Liz’s skin prickled with annoyance and she almost told Tiffany to fix her mess. But then she remembered. It came in a rush and she felt herself thaw with shame. “Oh, Tiffany! You’re in town for the funeral, aren’t you?”
Lorelei’s funeral had to be soon. Or had it already happened? Was it only yesterday that Macy was telling her about that poor woman’s passing? Whatever the case, Liz was convicted by her own insensitivity. She was being stingy and small. Here she was judging Tiffany when the clearly grief-stricken girl had just lost her aunt, the closest thing to a mother she had ever known. What was the story again? Lorelei’s sister was Tiffany’s mother, but she had skipped town when the child was barely out of diapers. Something like that. Sad, sad, sad. Liz’s heart melted for the young woman in front of her. She reached out and hugged her again, and this time, she put some feeling into it.
“I am so sorry.”
“Thank you,” Tiffany whispered.
“Do you need a place to stay? Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I don’t know if you heard, but Jack Sr. is gone and I have that whole big house to myself . . .” Liz trailed off when she caught sight of her own grocery cart and the bottles of booze and festive packages of tiny paper umbrellas. How mortifying. How inappropriate.
But Tiffany was shaking her head, excusing herself feebly as she backed out of the aisle. “Thank you, Mrs. Sanford. I really have to go.”
Liz struggled for something to say, anything that might offer a little comfort or at least communicate that Elizabeth Sanford wasn’t the thoughtless, bumbling idiot that she had just appeared to be. She settled on: “You’re in my prayers.”
Which wasn’t true. But it would be now. And as Tiffany walked away Liz made good on her declaration and whispered: “God bless that poor, sweet soul.”
Then she decided to order flowers for the funeral. A huge bouquet with lots of roses.
Liz was no-nonsense. A fixer and doer and stiff-upper-lipper. She believed in pulling herself up by her bootstraps and would swear until her dying day that the glass was always, and always would be, half full. But she was also a mother. A grandmother?
If she thought of it, which she tried not to, Liz might consider that secret part of her soul a sort of robin’s egg. Fragile, mysterious, lovely. Delicate and prone to brokenness, but containing all that was vital and life-giving. Holy. Sometimes, at moments like this, when she was raw and aching in a sudden, unexpected way, Liz wondered at the many fissures that had splintered across her heart. The fault lines matched the wrinkles around her eyes, the telltale creases that had set deep in her forehead and around her pretty mouth. She had lived. She had loved. But she was lonely. She was alone. It kind of made her want to sit down in the middle of Walmart and cry.
But then she spotted it out of the corner of her eye. Shine gloss. The package proclaimed: Crystal Clear Shine System. For all types of hair.
Perfect.
Liz Sanford snagged that box off the shelf and set her shoulders. She would go home. Pull off the party of the year. Figure out why Nora kept Lucy a secret and reunite her family.
Fix everything.
QUINN
QUINN WOKE FROM a nightmare, a silent scream clawing at her throat. She bolted upright, frantic and panting, and gathered the blankets around her as if the cotton sheets could protect her from whatever had scared her awake. They were in danger, she could feel it, but the worry that troubled her sleep vanished the moment she opened her eyes. Quinn squinted in the early morning light. Nothing was amiss. The room was empty, even Walker was gone—no doubt to his studio. Quinn was alone and the terror that had yanked her from sleep was just that: a bad dream.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Quinn said just to hear the sound of her own voice.
She glanced at the clock and discovered it was a few minutes after six. Much earlier than she normally woke up, but the nightmare felt grim and dirty against her skin and her T-shirt was damp with sweat.
Quinn scrambled out of bed, eager to wash her fear down the drain. She took a cool shower and then made quick work of her morning routine. Curtains thrown wide, bed made, teeth brushed. Clipping her bangs back with a pair of bobby pins, Quinn studied herself in the mirror. She was pale, almost gaunt. An uncharacteristic look for August and it made her shiver a little. Stress, Quinn decided. This whole Lucy thing is making me crazy.
The thought of Lucy sent a jolt of worry through Quinn. Was she . . . ? But when Quinn hurried through the cabin to Lucy’s room she found the little girl sound asleep in her bed. All the same, Quinn double-checked the front door (it was locked) and the sliding glass doors (the bolt was still in place). She pressed her hand to her forehead for just a moment, unexpectedly shaky and relieved.
Quinn lifted her phone from her pocket and tried to call Nora, but the attempt was halfhearted. After several rings she gave up and tapped a text instead: Call me. She doubted Nora would respond.
The living room was a mess and Quinn dulled the sense of foreboding that raked bony fingers across her skin by tidying up. She folded the blanket that had been piled on the floor and straightened pillows, righted a picture frame, rescued the remote control from the couch cushions. It looked like a storm had blown through.
Last night. It came back to her in a blur of snapshots, close-ups of Walker’s dark skin, white teeth, strong hands. He had been passionate, possessive, hungry. Almost angry. It was beautiful and unexpected. The tiniest bit unnerving because it felt so significant.
The thought slid through her like a specter: I’m pregnant.
Could it be?
Finding out that Quinn had endometriosis shortly after she and Walker were married hadn’t seemed like that big of a deal. So what if her periods were heavy? But the pain could be intense, and when Walker insisted that she see an ob-gyn, Quinn relented—as much to appease him as to quiet her own misgivings. The diagnosis wasn’t shocking or scary, just something she had to deal with. But when her doctor suggested that a pregnancy earlier rather than later would be wise, they took him seriously.
“I want kids,” Walker had said, a mischievous glint in his eye. What he meant was: I want to try to make babies with you. But they both knew that having a family was what they always wanted, so Quinn went off birth control.
A year later, nothing had happened. And suddenly, the quiet, “let’s see what happens” approach seemed paltry and trifling. If they wanted children, they were going to have to work for it.