There it is again. The soft sound of her voice, barely carrying over the storm.
“Taylor.” I don’t hesitate long enough to say anything else. I turn on my heel and run. My feet slip in the mud on my way, but I don’t trip.
By some miracle, I don’t trip.
I hear them racing behind me, trying to keep up.
“What is it?” Lewis whisper-shouts, breathing heavily. “Did you see her?”
I stop when we reach the tree line, searching for her. I didn’t imagine it. I know I didn’t imagine it.
“Taylor.” Mom whispers her name.
“You heard her, too?”
I look over, but Mom isn’t looking at me. Her eyes are trained straight ahead. She lifts her finger, pointing, and I follow the path.
No.
My chest turns to ice as I watch Taylor—completely drenched and muddy from the storm—cross the porch and walk right into Foxglove.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
HAZEL WILDE - 1962
When I hear his truck pull up outside, I’m braiding Billie’s hair before dinner. It’s getting so long I still can’t believe it.
I smooth the last stray hairs behind her ear and kiss her head. “Go get cleaned up for dinner before your dad gets inside.”
She stands, smooths her hands over the blue dress she’s wearing, then dashes off to the bathroom. In the kitchen, I set our small table and fill three bowls with soup. There’s a storm coming, and this old cabin gets drafty in the winter as it is. Soup is about the only thing I can stand to make this time of year.
Several minutes pass as Billie and I wait for him to come inside. When it’s been too long, I move to the door, forcing a smile and casting a quick glance her way. “I’ll be right back.”
She nods, but I spot a hint of worry on her delicate features. Even just a few months shy of four years old, she’s intuitive and understands more than she should.
Outside, I find Charles still in his truck. I knock gently on the window, and when he looks up, it’s as if he’s seen a ghost. He leans across the seat, cranking the handle to roll down the window.
“Hi, honey. Everything okay?”
His eyes are glassy, but not from drinking. He hasn’t had a drink in months. This is different. It’s as if he’s not really here. He pats the seat next to him. “Why don’t you, uh, get in here for a sec?”
Slowly, I open the door. Dread settles over me as I brace myself for whatever is coming. “What happened?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes when he says his next words, and I’m thankful for it—I’m not sure what expression my face must hold as I process the news.
“I’m having a baby.”
I chuckle. After we had Billie, I had two miscarriages. My doctor said another pregnancy will kill me. This feels like a cruel joke. “That’s not funny.”
His eyes find mine, and now I understand the glassiness. “I’m not laughing.”
“You…” I suck in a breath, thinking. “You slept with someone else.”
He pauses. “Nancy Mulligan.”
“When? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
