two

On my return from the car, I made my way to our booth, taking careful note of competing vendors. There were a good number of people selling canned goods, but when I came across our stand, I felt that Kat’s Kans offered something special. It helped that Katrina looked like she had swallowed a watermelon sideways. Her condition drew the sympathy traffic.

“Don’t hide your stomach. You’re doing the Martha Stewart thing,” I said as I lined up the jelly jars on our authentic farm table. Each jar was unique, culled from various recycling bins in the neighborhood. The finished effect was charming in its unevenness. The bright red Kat’s Kans label, designed by yours truly, pulled it all together.

“What’s the Martha Stewart thing?” Katrina asked.

“You’ve got the jars strategically blocking your stomach. Martha Stewart never takes a photo without a picture frame or an industrial mixer covering her midsection. Unlike Martha’s midsection, your belly is a crowd-pleaser. Show it off.”

“I’m a house,” Kat moaned as she popped open a jar and stuck in a spoon. “I’m not going to last another two weeks.”

“If only it were your decision,” I replied. “What’s up with Jonathan? Is he going to make it back in time or am I filling in at the old birthin’ table?”

“He’s trying to move his rounds.” Katrina offered me a sinfully delicious dollop of raspberry jam. Damn, we had gotten good at this jelly-making venture.

“Doula, doula, doula, do you love me?” I sang.

“Doula, doula, doula, do you care?” Katrina sang back.

I wiped my mouth and reached for my baby, my sketchbook. “Jonathan is two years away from finishing medical school. I’d put my money on him as your doula or labor coach or whatever the baby brigade is calling it now.”

“As long as they’re not calling it Charlie,” Charlie said, juggling a hacky sack with his feet. “Sign me up for cigars.”

I blew on the end of my pencil and showed my friends my latest sketch of an adorable young boy who had just dashed away after tasting our jellies.

Katrina scrutinized the boy’s picture. “Not him.”

“Nope,” Charlie added.

I tore the sheet from the pad, signed it An uncanny likeness, compliments of Kat’s Kans, and handed it to the boy’s mother, who promptly bought three jars of our peach jam.

I scanned the crowd. My new drawing obsession was any child under the age of seventeen. I had trained myself to eliminate Asians, Hispanics, and biracial children. Nothing personal, just not my kid. In a crowd the size of Earth Day’s—maybe a few thousand at any one point in time—I could knock off fifty images in a few hours. Since Teddy’s death, only one child had seriously caught my attention. A boy of about five at the public library. He had the telltale wispy white hair and piercing blue eyes like my own. Unfortunately, his white-haired, blue-eyed mother was not particularly pleased with my sudden interest in her son.

I have a way with people. Sometimes it’s just not the right way.

My eyes narrowed in on a subject. I drew quickly. This one came easily. A mop of dark curly hair, purposeful gait, and movement in the jaw. I shifted in the lawn chair as my target approached. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Detective Frank DeRosa made his way over to the Kat’s Kans booth, a package under his arm.

I closed my book. “I’m finding it hard to believe my ultra-conservative boyfriend found something to purchase at Earth Day.”

Frank peeled back a thin layer of tissue paper. “It’s a present.”

“For me?”

Frank nodded. “I need your help down at the station,” he said as he handed me a brand-new recycled sketchbook.

“Now?” I asked.

“Now would be better than later,” Frank said as he gave Katrina an apologetic look.

Katrina huffed. “Oh, Charlie and I will be fine. Just go.”