“I love watching a good running back, juking in and out of the defense.”

  “He could do that. Turn on a dime. There was one time back in high school when he ran through five tackles for a touchdown.”

  “I would have loved to have seen that one.”

  Roman’s face looked alive for the first time since they’d come. “I have it on tape. Do you want—?”

  “I’d love to.”

  In a second Roman was on his feet, going to the TV cabinet. John turned to Velvet. “How about you make us some coffee?”

  Okay . . .

  She left the men alone and put the coffee on. She hung back at the edge of the kitchen, listening to them talk football. Listening to them bond.

  Amazing. John had surprised her. As a preacher, she’d expected him to talk to Roman in Christian-ese, or at the very least with trite appeasements toward the grief-stricken: “Billy’s in a better place” or the horrendous “It’s God’s will.”

  Baloney.

  How could a God who supposedly loved his children take one of them who was so young, so full of promise, so good? How could that be anybody’s will?

  She was relieved John had ignored any phrases that meant well but caused pain. Getting Roman to talk about Billy, to revisit happy memories . . . it was genius. If John hadn’t been there, what would she have said to help Roman?

  Her mind was a distressing blank.

  The coffeemaker sputtered its final offerings. She poured three mugs, putting milk and sugar in her own. Roman liked his black. She tried to remember if John had used anything in his coffee but didn’t think so. She brought out a tray, adding a plate of Chips Ahoy! cookies from Roman’s pantry. She carried it into the living room and placed it on the coffee table.

  “Refreshments are served.”

  Without even looking up from the game on the screen, Roman took a cookie and bit it in half. “Now watch! Look at this one coming up.”

  She set his coffee nearby and handed John a mug. “It’s black.”

  “Just the way I like it.” He took a cookie and gave her a wink.

  He’d moved his chair front and center and Roman had moved from the couch to his recliner. If she hadn’t known better she would have thought it was a normal afternoon, watching football on TV.

  She sat on the couch and let the two men in her life be men.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Roman showed them to the door. “Thanks for coming over.” He kissed Velvet on the cheek, and when John held out his hand, Roman pulled him into an embrace. “It was nice meeting you, John. Come over anytime.”

  Anyone witnessing the parting would have thought they were best friends and never would have known one of them had just lost a son. Velvet wanted to say something about the funeral—that she’d see Roman there—but didn’t dare break the mood.

  She and John walked toward her car, but halfway there, the door reopened and Roman called out. “Thank you. Both of you. It . . . you . . .”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  Roman’s face assumed a bit of the haggardness they’d seen when they first arrived, as if the respite from his grief was fading. “You’ll be at the funeral Monday then? First United.”

  “We’ll be there,” John said.

  Roman nodded and closed the door.

  “We?” Velvet asked him. “Don’t you have to go home?”

  “I’ve put my flight on hold.”

  “Why?” The question came out like an accusation.

  “Because it seems I have business here.”

  She stopped him with a hand to his arm. “No, you don’t. No business. Not with me, at least.”

  He looked at her eyes a moment, then said, “You’re right. My business with you is hardly least.” He continued toward her car.

  Totally flummoxed at how to counter that, Velvet got in the car and put the key in the ignition. But then weariness took over. She glanced back to the house, wondering how Roman was faring, then back to John, wondering how they were faring, or if there even was a they. She allowed herself a sigh. “You were amazing. In there.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  “You surprised me.”

  “How so?”

  “You weren’t preachy-teachy at all. You weren’t holier-than-thou.”

  “Was I supposed to be?”

  “That’s what I expected. I expected a sermon. Instead you talked football.”

  John ran a hand along the dash. “At times like these I remind myself of a quote I once heard: ‘Preach the gospel. If necessary, use words.’”

  The quote held power in its simplicity. It also made her wonder if her own faith might have been different if she’d come across more people who’d applied its wisdom to show, not tell. “I like that quotation.”

  “So do I. It’s so . . . wise.”

  She smiled at their like-mindedness. “Apparently, so are you.”

  He gave her a smile. “Occasionally. Periodically. Finally, after years and years of being otherwise.”

  She turned on the car. “Although I hate to admit it, I’m glad you came along.”

  “Me too.”

  She pulled away from the curb.

  “But,” he said, “we still haven’t had a chance to talk. A chance to discuss something that—”

  Panic surged. Did he want to talk about Lianne? Had he seen their resemblance? Did he suspect? “No, John. Not now. I’m exhausted. I can’t talk. Can we do it some other time?” Like never. She was completely torn between wanting to discuss everything and wanting him to go away and never discuss anything.

  She felt him studying her but she kept her eyes on the road. Her exhaustion forced her choice: there could be no talking. She wanted him to leave her alone. Just leave. Out of sight, out of mind. She could handle Lianne. Actually, she never had to tell Lianne anything if she didn’t want to. After the football season was over, Lianne would be out of a job and Velvet could fall back into the status quo.

  John interrupted her thoughts. “I’m going to guest-preach at a church tomorrow morning. Two services. We could talk afterward.”

  She hadn’t made herself clear, and it was apparent he was not reading her mind. “I’m not sure talking is such a good idea, John. Maybe we should just leave things alone.”

  “Alone?”

  “Both of us have been fine all these years, without pushing the issue. Maybe we shouldn’t . . .”

  “Shouldn’t give truth a chance?”

  If only he realized the truth was best kept secret.

  “Come on, Velvet. Let’s do this thing. Talk it out. Tomorrow. After church.”

  Apparently he wasn’t going anywhere until she gave in.

  Tomorrow. It was a reprieve, however short-lived.

  She had twenty-four hours to figure out what to tell him.

  SEVEN

  If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you. He will not rebuke you for asking. But when you ask him, be sure that your faith is in God alone. Do not waver, for a person with divided loyalty is as unsettled as a wave of the sea that is blown and tossed by the wind.

  JAMES 1:5-6

  Without even opening her eyes, Maya squinted at the sun. Her mind tried to sort out the incongruity of this, until it finally gave up and her eyes opened.

  She was at the cabin, in bed, with the morning sun streaming through the east window. Last night she’d been so eager to dive into the unconsciousness of sleep that she hadn’t even closed the curtains.

  Maya sat up and stretched until her muscles vibrated. She looked down and saw she was wearing jeans and a now-rumpled T-shirt, more evidence of the state of her one-track mind the night before.

  She hung her feet over the side of the bed and spotted her shoes. At least she’d taken those off.

  The air was cool, a relief from the previous heat. She hoped it would last the entire day.

  Day.

  What was she going to do with this day away from home? Would there be another day? And another—away?

  Yet how could she go back? By now the entire city knew about her desperate deeds. After reading the article, those who didn’t know her personally might exchange a few lines like “What an idiot” or “No one needs a baby that badly,” while friends and family would shake their heads and say, “I can’t believe she stooped to this. She should be ashamed of herself.”

  Disdain, contempt, disbelief, and shame. That’s what lay waiting for her at home.

  “And no baby,” she said aloud. “No chance of a baby.”

  Suddenly, with a gasp for breath, the full implication of her own statements hit her with full force. No baby. There would never be a baby. Ever.

  Although she’d heard the doctor’s words it was as though she hadn’t fully accepted them until now, until time and distance—and an attempt to sleep them away—had proved unrelenting. Facts were facts. She was never going to conceive her own child.

  She spotted a teddy bear and box of blocks in the corner of the bedroom. Her nieces and nephews played here. This was a cabin meant for children.

  Of which she had none.

  She needed to get out—out in the open.

  She donned her shoes and rushed outside, into the air, under the ripening morning sky. She walked down a flagstone path to the dock. The lake was so calm she could see when a fish came to the surface to snatch a dragonfly or bite of leaf. The sun had not reached this shore, but she could see its progress as a shimmer on the water headed toward her, ready to bathe her in the day.

  What time was it? She had no idea but assumed it was early because no one was out and about, not even children eager for the water.

  Children. Every thought, every memory brought them to mind. It was like being on a diet and always thinking of food. Thinking about what you could not have.

  She sat at the end of the dock, dangling her feet over the side, keeping them just above the water. She heard a sound to her left. Their neighbor, Oscar Grady, was getting into his ancient baby blue rowboat. He spotted her and waved. She waved back. The fact he had not called out was another indication of the early hour. All lake dwellers knew that in its uncanny way, sound sped across water and intensified, making a soft sound audible and the most innocent shout obnoxious. Until residents acknowledged the need to make noise by popular consensus, early risers were respectful.

  Oscar pushed away from his dock and rowed in her direction. Her muscles tensed, wanting to flee. She didn’t feel up to chatting. She’d come here to be alone. But it was too late. She’d already sat down. There was no escaping without being rude. And she liked Oscar. Everyone liked Oscar. Everyone knew Oscar. The saying to new buyers was, “Oscar comes with the lake.” He had lived here full-time since his wife died, spending his time in his workshop-garage, making lawn ornaments for sale: pink pigs, red windmills, and cutouts of women in polka-dot pantaloons bent over their weeding. Tacky stuff Maya’s family disparaged. But Maya—although she would never buy anything for her own yard—appreciated his efforts, especially its intrinsic humor. To know the heart and character of Oscar Grady, you only had to look at his yard. He was a happy man.

  And I’m an unhappy woman.

  Oscar approached her dock, his boat creating smooth ripples in the water. “Haydeeho, Maya,” he said quietly. “Long time no see.”

  “Hi, Oscar. Ditto.”

  He guided the rowboat close, letting the bumpers of the dock ease it alongside. He wore a green plaid shirt under an old-fashioned orange life preserver, along with a misshapen tan fishing hat with feathery lures sticking here and there like manly hatpins.

  “Is Sal still sleeping?” he asked.

  “I’m here alone,” she said.

  He beamed. “Then you’re free to join me for an early morning boat ride. Might even catch us some breakfast. Hop in.” He was already reaching for another life jacket in the bottom of the boat. “I always carry a spare. You never know who might want a ride.”

  She couldn’t think of any way to refuse. Or any good reason.

  The boat tipped and bobbled as she took Oscar’s hand and got in, but the close proximity of the dock kept it from turning over. She put on her life vest and took a seat in the stern, facing him.

  Using his oar, Oscar pushed away from the dock, and within a short minute he found a rhythm that let them glide through the still water. Although he was a gaunt man—Maya probably weighed more than he did—Oscar proved to have good strength in his wiry arms.

  “Ain’t it beautiful?” he said as they sped along the shore.

  She nodded. “I can hardly wait until the leaves change color.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “Autumn. My favorite time of year.”

  “Me too.” Not wanting him to ask her questions, she grabbed the reins of the conversation. “How’s the family?”

  “Super-duper,” he said. “Just got myself another grandchild.”

  Great. More children talk. “Congratulations. Boy or girl?”

  “Mandy; she’s four and has brown eyes that can melt this old man faster than a fire melts a marshmallow.”

  “Four?”

  “Adopted,” he said. “All my son’s kids are adopted. Yuppers. Mandy makes three.”

  “Three? Adopted?”

  He paused in the rowing. “You got something against adoption?”

  “No, no, but—”

  “’Cause Blake’s adopted. And our two daughters. And me, when you get right down to it.”

  “I had no idea.”

  The oars took up the old rhythm. “Me and my Betty, we coulda had our own, but since I was adopted and saw the good in it, we decided it would be nice if we took in some kids that needed us. We got Blake when he was two, Cindy when she was eleven months, and Audrey when she was eight.”

  Maya was stunned—and yet why should she be? Lots of people were adopted.

  “Yup, me and Betty coulda had our own, but Blake and Sandy—they tried and tried, but nothing happened. When life gives you lemons . . .”

  He waited for her to finish the saying. “You make lemonade.”

  He smiled and shrugged. “But lemonade’s still sour till you add sugar to it. Those three kids are pure sugar.”

  Maya looked toward shore, her mind reeling.

  Oscar raised the oars and let the boat coast. “You look troubled, Maya. Confused.”

  She took a breath and then, without intending to, told him the truth. “I can’t have children.” She didn’t tell him the details. She didn’t need to. Those four words said it all.

  His face softened with sympathy. “I’m mighty sorry.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Me too.”

  He took up the oars again. “Well, shoot, God musta had a reason for it. He don’t do nothing without good reason.”

  All hint of tears left her. “I don’t see any good reason for us not having our own—”

  “Sure you do.”

  “No, I don’t. I’d make a great mother. Sal would make a great father.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. And you still can be—be a mother and a father.”

  “But we had our heart set on having—”

  “Pooh. Nine months of morning sickness and swollen ankles, then pushing a baby out? That’s not the end-all of being a mother, of quenching your thirst, of making lemonade. That’s just getting the glass out on the counter. Parenting is loving the child in your arms. Holding it close. Seeing it grow. And all that starts after it’s born. So what if someone else does the birthing part of it? You’re the one who gets to make the lemonade. And the child will add plenty of sugar to make the whole thing sweet.”

  For the first time in a long time, Maya felt hopeful.

  As they passed along the shore, she absently looked at the people’s names posted on their docks: Ellison, Mach, Abbuhl . . .

  And then a blank sign. A blank red sign.

  She turned to Oscar. “Do you see that sign?” she asked, pointing toward the passing shore.

  “Which one?”

  “The red one. The blank one.”

  He stopped rowing and squinted his eyes against the sun. “Can’t say as I do, but I can’t see distance worth beans. Blank, you say?”

  Never mind. The boat was past it now anyway. “I’ve been seeing blank red signs all over the place. Guess I’m going crazy.”

  “Who says?”

  “It’s not normal seeing signs.”

  “Who says?”

  She realized he was talking about something more spiritual. “They’re not that kind of sign, Oscar.”

  “Who says?”

  Suddenly a fish jumped out of the water, not six feet away.

  “Well, looky there. Breakfast. God does indeed provide.”

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Although Oscar had invited her for a fresh fish breakfast, Maya declined.

  “I have to get home,” she said as she helped him tie the boat to his dock.

  He stood upright with a groan and nodded, as if understanding for the first time why she was at the cabin alone. “You do that. You go back to that handsome husband of yours and make him some lemonade.”

  She began to walk away, but Oscar had one more thing to say. “Remember something, Maya: God will give you wisdom every time you ask for it. So ask. All right?”

  “I might just do that.”

  She went back to the cabin and paused at the door, looking at the place with fresh eyes. It was a family place. She knew that. She’d experienced that. It was her definition of family that had changed in the past hour, and with that expansion of thought came a new hope and determination.

  I have to get home. Now.

  She made quick work of the bed and was on her way in minutes. Pulling away, she spotted her cell phone in the car’s console tray. She’d left it there all night.

  Sal had called—four times. She listened to his messages, which were all variations on a theme: Come home, Maya. Come home.

  She could do that. She would do that. Sal was waiting for her.

  But so was humiliation and shame.

  So be it. She had to face the mess she’d made. It wasn’t going away.

  Her car turned onto the highway, but her thoughts were on a roller coaster. She felt herself rising higher with the idea of adopting a child only to find herself hurtling downward when thoughts of her parents intruded.