biological clock ran out.
They hadn’t even managed to get married before Michael started cheating on her. By the time the whole sad mess had fallen apart and Michael was gone, the heavy uterine bleeding had begun. Her gynecologist informed her that her uterus was so rotten with fibroid tumors the only treatment option was a hysterectomy. Her ovaries were salvageable so she wouldn’t be thrown immediately into the hormonal symptoms of menopause, but her fertility was gone, probably had been for a while.
Putting on a brave face, Meaghan asked her friends to throw her a fibroid shower. Instead of baby stuff, she received stretchy pajama pants she could pull over her distended abdomen and DVDs to keep her entertained while she healed. She told everyone how relieved she was to have the whole “will I or won’t I” motherhood question behind her.
And without a word, without even admitting it to herself, Meaghan grieved. She liked her friends’ kids well enough, but many days, too many days, the photos and parenting stories felt like a knife to the heart. Had she been able to acknowledge her pain, it might have made things easier. Instead she insisted she was fine and all was well.
She began deflecting invitations and stopped reaching out to people. She worked her miserable job and went home to her silent house. She joked about how she had no business being a mother and how it all worked out for the best. But, no matter how she rationalized it, she felt like a failure as a woman and mourned the child she couldn’t conceive.
Her friends drifted away as a regular presence in her life. She felt less and less connected to the world around her. By the time the pieces fell into place for her move to Eldrich, there was nothing to keep her from leaving. She had isolated herself so effectively that leaving everything she knew could be accomplished with barely a pang.
And now, the first man she’d felt any attraction to in years was a careworn beekeeper with a drinking problem and an estranged son she had to work with every day.
Oh, yeah. Some things never changed.
Chapter 8
W hen Russ and Matthew got home, around lunchtime, Meaghan was waiting.
“The honey guy came by,” Meaghan said, arms folded across her chest.
“Um,” Russ replied. After a moment he added, “You met him?”
“I did. He said to call him if you need any more.”
Russ started making a sandwich for Matthew’s lunch. Matthew walked in with a beaming smile, waved a drawing at Meaghan, and wandered past into the living room. “Dad,” Russ called. “Lunchtime.”
Matthew shuffled back into the kitchen. He smiled at Meaghan, introduced himself and shook her hand, with no recognition, and sat down at the table.
Meaghan stared at the back of Russ’s skull, willing him to turn around.
Russ sliced the sandwich in half and put it on a plate with a pickle spear. He set the plate in front of Matthew with a glass of apple juice. Matthew eyed it with suspicion.
“Turkey. You like this a lot.”
Matthew nodded and picked up a sandwich half. He took a bite and, smiling as he chewed, gave Russ a thumbs-up.
Russ puttered for a minute, ignoring Meaghan, and then turned to face her. “All right, fine. Quit the lawyer stare. What do you want to know?”
“The honey guy. He’s Jamie’s dad, isn’t he?”
Russ sighed. “Yes, John is Jamie’s father.”
Meaghan snorted. “John Smith and James Smith? You couldn’t help them pick out better names?”
Russ raised an eyebrow. “Pick out names? What are you talking about?”
“Russ, damn it, will you stop it with the cryptic crap?” Meaghan pulled out a chair and sat down. “The guy has an accent that thick and his name is John Smith?”
Matthew, who appeared oblivious to the conversation, stood up and put his empty plate in the sink. He walked toward the living room.
“Dad,” Russ called after him. “Where are you going?”
“To the sofa,” Matthew called back. “I’m
They hadn’t even managed to get married before Michael started cheating on her. By the time the whole sad mess had fallen apart and Michael was gone, the heavy uterine bleeding had begun. Her gynecologist informed her that her uterus was so rotten with fibroid tumors the only treatment option was a hysterectomy. Her ovaries were salvageable so she wouldn’t be thrown immediately into the hormonal symptoms of menopause, but her fertility was gone, probably had been for a while.
Putting on a brave face, Meaghan asked her friends to throw her a fibroid shower. Instead of baby stuff, she received stretchy pajama pants she could pull over her distended abdomen and DVDs to keep her entertained while she healed. She told everyone how relieved she was to have the whole “will I or won’t I” motherhood question behind her.
And without a word, without even admitting it to herself, Meaghan grieved. She liked her friends’ kids well enough, but many days, too many days, the photos and parenting stories felt like a knife to the heart. Had she been able to acknowledge her pain, it might have made things easier. Instead she insisted she was fine and all was well.
She began deflecting invitations and stopped reaching out to people. She worked her miserable job and went home to her silent house. She joked about how she had no business being a mother and how it all worked out for the best. But, no matter how she rationalized it, she felt like a failure as a woman and mourned the child she couldn’t conceive.
Her friends drifted away as a regular presence in her life. She felt less and less connected to the world around her. By the time the pieces fell into place for her move to Eldrich, there was nothing to keep her from leaving. She had isolated herself so effectively that leaving everything she knew could be accomplished with barely a pang.
And now, the first man she’d felt any attraction to in years was a careworn beekeeper with a drinking problem and an estranged son she had to work with every day.
Oh, yeah. Some things never changed.
Chapter 8
W hen Russ and Matthew got home, around lunchtime, Meaghan was waiting.
“The honey guy came by,” Meaghan said, arms folded across her chest.
“Um,” Russ replied. After a moment he added, “You met him?”
“I did. He said to call him if you need any more.”
Russ started making a sandwich for Matthew’s lunch. Matthew walked in with a beaming smile, waved a drawing at Meaghan, and wandered past into the living room. “Dad,” Russ called. “Lunchtime.”
Matthew shuffled back into the kitchen. He smiled at Meaghan, introduced himself and shook her hand, with no recognition, and sat down at the table.
Meaghan stared at the back of Russ’s skull, willing him to turn around.
Russ sliced the sandwich in half and put it on a plate with a pickle spear. He set the plate in front of Matthew with a glass of apple juice. Matthew eyed it with suspicion.
“Turkey. You like this a lot.”
Matthew nodded and picked up a sandwich half. He took a bite and, smiling as he chewed, gave Russ a thumbs-up.
Russ puttered for a minute, ignoring Meaghan, and then turned to face her. “All right, fine. Quit the lawyer stare. What do you want to know?”
“The honey guy. He’s Jamie’s dad, isn’t he?”
Russ sighed. “Yes, John is Jamie’s father.”
Meaghan snorted. “John Smith and James Smith? You couldn’t help them pick out better names?”
Russ raised an eyebrow. “Pick out names? What are you talking about?”
“Russ, damn it, will you stop it with the cryptic crap?” Meaghan pulled out a chair and sat down. “The guy has an accent that thick and his name is John Smith?”
Matthew, who appeared oblivious to the conversation, stood up and put his empty plate in the sink. He walked toward the living room.
“Dad,” Russ called after him. “Where are you going?”
“To the sofa,” Matthew called back. “I’m
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