“Six weeks.” Bo shook his head, smiling. “Town’s going to go crazy when that baby arrives. Mary’s already organizing a meal train.”
“She mentioned that.” Christina shifted, trying to ease the pressure on her hip. “She doesn’t have to?—”
“This is Blueberry Hill,” Francesca said gently. “She wanted to. We all do.”
Bo’s hand moved from Francesca’s back to her shoulder, an unconscious gesture of connection. Francesca leaned into him slightly, naturally, the way people did when they’d found their person.
Something in Christina’s chest tightened.
“Well,” she managed, “I should finish up. Trying to beat the afternoon heat.”
“Of course.” Francesca’s eyes held something that looked uncomfortably like understanding. “Let us know if you need anything. I mean it.”
Christina nodded and moved past them, her smile firmly in place until she rounded the corner into the cereal aisle. Then she stopped, leaning against the cart to steady herself.
They looked happy. Francesca and Bo, her mother and Will, Evan and Emily with baby Grace. Even Ally, despite the Colton situation, had her bees and her business and a sense of purpose that carried her through the hard days.
And Christina had... what? A growing belly full of secrets. A father for her baby who didn’t know he was a father.
Violet shifted, pressing against Christina’s ribs, and she winced.
“I know,” she murmured, rubbing the spot. “I’m being dramatic. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
The baby kicked again, harder this time, as if in agreement. Or protest. With Violet, it was hard to tell.
Christina took a breath and continued shopping. Ice cream—orange sorbet and chocolate, the one craving combination she couldn’t shake. Bread. Eggs. A jar of Ally’s honey with Sam’s hand-designed label, because supporting her sister was important.
At the checkout counter, Mary was wrestling Bertha away from a display of summer squash, her bright red hair escaping from its ponytail.
“I swear this goat gets worse every year,” Mary said, finally managing to clip a leash to Bertha’s collar. The goat’s tutu was now askew, bits of kale still decorating her chin. “Sorry about that, hon. Let me ring you up.”
Christina unloaded her groceries onto the counter. Mary began scanning items, but her movements slowed as she reached the prenatal vitamins, the crackers, the ice cream and sorbet.
“How are you really doing, sweetheart?” Mary’s voice was quieter now, meant just for her. “And don’t give me that ‘fine’ business. I’ve got three kids and seven grandkids. I know what ‘fine’ looks like, and you’re not it.”
Christina’s throat tightened. “I’m just tired. The heat, you know.”
Mary studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. She didn’t push—that wasn’t the Blueberry Hill way—but she packed Christina’s groceries with extra care, wrapping the eggs in additional padding, slipping in a chocolate bar that Christina definitely hadn’t paid for.
“On the house,” Mary said when Christina tried to protest. “You’re growing a whole person in there. You need chocolate.”
“Mary—”
“Don’t argue with me. I’m old and I’m stubborn and I’ve got a goat who eats my profits, anyway.” She pushed the bags across the counter. “You call if you need anything. And I mean anything—middle of the night ice cream cravings, someone to talk to, help carrying groceries. That’s what we’re here for.”
Christina blinked against the sudden burning in her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Go on now.” Mary waved her toward the door. “Before Bertha decides your bags look tasty.”
The heat hit like a wall as Christina stepped outside, the afternoon sun blazing down on Main Street. It might only be seventy-two, but to her it felt like a hundred and two. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, grocery bags hanging from her hands, watching the town move around her.
Milt Jenkins was sweeping the sidewalk outside The Iron Spade, pausing to wave at a passing truck. Two kids on bicycles raced past, their laughter trailing behind them. Through the window of The Lonely Pen, she could see Francesca shelving books.
Violet kicked again, a flutter against her palm when she pressed her hand to her belly.
“Okay,” Christina whispered. “I have you. That counts.”
Her phone buzzed with a text from her mom.
