The Swallow's Nest

By Emilie Richards

Three women fight for the chance to raise the child they've all come to love

When Lilia Swallow's husband, Graham, goes into remission after a challenging year of treatment for lymphoma, the home and lifestyle blogger throws a party. Their best friends and colleagues attend to celebrate his recovery, but just as the party is in full swing, a new guest arrives. She presents Lilia with a beautiful baby boy, and vanishes.

Toby is Graham's darkest secret – his son, conceived in a moment of despair. Lilia is utterly unprepared for the betrayal the baby represents, and perhaps more so for the love she begins to feel once her shock subsides. Now this unasked–for, precious gift becomes a life–changer for three women: Lilia, who takes him into her home and heart; Marina, who bore and abandoned him until circumstance and grief change her mind; and Ellen, who sees in him a chance to correct the mistakes she made with her own son, Toby's father.

A custody battle begins, and each would–be mother must examine her heart, confront her choices and weigh her dreams against the fate of one vulnerable little boy. Each woman will redefine family, belonging and love – and the results will alter the course of not only their lives, but also the lives of everyone they care for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781489243911

Emilie Richards

USA TODAY bestselling author Emilie Richards has written more than seventy novels. She has appeared on national television and been quoted in Reader’s Digest, right between Oprah and Thomas Jefferson. Born in Bethesda, Maryland, and raised in St. Petersburg, Florida, Richards has been married for more than forty years to her college sweetheart. She splits her time between Florida and Western New York, where she is currently plotting her next novel.

Book preview

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PART I

Choosing the right colony is the first of many tasks for Petrochelidon pyrrhonota, the cliff Swallow. As primary homemaker the female investigates existing colonies before she decides where she and her mate should reside.

Male and female build a nest and raise their young together, but sometimes both mate with others, too.

Our Songbirds, Ourselves: A Tale of Two Species, from the editors of Ornithology Today.

1

tsn_title.ai

Feathering your nest with imagination and love

MARCH 3RD:

All of you know how I’ve longed for this day. One year ago, my husband, Graham, was diagnosed with Burkitt’s lymphoma. You’ve been with me as he progressed through treatment, as our spirits soared and plummeted, even with me during my absences here. I can’t count the encouraging emails I’ve received, the suggestions, the promises of prayers. Now, today, we will celebrate the best possible news. Graham’s cancer is in remission, and he is really, at last, on the road to recovery.

Before this I never considered how I would adjust to news as horrifying as a cancer diagnosis, but now, one year later, I know. Life moves on and so do we. Graham and I came through this year stronger and closer, and my gratitude for your support knows no bounds. Mahalo, the Hawaiian word for thank you, doesn’t begin to cover what I’m feeling today.

I wish you could be right here to share every moment of today’s celebration party with us, but watch for photos and recipes. In the meantime, here are the instructions for welcoming a loved one with a flip-flop sign—or slippahs as we call them in my home state.

Aloha! Lilia

Lilia Swallow was on speaking terms with reality, but only just. For the past year she had questioned everything she believed in, while trying to make sense of the disasters raining down from above, the way Haimi, the yellow Lab of her childhood, had pawed and rattled coconuts when they fell from palm trees in her family’s yard on Kauai. In the end, unlike Haimi, she had concluded that while life often hides something delicious, too often the best parts remain out of sight and unattainable.

And Haimi never once cracked a coconut.

Regan Donnelly was looking on as Lilia painstakingly shot photos of a moisture-beaded glass pitcher nearly overflowing with pineapple chunks, citrus slices and a haze of red wine floating on top of white. At Lilia’s words her friend cocked her head. What on earth are you talking about?

Lilia hadn’t realized she’d spoken—or more accurately, mumbled. She had begun talking to herself during the long stretches when her husband was in the hospital. She had been so lonely, she had needed the sound of her own voice.

Nothing. I was just thinking about happy endings and failures.

Regan sing-songed in a high-pitched voice. Lily-ah, Lily-ah, you are being Silly-ah! She grinned. "Today is your happy ending."

I wish I’d never told you my brothers used to say that.

But you did.

Lilia straightened and stretched before she moved the pitcher to the back of the counter where sun from a large window over the sink wouldn’t strike it quite so directly. She turned the handle to one side and took another shot.

"Well, if nothing else, my pineapple sangria is a happy ending. I worked on and off for a week on this recipe. I think you’ll like it. My readers will, too."

Regan would not be deterred. Graham’s in remission. His last two CT scans were clear. You’re afraid to be happy, aren’t you? You’re afraid the gods will descend and whack you all over again.

Lilia sent her just the faintest smile, because as different as they were, Regan knew her inside and out. Although they were the same five foot five and both twenty-eight, Regan was fair-skinned with a collar-length bob the color of butterscotch. Her pale green eyes had been Lilia’s inspiration the last time she had painted this kitchen. In contrast Lilia’s hair was nearly black and waved down her back, and her skin turned a distinctive brown in the sun. She had what novelists liked to describe as almond eyes, in her case the color of almonds, although the crease of her eyelids also hinted at whatever Asian ancestor had bequeathed them to her.

She decided the pitcher had finished its moment in the spotlight and stepped away. I come from superstitious people. This morning I blogged about how happy I am. I don’t want to jinx Graham’s recovery.

We Irish can match you Hawaiians, superstition for superstition. But I think you’re allowed to be happy. His doctor told you relapses occur quickly, right? It’s been a year since the initial cancer diagnosis, but he’s here today, having a great time.

It had been a year marked by nearly insurmountable hills and valleys. Lilia was still too exhausted not to question fate.

"My tutu trotted out an old Hawaiian proverb whenever things went wrong. ‘He ihona, he pi’ina, he kaolo.’ It means we go down, we go up, we walk on a level road. A level road is all I’m asking for. Graham, too."

He’s looking so much better. Hair’s appealing on a man, don’t you think?

Lilia allowed herself to laugh. We weren’t sure what color it would be after chemo, but I think it looks the way it did before he lost it, only shorter.

Graham, dark blond hair a couple of inches now, was standing outside their sunroom door with newly arrived partygoers, receiving good wishes. Employees and clients from Encompass Construction, the design-build firm he had created from the ground up, were shoulder to shoulder with neighbors, college friends and some of Lilia’s clients, too. But in the middle of a conversation with another young man, he stopped and turned, looking straight at her, as if he knew she was talking about him. Then he smiled.

For a moment she fell back in time to the first day Graham Randolph had smiled at her. She’d been ten; he’d been eleven. She’d been barefoot, and he’d worn stiff leather loafers with heavy dark socks. Until that moment she’d written him off as sullen and self-absorbed. Then she fell in his swimming pool trying to make an impossible Frisbee catch.

Remembering that now she winked at him, and his smile widened before he turned away.

Graham, even after months of chemotherapy, after losing all his hair and almost twenty pounds, was still easy on the eye. He was handsome in a prep school way, even though he was still puffy from steroids and sported nearly invisible chemo ports in his chest and scalp. Once again his blue-gray eyes were rimmed with dark lashes shaded by darker brows. Despite his illness he was still broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, and today, as usual, he was clad in scruffy jeans and a T-shirt—the more or less official dress of the Silicon Valley.

Best of all he was alive and hers.

Do you ever get tired of this? Regan swept a manicured hand at the pitcher and at a platter of hot and sour wings that Lilia had photographed first. The wings weren’t quite finished, but sometimes food photographed best when it was still slick with sauce that later would darken in the oven.

Lilia set down her camera so she could slide the wings back to a foil-lined baking sheet. As much as I’d like to forget my website this once, I don’t have the luxury. These days my online presence is the largest portion of our income.

Didn’t readership grow during Graham’s illness?

The larger audience had surprised Lilia, but so many people had hung on every word she’d carefully crafted about Graham’s illness. Prayers had been said all over the world. Uplifting emails had flooded her in-box.

It did grow, but now my readers want a celebration after a year of gloom.

Regan was still piling up the happy endings. "The Swallow’s Nest will be even busier and more productive now that you won’t be at the hospital so much."

The Swallow’s Nest had been named after the Tudor Revival cottage in San Jose, California, where they stood. Lilia’s aunt Alea Swallow had always called the house my nest and, on her death, had bequeathed it to her niece, who had taken care of her at the end of her life. Now Lilia’s website and blog were devoted to nesting, to creating a snug, beautiful home in a small space like this one, to feeding loved ones and launching fledglings.

That last, of course, was something she wouldn’t be doing, at least not for some time.

She closed the oven door, setting a timer with her voice. At that moment Carrick Donnelly, who’d circled the house to the patio, abandoned his date and came inside through the sunroom, bending over when he reached Lilia to kiss her cheek.

Carrick and Graham had been friends since childhood, and Lilia had known him almost as long as she’d known her husband. He might be Regan’s older brother, but in the sunshine there was only a faint tinge of red in his brown curls, and his eyes were a much deeper and muddier green. He was also as different from Lilia’s husband as the ocean from the shore, lankier and less patrician, but equally as pleasurable to look at.

For just a moment he rested his hands on her shoulders. Anything you need help with?

No, you ought to get back to Julie. Lilia hoped she had his date’s name right. She’d met the woman once, another associate at Carrick’s Palo Alto law firm, but keeping up with the names of his ever-changing girlfriends wasn’t easy.

She’s already engrossed in a bitcoin discussion with somebody from Google. She’ll never realize I’m not standing beside her.

She held out the sangria. Would you take this outside and put it with the other pitchers and check to see if there’s enough beer and soft drinks in the ice chest? I have plenty in the fridge if there’s not.

He reached for a dish towel and wrapped it around the bottom of the pitcher where moisture was beading. Unlike the man she’d married, who had grown up with housekeepers and maids, Carrick and Regan had grown up in a family where everybody pitched in.

He inclined his head toward the patio. Graham looks happy.

I invited everybody he loves.

His expression changed to something less pleasant. His mother?

I did ask Ellen. She sent her regrets.

She’s capable of regret?

This was so unlike him, a man who always struggled to be impartial, that Lilia didn’t know what to say.

He shrugged. I’ll see about the drinks.

Regan waited until her brother had gone. He won’t tell you, but he called Ellen when Graham was first diagnosed. He told her she needed to make peace with her son because if she didn’t, and Graham died, she would regret it forever.

Carrick hadn’t told Lilia, but he wouldn’t have. She’d had enough on her plate. Carrick was a guest in their house for a lot of years. He knows Graham’s parents better than I do. I guess he was in a better position to plead with them.

Of course Carrick hadn’t bothered to speak to Graham’s father. Like any lawyer he understood lost causes.

Plead probably isn’t the right word, Regan said. I think he told her straight out.

Maybe the phone call worked. Ellen did visit the hospital at least once. I was there.

How did that go?

Lilia could still see the scene in her mind. Illness hadn’t rested well on Graham’s shoulders. Depression was part of cancer, for reasons nobody had to explain, and too often he had shut out the people who loved him when they tried to help. That morning she had prayed his mother’s visit might turn the tide.

She tried to describe it. When she walked in and asked Graham how he was feeling, she wrapped her fingers through a long strand of pearls and twisted them back and forth, until I was sure they were going to explode all over the floor. Maybe she wanted me to scoop up a few to help with the hospital bills.

Casting pearls before swine?

Lilia hoped not. She stayed about five minutes. Then she told me Graham needed his rest and offered to walk me to my car.

Did she have something she wanted to tell you?

I’ll never know. He needed support more than he needed rest, and she knows our phone number.

"Well, look at all the people who are here to celebrate."

Lilia could see the backyard, and in the other direction, all the way through their dining area to the living room. More guests had just let themselves in through the front door. From the looks of things, everybody she had invited might be coming.

You go and mingle. When they’re ready I’ll take the wings out of the oven and put them on a platter, Regan said.

Lilia nodded to two sheets of quinoa-stuffed mushrooms she’d made for their vegan friends and already photographed. Great. And would you put the mushrooms in once the wings are out? I’ll get them when I come back through.

Done. Go say hi.

Outside, the welcome sign she had crafted from spray-painted flip-flops hung from a tree, and three surfboard tables Graham had created from replicas that had once hung outside a surf shop were already groaning with food.

For the past year, instead of enjoying leisurely nutritious meals, Lilia had eaten vaguely edible items packaged in cellophane. Convenience store sandwiches with sketchy expiration dates, salt and vinegar potato chips and cartons of yogurt had been staples. Today she had been too happy to stop cooking. But even if the wings flew away and the mushrooms formed a fairy circle behind the garage, the party would still be a knockout. Relief and joy scented the air.

Guests she hadn’t yet spoken to came to say hello. She greeted them with Aloha, and a hug, the way she always did, an expected ritual for those who had been here before. She warned first-time guests they might see her taking photos for her website, and if they didn’t want to be in a shot, to let her know. The Hawaiian sangria and the wings would probably be featured this week.

Carrick, who shared Graham’s taste in music, had put together a playlist of songs about fresh starts and homecomings. By the time Lilia got back to the kitchen to arrange the stuffed mushrooms on a platter, the music was so loud that Graham was able to sneak up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist without warning.

Another awesome party, he shouted.

An awesome reason to have one. She set the tray on a nearby counter and turned in his arms to kiss him. "You need to eat, Pilikua."

He brushed a strand of hair over her shoulder, and his fingertips lingered against her neck. She was wearing a turquoise sundress he loved, but it was the neckline he loved most, just low enough to hint at everything it hid. He liked the way the fabric cupped her breasts, or had before she’d lost so much weight. She hoped the dress would fit perfectly again very soon.

You okay? Not too tired? she asked.

He kissed her again. Flying high.

He looked happy enough, but pale. The scans might be clear, but there had been so many side effects from the disease and the treatment that he was far from recovered. He had spent two mornings of the past week on his latest job site, and both afternoons he’d fallen into bed, so exhausted he hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

Over the hubbub she heard more music, this time guitar chords from the front of the house. Last year Graham had replaced their old doorbell with a programmable one. When Carrick had dropped by yesterday with his playlist, he had uploaded the opening riffs of Steely Dan’s Home at Last.

She would probably blog Carrick’s playlist next week.

I’ll get the door. She was surprised whoever was standing on the porch hadn’t walked right in. Clearly the party was underway. You get something to eat, okay? I’ll send the stragglers along to greet you.

As she went to answer the door, she glanced back and smiled as, outside, he draped his arm over the shoulders of his master plumber, who was politely examining the sangria. Graham pointed the heavily tattooed man toward an ice chest filled with beer.

The front of the house had a slight entry alcove framed in by a narrow bookshelf. Over the past three years as Graham renovated the cottage, she had refused to let him incorporate that space, with its coat closet, boot tray and umbrella stand, into the rest of the living room. She liked the idea of a transition from the porch, a chance for guests to catch a breath, like actors waiting and preparing in the wings for their next big scene.

Stepping into the alcove she opened the door, preparing to prop it open for the rest of the afternoon.

A moment passed before she recognized the woman clad in tight jeans, showy metallic platforms and a formfitting black tank top. Marina Tate, a leggy and unashamedly voluptuous blonde, was an outside sales rep for a supply company Graham worked with. He had introduced them at some company function, and now she remembered that Marina had been to a party here. She tried to think when. Sometime before the world had caved in.

Lilia hadn’t invited her today, but she guessed Graham must have.

She was glad that with everything else going on she remembered the other woman’s name. Marina, right? She smiled. Aloha. It’s nice to see you.

Something stirred in Marina’s arms. Lilia glanced down, noting several canvas bags at her feet before her gaze lifted to the bundle resting against the woman’s chest. For a moment she fumbled for something to say, coming up with the blatantly obvious. A baby. She leaned over, searching her memory for a husband, boyfriend or even a lover. He’s adorable. How old is he? She? She looked up in question.

"Toby is three months." Marina didn’t sound happy, and certainly not like a doting mother. Most of Lilia’s friends with children answered the same question in weeks and days.

She tried a second time for a better look so she could say something complimentary. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even know you were pregnant. I would have—

Marina cut her off. I doubt you would have. And whether you found out about the pregnancy wasn’t up to me.

The baby seemed to be asleep, and Lilia couldn’t get a good look because, despite moderate temperatures, he was swathed in blankets. She stepped back and met the other woman’s eyes. Marina’s expression was as hostile as her tone.

She searched for the cause. I hope you know he’s welcome at the party. There aren’t any other children, but he’s really too young to need a playmate, isn’t he?

I don’t think he’ll be welcome, Lilia. But here he is. Marina held out her arms. Let’s just see.

Lilia felt her smile disappear. She had no idea what she was expected to do. I’d love to hold him, but I’m still taking food out of the oven—

You’ll get used to that. Wanting to do other things and not being able to.

Now she was completely at sea. This time she said nothing. The conversation obviously belonged to Marina.

Take him. Marina lifted the bundled baby higher. He whimpered, beginning to wake, but Lilia shifted her weight back and away.

Take him!

Lilia knew better than to let this continue. Let me get Graham, or maybe I can call somebody else for you?

"You know, I’m glad it worked out this way. I’m glad you were the one to answer the door."

Lilia stepped back, preparing to slip inside, but Marina tucked the baby against her own chest and grabbed Lilia’s arm with her other hand to stop her. Take him.

The baby’s name finally registered. Toby?

"Toby. Right. Toby Randolph. After his father. Don’t you think a boy should carry on the family name? Tobias is Graham’s middle name, right?"

Lilia managed another step back, trying to shake off the other woman’s hand, but with no success. You need to leave right now.

Oh, I’m leaving. But I’m leaving Toby here when I go. With you. With his father. I’ve finished my part of this bargain. Now it’s up to Graham to take care of the rest.

She thrust the blanketed bundle forward so forcefully that Lilia grabbed at it. She had no choice, panicked that Marina would let go and blame the resulting disaster on her.

Satisfied, Marina stepped back and dropped Lilia’s arm. "You’ll have lots of time to think about this moment and what a horrible person I am. But while you’re at it, don’t forget, I gave this baby life. Think about that, Lilia, when you’re feeling superior. I did something you couldn’t be bothered to do. And think about what it was like for me to manage everything on my own up to this point, when I was promised so much more."

She didn’t glance down at her son for a final goodbye. She turned and walked along the flowered brick pathway to the street. She was out of sight almost before Lilia could form another thought.

In her arms the baby stirred. Stunned, Lilia looked down, and the tiny infant opened eyes the china blue of her husband’s. With shaking fingers she pulled back the blanket. What hair the baby had was blond, like Graham’s. But Marina was blond, and surely her eyes were blue, as well.

This was a scam, a horrible, ill-advised prank.

She lifted him slowly for a better view, and then, without a legal document, without confirmation from anyone except a crazy woman, with no proof whatsoever except a vague resemblance that might not even exist, she was 100 percent certain this was no scam.

This child belonged to her husband.

She wanted to drop the bundle and run. She wanted to race after the near-stranger who had just handed off her beautiful baby like a football in play.

But most of all? She wanted to scream right along with Graham’s son, who was now wailing inconsolably in her arms.

2

Marina Tate pulled into her private space in the parking lot of the three-story apartment building that had once symbolized how fast she was rising in the world. Her one-bedroom was on the top floor, not exactly a penthouse, but still superior to anything she’d grown up with. The view from her narrow balcony was a freeway, but sometimes at night she sat in a folding chair and watched headlights blooming through banks of fog. She’d sat there many times after Toby was born. She hadn’t been able to get away from his screaming, but closing the door and listening to the roar of traffic had been an improvement.

As she had during the trip home, she wondered again if the baby was okay.

Clearly Graham hadn’t gotten around to telling Lilia about his son. Maybe announcing a love child between one dose of chemo and the next just hadn’t seemed sensible. Maybe in his shoes she would have kept silent, too. After all, if he’d made the announcement, who would take care of him? No man could drop a bombshell like that one and expect even the most supportive wife to spoon-feed him chicken soup, much less clean up his vomit and wash his sheets.

But no excuse was really good enough, was it?

She was still behind the steering wheel, and she drooped forward to rest her forehead against it. She was so tired she wasn’t sure she was going to make it up the stairs to her apartment. She was so tired she considered taking a nap before she tried. In the end, after two cars screeched into the lot with radios throbbing, she pushed away, opened the door and swung her feet to the asphalt.

In the midst of flipping her seat forward she remembered she had no baby to retrieve from the back. For a moment she stood staring at the infant seat. She had considered carrying the baby to Graham’s door nestled inside, but the seat was used and worn, and at the last minute—not blind to the irony—she’d rejected the idea. She had been embarrassed to give Graham and Lilia the car seat, but not the infant.

Tomorrow she would chuck it into the Dumpster.

So many months had passed since she’d had an entire night’s sleep. She couldn’t remember when she hadn’t been sleep-deprived. Even in the weeks before the birth she’d slept fitfully because she was so huge, getting comfortable was a joke. And no man had been around to rub her aching back or get her a glass of water.

One of those nights Graham had called. She couldn’t remember which, but why was stamped on her heart. He wanted her to know he had made the arrangements for a paternity test. She listened to him recite the clinical details, as if he were reading them from a list. At the birth someone would collect blood from the umbilical cord, and a lab would process the results. He confirmed he would not sign the Declaration of Paternity document agreeing he was the father until the test results were official. Without that, she would not be allowed to list him on the birth certificate. When paternity was finally confirmed, she would then have to fill out another form to have the birth certificate amended.

Finally, as if this were a small thing, he said that at that point everything would be official, and she would get the rest of the lump sum he had promised when she agreed to have the baby.

At the time she’d wondered, and still did, if delaying the test and refusing to sign the document were stalling mechanisms. A more expensive but equally reliable test could have been conducted during the pregnancy. Had he hoped these small rebellions would deter her from announcing the identity of the man who had carelessly planted the baby inside her?

Had he thought about it at all? Or had he been so immersed in the present, ensnared in a mass of twisted and unshared emotion, that he hadn’t given the future any real thought?

At the beginning Graham had been so anxious for her to carry the pregnancy to term, but all those months later, had he come to regret it? As his health improved, and the possibility of survival improved with it, had he wished that the baby and the baby’s mother would disappear and leave him to the good life he’d had before his diagnosis?

Whatever his reasons, she’d been given no choice in the matter. After Toby’s birth the hospital had filled out the health department form without Graham’s name. Weeks went by before he was officially the father of record. Then once he was, the money he had promised to give her, the second half of a trust fund he had cashed in to help her through the pregnancy and early months of Toby’s life, had never materialized. Nor had a satisfactory explanation. He’d said she and the baby would be taken care of, and he had promised to find a way to be part of Toby’s life. By now she knew what his promises were worth.

Today there was no more room for lies. Everybody would know Graham was officially Toby’s father. A copy of the baby’s amended birth certificate was among the items she had left in one of the bags at Lilia’s feet.

She started toward her apartment and trudged up the three flights of an open stairwell. For a moment after she unlocked the door she stood on the threshold and drank in the silence. She’d grown up in a noisy home, but the months since she’d brought Toby here from the hospital had been filled with screaming that only tapered off when the baby grew too exhausted for more. At one point the noise had been so overwhelming her neighbors had threatened to report her to the landlord. She had been forced to move his bed to the center of the living room, away from common walls.

By that point she had lowered herself to begging for help. Toby’s pediatrician had insisted the problem was colic. Along the way the woman, fresh out of medical school, suggested different formulas, modeled a baby carrier to keep Toby snug against Marina’s chest, prescribed white noise, swaddling, massage, letting him cry. Finally, at this morning’s visit, after pointed questions about her state of mind and how vigilantly Marina had followed her useless suggestions, the clueless young doctor had decreed that Marina was a first-time mom, and Toby probably sensed her insecurities.

That had been the final straw. Marina had no insecurities when it came to babies. She had raised her younger brothers while her mother worked two jobs or socialized. She had a niece named Brittany whom she’d been unable to avoid in infancy, and a short-lived romance with an otherwise perfect man who had just divorced the mother of his newborn. She’d chucked him quickly, but not before managing weeks of diapers and bottles.

Toby was born a nightmare. Or maybe Toby was punishment for trying to steal another woman’s husband, although a year of misery seemed like a pretty stiff sentence.

She flicked on her lights and stepped inside. Her apartment was furnished in leather with chrome accents and neon table lamps. She was a fan of sleek surfaces with no hint of clutter. The walls were mostly blank, and she liked them that way, clean white paint and no memorabilia from a past she wanted to forget. The tile floors were unmarred by rugs. Toddler Toby probably would have cracked his head a hundred times.

No longer her problem.

She wasn’t hungry, but she crossed the living room to the tiny kitchen and searched the refrigerator for beer. She found a tall bottle hiding behind half a gallon of milk, but only one, because that’s how she bought them, one at a time, just enough to split or enjoy alone without temptation to drink another. Her mother, Deedee, was a bartender who had lost at least one job for over-sampling the wares. Her youngest brother, Pete, had lost his driver’s license for two years after his second underage DUI and, judging by his continued drinking, showed no signs the lesson had any impact. She had no intention of following the family tradition.

She tossed the milk carton in the garbage because she couldn’t remember when she’d bought it. Then, using the hem of her tank top, she unscrewed the beer cap and drank half the bottle slouched against the granite counter.

Many people were not going to understand what she had done this afternoon. But Toby Randolph was alive today because she had, against her better judgment, given birth to him. Even after she learned that Graham was likely to die before their baby was born, and if he did, his mega-wealthy parents probably wouldn’t want anything to do with her or the baby. Even after she realized that, whether he lived or not, Graham was never going to make the three of them a real family.

She was too tired to think about Graham.

She left the half-empty bottle on the counter. In the bedroom she kicked off her shoes and jeans and fell facedown on the unmade bed.

Hours might have passed or just minutes when the doorbell buzzed, then buzzed again. She was so foggy-headed she was clueless about time or place. As the buzzing continued she rolled over and sat up, and the world came into focus again.

If Graham or Lilia or, worse, their lawyer friend, Carrick, was standing on the other side, she didn’t want to answer the door. But whoever was waiting was insistent, and she could hardly pretend she wasn’t home. Anyone who knew her would spot her yellow Mustang Fastback in the lot. She pulled on her jeans, walked barefoot to the door and squinted through the peephole.

Silently cursing she unlocked it and stood back to let her mother inside.

I hated to ring the doorbell, in case I woke up little Toby... As she spoke Deedee Tate’s voice gathered enough volume to wake every corpse at the Odd Fellows Cemetery miles away.

Marina had dreaded this moment, but now that it was here, she mostly felt annoyed. If Toby had slept through the doorbell, your shouting would finish the job.

Where is he?

Safe and happy. Why are you here?

Deedee looked puzzled, but she never meditated on a problem when she could talk instead. She held out a wrinkled paper bag. I found some cute baby clothes at a neighbor’s garage sale. You don’t owe me much. They were cheap.

Marina squinted through sleep-fogged eyes. From photos, she knew she resembled Deedee when she, too, had been thirty. It was a sobering thought. Now her mother was fifty-one. By the time Marina was that age would she resemble the woman standing before her? Deedee made no effort to eat well or exercise. She was overweight, with sagging breasts and a roll of fat that bulged over the elastic waistband of a broomstick skirt. Her shaggy hair was haphazardly dyed an improbable shade of gold, and her graying roots were inches long.

I didn’t ask you to buy a thing, Marina said. I wish you would stop buying things I don’t need and then asking me to pay for them.

I’m trying to help. I can’t afford to do much on my own. I’m barely getting the hours at Frankie’s that I need to make ends meet. And your brothers—

Marina made a chopping motion with her hand. I don’t want to hear about my brothers. Both Jerry and Pete, twenty-five and nineteen respectively, still lived at home and never helped Deedee with rent or food.

Her mother lifted her chin proudly. Well, aren’t you snippy today.

Yeah, well, try not getting any sleep for months.

I had babies, too, you know.

Yeah, you did, and I raised two of them for you. Marina didn’t sigh as much as force air from her lungs. Look, I have half a beer I just opened. It’s yours.

One of those bombers you like so much?

There’s plenty left.

Deedee followed Marina into the kitchen and watched as she took a go-cup from a cupboard. So who’s got Toby?

His father. Marina poured the beer and handed it to her mother. Most likely by now it was almost flat, but Deedee wouldn’t balk.

What? His father’s in the picture all of a sudden? Like that? Deedee flicked a glittery fake nail against the plastic cup for emphasis.

Marina watched her mother take two long swallows. Isn’t it about time?

What about that wife of his?

We can definitely say she’s in the picture, too. Marina had a sudden flash of Lilia’s expression as she handed the baby to her. She had expected to feel victory followed by the sweet aftermath of revenge. But she had felt neither. Lilia Swallow had never done anything to her except marry the man Marina had wanted for her own, and married him long before Marina even met him. At the one party Marina had been invited to at Graham’s house, Lilia had been a thoughtful hostess. She’d even made a point of introducing Marina to Graham’s best friend, Carrick Donnelly, then backing away, as if she hoped sparks might ignite.

They’ll give him back, won’t they? Deedee didn’t wait for an answer before she finished what was left in the cup.

Deedee, I don’t want him back. Marina pushed away from the counter. I never wanted to be a mother. Don’t you think I had enough mothering with Jerry and Pete? You remember who took care of them when you were working and in the wee morning hours when you were off having fun? I gave Petey more bottles than you ever did, and I rode herd on Jerry until he got bigger than me. You think any of that made me want to be a mother again?

"You were their big sister. I was their mother. You were helping out. Helping is good for kids."

"It was not good for me. I didn’t have a childhood. I had children. Your children."

Deedee was angry now. She banged the go-cup on the counter. Family is important!

Yeah, right. You mean like the father you told me was mine, only it turned out he wasn’t? Is that your idea of family?

He wasn’t much of a father. You hardly noticed when he disappeared.

Right. Maybe I hardly ever saw him, but at least I had a name and a face when I needed them. Until the state went after him for child support and he demanded a paternity test.

"I told you then, I’ll tell you now. I thought he was your father. I never lied. I thought he was the one."

Uh-huh. And by the time you found out you were wrong, you couldn’t remember who else might have been in the running.

Deedee ignored that. "I was mother and father to you. To all of you."

You were gone most of the time. I had no mother, and the boys had me, which was probably worse.

You can’t really mean you don’t want your own baby.

I do mean it. I left Toby— she couldn’t admit she’d left the baby with Graham’s bewildered wife —with Graham, and I walked away. I couldn’t do this another minute. This morning I— She stopped.

You what, Rina Ray?

Marina hated to remember that moment. I came so close to shaking him. I just wanted him to stop screaming. I was this close. Her thumb and forefinger were nearly touching. "I took him to the doctor instead. Again. I begged her to help me figure out what was wrong, and she said I just had to tough it out, that things would get better soon. Only she’s been saying that and saying that. It didn’t get better and it won’t."

You just have that post-pardon depression thing, like Brooke Shields. I’ve read about it. It’ll go away, you watch.

"Don’t you get it? I don’t care what it’s called. Postpartum depression or just good sense. I just know now it’s Graham’s turn to listen to him cry and not know what to do. And if by some miracle he does know, or that wife of his knows, more power to them."

I can’t believe it. You gave him away? Just like that?

Marina pushed her short blond hair off her face, raking her fingers through it until undoubtedly it stood on end. I did. And before you showed up I was finally getting some sleep.

Where’s your heart?

Protected. Right here. Marina put a fist to her chest.

You’ve always been a cold fish.

Marina knew if she was a fish at all, she was just a fish afraid of getting hooked. She certainly hadn’t been cold the night Toby was conceived. She had acted on impulse when Graham came to this apartment, supposedly for a drink, and they ended up in bed, instead. For once in her adult life she had allowed her imagination to take control. Graham had confessed that he and his wife were deadlocked over having children. He wanted one right away, and Lilia didn’t.

Of course he hadn’t explained that any woman would be hesitant to conceive a baby with a man who might not be alive for its birth. He hadn’t explained there was a cancer diagnosis and lethal chemotherapy he would have to undergo very soon. He’d presented her with a different picture: Lilia, as a selfish career-driven woman who was the wrong wife for a man who wanted a family and a supportive helpmate.

Blinded by hope and a foolish infatuation that she had nurtured since the day she’d introduced herself to Graham Randolph, Marina had imagined she was the right woman. As if in silent agreement that night he hadn’t used a condom, and God help her, she hadn’t asked him to.

She pulled herself back to the conversation. I’m not cold. I’m just determined. I don’t want your life, Deedee. And that’s where I was headed.

You think you need to insult me to make yourself feel better?

Not really. I think you got what you wanted. And I plan to do the same.

What am I going to tell your brothers? They love that baby.

Oh, please! Neither of them loves anybody. Try telling them the truth, that I’m not going to settle for a small slice of life. I want the whole pie. They won’t understand, but tell them anyway.

I’m ashamed of you. My own little girl.

Look, keep the clothes, and don’t buy anything else. I’ll give you some money.

"Keep your money. The way you didn’t keep your own flesh and blood." Deedee turned and stomped out the door. Marina wasn’t impressed. Her mother never stayed angry for long. Without Toby to care for, Marina would be more available whenever Deedee needed her. Everything else would fade. Before long she would tell her friends her daughter had acted heroically to give her son the best possible life.

And who knew? Maybe it was true.

Just as she was pulling off her jeans again to get more sleep the bedside telephone rang. She studied the caller ID