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“WELL, KATRINA, YOU certainly do know how to put a mind at ease.” Nancy crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “I feel right at home here.”
Katrina glanced surreptitiously at the living room. The piles of laundry. The scattered books. More sarcasm, maybe?
“I’m sorry lunch wasn’t fancier.” She eyed the cold sandwiches on her company’s plates.
Nancy shook her head and wiped her mouth with a paper towel.
“It was delicious. Don’t worry about a thing. Back when I was expecting, I was lucky if I could work a can opener.” She chuckled but froze when she saw Katrina’s face.
“I’m sorry. Were you waiting to tell people?”
Another cramp. She didn’t look at Greg. Didn’t trust herself to keep her composure. She felt her husband’s hand on her lap but didn’t return his gentle squeeze.
“Oh, dear.” Nancy looked around the table imploringly. “I thought ... The way you kept using the bathroom at the ladies retreat, I just assumed ... I’m terribly sorry.” She fidgeted with her paper towel. “What a mess I’ve made. If it helps, you never did look it. I said just a week or two ago that you’re still as petite as ever. Not showing at all.” Her eyes flitted from person to person. She let out a nervous laugh. “See what happens when we start speculating? I assure you I’m mortified. Here I was thinking ...”
“Katrina had a miscarriage in October.” Greg’s voice was soft. Barely audible over Nancy’s nervous laugh.
Every eye bored into Katrina’s face. Burning hot. She felt her body diminish. Could she squeeze herself into a little speck? A staccato dot? Could she disappear?
Nancy and her husband sat frozen in their chairs. Katrina focused on the laundry in the next room. She was the most pathetic pastor’s wife in the history of Orchard Grove Bible Church. Couldn’t clean house. Couldn’t cook. Couldn’t entertain without wanting to run from the table in tears.
Bejeweled fingers gripping her hand. Sympathetic gazes crushing down on her until she grew smaller. A dot. Invisible.
“I’m so sorry, honey.” Whispered words unable to pierce the protective armor erected around her heart. Mumbled phrases that wounded rather than healed. “I had no idea.”
“I’d like to be excused.” The voice wasn’t her own. It was small. Scared. Like a mouse. Her legs carried her away from the table. Down the hall. She ran her finger along the wall to keep from stumbling.
Once in her room, she shut the door. She wasn’t crying. Not yet. Her legs shook as she knelt by her bed. Her fingers trembled as she unzipped the case.
Dmitry Leonardo Cantarella. Her instrument. Her baby.
She left the bow untouched. He didn’t make a sound. She wrapped her arms around her violin, inhaled the familiar vapors from his polish. Careful not to wet the wood, she held him close to her chest until her tears ran dry.