Coincidence, he reminds himself. It has to be a coincidence.
Emmaline pulls back, studying his face. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired.”
“Are you up for this baby shower tonight?”
He plasters on a smile. “Of course.”
She looks at him a moment longer. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
He brings her hand to his lips and kisses his palm. “I’m sure.”
Chapter Six
Sasha and Connelly walk past a line of row houses. They look like Easter eggs with their pastel facades in shades of coral, butter yellow, and soft blue and their window boxes abloom with early spring flowers. They come to stop on the brick sidewalk in front of a home painted a delicate lavender-gray.
“Show time,” he tells her.
She reaches for his hand, they interlace their fingers, and climb the front steps.
She holds a gift bag containing three board books she picked up at the bookstore near their rental. Goodnight Moon, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and Where the Wild Things Are. Classics. All beloved by her own children. An adequate last-minute gift.
Connelly rings the bell, and moments later the door swings open.
Dean Ashworth is perhaps sixty, with silver-streaked blonde hair swept into a neat chignon and sharp brown eyes that take in both of them in a single assessing glance. Her smile is warm and her handshake, firm.
“Leo! So wonderful to see you again. And you must be Sasha.” She clasps Sasha’s right hand between both of hers. “I’m Abigail. We’re so delighted to have you both joining our community.”
“Thank you for having us,” Sasha says. “And on such short notice.”
“Nonsense. Faculty family is family.” Abigail steps back to usher them inside. “Caleb and Emmaline are in the sitting room. I think they find all the attention a touch overwhelming.”
The house is as elegant inside as out. Crown molding, hardwood floors, built-in bookshelves crammed with volumes that look well-loved rather than decorative. On the other side of an arched doorway, a dozen or so people gathered in a sitting room painted a soft sage green.
“Can I get you a drink? Wine, sparkling water?”
“Nothing for me,” Connelly says.
“Wine would be lovely,” Sasha says.
Abigail leads them to a small bar cart in the corner of the sitting room. “Red or white?”
“Red, please.”
As Abigail pours, Sasha scans the room. She spots Caleb immediately. He looks younger than his author photo. Wire-rimmed glasses, dark hair a touch too long, a button-down shirt that’s wrinkled despite clearly being freshly laundered. A slightly rumpled academic. He’s perched on the edge of an armchair, looking simultaneously grateful and uncomfortable as a woman with a gray bob tinted purple shows him something on her phone.
Beside him, a pale, dark-haired woman with an enormous belly sits in the matching chair. Emmaline, presumably. She has an ethereal beauty. She laughs at something the older woman just said, and the sound is soft and lyrical.
Abigail hands Sasha a glass of deep purple Malbec and gestures toward the couple. “Go introduce yourself. I’ll steal your husband for a moment to introduce him around.”
Connelly kisses Sasha’s cheek, and then they go their separate directions. Working the room.
Sasha crosses to the couple, waiting for a break in the conversation. When the woman with the pale purple bob steps away to refill her drink, Sasha moves in.
“Caleb? Emmaline? I’m Sasha McCandless-Connelly. My husband Leo is filling in as the history substitute while you’re out on leave.”
Caleb stands, nearly upending his ginger ale in the process. “Oh! Yes. Dean Ashworth mentioned. It’s nice to meet you.”
