been offered a position that would start the following September, training teachers in Wake County to use a reading curriculum in which she’d become expert. That meant driving. A lot of driving. There would be six-lane highways to travel and bridges to cross and elevators she would have no choice but to ride. September was nearly a year away, and she was determined to have her fears mastered by then.
“Kenny.” She pulled closer to him, nervous about the topic she was about to broach. “There’s something else we really need to talk about.”
His muscles tightened ever so slightly beneath her hands.
“The pregnancy,” he said.
She hated when he called it the pregnancy. She guessed she’d misread his smile earlier. “About the baby,” she said. “Right.”
He let out a sigh. “Cor, I’ve thought about it and I just don’t think it’s the right time. Especially with you starting a new job next year. How much stress do you need?”
“It would work out,” she said. “The baby’s due in late May. I’d take the end of the year off and have the summer to get used to being a mom and find day care and everything.” She smoothed her hand over her stomach. Was it her imagination or was there already a slight slope to her belly? “We’ve been together so long,” she continued. “It just doesn’t make sense for me to have an abortion when I’m almost twenty-seven and you’re thirty-eight and we can afford to have a child.” She didn’t say what else she was thinking: Of course, we’d have to get married. Finally. They’d been engaged and living together for four years, and if her pregnancy forced them to set a date, that was fine with her.
He gave her shoulders a squeeze, then sat up. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?” he said.
“When?” she asked. “We can’t keep putting this off.”
“Later tonight,” he promised.
She followed his gaze to the phone on the night table. The message light was blinking. He picked up the receiver and punched in their voice-mail code, then listened. “Three messages,” he said, hitting another button on the phone. The light in the room had grown dim, but she was still able to see him roll his eyes as he listened to the first message.
“Your mother,” he said. “She says it’s urgent.”
“I’m sure.” Corinne managed a laugh. Now that Dru had spilled the news of her pregnancy to their parents, she’d probably be getting urgent calls every day. Her mother had already e-mailed her to tell her that redheads were more prone to hemorrhaging after delivery. Thanks a heap, Mom. She hadn’t bothered to reply. She hadn’t spoken with her mother more than a few times in the past three years.
“There’s one from Dru, too,” Ken said. “She says to call her the minute you get the message.”
That was more worrisome. An urgent message from her mother was easy to ignore. From her sister, less so. “I hope there’s not anything wrong,” she said, sitting up.
“They would have called you on your cell if it was so important,” he said, still holding the phone to his ear.
“True.” She got out of bed and pulled on her short green robe, then picked up her phone from the dresser and turned it on. “Except, I didn’t have my cell on today because of the field trip, so—”
“What the—” Ken frowned as he listened to another message. “What the hell are you talking about?” He shouted into the phone. Glancing at his watch, he walked across the room to turn on the television.
“What’s going on?” Corinne watched him click through the channels until he reached WIGH, the Raleigh station for which he was a reporter.
“That was a message from Darren,” he said, as he punched another phone number into the receiver. “He’s kicking me off the Gleason story.”
“What?” She was incredulous. “Why?”
“He said it was for obvious reasons, like I should know what the hell he’s talking about.” He looked at his watch again and she knew he was waiting for the six-o’clock news. “Come on, come on,“ he said to the television or the phone—or maybe both. “Give me Darren!” he yelled into the receiver. “Well, where is he?” He hung up and started dialing again.
“They can’t pull you off that story,” she said. “That would be so unfair after all the work you’ve done on it.” The Gleason story was his baby. He’d even attracted national attention for it. People were talking about him being a candidate for the Rosedale Award.
“Darren said, ‘Did you know about this?’ like I’ve been keeping something from him.” Ken ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, don’t give me your damn voice mail,” he said into the phone. “Dammit.” She felt his impatience as he waited to leave a message. “What the hell do you mean, I’m off the Gleason story?” he shouted. “Call me!”
He tossed the receiver onto the bed, then pounded the top of the television with his fist as though he could make the news come on sooner through force. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “When I left the courthouse today, the jury hadn’t sentenced him yet and they were supposed to reconvene tomorrow. Maybe I heard it wrong. Maybe I missed the sentencing. Damn!”
Corinne looked down at the cell phone in her hand as she cycled through the list of callers. “I have five messages, all from my parents’ house,” she said. Something was wrong. “I’d better call—”
“Shh,” Ken said, turning up the volume as the brassy theme music introduced the news, and anchorman Paul Provost appeared on the screen.
“Good evening, Triangle,” Paul said, referring to the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area. “Just hours before Timothy Gleason was to be sentenced for the 1977 murder of Genevieve Russell and her unborn child, a shocking revelation shed doubt on his guilt.”
“What?” Ken stared at the TV.
Footage of a small arts-and-crafts-style bungalow filled the screen. The roof looked wet from a recent rain, and the trees were lush, the leaves just starting to turn.
“Is that …?” Corinne pressed her hand to her mouth. She knew exactly how the air smelled in the small front yard of the house. It would be thick and sweet with the damp arrival of autumn. “Oh, my God.”
Through the front door, a middle-aged woman limped onto the porch. She looked small and tired. And she looked scared.
“What the hell is going on?” Ken said.
Corinne stood next to him, clutching his arm, as her mother cleared her throat.
“Timothy Gleason is not guilty of murdering Genevieve Russell,” she said. “And I can prove it because I was there.”
CeeCee
Diane Chamberlain
Chapter Two
Dear CeeCee,
