the phone with her hand. Somewhere, she found a smile that she prayed didn’t look ghastly. “Can you give me just a minute?”
“Of course,” the woman said, and retreated.
Suzanne lifted the receiver again. “The neighbors on both sides were living there then. I always suspected one of them called the police.” Tom. In her heart, she’d known. It had to have been him at least once. Long after the police had left the first time, she’d heard the neighbors on the other side come home and seen their lights go on. “They may have heard enough to support me.”
The caseworker’s voice softened a little. “I’ll be glad to interview them, with your permission.”
“Please do. Please.” Despising the tremor in her voice that made her sound weak, Suzanne pushed on. “I’m the opposite of violent. I’ve always been humiliated by what happened. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“I understand. Thank you for your suggestions. I’ll be talking to you shortly.”
Despite the fact that she wanted to go hide in the back and cry, Suzanne made herself help the customer choose a yarn that was more suitable for the pattern she’d selected. After ringing up the purchase, she sat on the stool behind the register and prayed no one else would come in until she’d pulled herself together.
She’d never even thought of those awful scenes with Josh as something that might keep her from being able to adopt a child. Her humiliation at the knowledge that neighbors had heard and even called the police had strengthened her resolution to end her marriage. Private shame, she’d been able to bear, but not public. And now, to think that Josh could kill her dream this way….
As bewildered as she was angry, Suzanne was as bereft of understanding as she’d always been where he was concerned. Didn’t he remember the time when he loved her? Why was he still lashing out at her?
She stared at the phone and wished she could talk to someone. But who? Tom Stefanec? What would she say? Gee, I don’t know how much of my fights with my ex you heard, but I hope it was enough. He had said he thought she’d be a great mother, so maybe…
Panic and hope beat their wings in her chest, tangling and tearing. He probably hadn’t heard anything but raised voices and crashes. And however kind he’d been to her recently, she had a suspicion he was too honest to lie.
She could call a friend. But she’d never told any of them about the way Josh had sometimes talked to her, had made excuses when they’d commented about a put-down or his lack of interest in something that mattered to her. Even after she’d found the resolve to stand up for herself and tell him to leave, she had still never wanted to admit how badly she’d let herself be treated.
Carrie? But all Carrie knew was that her sister’s marriage hadn’t been good. To this day, Suzanne had managed to evade any conversation about what had really gone wrong. She didn’t think she could bring herself to tell the whole bitter history, not right now.
Despair washing over her, Suzanne pictured Jack and Sophia on Sunday, imagining having their own bedrooms. How would they handle being told, Gosh, sorry, forget those bedrooms you were dreaming about, we’ll have to try to find you another adoptive family?
Right that minute, Suzanne felt cruel at having given them hope, and worthless. Exactly, she realized, what Josh wanted her to feel.
TOM WAS SURPRISED TO GET a call that evening from a woman who introduced herself as an adoption counselor at the agency where Suzanne had been approved.
“We’re following up on some information we recently received,” she said, “and I’m wondering if you’d be willing to meet with me.”
Keeping an eye on the steak he’d just put on the broiler, Tom shrugged, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Sure. Anything I can do to help.”
They established that he wasn’t available during the day. He told her he could be home by five, and she said, “Tomorrow? I hate to hold up her application any longer….”
He didn’t like the way the sentence trailed off. Hadn’t Suzanne told him her application already was approved? What was the deal?
“Tomorrow’s good,” he said into the silence.
He’d heard Suzanne coming home a while back, so he knew she was there. He was tempted to go over and ask why all of a sudden this social worker wanted to talk to him, but what if she didn’t know? He didn’t want to alarm her. Anyway, he’d never actually knocked on her door before, and after the way he’d kept popping up over the weekend, he didn’t want to seem too pushy.
No, wait and hear what this is about, he counseled himself. It was probably just a formality, them finding out what the neighbors thought of her and the plan to add a couple of kids to her household.
But the next evening, he realized within minutes of the social worker’s arrival that the visit was no formality. A middle-aged woman with short, graying hair, this Ms. Stuart sat on one end of his sofa and opened her notebook with the brisk panache of a detective ready to interview a suspect.
“Mr. Stefanec, I’m not sure if you’re aware that the police were called to Ms. Chauvin’s home twice several years back.”
Three and a half years back. He didn’t correct her. “I called them,” he said.
Her back straightened. “Ah. Well. Ms. Chauvin gave me permission to talk to her near neighbors. I’m sure you can understand our concern about placing children in her home given a possible history of domestic violence.”
“Her husband was a son of a bitch. Pardon me for my bluntness. I called 911 when I heard him make threats. I was afraid for Suzanne’s safety.”
She scrutinized him. “Are you friends with Ms. Chauvin?”
He shook his head. “We’re neighborly. I don’t know her well. I’ve never been in her home.”
“Her ex-husband insinuated that she, too, had trouble controlling her temper.”
Tom made a sound of disgust. “Yeah, that sounds like him. You’ve got to understand. I don’t know if he ever hit her, but he belittled her constantly. I heard him yelling if she had friends over, if she wasn’t home when he thought she should be, if she smiled at another man. He fought like hell to keep her under his thumb. When she stood up for herself, he lost it. I called the cops to make sure she didn’t get hurt.”
“And in what way did she ‘stand up for herself’?”
“Not by violence. She refused to give up some friends he didn’t like. He called them names.”
“You heard that much?”
“It was summer. I was out back on my deck, their windows were open.” He was losing patience. “Ms. Stuart, I feel like I’m violating Suzanne’s privacy. She’s a nice lady. In the case of her husband, she was too nice. She’ll be a great mother.”
Without having written a word in her notebook, his visitor closed it. “That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear, Mr. Stefanec. I’m required always to err on the side of protecting the children, but in this case I had difficulty imagining Ms. Chauvin even raising her voice.”
“When
