Chapter 1

A time comes when every woman must learn what to do with life’s lemons. Some make lemonade. Some clean their garbage disposals. And some make a proper cup of tea.

Sarah Flynn always chose tea.

She dumped the water from her Keep Calm and Carry On mug into the electric kettle on her desk. The mug, the kettle, and the Vermeer print pinned to the privacy panel behind her dual monitors were the only personal effects that distinguished her gray cubicle from all the others in the D.C. federal office building. As the water heated, she reached into her lunchbox for the quartered lemon she’d packed that morning. She held a wedge in her fingers, preparing to squeeze it into her mug.

An obnoxious ding interrupted her classical music, and an instant message popped up on her screen.

—Did you clock out for your break?—

She jerked and squirted the lemon into her face. “Damn it,” she muttered as she blinked the sting from her eyes. She typed a return message to her supervisor.

—Yes, sir—

She imagined her boss, Mr. Rosen, punching at his keyboard with two index fingers in his managerial office—a work area about four times the size of her box, with glass walls and a window. The glass walls were a luxury, except when someone caught him with his finger shoved up his nose—as Sarah had often done.

She squeezed the rest of the juice from the wedge into her mug. As the scent of citrus permeated her cubicle, she scrunched her nose. Why had life delivered her such a strong lemon as Mr. Rosen? Leaving her job at Central Elementary was bad enough—a job she’d loved, with children so charming she almost didn’t mind their hovering parents. The job at Central had been with colleagues who’d supported her efforts to bring the arts into her third-grade classroom.

The kettle whistled, and Sarah blinked away tears. So much for that dream.

“Mrs. Flynn.”

Mr. Rosen’s voice jostled her from her thoughts. She jumped, her left knee banging against the desk. “Yes, Mr. Rosen?” She rubbed her knee. Why didn’t companies make furniture to accommodate tall people?

He plopped down a stack of papers. “Here’s another listing. I need it ASAP.”

The stack looked thicker than a Tolstoy novel. He enunciated each letter as if he were delivering orders to an international organization designed to combat terror—though he was more than likely only delivering misclassified purchases for ballpoint pens and toilet paper. She checked the clock on her monitor: three-thirty. Even with the caffeine of three pots of tea, she couldn’t get the listing done by five. “Sir, remember I told you I’m not working overtime anymore.”

“You are today.” He walked away.

The stench of his Chinese takeout breath lingered in the air, and Sarah scrunched her nose, but she couldn’t summon the energy to protest. Her legs were too heavy to chase him through the maze-like arrangement of fifth-floor cubicles to remind him she didn’t need the extra money. Hell, the way things had turned out, she hadn’t needed to leave her beloved teaching job at Central to become a peon in the federal bureaucracy of government spending. The pay increase meant nothing now.

She poured water over a bag of English Breakfast tea, and the steam burned her cheeks. Without waiting for it to steep, she lifted the mug to her lips, but the aroma did nothing for her mood. If she had to spend one extra second in the office today, she might start pelting Mr. Rosen with the rest of her lemons.

This day couldn’t get any worse. My life couldn’t either.

The phone rang, and Sarah spilled hot tea down the front of her shirt. “Ow!” She pulled the blouse from her skin, slammed the mug on her desk, and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Rosen,” she began, in as firm a voice as she could muster, “I can’t possibly get this listing done today.” A few beats of silence ensued.

“I’m sorry, I was trying to reach Mrs. Flynn.” A woman’s voice came through.

“Oh.” Sarah tucked her long bangs, in need of trim, behind her ears. She softened her voice. “This is Mrs. Flynn.”

“Very good. I’m calling from the Georgetown Fertility Clinic.”

Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. The Georgetown Fertility Clinic. She’d been on the waiting list so long she thought she’d be in menopause before they called. What woman struggling to conceive could pass up their guarantee? Pregnancy in six months or your money back, their brochure read.

“We’ve had a cancellation tomorrow, and you’re next on the waiting list. Could you by chance make a ten-thirty?”

“Of course.” The words came out of her mouth faster than Mr. Rosen could shout directives.

“Wonderful. We’ll discuss payment options with you beforehand.”

With a quivering hand, Sarah replaced the receiver. Suddenly, the stack of papers on her desk held renewed purpose. Perhaps Mr. Rosen’s offer of overtime wasn’t untimely after all.

She pulled her jar of sugar cubes from her bottom desk drawer and dropped three cubes into her cup. So what if she splurged? She was sure to gain a pound just by looking at the jar, anyway. With a smile, she brought the mug to her lips and took a large gulp instead of her usual dainty sips. The sweet, warm liquid washed over her like a bright afternoon sun, soothing the bitterness she’d built up over two fruitless years of pregnancy attempts, of hypodermic needles filled with hormones, and of the uncomfortable prodding of obstetricians with metal instruments and ultrasound wands.

The office bustle faded into a fog. Sarah lowered her cup and stood. In a daze, she floated through the office until she found herself in Mr. Rosen’s office. The room was empty. She went to the window, overlooking the blossoming spring of downtown D.C. The white and pink buds of the cherry blossoms lined the street like giant, hovering snowflakes. Inhaling deeply, Sarah imagined the faint, sweet aroma of the ornamental trees instead of the stale odor of Mr. Rosen’s sesame chicken. Had winter come and gone so soon? Had three months of Philip’s mandated break from fertility treatments been long enough?

Three months would have to be long enough. This time would be different.

“Mrs. Flynn?”

Sarah spun. Mr. Rosen had half a donut in one hand and a disposable cup in the other. She leaned back, the coolness of the glass pressing through her shirt.

“Is everything all right?”

“All right?”

He nodded. “Donuts in the break room.” He shoved the piece in his mouth.

Mr. Rosen was taking her office intrusion quite well. Philip was always more agreeable after eating. Sarah took a step forward. “I can’t stay late tonight. I’ve got to get home to my husband.”

He licked his fingers. His brows met.

“But I promise I’ll work overtime for the next two—no, nine—months. Promise.” She started for the door. If she hurried, she’d have just enough time to hit Philip’s favorite take-out restaurant.

Tonight will be perfect. It has to be.

****

When Sarah arrived home, the evening chill rushed into the entry. Philip wouldn’t be home for another hour, which gave her plenty of time to dress the table with their finest china and put a bottle of wine on ice. She transferred the lobster mac and cheese to her ceramic bakeware and threw the Key lime cheesecake into the fridge.

As she folded her best linen napkins, she heard a loose floorboard from above squeak. Was Philip home before her? Maybe he had an event tonight and came home to change? She checked the calendar hanging by the back door, but April twelfth was blank. Her stomach dropped. If he had some swanky dinner with a senator whose vote he needed, why hadn’t he penciled in the event?

The thud of a dresser drawer echoed down the stairs, and she rounded her shoulders. She threw the napkins over the back of a chair and marched to the staircase. “Phil?” She climbed the stairs to the master bedroom and found her lanky, blond husband bent over the bed. “Phil?”

He jumped and turned to face her. “Jesus Christ, Sarah. You scared the crap out of me.” A suitcase lay open on the bed behind him, and he held a pile of clothes in his arms. “I didn’t expect you home so soon.”

Packing? How had he not written a trip on the calendar? She frowned. “I stopped working overtime two months ago.” He wore his work clothes—a pair of khaki pants with a light blue, button-up shirt and a tie loosened at the neck. Business trip, for sure. Would they still have time for dinner? “I didn’t realize you were traveling this week. You didn’t write it on the calendar.”

“Sarah,” he started then stopped and took a deep breath.

“When’s your flight?”

“Flight?” He exhaled then shook his head. “Sarah, I’m not traveling. I’m…”

His voice trailed off, and for a split second a hint of sorrow grazed his eyes. Then he replaced it with the calm gaze he used whenever he wanted something. Sarah straightened her spine. What did he want now? Couldn’t they have a quiet evening at home together for once?

“I’m leaving, Sarah. I’m leaving you.”

His words tumbled off her. She must have misheard. “What?”

“I said I’m moving out.” He resumed shoving things into his bag.

Sarah shook her head, and her hands trembled. “But…” The words died in her parched mouth. The room swayed left and right, left and right. She reached for the arm of the chair. Dropping into the seat, she buried her head between her knees.

The geometric pattern on the carpet swirled. The air around her thickened, and the rip of zippers, rustle of clothes, and shuffle of Philip’s shoes echoed around her. He was really leaving…but why? Sarah raised her head.

Philip added more items to the bag.

His favorite ball cap. A bottle of cologne. The black silk boxers she’d given him for Valentine’s Day. Wait—the ones she’d bought didn’t have little white hearts. An iron vise wrapped around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. “Is there someone else?” Sarah could barely force out the words with the burning sensation in her throat.

Nodding, he zipped the suitcase and put it on the floor.

His affirmation hit her like a slap on the cheek. She searched her mind for an expletive, but her lips refused to move. They were numb, just like her hands and feet.

Philip exhaled. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but we both know this relationship isn’t working anymore.”

He spoke in a singsong voice that was sure to win him an election one day. Tears burned her eyes as she translated that vague statement in her mind. She wasn’t working anymore. She wasn’t on his arm at political functions, looking graceful hanging on his every word. She wasn’t preparing gourmet appetizers to entertain the conservative Midwest senator whose name she couldn’t recall. And above all, she wasn’t giving him children.

Casting her glance upward, she watched him through the distorted view of tear-sodden eyes.

He pulled up the retractable handle on his suitcase and stepped toward the door. He stopped in front of her and patted her cheek with his hand. “I knew you’d understand.”

He spoke to her as if she were a child. Then he was gone. Sarah listened to the tread of his feet on the stairs and the front door opening and closing. Her head still spinning, she rushed to the window overlooking the front door and yanked it open. “Jerk!” The word, almost unrecognizable, tore from her throat.

Philip jumped and turned back.

With his head cocked to the side, and fern-green eyes flickering, Sarah wasn’t sure if he was surprised or amused. Either way, neither response was an apology. She narrowed her eyes and reached for something—anything—breakable atop the dresser. She grasped a cool, hard object and hurled it out the window. The glass box, a trinket Philip had given her when they were dating, shattered at his feet.

Philip looked from the shards to her. His lips formed a hard, straight line, and he shook his head.

Sarah slammed the window so hard the remaining objects on the dresser rattled. A floor lamp teetered and fell to the side. She tightened her grip on the window frame, partly to release the tension that had built in her arms, and partly to keep herself from collapsing.

Philip tossed the suitcase into the backseat. Two boxes sat beside it, and a pile of clothes rested in the passenger seat.

A knot formed in her stomach. Sarah released her hold on the window frame and stumbled back. This ordeal can’t be happening.

The car engine growled. Tires squealed.

Tears streamed down Sarah’s cheeks as she staggered out of the bedroom and climbed the stairs to the third floor. By the time she reached the olive-green nursery, she could barely breathe with the heaving in her chest and the uncontrolled sobs. This nightmare isn’t happening.

She scanned the nursery. Outlines of animals were sketched on the walls. An old desk sat where the crib would have gone. All were reminders that she was losing more than a husband. She was being stripped of a chance at a family. Dropping to her knees, she buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth. Rocking, like the child she was meant to rock.

A soft hum interrupted her grieving, and she jerked her phone from her pocket, not bothering to check the caller ID. Maybe Philip leaving was a mistake? Maybe he had changed his mind? “Hello.” Her voice gargled with phlegm.

“Sarah Miller,” a digitalized voice replied. “I’m calling to confirm your appointment with Dr. Willis.”

Sarah swallowed, her pulse reverberating in her ears.

“Please press one to confirm or two to cancel.”

Sarah held out the phone, her fingers floundering on the touch screen as she pressed the number two. She didn’t need the appointment now; she probably never would.