Daisy liked having a home of her own. After she’d had the baby, she’d lived with her dad, but with the understanding that it was only temporary. She was desperate to live her own life, even though she knew it would be hard. And it was, but that only made her more determined to succeed. She was not without support. She did have a trust fund from her grandparents, something they’d set up for all their grandchildren. Daisy was given access to hers when the baby was born. This did not exactly make her Paris Hilton, but it gave Daisy the freedom to focus on her son and her education.
The house was nothing fancy, half of a duplex on the far side of town, with tree-lined sidewalks and a small public playground at the end of the street where Charlie could play when he got old enough. The rooms were small, but Daisy loved her house, because it was hers. However, her mother was coming over any minute, and Daisy was having a crisis of confidence. Suddenly the cozy rooms merely looked small and poky. The eclectic décor—mostly things left over from the renovation of the Inn at Willow Lake—reminded her of a garage sale. All she could see were the dishes in the sink, the dust bunnies on the floor, the pile of winter clothes and baby gear in the front hall. With one eye on the clock, she went flying around, fluffing pillows and shoving folded laundry into the linen closet.
Mom had said she would come over with Max after school, so her visit wasn’t exactly a surprise. There had been plenty of advance notice. Then how was it that here she was, having run out of time, with the house still cluttered with baby toys and brochures and clippings of projects she was working on? How was it that she still hadn’t changed out of her zip-front hoodie, the one with the frayed cuff on her left hand from drawing, and an apparently permanent yellowish spit-up stain on the shoulder? In childbirth class and in all the books Daisy had read, babies who were breast-fed didn’t spit up, or if they did, it was a charming little hiccup of drool, easily expunged with a baby wipe. This was because breast milk was the perfect food for an infant. However, Charlie, it seemed, had a special gift. Even with nothing but a meal of mother’s milk in his stomach, he could spew halfway across the room.
She peeked into the bedroom, where her son slept in his crib, which was set in an alcove just a few steps from Daisy’s bed. Spying a big bag of diapers she’d left lying on the bed, she stuffed it into a dresser drawer. Charlie made a soft sighing noise but didn’t wake up.
Daisy smoothed the bed—at least she’d made it already—and then threw some used towels into the hamper. Charlie chose that moment to wake up, calling out with a vaguely cranky moan.
“Hey, you,” she said, going to the crib and leaning over, winning a smile that had more power over her than the rising sun.
He pumped his legs and reached for her. She scooped him up—soaking wet, of course—and got busy changing him. This involved peeling off his stretchy suit and leaden diaper, cleaning him stem to stern with baby wipes, putting on a fresh diaper and coverall. She picked the fluffy one her mom had given him for Christmas. Mom would like that. Maybe she’d like it enough that she wouldn’t criticize anything.
Daisy’s mom had always made her feel like a loser. She didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t like her mom called her a slob or told her she didn’t measure up. It was just that Mom was so freakishly perfect.
She looked like an actress in an old black-and-white movie, the embodiment of class and elegance. She had been a perfect student and became the perfect lawyer. She had been a nationally ranked distance swimmer in college, and sometimes still competed at the masters level, always beating everyone else in her age group. In her career, Mom did things that made a difference in the world.
She made Daisy feel totally inadequate. And Mom didn’t even have to say a word in order to do it.
Hearing the thud of car doors, Daisy rushed to let her mother in. There was a mirror over the hall table. She paused to check her hair—whatever—and answered the door with a just-awakened baby in the crook of her arm and a tentative smile on her face. “Mom!”
“Hello, sweetheart,” Mom said, stepping into the house, Max following behind. The moment she set foot inside, the place seemed a bit dimmer and shabbier. Daisy hoped like hell it was just her imagination.
They hugged, with her Mom encircling both Daisy and the baby. For just a few seconds, Daisy felt nothing but warm contentment. “I’ve missed you, Mom,” she said.
“Same here. I missed you and Max and Charlie so much I couldn’t stand it.”
“Mom, are you crying?” Daisy asked, amazed.
Her mother nodded, gazing down at Charlie’s face. “It’s just so good to be back with you all.”
Daisy and Max traded a glance. Her brother looked clueless, as usual. Daisy stepped back, studying that film-star face. This was unexpected. Their mother never cried. “You’re not all right. Mom—”
“Not now,” she murmured.
Meaning, never. Daisy knew the ploy well. She decided not to push. “Right now, I’d like to hold my grandson.” Mom reached for the warm, soft bundle. “Hello, you precious, precious little boy,” she said in a singsong voice.
Charlie was just getting to the age where he had strong opinions about strangers. When he was really tiny, he’d pretty much go to anyone, with only a preference for Daisy, the source of all milk. Now he recognized certain people—Max, their dad, Nina. And Logan. Those weekly visits were beginning to make an impression on Mr. C.
Now Daisy held her breath while Charlie fixed a solemn stare on Mom, trying to make up his mind about whether she was friend or foe. Was this what a parent did, stopped breathing until their kid decided to behave? When had she gotten so bound up in her son’s behavior? Why would she feel as though, if Charlie blew it, Daisy was the failure?
He glanced at her, and she offered a smile of encouragement. The baby stared unabashedly up at Mom. He didn’t fuss, so that was a good sign. At last, he offered a gummy smile and a fine string of drool.
Way to go, kiddo, Daisy thought, slowly expelling her breath. Mom held and cooed over Charlie for a long time. She cried a little more, and Daisy tried to figure out how to be with this new, heartbroken mother.
“Have a seat, Max,” she said to her brother. “You can watch Charlie while I show Mom around.”
“He certainly likes you,” Mom said, carefully passing Charlie to Max. “What a smart baby.”
“The smartest,” Max agreed.
Daisy stood back, watching the three of them, and realized some of the tension of her mother’s visit had defused. Mom was totally into the baby, not wrinkling her nose at the cluttered little house. It didn’t take long to show her around the place and she didn’t have one bad thing to say.
Another thing the baby classes and books didn’t tell you was that a baby had magical properties. Daisy had discovered this on her own. A teenage party girl who got pregnant was an object of gossip, judged for her lack of caution, her poor impulse control, maybe even her slutty tendencies. She was also an object of pity, especially later in the pregnancy when she turned fat and blotchy faced. The whole world pretty much liked to hate on a girl like that, a girl like Daisy had been.
Then, with the baby’s birth, a miracle happened. Sure, there was the miracle of birth. Of life, and all that stuff. That was everything it was cracked up to be, but it came as no big surprise. The big surprise was that just by showing up, the baby transformed everything around him, starting with his mother. She was no longer a knocked-up teenage slut or a fat loser. People went from looking down on her to looking up to her. She was a Mother. With a capital M like Madonna. She was worthy of praise for giving the world the precious gift of her child. She was offered preferential treatment in grocery store lines and on trains. Suddenly, the world respected her.
And the baby’s magic didn’t stop there. It transformed a bratty kid, like Daisy’s brother, into Uncle Max. And now as she watched her mother, Daisy saw the effect fall over her like a glowing veil.
“I need to feed him,” she said. “Then we’ll be ready to go.”
“I’ll be on the computer,” Max said, heading for the spare room, where Daisy’s equipment was set up. He was into some online virtual hockey game that had elaborate, ongoing storylines more convoluted than those of soap opera stars.
Daisy took a seat on the sofa and freed her breast one-handed. Charlie latched on like the old pro he was. It had taken Daisy almost no time at all to get over feeling self-conscious about nursing. A few minutes of listening to your newborn screaming with hunger until his voice rattled made modesty take a backseat to expediency. Before the baby, whipping out your boob was an audition for a “Girls Gone Wild” video. After the baby, it was a political statement, as well as an act of maternal compassion.
“You’ll have to excuse the shirt,” Daisy said. “I didn’t want to change until after I fed him. He spews like a geyser. I asked the doctor about it, but supposedly it’s normal for some babies, as long as they’re gaining weight.”
“You used to do that, too.”
This was news. “You breast-fed?”
“Of course. You look surprised.”
Daisy was surprised. It was hard—no, impossible—to picture her mom holding an infant to her breast. Had she experienced the same terror and wonder Daisy felt when she held her baby? Had she awakened in the middle of the night and rushed to the crib, just to make sure the baby was breathing? Her mom? “You don’t seem the type.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“No, I really want to hear this…”
“Fine. I’m just saying, it’s hard to picture you whipping out your boob and nursing a baby.”
“No offense,” Mom said, “but until a few months ago, it was hard to picture you doing it.”
“You’d think by now I’d know better than to argue with a lawyer.”
“I’m not arguing and I’m not being a lawyer.”
“Felt like arguing to me.”
“Now we’re arguing about arguing. Let’s not do this, Daisy.”
“Good plan.”
They fell silent. Down the hall, the faint beeps and sound effects of Max’s video game came from the study. The baby’s gentle, rhythmic swallowing could be heard. After a few minutes, Daisy switched him from one side to the other.
“So I guess we’re either arguing or we’re not talking at all,” Daisy said.
“Don’t be silly. We talk all the time. I learned IMing and text messaging just for you. Talk to me, sweetheart. I want to catch up on your life and your plans.”
Daisy felt a beat of caution. This could be dangerous territory for the two of them. Her mom was very opinionated about plans. About everything, but especially the importance of a good education. They had been arguing about that very thing the same weekend Daisy had gotten pregnant. She wondered if her mom had remembered that.
Her parents’ divorce had just been finalized and her mom had given her a lecture about how she didn’t need to allow it to change her plans, how it was more important than ever for Daisy to achieve great things in her education.
“Great things,” of course, being code for “getting into Harvard.”
Daisy had informed her mother that she didn’t want to go to college at all. Of everything she could have said, she knew that one would get under her mom’s skin most of all. To her mom, saying “I’m not going to college” was way worse than saying “I’m gay” or “I’m joining a cult.” The funny thing was, Daisy wasn’t even sure she meant it. But the fight had given her a reason to explode, storm out, and go crazy for a whole weekend, which included having sex with Logan multiple times. Protection optional.
So really, she owed her mom a debt of gratitude. Without that fight, Charlie might never have been born.
“Something funny?” Mom asked.
Daisy shook her head. “Just wondering if this little guy and I are going to give each other a hard time one day.”
“Count on it,” Mom said.
The tension eased a little. “I’m enrolled in a photography class at SUNY New Paltz,” Daisy said. “Classes start Monday.”
“That’s fantastic. Daisy, I’m excited for you.”
Was she? Daisy couldn’t quite tell. Not so long ago, Mom had expected Daisy to go to some famous, competitive school. The state college didn’t quite measure up to those standards.
“Do you think it’s too soon? Sometimes I worry that I’m ditching him for selfish reasons, like—” She stopped, but too late.
“Like I did to you and Max?” her mom queried.
Daisy looked down at the whorls of red hair on Charlie’s head. She used to stare at him for hours, watching the gentle pulse in his fontanel as though it was a measure of the moments of his life. Now she could barely see the soft spot, and somehow, it felt as if she’d missed something. “Mom, I’m sorry. It just came out.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m here now, all right?”
“Yes. All right. It’s just…sometimes I’m so scared I’m going to screw up with him, and Mom, I love him so much.”
“That’s why you’re so scared.”
“Sometimes I think I should completely blow off school and be with Charlie.”
“You could do that,” Mom agreed. “Then again, you could try not to feel so guilty about wanting—needing—something that doesn’t have anything to do directly with Charlie.”
Oh, God. Why did that sound so…Momlike? And why did it make so much sense? “I can’t help feeling guilty,” Daisy said. “On the one hand, I want to be the best mother I can to Charlie. But on the other hand, that means making a better life for us both.”
“I understand. And while I’m probably not the highest authority on the subject, I can tell you that no one is able to do it all. You just have to do your best. To be the best person you can and to let Charlie see who you are. I wasn’t perfect, Daisy. And I know you didn’t always like what you saw in me. I left you for a job that sucked down a good sixty hours of my week. I wish I’d balanced things better. You didn’t ask for my opinion, but I have one.”
Daisy couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah?”
“You get to have a life, Daisy. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m not saying the way I did it was perfect but somewhere in the middle, there’s a balance between having your own life and being there for Charlie.”
Daisy studied her for a few minutes without saying anything. “How come the older I get, the smarter you get?”
Mom smiled back. “We’re both so very gifted.”
Daisy hesitated. “I’m not even sure I’ll be able to do the class after all. My daycare arrangement fell through.” If her mom was here to stay, she might as well be brought into the loop, so Daisy explained about Irma. “I’ve got the rest of this week to figure something out. Dad and Nina said they’d watch him, but they’re going to start getting really busy with the inn, what with Winter Carnival coming up, so I don’t want to—”
“What am I, chopped liver?”
“Mom, I don’t expect you to hire someone—”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting. What I’m suggesting—from the bottom of my heart—is that I’ll take care of him while you’re at school.”
“Mom, classes go through May.”
“I’m planning to be around a lot longer than that.”
This was completely out of the blue. “I didn’t bring it up to get you to help.”
“It’s a sincere offer.”
Despite her mom’s words, Daisy felt a moment of distrust. “You just got here, Mom. Pretty soon you’ll get bored and be ready to move on.”
Mom looked down at her hands. “I deserved that.”
“Mom—”
“Perhaps you could take two classes, back to back,” Mom went on, looking incongruously excited. “I came here to be with you and Max and Charlie. So let me. Please.”
Daisy frowned. In spite of her doubts, she got the feeling her mom really wanted to do this. To take care of Charlie regularly, week in and week out, so Daisy could pursue a dream. “Excuse me. Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?”
Sophie didn’t know whether to feel insulted or amused by Daisy’s shock at her proposition. Sophie felt certain she wanted to do this. She hadn’t messed anything up with her grandson. Yet holding him, she felt a hint of apprehension. Her heart was as fragile and vulnerable as an object of blown glass, apt to be shattered by something as tiny as the doll-like fist curling itself around her finger. Could she really do this? Yes. She was determined to make good on her promise to Daisy, to support her daughter in this fundamental way, to be part of this family.
They drove to their first stop, a clothing shop called Zuzu’s Petals. A sign in the window proclaimed, “Fun Fashions for the Whimsical Woman.”
“Am I fun?” Sophie asked, eyeing a window display of drapey knits she could imagine a fortune-teller wearing.
Daisy said nothing. She didn’t need to.
“How about whimsical?”
At that, Daisy laughed. “Not hardly. But you’re fashionable and you look like you’re freezing to death. Let’s go.”
Max and the baby went to wait at the nearby Sky River Bakery, an institution in the small town.
Sophie was not a shopping snob. However, because she used to be extremely busy, she’d grown accustomed to places that offered personalized service, like a few select establishments on Fifth Avenue in New York, or the Grand’ Place in Brussels. When confronted with an entire shop full of boutique racks and rounders, she was a bit overwhelmed by all the choices.
The shopgirl offered some basic layers, including thermal underwear printed with little frogs wearing crowns and lipstick. And flannel pajamas printed with chickens who were not, thankfully, quite so anthropomorphic. Like it or not, Sophie was well on her way to becoming a flannel granny.
“I’m kind of drawn to solid colors,” Sophie said to the girl.
Daisy grinned. “She means browns and blacks. Maybe the occasional charcoal-gray.”
It was more fun than it should have been, sifting through the racks with her daughter, getting each other’s opinion. Sophie caught herself wishing they had done more of this when Daisy was growing up. A girls’ shopping day—wasn’t that a rite of passage?
Stop it, she told herself. Regrets were a slow poison that had no antidote.
Daisy picked out a soft angora cardigan in powder-blue and held it up against Sophie. “Get this,” she said. “It matches your eyes perfectly.”
“It’s too young for me.”
“What do you mean, young? It’s a sweater, Mom.”
“This matches your eyes perfectly. I should get it for you.”
“Mom—”
“Indulge me,” Sophie said. “Come on, just try it.” She pulled Daisy into the dressing room and made her put it on. The sweater was adorable on her, as Sophie had known it would be. And like all nursing mothers, Daisy looked incredibly womanly. Sophie wondered if boys ever called her daughter or if she felt like dating. She might ask, but not right away. Now that Sophie was here for good, there would be plenty of time to talk about such things. She insisted on getting the sweater for Daisy.
“It’s beautiful, Mom, thanks. Now. What size jeans do you wear?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t bought jeans in forever.”
“How could you not have jeans? That’s just wrong. It’s like not having breakfast in the morning.”
“Fine, I’ll get some jeans.”
Daisy made her try on a few pairs, frowning in concentration as Sophie came out of the curtained changing area to model the selections.
“Well?” Sophie asked.
“You have a freakishly good figure for someone your age.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Sophie said. Could a remark with the words “for your age” tacked on ever truly be counted as a compliment? Sophie thought not, but she didn’t let herself dwell on it. She and Daisy had been together a whole two hours and hadn’t gotten into a spat yet.
She tried on a second pair. “These are too tight.”
Daisy took a step back, subjected her to a frank once-over. “They’re supposed to be formfitting,” she said. “Just look at Jennifer Aniston.”
“Jennifer who?”
“The actress. You’re about the same age as she is. You’re allowed to look sexy, Mom.”
Good to know, thought Sophie, particularly given the way she had endured being snowed in.
“Is it the swimming?” Daisy asked.
The swimming. The very words caused Sophie’s stomach to clench to the point of pain. Unexpectedly, the physical reaction came in a wave of nausea. Sophie ducked back into the dressing room as the shivers came over her. There was no way Daisy could know that this was one of her triggers—a memory of swimming. “Is what the swimming?” she asked sharply through the curtain of the dressing room.
“Jeez, take my head off, why don’t you?” Daisy said. “I was just wondering if it’s the swimming that keeps you in such good shape.”
“Sorry. Yes, it was,” Sophie said. She fought to quell the tightness in her chest. “I need to find a new sport.” Although it seemed minor, swimming was another thing the terrorists had stolen from her. Swimming fast and far had been her sport ever since high school. After The Incident, she never wanted to go near the water again.
She glared at herself in the mirror, dabbed at the sweat that had broken out on her face. She’d been warned that certain prompts would be a trigger for her. She took a minute to shake off the memory and put on a smile. Within a short time, she had picked out cashmere sweaters in chocolate-brown, beige and deep heathered moss. Daisy insisted that Sophie needed a jacket called a fleece to wear under her ski parka.
“I don’t have a ski parka.”
“Not yet, you don’t.”
They went into an establishment a few doors down—the Sporthaus—and added mittens, a muffler, a parka, snow boots and a hat to her wardrobe.
“That was fun,” Sophie said, stepping onto the sidewalk, laden with parcels, already wearing the new jacket and boots. “Thanks for the fashion advice, Daisy.”
“You’re welcome.”
They loaded the parcels into the trunk. As they walked along the sidewalk, Sophie took a good look around. It was her first serious look at the place she had chosen to live. Avalon was a classic old-fashioned small town, with the main square formed by buildings of red brick and figured stone, a municipal park in the middle, tree-lined streets radiating outward and a quaint train station. Twilight was coming on, the sinking light painting the snow on the rooftops a deep, mysterious indigo. The shop fronts glowed with golden light. In addition to Zuzu’s and the Sporthaus, there was a Christian Science reading room, an old-fashioned drugstore and soda fountain, a jewelry shop and toy store, and a five-and-dime. Above the Camelot Bookstore was an office with a name painted on the window behind horizontal blinds. M. L. Parkington, Attorney-at-Law.
Spotting the sign, Sophie felt a small thrum of possibility. Eventually, she was going to have to make a living. Her parents, when she called them in Seattle to explain her big move, had warned her that she would find small-town life horribly oppressive and stifling. They said she would smother beneath provincial attitudes and mundane details of small people living out their small, unimportant lives.
And fool that she was, Sophie had allowed doubts to creep in.
Now, looking around at the picture-book scenery, she regained a sense that this was the right thing to do. Avalon represented something she’d never had before—a home-town. And with that thought came a flood of doubts.
What in the world am I getting myself into?
She put on a bright smile as she and Daisy went into the bakery. It was warm and bright inside, the air rich with heady fragrance. The Sky River Bakery was a community hub, where people could sit down over a cup of coffee and read the paper, pick up a loaf of bread or a berry pie for dessert and probably run into a friend in the process. When Daisy had first moved to Avalon, she had an after-school job here. Some of her best prints—framed photos she had taken around the area—were on display, beautifully lit like the works of art they were and marked for sale. There were a few customers at the small round café tables by the window, and a woman picking out pastries from the curved front glass case.
Charlie was, predictably, the center of attention, being held by Laura Tuttle, the manager of the bakery, and admired by Philip Bellamy—Greg’s brother. Get a grip, Sophie warned herself. You knew this was a town of Bellamys. Get used to it.
The eldest of the four Bellamy siblings, Philip was about a dozen years older than Greg. They shared the same clean-cut good looks, though. The same air of easy confidence.
Spying her, Philip stood up. “Sophie,” he said with just the right touch of friendliness. “It’s good to see you.”
Probably not, she conceded as they embraced oh so briefly, then stepped away from each other quickly, before awkwardness could set in.
“You remember Laura Tuttle,” Philip said. “Bakery manager and first-class baby-holder.”
Laura had a smile that eclipsed her unflattering haircut and dowdy outfit. “I was just admiring this incredible baby,” Laura said.
It was exactly the right thing to say. Since Charlie had been born, Sophie had discovered a universal truth: A woman was a fool for her grandchild, every time. All someone had to do to fall into her good graces was compliment her grandchild, and Sophie considered that person a friend for life.
She went to order a cup of tea, and was startled to find Philip at her side. “You’re all right,” he said. “Right?”
“I am,” she assured him. “I promise.”
He grinned. “Why do I get the idea I’m the eighty-ninth person today to ask you that?”
The counter girl served the tea in a small white china pot. Sophie carefully measured a level teaspoon of sugar into her cup. “You’re not. I’m just not used to—” She stopped. Not used to what? People caring what happened to her? That was simply pathetic. “I’m fine,” she stated. “I’ve got a place at the lake, and I’ll be looking for a permanent home soon.”
“So you’ll be practicing law?” he asked.
“Why, do you need a lawyer?”
To her surprise, he nodded. “No rush, but as you know, my circumstances have changed in the past couple of years.”
A slight understatement there. Practically out of the blue, he had discovered the existence of a grown daughter—Jenny Majesky, the bakery owner. Unbeknownst to Philip, his former girlfriend, Mariska, had had his baby, never telling him.
She lowered her voice. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yeah. But both my daughters—Olivia and Jenny—are newlyweds now. And I’m about to become a member of that club myself.”
She whipped a glance at Laura Tuttle. “Philip!”
He was grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll call you, okay?”
She studied Laura more closely. She was about Philip’s age, the sort of woman with a warm heart, a soft body and a ready smile who seemed completely comfortable in her skin. Sophie sipped her tea, wondering if she would ever feel that way about herself. She stood back and watched her son and daughter talking animatedly to their uncle and, apparently, to their aunt-to-be. This community seemed so tightly woven together that Sophie wondered if there was room for her to squeeze in.
She finished her tea and pulled on her new parka. “We should get going.”
Max was leaning against the counter, devouring a frosted butterhorn.
“It’ll spoil your dinner,” she warned.
“Not even close,” he assured her.
They went to the Apple Tree Inn for dinner. It was in a converted Victorian mansion by the river. At this time of year, the Schuyler River was almost completely frozen. The boulders and stones in the streambed were layered in a thick coating of ice, and there was a miserly trickle down the middle.
“Ms. Bellamy, welcome back,” said the host, an elegant man named Miles, whom she remembered from past visits.
“Thank you,” Sophie said, and then with a glow of pride showed off the baby. “This is my grandson Charlie, the newest Bellamy. I don’t believe you’ve met him yet.”
Miles had the usual startled reaction to the news that Sophie was a grandmother, gratifying as it was. And of course, he took one look at Charlie and was lost. “What a handsome little fellow. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Daisy said.
As they were shown to their table, Sophie spied someone out of the corner of her eye, a swift impression of a broad-shouldered form, thick dark hair, a ridiculously handsome face. Noah Shepherd. She did a double take, and froze in her tracks. It was indeed Noah, and he was smiling across a candlelit table at Tina Calloway, the girl with a wrecking ball of a crush on him. The girl who was barely old enough to be drinking that glass of white wine with him.
“Mom, is something wrong?” Daisy asked.
Let me count the ways, thought Sophie. She wanted to melt into the floor like the snow off her newly purchased boots. Even though she and Noah were nothing to each other, nothing but a couple of nights of amazing sex, she felt a sickening blow of disappointment. Like a fool, she’d let herself hope and believe in him. That he might be different. That he might not hurt her. That he might actually be someone trustworthy.
Then she reproached herself. This guy was a stranger; she’d stupidly fallen into bed with him, but that didn’t mean it was the start of something.
Clearing her throat, she put on a good face for the kids. “I just spotted my neighbors at the lake.” The place was too small to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Might as well get it over with. “I’ll introduce you.” The strangeness of the situation did not escape her. She was about to introduce her children to…what was Noah to her? She hadn’t even worked it out in her mind. They had made love, but that didn’t mean she had to call him her lover, did it? They had only just met, so “friends” didn’t work, either. What was amazing was that Noah Shepherd had become so many things to her in such a short time—rescuer, healer, neighbor, friend, lover…and now, apparently, liar.
Allowing none of this to show on her face, she introduced him to Max, Daisy and Charlie. “My neighbors at the lake,” she stated, trying to appear as neutral as Switzerland.
“Your baby is so cute,” Tina said to Daisy.
“I hope he stays quiet during dinner,” Daisy said. “He’s pretty sleepy. He might nap.”
“If you need someone to watch him, I’m available,” Tina volunteered. “I adore babies. I was just telling that to Noah.”
Noah seemed distinctly uncomfortable as he stood and shook hands with Daisy and Max. In a way, he seemed as awkward and boyish as Max. Well, it was awkward, bumping into someone you’d just slept with when you were out with someone else.
“Our table’s ready,” Sophie said.
As they took a seat, Daisy parked the baby carrier on a window seat by their table, getting Charlie settled with a blanket and pacifier. Watching her brisk, loving gestures, Sophie wondered, where had she gotten that? Where had Daisy learned to be a mother?
Max was chattering away about Tina. “Her dad is Sockeye Calloway, you know, from the U.S. hockey team that won the gold medal a long time ago?”
Sophie did know. Noah had told her. What he’d neglected to tell her was that he was dating the Olympian’s daughter. She tried to listen to Max, but she was distracted. It wasn’t every day you had to introduce your children to a man you’d slept with.
More than once.
The kind of “sleeping with” that involved very little sleeping.
And to be honest, she thought, that wasn’t even the worst. The worst was that he was out to dinner with Tina Calloway, mere hours after sharing a bed with Sophie.
Sophie refused to be upset by what she’d seen at the restaurant tonight. Noah was just a guy, she thought. A guy who’d pulled her out of a ditch, stitched up her wound, brought her firewood. And all right, a guy with whom she’d had multiorgasmic sex. This was what you got for hooking up. For failing to look before you leaped.
Fine, she thought. We’re better off as neighbors. She was here to focus on her family, anyway. And in that respect, the evening had gone well. Her children seemed excited to have her living so close to them. Charlie was a gift—no, a blessing—and she looked forward to watching him grow, to being part of his life.
It was enough, she told herself. After what she’d survived, her children and grandson were enough. Eventually, she would make friends here in Avalon. She’d make a life here. The interlude with Noah Shepherd would simply fade away.
She’d make certain of that. Picking up her phone, she checked the time and then scrolled to Brooks Fordham’s number in New York.
“I hope it’s not too late to call,” she said.
“Absolutely not. I’m dying to see you, Sophie. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“We do. But mostly, I want to see for myself how you’re doing.”
“I can take the train up any day you like,” he said. “Name it.”
“Let’s get through this patch of bad weather.” She paced as she spoke with him, flinched at one point at the sound of his voice. It wasn’t him specifically, but memories darting in and out of her consciousness. It had started out such a special night, punctuated by rare snowfall as if to underscore the magic. The terror and violence that followed had imprinted themselves on her.
“All right,” he said. “But in the interest of full disclosure, I have an ulterior motive. I’m doing a piece about what happened for the New Yorker, and I hope to expand it into a book.”
Sophie was silent for a moment. He was a writer. It was what he did. Then she said, “I’ll help you in any way I can, Brooks.”