“They were a lot less happy to learn that I was pregnant,” Regan confided to her sister now. “Dad’s exact words were, ‘And you were supposed to be the smart one.’”
Brie winced. “That’s harsh. Although it’s true that you’re the smart one.”
“They don’t let dummies into Columbia,” Regan pointed out.
“True,” her sister said again. “But no one I met at Columbia is as smart as you.” She selected another cookie from the box. “What did Mom say?”
“You know Mom,” Regan said. “Always practical and looking for the solution to a problem.”
Brie’s expression darkened. “Because a baby is a problem to be solved and not a miracle to be celebrated.”
“I like to think they were happy about the babies but concerned about my status in town as an unwed mother,” Regan said, though even she wasn’t convinced it was true. “You know how people here like to gossip.”
“And then Connor stepped up to ensure the legitimacy of his babies and all was right in the world?” Brie asked, her tone dubious.
“Well, Dad was happy that Connor had done the right thing—at least, from his perspective. Mom made no secret of the fact that she thinks Connor and I aren’t well-suited.”
“How about you?” Brie asked. “Are you happy with the way everything turned out?”
“I never thought I could be this happy,” Regan responded sincerely. Not that her marriage was perfect, but she was confident that she’d made the right choice for her babies—and hopeful that it would prove to be the right choice for her and her husband, too.
“I’m glad.”
It was the tone rather than the words that tripped Regan’s radar. “So why don’t you sound glad?” she asked her sister.
Brie shrugged. “I guess I’m just thinking about the fact that everyone around me seems to be having babies,” she explained. “Two of my colleagues are off on mat leave right now, a third is due at the end of the summer and another just announced that she’s expecting.”
“That’s a lot of babies. But still, you’re a little young for your biological clock to be ticking already,” Regan noted.
“I’m not in any rush,” Brie said. “But I do hope that someday I’ll have everything you’ve got—a husband who loves me and the babies we’ve made together. Although I’d be happier if they came one at a time.”
Regan managed a smile, despite the tug of longing in her own heart—and the twinge of guilt that she wasn’t being completely honest with her sister. “I have no doubt that your time will come.”
“Maybe. But until then, I’ll be happy to dote on your beautiful babies.”
“You’d be able to dote a lot more if you didn’t live twenty-five hundred miles away,” she felt compelled to point out.
“I know,” her sister acknowledged. “I love New York, my job, my coworkers and all the kids. And I have a great apartment that I share with wonderful friends. But there are times when I miss being here. When I miss you and Kenzie and—well, I miss you and Kenzie.”
Regan’s smile came more easily this time. “So come home,” she urged.
Brie shook her head. “There’s one elementary school in Haven and it already has a kindergarten teacher.”
“That’s what’s holding you back?” Regan asked skeptically. “A lack of job opportunities?”
“It’s a valid consideration,” her sister said. Then, when she heard a sound emanate from the monitor, “Is that one of my nieces that I hear now?”
Regan chuckled, even as her breasts instinctively responded to the sound of the infant stirring. “You know, most people don’t celebrate the sound of a baby crying,” she remarked.
“But doting aunts are always happy to help with snuggles and cuddles.”
“And diaper changes?”
“Whatever you need,” Brie promised.
As soon as Connor and Baxter stepped outside, the dog put his nose to the ground and set off, eager to explore all the sights and smells. They had a specific route that they walked in the mornings and a different, longer route they usually followed later in the day. At the end of the street, Baxter instinctively turned east, to follow the longer route.
“We’re doing the short route this afternoon,” he said. Although he enjoyed their twice-daily walks almost as much as the dog, he didn’t want to leave Regan for too long on her first day back from the hospital.
He knew it was silly, especially considering that her sister was there to help with anything she might need help with. But Connor was the one who’d been with her through every minute of twenty-two hours of labor and for most of the eight days since, and he was feeling protective of the new mom and babies—and maybe a little proprietary.
Baxter gave him a look that, on a human, might have been disapproving, but the dog obediently turned in the opposite direction.
Connor started to jog, hoping to compensate for the abbreviated course with more intense exercise. Baxter trotted beside him, tongue hanging out of his mouth, tail wagging.
He lifted a hand in response to Cal Thompson’s wave and nodded to Sherry Witmer, who was carrying an armload of groceries into her house. It had taken some time, but he was finally beginning to feel as if he was part of the community he’d moved into three years earlier.
There were still some residents who pretended they didn’t see him when he walked by. People like Joyce Cline, the retired music teacher whose disapproval of “that no-good Neal boy” went back to his days in high school. And Rick Beamer, whose daughter Connor had gone out with exactly twice, more than a dozen years earlier.
But he was pleased to note that the Joyce Clines and Rick Beamers were outnumbered in the neighborhood. The day that Connor moved in, he’d barely started to unpack when Darlene and Ron Grassley were at his door to introduce themselves—and to give him a tray of stuffed peppers. An hour later, Lois Barkowsky had stopped by with a plate of homemade brownies—assuring him that they weren’t the “funny kind,” even though recreational marijuana use was now legal in Nevada. He told her that he was aware of the law and thanked her for the goodies.
Over the next few weeks, he’d gotten to know most of the residents of Larrea Street. When he’d taken in Baxter and started walking on a regular basis, he’d met several more who lived in the surrounding area.
Estela Lopez was one of those people, and as he and Baxter turned onto Chaparral Street, they saw the older woman coming toward them. At seventy-nine years of age, she kept herself active, walking every morning before breakfast and every evening after supper—and apparently also at other times in between.
“Oh, this is a treat,” she said, clearly delighted to see them.
In response to the word treat, Baxter immediately assumed the “sit” position and waited expectantly. She chuckled and reached into the pocket of her coat for one of the many biscuits she always had on hand. Baxter gobbled up the offering.
An avid dog lover who’d had to say goodbye to her seventeen-year-old Jack Russell the previous winter, Estela worried that she wasn’t able-bodied enough to take on the responsibility of another animal. Instead, she gave her love and doggy biscuits to the neighborhood canines who wandered by.
“How