The little girl who’d come in with Keegan high-heeled it over to Molly. “Do you like shoes?” she asked.
“I have a closetful,” Molly said, confused.
“I’m Devon,” the child told her. “Devon McKettrick. This is my dad.”
Molly smiled stiffly. “Hello, Devon,” she responded, glancing at Keegan. “My name is Molly Shields. Your dad and I have already met.”
“She has a lot of shoes,” Devon told her father.
“Go play,” Keegan answered.
Devon didn’t move. She looked down at Lucas, then up at Molly. “Is this your little boy?”
Molly didn’t know how to answer.
“Go and play, Devon,” Keegan repeated.
“I’m just trying to find out if she’s on the market,” Devon told him.
Emma laughed.
Keegan’s neck reddened.
“Are you married?” Devon persisted, turning back to Molly, keen as a prosecutor pursuing a point of law in a courtroom.
“Devon,” Keegan warned.
“No,” Molly said nervously. “No, I’m not married.”
“But you have a baby?”
Keegan awaited her answer.
Emma shuffled Devon off to join the other kids at the shoe-fest.
“What’s with that kid and shoes?” Molly asked, to forestall the sarcastic remark Keegan had surely been planning to make.
“It’s a fixation, hopefully temporary,” Keegan said. “How’s Psyche?”
Molly sighed, saddened. “Weak. She’s hoping to attend the Fourth of July picnic and stay for the fireworks, though.”
Pain flashed in Keegan’s eyes. He started to say something, then stopped.
Molly felt compelled to speak, even though she knew it would have been better to hold her tongue. “Florence and I both thought she should rest,” she said, “but Psyche’s got her heart set on joining the celebration. So we’re bringing her.”
Keegan considered the plan in silence, probably disapproving.
Molly pushed the stroller over to the counter and set the coffee mug down. “I guess Lucas and I had better be getting back,” she said. She smiled at Emma. “Thank you.”
“Come back soon,” Emma said, looking puzzled.
Keegan held the door open so Molly could push the stroller out onto the sidewalk. Was he being courteous, or did he just want to get rid of her as quickly as possible?
He followed her outside. “Molly?”
She turned, frowning.
“I could give you and the boy a ride back to Psyche’s,” he said.
“Do you have a car seat?” Molly heard herself ask. As if she’d get in a car with Keegan McKettrick, after the way he’d treated her.
He shook his head.
“We’ll walk, then,” Molly said righteously.
It gave her some satisfaction to march off down the street without once looking back.
But not much.
* * *
SEATED ON THE FRONT PORCH swing, Psyche watched through the screen as Molly pushed Lucas up the walk. He’d fallen asleep in the stroller, hunkered down, with his head lolling to one side.
“They’re bonding,” she said to Florence, who was setting out a light lunch on the small wrought-iron patio table.
Florence grumbled as she poured lemonade into chilled glasses, one for Psyche, one for Molly and one for herself.
“Give her a chance, Florence,” Psyche pleaded softly.
“She’s probably some kind of crook,” Florence whispered. “Keegan thinks so, and so do I.”
“Well, you’re both full of sheep-dip,” Psyche said. “I had Molly’s background checked. Do you think I’d hand my baby over to some stranger?”
“No telling what you’d do,” Florence groused.
“Hush,” Psyche said, but gently. She’d been younger than Lucas when Florence had joined the family, pushed up her sleeves and put Psyche’s topsy-turvy world to rights. Her parents, both alcoholics, had been content to donate money from a distance and leave their only child’s upbringing to a person they referred to, on the rare occasions they referred to Florence at all, as “the domestic.”
Molly stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, crouched to unbuckle Lucas’s safety strap, hoisted him into her arms. He rested his head on her shoulder and snoozed on.
Molly carried Lucas up the steps with an ease Psyche envied.
There were so many simple things she couldn’t do anymore.
“Here,” Florence said, reaching out for Lucas. “I’ll put the little guy down for his nap. He can have lunch later.”
“Let Molly do it, Florence,” Psyche said.
Molly gripped Lucas a little more tightly and made for the door.
Florence stepped out of the way, but only at the last possible moment.
“She’s a stranger,” the older woman insisted, once Molly was well inside and she’d closed the heavy door. “Whether you paid a bunch of fancy detectives to investigate her or not!”
“Nonsense,” Psyche replied, sitting down at the table and reaching for her lemonade with an unsteady hand. “She’s Lucas’s mother.”
“You’re Lucas’s mother,” Florence said staunchly.
Psyche shook her head. “I’m a ghost,” she said pensively. The lemonade was ice-cold and struck just the right balance between sour and sweet. She relished the taste, though she knew it would probably make her violently ill later on. Almost everything she ate or drank did. Calling a halt to the chemotherapy hadn’t relieved her of the nausea.
“Don’t you talk that way!” Florence scolded, shaking a finger under Psyche’s nose the way she had when she was a little girl, tracking in mud from the backyard or fidgeting in church.
“Why not?” Psyche asked, nibbling at a corner of a little sandwich with smoked salmon and cream cheese inside. “It’s the truth.”
“I’ve never heard such silliness!” Florence ranted on. “You’re as alive as I am. As alive as anybody.”
“No, I’m not. It’s strange, Florence, but the grass seems greener than I’ve ever seen it, and the sky is bluer. I hear every bird, every bug rubbing its wings together in the flower beds. And yet there’s something—remote about it all. As though I’m…receding into another place.”
Florence, reaching for a sandwich of her own, suddenly bent her head, curved her always-straight shoulders inward and began to sob.
“I can’t bear it,” she cried. “Why isn’t it me that’s dying? I’ve lived my life—”
“Shh,” Psyche told her, rising to stand beside Florence, put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “It’s all right.”
“It isn’t all right!” Florence fumed. “It’s a damn shame, is what it is! It isn’t fair!”
“You were the one who told me life isn’t fair,