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Ulla rolled the gate, eyeing Curler struggling with the rowdy German Shepherd, and suddenly she solved her mother’s riddle. She likes Mercurys. She knows them inside out. Ulla quickly spoke to Curlers, “Remove his spark plugs the first chance you get while we’re inside. Can we leave the gate open?”

Curlers gave her a succinct nod. “You got it.” With her back hunched over, she latched firmly onto Lady’s collar and hustled herself and the dog into the mobile home.

Ulla got back in. Peter drove the car into the lot and parked it next to a station wagon. He turned off the ignition and reached across the consul to the glove compartment inches from Ulla’s knees. “Excuse me,” he said, opening it.

Ulla leaned back.

Peter reached inside and pulled out a pistol.

Her breath stabbed her. “Wh—what are you doing!”

“Don’t worry, it’s just insurance.” He left the car, stuffed the gun into the waistband of his jeans, and let his coat fall back over to conceal it. He ducked into the open driver’s side and said to Ulla, “Are you coming?”

Chapter Sixty-One

Linnea

Linnea had reached the part in It’s a Wonderful Life when Clarence the angel appeared. They watched it on the brand new Magnavox with digital buttons that Everett had bought for his mother. A collection of porcelain Santa dolls sat atop, surrounding the VCR, and stared glassy-eyed at Linnea from her seat on the couch next to Everett.

His mother was curled in the Laz-E-boy recliner and on her fifth or sixth glass of sherry.

Linnea hadn’t wanted to return to Mora for Christmas Eve. “Can’t your mother come to our new house?” she’d asked Everett but knew his answer before he said, “Maybe if you moved a little faster than a snail at unpacking we could.” Linnea forgave the insult. His mother was an alcoholic, after all, better for her to be in her own home. It’s not as if Everett wanted to come back either, but he was a good son, Linnea told herself, and his sister was overseas. If she and Everett had anything in common, it was the relief that neither would have to explain to the other that alcohol and drugs cloaked their real mothers.

Linnea rested her head on Everett’s shoulder and felt their baby shift, as if intent on kicking its way out of the womb. “Feel this.” She placed Everett’s hand on her belly. He shrugged and stared at the flickering black-and-white movie. “Feel what?”

“He’ll start up again. Just wait.”

“What makes you think it’s a boy?”

“Just do. We could name him after you and then call him by his middle name.”

“And what’s that going to be?” He reached for a handful of peanuts in a ceramic dish on the glass coffee table.

“Taylor.”

He munched a mouthful. “Taylor?”

“Yes, like James Taylor.”

Everett’s mother interjected, “I love James Taylor.”

Everett rolled his eyes at his mom. He kissed Linnea’s head. “If it’s a girl you can still call her Taylor, too. Whatever you want.”

Linnea thought he’d be happy. Or at least make a show of being flattered. But that had been his answer to everything regarding their baby. Whatever you want. How could she tell Everett what she really wanted? A college degree, a man remotely excited about having a child. She thought of Ulla. They’d once talked about children. Do you want them?

Ulla had adamantly shaken her head, yet replied, “But you’d make a good mom, Lin.”

You’d make a good mom, Lin.

She dragged up the two-week-old memory of Everett coming home at dawn after studying at a classmate’s dorm. An all-nighter for his finals, he’d said. Except he’d left his books on the table.

It had been their first, and last, fight. He denied cheating, but Linnea wasn’t going to bother confronting him about anything ever again, and she made sure at her next prenatal appointment to ask the doctor about tying her tubes.

You’d make a good mom, Lin. She wondered if being a good mom meant sparing any more children from having an egotistical father.

There was a frantic knocking on the door. Linnea startled. Everett cussed, and his mother nearly tipped over the sherry.

He grumbled to his feet.