
“I thought I’d heard him mention an Abi before. Surely he wasn’t involved with more than one.”
I laugh a bit too loudly. “With Sam, who knows?”
Her smile turns conspiratorial. “Why? Was he a wild child? Spill. A woman can always use some dirt on her husband.”
“Who’s dirty, Mommy? Daddy?” Noelle asks, still on task, lining up cookie platters as I set them in front of her. Apparently, she can do more than one thing at a time. One can never underestimate the power of little ears.
“Nobody, baby. It’s just an expression.”
“What’s an espession?”
“Ex-pression. It’s a way of saying something, but it doesn’t mean exactly that thing. When I said ‘dirt’, I didn’t mean dirt from the ground.”
Noelle stops to look up at her mother, her mouth slightly agape and her brow puckered as she processes that. Finally, she scratches the side of her nose and asks, “Like daddy calls me ‘little bee’ but he doesn’t mean I’m a real bee?”
“Exactly.”
Good grief, she’s sharp! I know enough about growth and development to realize that Noelle is extremely intelligent for her age. Sam and Sara must be the proudest parents on the planet. I know I would be.
“Her mind never ceases to amaze me,” Sara remarks as though reading my thoughts.
“She’s exceptional.”
“That she is. I’ve been so blessed.”
Something in her voice draws my gaze to her face just in time to see a raw and bleeding wound, an achingly familiar pain in her eyes as she looks at her child. It’s the pain of loss, making me wonder what this woman has lost that I don’t know about.
We all have secrets, injuries. Scars. Some end up being invisible prisons that we carry with us wherever we go.
What keeps this woman prisoner?
Before I can think better of it, I’m asking, “Are you okay?” She looks as if she might burst into tears right here in front of the cookie table at the health fair.
At my question, she raises those tortured, watering eyes to mine and she nods, indicating that she’s fine. Of course, it’s a blatant lie. She is anything but fine.
“I-is there something I can get you? Or do for you?”
“Would you mind if I left Noelle here with you for just a few minutes? I’ll be right back.”
I resist the urge to prod her to open up, to offer an ear or a shoulder, whatever she needs.
None of my business. Don’t get involved.
“Of course. Take your time.”
Despite my intention not to get involved, however, I find that my thoughts wonder to Sara Forrester long after she’s gone. They turn through my mind like pages in a catalog of possibilities, each one more heart wrenching than the last.
Sara returns in less than fifteen minutes. She’s smiling and I have to admit that she looks better than she did when she left. Better, but still not really good.
“Thank you for letting Noelle help you, and for keeping an eye on her. Would you let us repay you with dinner? Sam is a magician on the grill.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. Noelle is such a sweet little girl, it’s been my pleasure.”
“Please, Miss Abigail?” Noelle chimes in, tugging on the hem of my shirt.
“Abi.”
She’s not to be distracted. “Please Miss Abi?”
“I don’t think—”
“Pleeeease.”
“I really shouldn’t—”
“You can’t really say no to that face, can you?” Sara eyes me knowingly as she tips her head toward her daughter.
&nbs
p; I laugh uncomfortably when I look back into the big green eyes that are pleading, quite successfully, for me to agree. Sara is right. I can’t say no. I’m helpless to resist Noelle.
“Pweeeease,” Noelle pleads again, this time with her cute speech impediment. It occurs to me that, as smart as she is, she probably understands how much further she can get with most people when she speaks in such an adorable way. I may be dealing with a budding con artist.
I remember a time when Sam could flash a cocky grin my way and get pretty much whatever the hell he wanted.
Like father, like daughter.
I sigh. “I’d love to. Just tell me when and what I can bring.”
“How about tomorrow night? If you don’t have plans, I mean.”
“Tomorrow night is fine. What can I bring?”
“Nothing. We’ll take care of everything. Seven?”
I nod, wishing I could find a graceful way to get out of it, but unwilling to offend Sara to do it. “I’ll be there.”
“You know which house is ours, right?”
“Uh, I think so,” I stammer, feeling uneasy answering either way. I don’t want to admit that I do, but I also don’t want to lie about it. “I’m sure I can find it with no problem.”
She gives me their address to be sure, citing, “We’re in the same cove as the house you’re renting.”
I nod again and smile. “Then I’ll see you at seven.”
Noelle wraps her arms around my legs and squeezes so tightly I can feel the tremble of her tiny muscles. I reach down to stroke her silky hair and a sharp pang shoots into my chest, spearing my heart. “What’s this for?”
“I can’t wait to show you my dolly,” she explains, face beaming up at me when she releases my leg.
“I can’t wait to see her.”
Before I can think better of it, I bend and press my lips to her forehead. It’s only as I’m rising that I realize I might be overstepping. Some mothers might be uncomfortable with a veritable stranger showing such affection to their child.
My eyes dart to Sara, who is watching us closely, her expression completely closed. I can’t tell whether she’s displeased or not, so I make a mental note to avoid such blunders in the future.
Quickly, I disentangle myself from Noelle and she races around the table to her mother. Sara takes her by the hand and leads her away without another word.
Dread settles into my gut like a box of cold stones. How the hell do I get myself into these messes?
CHAPTER 12
SAM
Invitation
Now
Health fair day is always tiring. It’s not that it’s particularly taxing work for my skills; it has more to do with the volume. I see nearly a third of the people in Molly’s Knob on health fair day. They come out in droves, not just to get a free basic check-up, but also to socialize. And that socializing extends to me, making it a very long day by the time I finish seeing everyone.
It’s five minutes before eight when I finally get home. The house is quiet, so I make my way upstairs. As my foot hits the top step, I hear the hushed voice of Sara reading a bedtime story to Noelle. Sadness presses in on my ribs, crowding my heart. How long before Sara won’t get to enjoy this ritual with her daughter anymore?
I pad quietly to the edge of Noelle’s bedroom door and peek in. She’s already asleep, one hand curled by her head, tiny lips slightly parted. I listen as my wife finishes the story. She could probably leave now, but she always stays to finish the story. She says she doesn’t want for Noelle’s subconscious to miss the happy ending.
When she’s done, she closes the book and slides off the bed, the mattress hardly moving, partly because she’s careful and she’s done it a thousand times, but partly because she doesn’t weigh very much anymore. It seems like she’s getting thinner every day. I always notice it with a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.
There isn’t much time left.
I watch as she makes her way silently across the room, smiling up at me as she pulls the door mostly closed. She takes my hand and leads me down the hall.
“How was the rest of your day?” she asks in her hushed Noelle-is-asleep tone.
“Fine. Busy. How are you feeling?”
I always ask. And I always know by just the tone of her answer if it was a good day or a bad day, which is what I want to know.
“Better than usual.”
Her answer surprises me. “Really?”
She laughs lightly. “Don’t sound so surprised. Even people who are dying can have good days.”
I’m a doctor. I dealt with death often during my residency. The exposure rapidly and relentlessly thickens your skin. These days, although I don’t see people die often, I still deal with grim diagnoses. I’ve learned how to be compassionate but direct. It’s practically a job requirement. Sensitive detachment comes with the territory.
But this…this is different.
This is my wife. And when it comes to her being so direct with me, it’s like a punch to the solar plexus every time. I don’t like to think of any form of the word “death” when it comes to Sara—death, dying, dead. But my squeamishness about it doesn’t change the facts, and she knows it. Maybe her nonchalance and her persistence in mentioning it is her way of trying to help me work through it.
It’s not working.
I guide the conversation into more comfortable waters. “What made your day such a good one? What happened? I want details.”
She stops at the top of the stairs and turns to face me, her hand still in mine. “Abigail happened.”
My abdominals tense at the name, especially the sound of it on my wife’s lips. To say I feel conflicted about the cyclonic tangle of emotion in me is like calling a category five hurricane a good, stiff breeze.
Sara smiles. “I thought so.”
“Huh?” I frown. “You thought so? What does that mean?”
“She’s the one you were trying to get over when we met, isn’t she? You never told me her name, but when I met her, I knew it was her.”
“Sara, I—”
“I knew because she never got over you either. I could see it in her eyes. She wishes she had, especially when she met me, but she didn’t.”
“That was a long time ago, Sara. A different life. She—”
“She still loves you, Sam.”
I close my eyes and drop my head. Now I see where this is going. Now I know why she’s so happy. “Please don’t do this.”
“If I don’t, who will? I know you won’t. You keep saying you’ll look, but you aren’t.”
“I love you. How can you expect me to go looking for someone to replace you?”
“Not replace, Sam. Just…resume. Step in. Take over. Carry on.”
“Semantics.”
“I just asked you to look.”
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to look. My place is here with you.”
“It’s not like I asked you to visit bars every night, Sam. But it doesn’t matter now anyway. For this, you won’t even have to leave the house.”
For this?
My frown returns. “And why is that?”
“Because I invited her for dinner tomorrow night. And she accepted. You’re grilling. Hope that’s okay.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to answer. She simply rises to her tiptoes, gives me a peck on the cheek, and starts down the steps.
I run a hand through my hair and follow her down.
Jesus. What kind of messed up predicament is this? My wife is more or less setting me up with my ex girlfriend. The mother of my child is trying to hook me up with the first girl I ever loved. The woman I swore to be loyal to until death do us part is asking me to be open to a relationship with the girl I never quite got over.
Some men might dream of a situation like this.
Not me.
For me, it’s a nightmare.
I don’t see a way that this could end well. At least not for me. For my peace of mind. For my con
science.
But what choice do I have?
My wife is dying. And this is what she wants. This is the one and only things she’s asked of me.
As I descend the stairs, guilt surges through me, guilt because, if I’m being honest, I’m not unhappy about the news that Abi is coming over. As much as I hate it, some part of me really wants to see her again.
That’s the part that never let her go.
CHAPTER 13
ABI
Riddles
As I examine my reflection in the mirror—dark hair hanging long and smooth down my back, eyes rimmed in smoky charcoal, body sheathed in a simple dress of royal blue—I can’t help wondering why I’m doing this. I came back to Molly’s Knob because this was, and probably will always be, my one true home. I craved the peace I knew I would find here, but I also needed to do good things for other people. Kind of like a karmic cleanse, if that’s even possible at this point.
I knew when I saw the sadness in Sam’s eyes on day one that I would help him if I could. I knew when I saw the curiosity in Sara’s that I owed it to her to show that nothing is going on between Sam and me, and the only way I could do that was to accept her invitation. To put her feelings above my own. And plus, there was little Noelle.
But what if, what if, there is a part of me that wants to see Sam again?
God, that’s despicable. He’s married. And I’m here to do good, not to dabble in things that will send me to hell rather than save me from it.
But if I don’t go, what will that say to Sara Forrester?
I don’t know.
I’ve gotten myself so confused over it that now I just want to go and get it over with, however it ends.
I give my reflection another once over. I didn’t want to dress like a slob to make a point. That could be insulting to Sara. But I didn’t want to over dress either, so I chose something simple. A dress that, I hope, is appropriate without going anywhere near the she’s-trying-to-look-nice-for-her-ex realm.
I have no idea how I actually look to someone who isn’t stark raving mad.
But this is how I’m going, for better or worse. I don’t have time to change, and I’m not going to be rude and show up late. That might give an even worse impression. So, spinning away from the mirror, I slip my feet into sandals and head for the living room to grab my purse from the chair by the door.
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