know? Hit her, probably. Like Bonnie’s husband?”
“That, or she doesn’t know who the daddy is.” Jeannie bent to pick up a Barbie doll. “She has that sadness about her. So pretty, and yet, I don’t know…”
“Yeah,” Kelly said. “Like she’s running from something.”
“Heck, why else would a single woman move to Milford? She has no family here.”
“I remember the day she got here. She was driving that beat-up old Chevy.”
“Still is.”
“Right.”
“How long has it been?”
“Got to be two years.”
Jeannie nodded. “Two years, and we still don’t know beans about her.”
“Not that she isn’t nice.”
Jeannie shook her head, a strand of auburn hair loosening from under her headband. “Nice as can be for someone with so many secrets. Lily, you put that down right now.”
Kelly glanced over at Lily, Jeannie’s three-year-old who’d gotten hold of the watercolor paint set. Kelly’s son, Jack, had been born two weeks to the day of Lily’s birth, sealing their already solid friendship. “I surely would like to know what happened to that girl.”
“Me, too.” Jeannie shook her head. “Maybe I’ll do a little research at the library, now that they’ve got the Internet.”
“Oh, good idea. Why don’t we go tomorrow?”
“Can’t. I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“How about Friday?”
“Friday. Okay. We’ll take the kids.”
MARY PIERSON walked down Hill Street toward the market, her young son holding her hand, scurrying on his short legs to keep up. Mary let him step on the mat in front of the grocery store so that the automatic doors would open. He liked that.
Inside, Gary, the butcher, waved. “Getting ready to close shop here. You gonna need anything? I could cut it fresh for you.”
“No, thanks,” Mary told him. “Just grabbing a few things.”
“Okay. Next time.”
“Next time.” She put Patrick in the cart seat and headed down the aisle. Canned corn, tomato soup, bread, milk, butter. She picked through the skimpy produce selection, finally choosing a reasonably fresh head of lettuce and some broccoli. She chose a prewrapped pound of hamburger and, on her way to the register, added a package of spaghetti. Patrick loved spaghetti.
“How are you this evening, Mary?”
“Fine, Marge. You?” Mary lifted her boy from the cart while Marge toted up the groceries and placed them on the belt.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Mary could see the older woman wanted to talk, but it was late and all she wanted was to get home. “Could you toss in a book of stamps, please?”
“Sure, Mary. Sure.”
“Thanks.” Mary smiled, then turned her attention to Patrick pulling on her arm. “Hang tight, soldier. We’ll be done here soon.”
Patrick tugged harder. “I’m hungry.”
“I know, baby. Soon.”
“That’s twelve twenty-five,” Marge said.
Mary paid in cash, as always.
“Wait a second.”
Grabbing her bags, Mary looked back at the checker.
Marge leaned over the counter, holding a red lollipop down to Patrick. “It’s okay, isn’t it, Mary?”
“Of course. What do you say, Patrick?”
“Thank you.”
“Well, you’re welcome, honey.”
“Thanks, again,” Mary said, ushering Patrick toward the door. Mary felt her shoulders relax the moment they were outside.
Patrick chattered the whole way home, which wasn’t very far. After she parked, she took him out of his car seat and handed him the can of tomato soup. He hurried toward their front door, proud to be helping with the groceries. She watched him run up the short path, his blond hair flopping around his ears, his jeans just like the big kids wore. She loved him so much it ached.
Mary’d been looking forward to making a nice meal for the two of them. Not that she didn’t cook every day, but she had Friday and Saturday off from her waitressing job at the Hong Kong Café. That meant she could spend some extra time on dinner, make chocolate pudding for dessert. After, they’d watch a movie, probably The Wizard of Oz, Patrick’s new favorite. After Patrick went to bed, she intended to soak in a hot tub. Scented candles, lavender bath salts and the new Patricia Cornwall novel. Heaven.
“Mommy, come on!”
“Hold your horses,” she said, grabbing the bag of groceries from the trunk of her old Chevy. “I’m coming.”
By the time she got to the door, Patrick had forgotten the can of soup, left squarely in the center of the doormat, and had turned his attention to the wind chimes hanging from a small branch of the elm tree that shaded the front of the house. He couldn’t quite reach the silver tubes, but he was growing so fast, it wouldn’t be a problem for long.
She cradled the grocery bag on her hip as she opened the door. As soon as the lock clicked, Patrick pushed ahead of her and raced inside. His energy amazed her.
Her own energy level continued to dwindle. She knew the reason and wished she could do something about it, but… It might do her some good to start her new craft project—making bath salts and selling them at the local flea market. She’d never been a particularly craft-wise person, but there were only so many books one could read, so much time she could focus on her son.
She closed the door behind her, locking both dead bolts. A quick glance at the windows and around the living room showed her nothing had been disturbed.
“Cookie?”
Patrick, at two and a half, was her own personal cookie monster, with chocolate chip being the uncontested favorite. She’d had to put them up on top of the fridge and dole them out or he’d just munch through the whole batch in one sitting. “Yes, but only after we put away the groceries.”
“Okay.” With that, he was off like a shot, waiting in the middle of the kitchen for her to get her act in gear. She smiled, even while she had to chase away thoughts of what Patrick’s life should have been. No use going there. This was a good life, a safe life, and that was all that mattered.
Thank heaven for the activities at the library. And, of course, Alice, who watched Patrick five days a week. Mary sighed. She really
