CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WITH JACK BACK in Chicago, Emily’s days more or less returned to their familiar old pattern. Grudgingly roll out of bed when the alarm sounded, make coffee—decaf—check her blog, start the day’s notes in her journal, feed Tadpole, hop in the shower and get dressed. Downstairs, she spent the mornings in the newspaper office, checking the wire service, running a few of the lead stories past her boss, and following up on the emails and telephone messages forwarded to her by the office administrator, Hilde Emerson.

Hilde was a fifty-something-year-old empty nester who had already given up on ever becoming a grandmother. Hilde and Ken Bartlett’s wife, Marthe, were twin sisters.

She had worked from ten to two every weekday since her kids were all in school, making sure the Gazette’s filing was caught up and the bills were paid. In a pinch, she was also an excellent proofreader.

From Emily’s perspective, the only drawback to working with Hilde was the woman’s tendency to want to be a stand-in mother. Every morning when she arrived promptly at ten, she asked Emily how she’d slept the night before and what she had eaten for breakfast. “A young woman needs to start her day with something more substantial than two cups of coffee.”

Emily seldom ate breakfast, but she had learned to tell Hilde she had eaten a bowl of yogurt and a banana, or granola with blueberries, or a poached egg on toast. Truthfully, Emily had never poached an egg in her life. Lately, food had a lot of appeal, though, and her voracious appetite was a constant reminder she was having a baby and was nowhere near ready to be a mother. Emily didn’t want to think about the kind of advice her coworker would dole out once she knew.

Before Hilde left at two o’clock every afternoon, she would impart another piece of matronly wisdom. “You’ve been at that computer for three hours now. Be sure to take a break.” Or, “Don’t forget the interview you have scheduled at three-thirty.”

Emily had never missed an appointment or an interview. The calendars on her computer and her cell phone were synced to give her reminders, but Hilde didn’t believe in relying on technology. Mostly, Emily thought, because she didn’t have a clue how it worked. So, in spite of the recent turmoil in her life, Emily’s daily routines marched along with a certain sameness that was comforting, with the exception of a few new developments.

Fred had started dropping by the office to check on her every morning before he opened the barbershop across the street. “Are you feeling okay?”

Yes.

“Have you given any thought to naming the baby Fred if it’s a boy?”

No.

“Have you finally come to your senses and accepted Jack’s spur-of-the-moment marriage proposal?”

Absolutely not.

Then there were the emails from Annie.

Yes.

No.

Absolutely not.

She heard from CJ, too, but her text messages were sporadic, and in typical little sister fashion, she managed to make them about her.

Yes.

No.

Absolutely not. Okay, maybe.

But Emily wasn’t thinking that far ahead.

This morning, she was hunkered down at her desk in the newspaper office, after having told Hilde she’d eaten a bowl of instant apple-cinnamon oatmeal—and this time it was the truth because she’d woken up famished and couldn’t wait till midmorning to grab a bite—and pretending to focus on her computer monitor. Instead she was looking at her phone and scrolling through the text messages Jack had sent early that morning.

She ignored the baby reference, although it made her smile.

And she knew he would. It was often late by the time he called, but so far he hadn’t missed a night. They’d had similar text-message exchanges every morning this week, even before her alarm went off, and those had definitely contributed to her reluctance to crawl out of bed and start her day. He had asked about her work, her family and her hamster, even though she knew he wasn’t crazy about Tadpole. It had been nice. Nicer than nice. She had never talked to him on the phone before this week, and it was a whole new experience. She’d been able to lie back against her pillow and listen to his voice without being distracted by his cool blue eyes and the temptation to trace his stubbled jawline with her fingertip.

Now it was Wednesday morning, and the week was almost half over. Jack had promised he’d be back for the weekend. She wanted to believe him, but could he get away? Would he?

He had accepted Annie’s invitation to Sunday dinner. That was a huge step. He planned to be in town for the whole weekend, and this meant he wasn’t planning to rush back to Chicago on Sunday, which in itself was an interesting development. Her sister had also made a suggestion for a Sunday afternoon get-to-know-each-other date and Emily liked the idea—a horseback ride and picnic—a lot. She was reluctant to suggest it to Jack, though, in case he said no. Annie was certain he’d never ridden before, so Emily decided to go ahead with the plan and let him in on it at the last minute. He might be reluctant to get on a horse, but no one in their right mind ever said no to one of Annie’s picnic lunches.

Wednesdays were usually slow at the office. The new issue of the Gazette had come out that morning, with the announcement at Monday’s council meeting in the headline: “Chief Fenwick Retires after 39 Years with the Riverton PD.” Emily often spent her time working on an outline for the next edition. As she sipped decaf from her travel mug and listened to the clack, clack, clacking of Hilde’s oddly contoured ergonomic keyboard, she was finding it impossible to focus on anything other than impending motherhood, her date with Jack and food. She needed a break. She would go for a walk, maybe wander by the barbershop to see if Fred was free. Anything but this, she thought.

She shut down her laptop, stood and pulled on her jacket. “I have to run an errand this morning,” she told Hilde. “Is there anything you need me to look at before I go?”

“I’m good. I’m working on the classifieds that came in after last edition’s cutoff.”

“Thanks. If anyone needs me, could you have them call my cell phone?”

“Will do.”

Emily slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and left the office, nearly colliding with Mable Potter and her dog. Déjà vu.

“Good morning, Mrs. Potter. We have to stop meeting this way.”

The elderly woman laughed. “I had to go to the bank and pay my phone bill,” she said. “I brought Banjo along because he can always use the exercise. He’s a rambunctious little rascal.”

Emily stroked the mutt’s scruffy fur and smiled when he gazed up at her with a playful look in his eyes. His tongue dangled out of the corner of his mouth.

“It’s nice to see you both,” she said. “Did you have a good visit with your daughter on Sunday?”

“We had a lovely time. She helped me plant my window boxes and then we had lunch with red velvet cake for dessert.”

“That sounds very nice.”

“I took some of the leftover cake out of the freezer this morning. Would you like to join me for a slice and a cup of tea?” Mable asked. “Last time I bumped into you, you said you would.”

At the mention of cake, Emily realized she was hungry again. “You know what? I’d love to.” If she wasn’t careful, she was going to turn into a whale, but she would worry about that later.

The dog’s antics amused Emily as they walked the several blocks to Mable’s house, particularly his fondness for sniffing out abandoned objects. He discovered a crushed pop can beneath the hedge in front of the Fenwicks’ house, which he carried for half a block, and then dropped it when he encountered a child’s blue bouncy ball on the boulevard.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Banjo,” Mable admonished, tugging on his leash. “Your ball is at home. This one belongs to the Hubert children.”

Emily picked it up and tossed it over the gate and into their front yard. She picked up the pop can, too, and tucked it into one of the outer pockets of her bag. “I’ll carry this to your place, and we can put it in your recycling bin.”

“That’s a good idea, dear.”

At the Potter home, Emily opened the gate for the elderly woman and her dog and followed them up the front steps. Once again, the front door was unlocked. In the kitchen, the dog lapped water from the bowl next to his bed, then curled up, chin on his back feet, and closed his eyes.

Mrs. Potter put the kettle on for tea, told Emily where to find the cups and saucers and dessert plates, and rattled on about the weather, her daughter, the neighbors and the news that Chief Fenwick was retiring from the Riverton PD.

Emily watched with amusement and mild concern as Mrs. Potter took a quart of milk out of the refrigerator, filled an old-fashioned, floral-patterned creamer, and then put the milk—and the sugar bowl—away in the fridge. The woman had seemed distracted last Saturday morning when Emily had helped her carry her groceries home, but Emily had attributed that to her being excited about the long-overdue visit from her daughter.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Mrs. Potter, and let me finish setting the table for tea?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind, dear? You are my guest, after all.”

“I don’t mind one bit.” She held a chair for the woman, and then discreetly retrieved the sugar bowl and placed it next to the creamer on the white lace-covered table.

“Well, I don’t mind sitting for a spell. My hip has been acting up again. I keep saying I need one of those hip replacements, but Doc Woodward says it’s just arthritis.”

Emily wondered if Dr. Woodward had noticed that Mrs. Potter was also getting a bit absentminded. Surely her daughter would have noticed, since she’d spent the whole day with her mother on Sunday.

None of your business, Emily reminded herself. She had plenty of her own family issues to deal with and worry about without taking on someone else’s. So she poured the tea and served the red velvet cake. Her hostess had insisted on a thin slice, but Emily served herself a generous portion and savored every mouthful.

Half an hour and another cup of tea later, she excused herself. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Potter. This has been lovely, but I have to get back to the office. I’ll give you a hand with the dishes, though.”

“You will do no such thing. I’ll take care of these myself.”

“Are you sure? What about your hip?”

“I’ll manage just fine. Will you come again?”

“Of course I will.” Emily looped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and noticed the crumpled pop can in the side pocket. “Where’s your recycling bin?”

“I keep it out on the back porch, dear.”

“I’ll let myself out the back door, then.”

Banjo sprang to his feet the instant the door creaked open.

“You can let him out, too,” Mable said. “He goes out there to do his business.”

The delicate reference made Emily smile. “I’ll be sure to close the gate, then, so he doesn’t get out.”

The dog raced in a wide arc around the backyard while Emily eyed the garden shed again. To satisfy what was probably an unnatural curiosity, she checked the door and found it locked as before. She still found it curious that Mable would lock the shed but leave her home unsecured when she went out, unless she had misplaced her keys. Perhaps they were in the fridge. Ha!

With that thought, Emily let herself through the front gate, carefully latching it, so Banjo couldn’t get out. Having tea with Mrs. Potter had been a pleasant diversion, she thought, as she ambled back to Main Street. It was almost lunchtime, and she was hungry, again, so she decided to stop by the barbershop to see if Fred could get away a little early. She usually settled for a light lunch—a salad or maybe a grilled cheese sandwich—but today she was going all out. She could almost taste the Riverton Bar & Grill’s cheddar-bacon burger with a chocolate malt and a side of fries. Fred would patiently listen to her self-doubts, and then he would dismiss them and remind her that no matter how things played out, she had a whole village to help her raise her child. She needed to hear that right now. That, and eat a cheeseburger.