Chapter 11

Charlie

Six weeks later…

This wasn’t how life was supposed to turn out. I hadn’t planned on losing my virginity or spending a week of pure happiness with Houston Pope, nor had I consciously decided that I’d fall for him, but both those had happened.

“And now this,” I muttered, the backs of my legs pressed to the cool tile of Pammy’s bath, and it clutched between my fingertips.

The mirror above the sink reflected my wan face, the puffy redness of my eyes. Ugh, this is a disaster. This is a total disaster. I lifted the stick and stared at the two pink lines that had just told me my fate.

Pregnant. Pregnant by a man who’d left for Alaska and wouldn’t be back any time soon. Who’d taken my virginity. Who I had no idea how to contact.

Yeah, I’d Google-stalked him, but he wasn’t on social media, and he certainly hadn’t left me a contact number by which to call him.

I squeezed my eyes shut and held onto the stick.

No, this isn’t a disaster. You can do this.

The little voice was exactly that: little, but it was the beginning of another train of thought.

I’d always wanted a baby. I loved kids. I’d just never pictured a pregnancy under quite these circumstances. Never mind the fact that we’d used condoms throughout the week we’d been together.

The bathroom door rattled in the jamb and the doorknob turned. “Oh! Charlie, are you in there? Shoot, sorry, I thought it was empty.”

“I’m fine—I mean, it’s fine!” I scooted off the edge of the bathtub and darted a step toward the door and then back again. Shit! The pregnancy test burned a hole in my palm. Shit, shit, double shit.

“Are you sure? Charlie? You sound a little clogged up. Have you been crying?”

“No,” I replied. “Just hay fever.” Thank god, it was spring heading into summer.

“You get hay fever?”

“Uh—” The little trash can beside the sink beckoned to me. I rushed to it, then grabbed several handfuls of toilet paper from the roll nearby. I dropped the pregnancy test onto the hard metal bottom with a very obvious bong, then covered it with the toilet paper.

There. Or not. No way in hell that would work, but I didn’t exactly have other options, right now.

I checked my reflection in the mirror, dragged my palms over my summery skirt and cotton blouse, then grimaced. I was still pale and puffy eyed, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

I pinched my cheeks—ouch—then walked to the door and opened up.

Pammy stood outside, her hands pressed to her abdomen. “Mind? I might pee my pants if you do.”

“Sorry,” I said and hurried into the hall.

She squeezed past me and whipped the door closed. A beat passed followed by a satisfied sigh. “Oh, my god, that’s better,” Pammy called out. “So, are you ready to go?”

My aunt had never had many boundaries. She was the easy-free version of my mother, before my mother had worn herself out caring for me and dad. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, you know, the festival.”

Shit, again. So much for staying home and coming up with an action plan. “I—yeah—no.” I didn’t have to go to this, did I? It was the town’s Summer Festival. It wasn’t a mandatory school event, and I could envision nothing worse than going to it and hanging around pale-faced, worrying about how I’d managed to get knocked up by a man I’d likely never see again.

“It’s going to be great,” Pammy yelled back. Shuffling, a zipper, and finally whir-swoosh of a toilet flushing, followed by running water.

“Yeah, I’m not sure I’m in the mood to go—”

Pammy wrenched the bathroom door open and narrowed her eyes at me. “Huh?”

“I’m feeling a little ill. I’ll stay home, I think.”

“Girl, I’ve known you long enough. I remember all the tricks you used in middle school to get out of going.” Pammy wriggled her nose at me. “What’s going on? You’re not sick.” She scrutinized me—I was a bug under her magnifying glass, and the sun was right overhead. Fry, Charlie, Fry!

“Hay fever,” I repeated. “I’ve got the hay fever.”

“You’ve got the hay fever,” she said, in a monotone. Yeah, she didn’t buy it. “You’re really going to make me go to this thing alone because of the hay fever? Which, may I add, is not how you say you’ve got hay fever. It’s not like you’ve got the trots.”

“There’s an image.”

Pammy extended a finger. “Wait, wait, I’ve got it.” She hurried back into the bathroom and whipped the medicine cabinet open. She rummaged around inside it and my gaze wandered to the trash can right at her feet.

Please, don’t look down. My aunt would probably be super supportive and helpful, albeit shocked, if I told her about this, but I wasn’t ready to share it with anyone. Not until I’d figured out how I’d handle this.

I had work to deal with, a mystery man to inform, and, gosh, this was 100 percent the end of my plans for studying to be a nurse. I swallowed, but the lump in my throat didn’t budge.

“Here,” Pammy said and removed a pill bottle from the cabinet. She walked back and handed it over.

The image of a hand-drawn flower, pink petals, yellow pollen, yet somehow menacing, stared back at me. “All natural hay fever remedy?”

“Yeah!” Pammy said. “I get it, too, but mostly in spring. In fact, it’s kind of weird you have it now.”

I tried for a weak grin. “I’ll take this with a glass of water.”

“Good,” Pammy replied. “Then meet me outside. We’re walking down to the town square. And hurry! I don’t want to miss the fireworks.” She hurried off, the low heels of her cowboy boots clacking on the boards.

I waited until she was out of sight then returned the pill bottle to the cabinet and shut it quietly. I tapped my foot and counted to ten, then headed out to the front porch.

Right, so, I couldn’t stay home now, and that might not be the worst thing. It’d take my mind off the weird emotions that shot through me at intervals.

Panic. Happiness. Panic. Fear. Tha-thump, tha-thump. It was as if a giant had my heart on a string and had decided yo-yoing me around was the best fun.

Pammy linked her arm through mine on the front porch, smacked her cherry-glossed lips, and then led me down the stairs and toward the street. We walked beneath an inky black sky and a blanket of stars, the smells of cut grass and barbequed meat drifting down the street.

“This festival,” Pammy said, and inhaled deeply, “is one of the reasons I stay in this town.”

“I thought you loved it here.”

“I do and I don’t,” she replied. “I hate working as some rich bitch’s housekeeper, but I love the people here. The regular folks, you know? And the cooking. Did you know the Summer Festival was started in 1897?”

“No,” I replied, mind only half on the information as we approached the center of town, passing wrought-iron lampposts and folks already snacking on barbeque or popcorn. One child stuffed in a mouthfuls of cotton candy, even though he was already green around the gills.

“It was to commemorate the founding of the town, basically. Summit Springs was around for maybe thirty or forty years before the festival started, but this one dude, Paul Jackson-Smith, he—”

Fireworks popped and sparkled overhead and Pammy cut off to clap. A thrill passed through the crowd, thicker now that we’d reached the outskirts of the town square, and people applauded. Kids cried out and clapped their sticky hands.

Kids.

And there it was.

I was right back at babies, and pregnancy.

Bodies pressed against me, Pammy elbowed me, accidentally, and excited faces turned upward to take in the show. Heat, sweat, stickiness. The back of my neck prickled, and I shivered despite it all.

I have to get out. Out of here.

Color exploded overhead, reds and blues and shoots of green, and my heart thudded against the inside of my ribcage. I lost my breath.

I backpedaled. Stepped on someone’s toes and received a “Watch where you’re going,” in return.

Pammy didn’t notice my distress; she was glued to the vision overhead, grinning, the fireworks reflected in her eyes.

I couldn’t take another second. All of it amalgamated in my mind. This small town with all its people, pressed into this tiny space, and none of them were the man who I truly wanted to see. Or did I?

I pressed both hands to my stomach. Nope. This was it. I was officially going to hurl.

I could try pretending that this was totally fine. The fact that I was pregnant was no big deal, right? But it wasn’t. None of this was fine.

Panic alert! screamed my nervous system. She’s going code red again.

I turned and shoved through the crowd, drawing yells and anger in my wake, but I couldn’t care less. The beauty of this summery night, with its heritage and fireworks and tangy-sweet meat, was lost on me.

The crowd bubbled outward and spat me into the street. I gasped and spluttered, wiped sweat from my brow. My vision speckled gray, and I stumbled toward a bench near a street lamp, empty now that everyone milled around on the green grass.

I plonked on to it and gripped my head in both hands.

It’s OK. This is OK. Just breathe. Don’t panic. You’re going to do this and you’ll be strong and nothing will stop you. A baby is a good thing. Always a good thing.

Houston’s face lifted from the haze in my brain and swam before me. A gorgeous reminder of what’d happened. After he’d left, after that sweet week of sneaking around with him, making love and laughing, and getting to know each other, I’d spent a week crying on and off.

And I’d been so angry with myself for liking him this much, addictive as he’d been.

Now, I let the tears fall. They splotched onto my skirt, and I sniffled. “Stop,” I whispered. “This is stupid. You’re OK.”

“Are you sure, dear?” A woman’s voice cracked through this intensely private moment.

I looked up and blinked through my tears.

In her sixties, with her hair dyed chestnut brown and drawn back into an elegant French knot, she was the exact opposite of me. Composed, elegant in a loose silk blouse and a pair of flowy tailored pants. A string of pearls adorned her pale décolletage.

My jaw dropped.

“I know you,” the woman said and took a seat beside me. She didn’t touch me, but the warmth of her gaze comforted me nevertheless. She was motherly and sweet, and a strong hankering for home beset me. “You’re the teacher at Daisy Oaks, correct?”

I wiped my hands on my skirt, then proffered one, shaking a little. “Charlie Stinson,” I said.

“Charlotte,” she agreed and broke into a beauteous smile. “I’m Clarissa Pope.”

“P-Pope.” Oh god, this was a relative of Houston’s. This was his mother, wasn’t it? He’d mentioned her to me once or twice over the week we’d been together. Oh god, worst nightmare happening.

“You’re not going to tell an inappropriate joke, are you? Something about the pope in the woods?” Clarissa asked.

“No,” I managed.

“What a pity,” Clarissa said. “Now, dear, I believe you’re well acquainted with my son.”

If my jaw could’ve dropped any farther, it would’ve fallen right off or unhinged like a snake’s. Ew, terrible metaphor.

“No need to gape,” Clarissa said and gently tapped the underside of my chin.

I snapped my mouth shut.

“News travels quickly in Summit Springs, particularly when it involves a young, handsome doctor.” Fireworks cracked overhead and she jumped, then tut-tutted. “I don’t usually come to these events, but I thought I’d give it a try tonight. I think that’s rather serendipitous, don’t you?”

“Why?” I asked.

Clarissa turned her sharp, turquoise gaze on me. “Because you must come to dinner, dear. Next week some time, when you’re feeling better. What do you say?”

I opened my mouth but no sound came out. This was—surreal. Houston was gone. How weird would it be for me to befriend his mother, particularly in my current situation? Pretty damn weird.

“Yes, of course,” Clarissa said and patted my cheek. For a little lady, she sure had a lot of power. She rose from the bench, just as Pammy burst from the crowd and spotted me. “Have a lovely evening, dear. I’ll be in touch.”

And with that, she toddled off and left me in total mental disarray.