her?”
“Her. Her.”
“So if she’s pregnant, who’s the father?”
“I don’t know. But I know what I saw.” Needing to be right about this—more, needing to escape what was happening between Graham and her—she went down the back stairs and onto the flagstone path.
Graham’s voice followed her. “Did you call the doctor?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Do we try it again?” he called.
She called back without missing a step, “I don’t know.”
“Where are you going?” he shouted, sounding annoyed now.
“Next door,” she shouted back. “I’m asking Russ about Gretchen. He’s around during the day. He’ll know if she has a guy.”
***
Leaving the flagstones, Amanda crossed a carpet of grass, slipped between bristly arms of junipers and yews, then cut through the pine grove that separated the Langes’ house from hers. The scent of moist earth and pine sap, so strong here, was a natural sedative. Or maybe it was the physical movement—or the distance from home—that eased the ache in her belly. Whatever, she was calmer by the time she reached her neighbors’ back steps.
She started up, stepping quickly aside when the door flew open. Allison Lange, newly fourteen, passed her in a blur of long dark hair and gangly limbs.
“Sorry,” the girl said with a breathless laugh.
Amanda caught the door in her wake. “Everything okay?”
Already down the steps, Allison jogged backward across thelawn. “Fine, but I can’t talk now. Jordie needs algebra help.” Turning, she ran off into the Cotters’ yard.
Jordie Cotter was Karen and Lee’s oldest son. He and Allison had been best friends since grade school. They were freshmen in high school now, and though Allison was a year younger, an inch taller, and more academically inclined than Jordie, they were as close as ever.
Amanda loved Allison, who was warm and decidedly open for a girl her age. Jordie was a tougher nut to crack.
“I’d greet you at the door,” Russell Lange called from inside the kitchen, “but this sauce needs stirring.” Russ, a tall, lanky guy with auburn hair that was rumpled, if sparse, was at the stove, his small, round, rimless glasses perched halfway down his nose. He wore an apron over his T-shirt and shorts, and nothing at all on his feet, which was largely how he went about his day, regardless of the temperature outside. He liked to say that living barefoot was a major perk of being a househusband, but Amanda had always suspected that he simply hated caging his feet, which were huge.
Russ was a journalist. The better part of his income came as a book reviewer, but his joy was writing a weekly column on parenting. His wife, Georgia, was the CEO of her own company, an operation that required she be on the road several days a week. That made Russ the children’s major caretaker. From what Amanda had observed, he had become a commendable parent. He had also become a marvelous cook.
“Something smells wonderful,” she remarked.
“It’s veal marsala, light on the vino given the presence of these two kiddos, though I think I just lost the girl.”
Eleven-year-old Tommy, who had the same thick black hair as his mother and his sister, put in his two bits from the table, wherehe was doing homework. “Allie said if you added more wine she’d be back.”
Amanda squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “What do you know about wine?”
“Just that Allie likes to drink it.”
“And where does she do that?”
“Right here,” Tommy said with an innocent look. “She sips from Mom’s glass.”
“How is your mom?”
“She’s cool. She’ll call later.”
Amanda amended the question. “ Where is your mom?”
“San Antonio. She’ll be back tomorrow.” The boy slipped from his chair. “I have to go in the other room, Dad.”
Russ aimed his long wooden spoon toward the den. “If it’s to chat on-line with Trevor and John, forget it.”
“It’s to pee.”
“Ah.” Russ shot Amanda a dry look. “I asked for
“Her. Her.”
“So if she’s pregnant, who’s the father?”
“I don’t know. But I know what I saw.” Needing to be right about this—more, needing to escape what was happening between Graham and her—she went down the back stairs and onto the flagstone path.
Graham’s voice followed her. “Did you call the doctor?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Do we try it again?” he called.
She called back without missing a step, “I don’t know.”
“Where are you going?” he shouted, sounding annoyed now.
“Next door,” she shouted back. “I’m asking Russ about Gretchen. He’s around during the day. He’ll know if she has a guy.”
***
Leaving the flagstones, Amanda crossed a carpet of grass, slipped between bristly arms of junipers and yews, then cut through the pine grove that separated the Langes’ house from hers. The scent of moist earth and pine sap, so strong here, was a natural sedative. Or maybe it was the physical movement—or the distance from home—that eased the ache in her belly. Whatever, she was calmer by the time she reached her neighbors’ back steps.
She started up, stepping quickly aside when the door flew open. Allison Lange, newly fourteen, passed her in a blur of long dark hair and gangly limbs.
“Sorry,” the girl said with a breathless laugh.
Amanda caught the door in her wake. “Everything okay?”
Already down the steps, Allison jogged backward across thelawn. “Fine, but I can’t talk now. Jordie needs algebra help.” Turning, she ran off into the Cotters’ yard.
Jordie Cotter was Karen and Lee’s oldest son. He and Allison had been best friends since grade school. They were freshmen in high school now, and though Allison was a year younger, an inch taller, and more academically inclined than Jordie, they were as close as ever.
Amanda loved Allison, who was warm and decidedly open for a girl her age. Jordie was a tougher nut to crack.
“I’d greet you at the door,” Russell Lange called from inside the kitchen, “but this sauce needs stirring.” Russ, a tall, lanky guy with auburn hair that was rumpled, if sparse, was at the stove, his small, round, rimless glasses perched halfway down his nose. He wore an apron over his T-shirt and shorts, and nothing at all on his feet, which was largely how he went about his day, regardless of the temperature outside. He liked to say that living barefoot was a major perk of being a househusband, but Amanda had always suspected that he simply hated caging his feet, which were huge.
Russ was a journalist. The better part of his income came as a book reviewer, but his joy was writing a weekly column on parenting. His wife, Georgia, was the CEO of her own company, an operation that required she be on the road several days a week. That made Russ the children’s major caretaker. From what Amanda had observed, he had become a commendable parent. He had also become a marvelous cook.
“Something smells wonderful,” she remarked.
“It’s veal marsala, light on the vino given the presence of these two kiddos, though I think I just lost the girl.”
Eleven-year-old Tommy, who had the same thick black hair as his mother and his sister, put in his two bits from the table, wherehe was doing homework. “Allie said if you added more wine she’d be back.”
Amanda squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “What do you know about wine?”
“Just that Allie likes to drink it.”
“And where does she do that?”
“Right here,” Tommy said with an innocent look. “She sips from Mom’s glass.”
“How is your mom?”
“She’s cool. She’ll call later.”
Amanda amended the question. “ Where is your mom?”
“San Antonio. She’ll be back tomorrow.” The boy slipped from his chair. “I have to go in the other room, Dad.”
Russ aimed his long wooden spoon toward the den. “If it’s to chat on-line with Trevor and John, forget it.”
“It’s to pee.”
“Ah.” Russ shot Amanda a dry look. “I asked for
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