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“KATRINA, SWEETHEART.” Something about the words stopped her cold.
She turned around. Mrs. Porter was frowning at her with a look that was all sympathy. “I just heard what happened.” She wrapped her arms around her neck and planted a noisy, sloppy kiss on her cheek. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. That’s terrible. You must be devastated.”
Katrina was so surprised she could do nothing but blink when Mrs. Porter released her hold.
“You need to let your body rest and recuperate.”
The miscarriage. It had taken Katrina’s brain that long to figure out what Mrs. Porter was babbling on about so profusely. That’s right. Nancy Higgins had leaked the news in the bathroom on Wednesday. It had probably made its way to the prayer chain by now. Katrina had been so focused on her music over the past few days she hadn’t thought quite so much about the miscarriage. It’s possible that if it weren’t for all these old gossips, she might have been able to move on entirely instead of having her wounds ripped clean off the very second they started to heal over.
Mrs. Porter was talking so loudly that several other women came over and reached out to stroke Katrina’s hair, shoulders, and back. Stupid of her to think a secret like hers could have ever stayed hidden in Orchard Grove.
“Of course, I’ll take over the pageant.” Mrs. Porter’s words were met with emphatic nods and enthusiastic murmurs of approval. “There’s no reason for you to worry your pretty little head about that. You just rest up and let your body heal.”
A woman with coffee on her breath stepped forward. “Miscarriages can be terrible things, but God always knows what’s best, doesn’t he?”
A whole new round of unanimous assent, even more boisterous than before.
“It probably means there was something wrong with the child.”
“At least now you know you can get pregnant. Hopefully next time it will be a healthy one.”
“Good thing it happened early before you had the chance to get attached.”
“Don’t worry. You and PG are young enough you can always try for another.”
Try for another. As if the dead child she’d been mourning was nothing but a dress rehearsal.
“Come on now.” Nancy Higgins’ voice carried over the sympathetic droning. “Give the poor thing some room to breathe.” She pushed her way into the circle of perfume and floral patterns and permed hair and wrapped an arm protectively around Katrina’s waist. “Don’t let them get to you,” she whispered into Katrina’s ear and then addressed the small crowd. “It’s time to head upstairs. You know PG likes to start right on time.”
The gaggle of women who had previously been so smotheringly concerned about Katrina’s reproductive history now dispersed without sparing her another glance. Three of them talked about the sale on wooden frames at the craft store as they headed upstairs, and a couple others discussed whether the Christmas tree should be taken down before or after New Year’s.
Katrina blinked at Nancy, the only other woman who remained downstairs.
“You looked shell-shocked there,” Nancy remarked. “Thought I might give you a little help.”
It would have been infinitely more helpful if Nancy had never told anyone about the miscarriage in the first place, but as much as Katrina wanted to say so, she couldn’t find her voice.
“By the way, before we head up, I wanted to ask you something.” Nancy paused with her hand on the banister. “Did you have a friend over last night? I was dropping off some winter coats for the women’s shelter downstairs. Let myself in the back door, and I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone.”
If there was ever a time for Katrina to overcome her propensity to blush, this was it. She straightened her spine. “Yes, I’m taking singing lessons with Miles Porter from the school.”
Nancy offered a quizzical look, one Katrina couldn’t decipher, and said, “Oh.” She turned around and without another word went up the stairs.
Katrina followed, silent as usual.
As quiet as a little church mouse.