Not Guilty by Patricia MacDonald Page A

an abrupt end to any rivalry that might have existed between them. But when she looked up at Maureen Chase again, her good intentions shriveled. Maureen’s gaze was masked by the sunglasses, but the set of her jaw was unmistakable.
    “I’d steer clear of her, if I were you,” Lucas advised.
    Keely ducked her head and slid into the cool, shadowy interior of the waiting car. “Well,” she said, grateful to be hidden from that implacable gaze, “that shouldn’t be hard to do.”

5

    T wo days later, the sun warm on her face as she sat in a comfortable, cushioned chair on the patio, Keely watched with grim satisfaction as the men from the pool maintenance company adjusted the canvas tarp that now covered the pool. Keely adjusted her cotton sweater around her shoulders with one hand and with the other, she cradled Abby, who was lying contentedly in her mother’s lap, holding her bottle.
    Plastic clattered on the leaf-strewn terra-cotta pavers as Abby dropped off to sleep, the empty bottle falling from her tiny fingers. Keely looked tenderly at her baby’s feathery eyelashes, which fluttered and then closed against her downy cheek. Keely kissed the baby’s silky hair as her head nestled against Keely’s chest.
    The older of the two men who were working on the pool cover came tiptoeing up to where Keely was sitting. He bent down and retrieved the bottle, standing it up on the end table near Keely’s chair, and then held out a clipboard with an invoice on it.
    “You’re all set,” he whispered. “If you can just sign this . . .”
    Keely nodded, and adjusted the sleeping baby so that she could sit up straighter. The man handed her the pen and held the clipboard steady while she signed the invoice. The man glanced at the signature and then said brusquely, “Sorry about . . . you know. We heard about your loss. The accident.”
    “Thank you,” said Keely.
    The man returned the pen to the pocket of his coveralls and stuffed the clipboard under his arm. “You’re set for the winter now,” he said. “Just give us a call in the spring, oh, about a month before you want us to remove the tarp, and we’ll schedule you.” He handed Keely a business card before he left.
    “Okay,” Keely said, looking at the card and nodding, but she knew she would never use it. She would leave the card on the bulletin board in the kitchen for the new owners. She had already made up her mind that she and the children would be long gone from this house by spring. As lovely as the house was, she would not miss it. They had had little chance to make any fond memories here. All she would ever remember of this house was what she had lost here.
    Keely closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair. Abby lay warm and heavy in her arms, and the late afternoon rays of the autumn sun gently warmed her face. Thank God for you, Keely thought, noticing how the pain in her heart eased when she held her sleeping baby close. Thank God for my children. Their needs made it possible—necessary—for her to go on.
    She heard the sound of the front door slamming, then the familiar voice of her son calling for her. She knew she should rouse herself, carry Abby into her crib, and greet him, but a torpor paralyzed her limbs. She couldn’t shout to him—it would wake the baby. So she waited. She knew he would find her. Sure enough, after a few more shouts from inside the house, she heard him speaking from behind her.
    “There you are,” he said accusingly.
    She tried to swivel around in her chair to see him as he stood framed by the open door. Dylan came around to the side of her and looked down at his mother and sister. Despite the warmth of the Indian summer afternoon, Dylan wore the old leather jacket over his T-shirt. The expression on his face was aloof, as if he were regarding them from a great distance.
    “Hi, honey,” Keely said. “I couldn’t get up.”
    “Why don’t you put her in bed?” he asked, as if reminding his