Tags:
United States,
Literary,
Literature & Fiction,
Women Sleuths,
Crime,
Mystery,
Mystery; Thriller & Suspense,
Crime Fiction,
cozy,
Literary Fiction,
Thrillers & Suspense,
Culinary
second box was more of the same, though it held more evidence of the trajectory of Maeve’s life. Her communion dress, yellowed and brittle, felt odd in her hands, as did the crown and veil that she had apparently worn that day as well. There was another photo album, just her through the years; why did she get that perm in 1984? She smiled as she turned some of the photos and relics over in her hands, taking time to remember when things were good and when he knew who she was every minute of every day. When she didn’t have to identify herself for fear that he had forgotten who she was.
Little Mavy. The most perfect girl in the world.
There was nothing in his things to suggest that there had ever been another person in their family. “Your sister.” Dolores was mistaken. She was drunk. She had been thinking about someone else. Jack Conlon had one girl and he loved her more than anything.
CHAPTER 9
“And breathe … ten, nine, eight…”
Maeve sat against the wall in the birth class center at the local hospital, Jo positioned with her back to Maeve’s front, her eyes closing as the instructor counted down. When she got to “one!” Maeve’s eyes flew open, her head smacking against the wall as she was jolted awake.
Jo ceased her rhythmic breathing and turned to Maeve. “Thanks for doing this. We just never know what Doug’s schedule is going to be like and I don’t want to be caught with my pants down.”
“Literally,” Maeve said. She knew why she was there; that was another conversation that she and Jo had on a regular basis but that she still didn’t truly understand. The baby was Doug and Jo’s first and Maeve didn’t comprehend why Doug wasn’t involved in every single activity related to the impending birth. So far, Maeve had helped Jo pick out the crib, find the birth class, and a host of other baby-related tasks that her husband should have been involved in.
Maeve didn’t have a good feeling—about Doug, about his commitment to marriage, his devotion to Jo—but then again, she trusted so few, men in particular, that that wasn’t a surprise. It would take some kind of superman to convince her that he wouldn’t break her friend’s heart. She had been through one long, horrible marriage with Jo, and then a protracted divorce. She didn’t want Jo to go through another one, her emotions still fragile, her psyche still being put back together, day by day, piece by piece. This baby was a miracle, Jo having gotten a donor egg, her chances of having a baby after having gone through chemotherapy a few years earlier almost nil.
“Right. Pants. Have to remember to pack them,” Jo said, and started her breathing again. When she was done with that set of panting breaths, she turned back to Maeve. “I forgot to tell you.” She pointed at her head. “Will I ever get my memory back? It’s like a whole piece of my brain is missing.”
“Yes, you’ll get your memory back,” Maeve said, shifting slightly under her friend’s weight. “What do you need to tell me?” Maeve prayed it wasn’t something to do with a complicated order. As it was, just with the regular inventory demands, she was like the walking dead.
“Margie Haggerty came by the store today.”
Maeve felt her back stiffen and then seize up. She pushed Jo off of her. “Get up. I’m having a muscle spasm.”
She excused herself and exited the room, stretching her back out before bending over to get a drink at the water fountain. She swallowed as much water as she could stand before her stomach started to revolt; she didn’t know what to think about this but something in her suggested she should be angry. Maybe employing the pregnant mother’s breathing strategy was the ticket. She stood by the water fountain, panting until the feeling passed.
A thank-you note for the luncheon would have been enough. An apology would have been better. But Margie Haggerty coming back to Farringville was not good.
Jo came out of the room.
Learning to Kill: Stories