and scribbled the number on it. Then she rose and handed it to him.
He set it on the bar. “Thanks.”
She headed for the door.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
He thought she nodded. Hoped to God she wasn’t crying. And couldn’t wait to hear the door shut behind her.
He didn’t breathe much easier after it happened. Her news lingered. He was going to be a father. With a woman he barely knew.
He, who was no longer capable of caring about a living human being, was going to be a father.
John had to get out. Go somewhere. Find an escape.
He made it to the window in time to see Caroline drive off.
The sun was still shining.
CHAPTER THREE
CAROLINE TOOK the first room she looked at. Her landlord, Mrs. Bea Howard, reminded her of old Mrs. Thomaswhite who ran the bakery back home in Grainville. With graying hair and wrinkled hands, she was plump, cheerful and seemed to know everything there was to know about everyone in town. A good source, Caroline surmised, for stories about her sister.
And someone to stay away from, in case she revealed more of herself than she wanted anyone to know.
The room was fairly small. The predominant piece of furniture was an old-fashioned four-poster bed that stood a good three-and-a-half-feet off the ground and boasted a down-filled homemade granny-square quilt in all the colors of the rainbow. There was a long dresser with a white lace runner, six drawers and a full-size mirror, plus a nightstand that had a lamp bright enough to read by. There was also a closet in which she could store the few belongings she’d brought with her. Best of all was the desk along the far wall directly beneath a window that looked out over the quiet street. Behind the desk was a high-speed Internet hook up. And a plug. Her computer could be up and running by nightfall.
There was no room for Jesse’s old bassinet, waiting at home in Grainville.
Mrs. Howard lived alone but had two other tenants—both of them single women who worked at Montford and had not yet returned from visiting family over the holidays. Caroline handed over first and last month’s rent and didn’t ask if Mrs. Howard allowed children.
Monday morning, after a sporadic night’s rest accompanied by a couple of long nocturnal visits with her computer, Caroline quickly showered in the bathroom she shared with the other tenants—both women she had yet to meet—pulled on her daily attire of loose-fitting jeans, sweater and boots. Then she grabbed the instructions she’d printed off an Internet map service to get to Montford University. Craning her neck, she absorbed every impression of Shelter Valley that she could process. Harmon Hardware looked like a slightly smaller, and equally old, rendition of Jim’s Hardware back home and the Valley Diner a larger, more modern place than the diner cum pub in Grainville. Weber’s Department Store had a display of baby equipment in the window.
With butterflies swarming in her stomach, she made the last turn into the university parking lot. Large old buildings lay before her amid a breathtaking expanse of perfectly green lawns broken up with the occasional cement table and bench. While the place was currently deserted, she could envision students sitting at those tables, enjoying the sunshine while they grabbed a quick lunch or studied. She imagined couples huddled together on the benches, having private conversations. She counted at least three cement-mounted swings on white latticework gazebos—a far cry from the splintery version that hung on her porch at home.
It was only the second week in January, still the semester break, so there was little chance that her sister was anywhere in the vicinity. But as she filled out the necessary papers, retrieved required signatures, met with the proper people to register for her college classes, Caroline strained for a glimpse of a not too tall, fairly thin redhead with green eyes and an opal on her finger.
“Here you go, ma’am—this is your copy.” The skinny young dark-haired man behind the counter at the registrar’s office smiled almost condescendingly as he handed Caroline a copy of her first-ever college schedule.
“Classes start on the nineteenth. A week from Wednesday.”
“Thank you.” She smiled back, not because she appreciated his making her feel like an incompetent dinosaur, but because she’d seen the schedule. Relaxing for the first time in months, she almost skipped out into the Shelter Valley, fifty-degree sunshine. Right there on the first line, it guaranteed that she’d meet her sister. Along with a couple of required freshman courses and two English classes, Caroline had been admitted to Phyllis’s Introduction to Psychology.
CAROLINE HAD BEEN in town three days. She’d spent much of the past twenty-four hours staring at her meager wardrobe, hot with humiliation at the prospect of sitting in class with eighteen-year-olds, looking like a bumpkin off the farm. But she’d need most of the cattle money for rent, and panicked at the thought of spending any more of her little nest egg from Randy’s life insurance than she had to—even at a secondhand store. She had no idea how long that money would have to last.
And there was a baby to think about….
For once the Internet produced no solution. Tuesday afternoon, sitting at her desk in a room that was spotlessly tidy in spite of the cramped quarters, with paper stacked neatly on the floor beneath the desk, and all the other supplies she’d brought from home beside her, Caroline didn’t know whether to cry or get angry. Web site after Web site was only confirming what she already knew. Her appearance was wildly out-of-date. She could pull her hair up into a ponytail—a fashionable clip would cost a couple of dollars—but after that…
Even if she was lucky enough to find more fashionable clothes at a secondhand store, she’d have to spend fifty dollars or more to update herself, and that fifty dollars could go toward the coming doctor’s bills.
A tinny rendition of Beethoven’s Fifth sounded and she jumped, looking around to figure out where the sound was coming from. Then she remembered the cell phone in the drawstring bag she’d made out of one of Randy’s old shirts a couple of years before.
Only three people had that number. Her mother. Her son. And John Strickland.
Scrambling for the phone, her fingers tangled in the rope threaded through a casing at the top of the purse, holding it closed. If it was Jesse, she didn’t want to miss his call. Talking to her son made her happier than anything else on earth.
And if it was her mom—if there were more problems with her dad…
The number on the display had a Shelter Valley area code.
She answered it anyway.
“Caroline? This is John Strickland.” Even on the phone, his voice sounded just as she remembered it.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Am I bothering you?”
Her hands were shaking, her stomach queasy. Did that count? “No.”
“I’d like to see you.”
Glancing around her room with desperate eyes, Caroline said, “Why?”
“To talk.”
She
