“A reason I need money?”
“You in some kind of trouble?”
“No.” Not the kind he’s thinking. “Just needing to stockpile some savings.”
His silence suggests he doesn’t believe me, but the man doesn’t push. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
I hang up and sit there a moment, staring out over the lake. Starlight sloshes on dark little waves, painting the water with sparks. I roll down my window a little, breathing in spongy, wet earth and the soft brine of sea salt. Somewhere on the shore, a screech owl hoots a few times.
It stirs up a memory of the owl-covered wallpaper I had in my childhood bedroom. Mom could only afford to do one of the walls, but she and my sister and I worked together to paste it in place.
Will my kids have their own bedroom or share one? What will they be like, these two little beings I’ll meet in five months?
Drawing a breath, I stare out at the water.
“I’m gonna be a dad.” Something stirs in my gut, so I say it again. “A dad.”
Sticking the key in the ignition, I fire up the engine and drive away smiling.
Chapter 3
Hazel
“Please tell me you’re pressing charges.”
Even from six thousand miles away, my mother’s dismay drips through the phone with the faintest Romanian accent. “Embezzling from a charity?—”
“It’s being handled, Mom.” I don’t bother telling her it’s not my place to take down the thief who stole from the foundation I’ve supported for more than a decade. “But while they restructure, I need to find a new non-profit for Spencer Development to assist.”
Let’s pause for a moment and unpack the irony.
My mom grew up poor in northern Romania.
My mom has more money than God, thanks to her rich second husband.
My mom is caring and charity-minded for causes devoted to children.
My mom left her own child when I was just twelve, headed for Greece on the heels of her ugly divorce from my dad.
She eventually moved to Croatia with her new husband. Putting it kindly, Alina Pappas enjoys a tepid relationship with her only child.
That’s me, by the way.
I’m sitting here now at age thirty-four, parked outside a clinic where I’m scheduled for a pre-natal ultrasound.
Have I shared that fact with my mother?
Has she inquired about my health or personal life?
Is she even aware that I’m pregnant?
No, no, and— “No, Mom.” I tune back in just in time to catch her request. “I don’t think I’ll have time for a trip to Croatia at Christmas.”
“But Hazel,” she argues. “Rovinj is lovely in December. The fresh Škarpina is simply delectable done in a traditional brudet.”
Here’s where I know I should tell her I’ll be heavily pregnant and therefore unable to fly, let alone eat scorpionfish with its sky-high levels of mercury.
