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  I kept stealing, right up until Mom died. It had always been little things that no one would miss, baubles that I could afford more often than not but that I was compelled to take. After Mom’s funeral, though, the shame of it became louder than the compulsion.

  At least until today in the Ben Franklin.

  If I’m caught with the cloisonné pineapple, I’ll say it was an accident.

  When I pay for the raspberry lipstick, my hands so sweaty with guilt and exhilaration that I fumble the coins, I drop two dollars into the Lilydale Community Fundraiser jar, a penance for the brooch I can’t bear to pay for or return. Then I bumble to the next store, heart still fluttering, feeling watched, as if everyone knows what I’ve done. To calm myself, I wander the aisles of Wally’s as if I have nothing but time, selecting a package of chopped ham and another of bologna before filling my basket with American cheese slices, a rainbow variety of Jell-O, and a red-and-white checked box of Lipton Onion Soup Mix.

  Everyone I speak with makes a point of telling me how Lilydale is the best place to live. The town council gathered donations to build the nursing home so no elderly people would be on the street, according to the stocker at Wally’s. There’s money put aside to cover health-care costs or missed work should any citizen need it, says the cashier. I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t hearing the stories from the mouths of locals.

  Lilydale is Eden.

  The cloisonné pineapple burns when I hear these tales.

  Three hours into my mission, I’m exhausted inside and out. I decide not to venture inside the police department to reintroduce myself to Amory Mountain, this time as the Gazette’s newest reporter. Maybe this pregnancy is taking its toll, but I simply lack the energy. I need to get the lunch meat into the refrigerator anyway.

  A glance at my watch tells me it’s nearly six. Deck is likely frustrated, already home and having discovered he has to fend for himself for supper. If I hurry, I can whip up some leftovers and give him a quick shoulder rub before I head off to cover my first Lilydale story. I find myself humming as I make my way home and then smile when I remember that’s how I left late this morning: humming.

  I even wave at Clan the Brody Bear and Catherine the Migrant Mother when I see them pull out of their driveway. I have yet to see Catherine smile, but Clan gives me a big grin and a salute.

  “Deck?” I call when I step inside our house, admiring the trimmed bushes on my way in. “Sorry about dinner not being ready, honey. But I think you’ll be happy to hear what I’ve been up to today.”

  The house’s silence is heavy. Not even Slow Henry greets me.

  Gritty eyes. Paste in mouth. Agony.

  Blink.

  The lemon-yellow room. Nothing’s changed.

  The light.

  I tug out my arm—is it moving more easily?—and wipe crust from my eyes. Yes, the light filtering through the curtains is different. It’s later in the day. The heat is still intense, though, if anything hotter than before. I am being cooked alive.

  The smell of sour and blood turns my stomach. I lift the sheets—I can definitely move more easily now—and spot blood between my legs. I press on the sanitary pad that’s been secured to my underwear. It’s warm and engorged. Soon it will leak onto the white sheets. My breasts are already overflowing, yellowish milk trickling down their sides.

  I am Joan Harken. I am a reporter. My baby is gone.

  The beat is back, bracing. I welcome it. It reminds me of my mission. Get out of this bed and find my child. It doesn’t matter what room this is or who put me here. It makes no difference what’s happened to me at all. All that counts is that I hold my infant, feed him, release the agonizing pressure on my breasts, smell his hair, count his fingers and toes.

  A sob expands in my throat, but I swallow it.

  You didn’t scream. Good job.

  An oven-heated breeze flutters the curtains and brings with it the muted sound of voices. Laughter? I lift my head and hold my breath, listening for a baby’s cry. I don’t hear it. For the first time, though, I notice this room has three doors.

  A closet.

  A bathroom.

  An exit.

  I know this with certainty, even though I can’t grasp anything else about the lemon-colored room. I will crawl to the bathroom. Clean myself. Pray for clothes. Because something is telling me that I must appear sane and composed.

  It’s my only chance.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Deck?”

  I stroll through to the backyard. Maybe he’s grilling, though I haven’t smelled it. “Honey?”

  Nothing. I peek into the kitchen and spot his note on the fridge, affixed with a Schmidt Insurance magnet shaped like a house, the logo “We’re Family” above Deck’s contact information.

  Heard you’d be working tonight, it reads. Going to an evening meeting with Dad.

  I remove the magnet and crumple the note, admiring the fridge again. It’s so sleek and modern. I put away the groceries before pouring a glass of milk and making myself a tuna salad sandwich, giving Slow Henry—who’s been tomcatting somewhere but shows up once I open the tuna can—the leftovers plus fresh water. Thank god the pregnancy hasn’t affected my appetite. No morning, afternoon, or evening sickness for me.

  Once I clean up the kitchen, I’m overcome by the craving for a cigarette.

  Ursula sneaked a pack and her favorite lighter into my purse the day I told her I was moving. “Your Lilydale survival kit,” she called it.

  We were out for lunch at the Dayton’s Sky Room in downtown Minneapolis. The clatter of forks and knives on china provided a pleasant percussion as we were led to our table, the smell of fresh-baked popovers and roasting meat making my mouth water. Ursula had wanted to dine at the Men’s Oak Grill, which we could technically now visit without a male chaperone, but the single time I ate there with Deck, I found its dark wood paneling and enormous stone fireplace suffocating. The Dayton’s Sky Room was my preferred lunch restaurant, the perfect blend of fancy and welcoming.

  I told her about moving to Lilydale as soon as we were seated. She about swallowed her own tongue and then immediately tried to talk me out of it.

  “If you have that kid there,” she said, pointing at my belly, “you’ll never leave. That’s how small towns work. They trap you, making you pop out one kid after another until the day you die.”

  I flushed. “I’m not a breeder cow!”

  Ursula tapped a cigarette out of the pack and drew it to her lips. “Really? I seem to remember someone hating kids in college, swearing she’d never have one.”

  I stared out the window to the ground twelve stories below. People flowed like quicksilver across the streets. I loved Minneapolis. It had a hundred good restaurants, the lakes, shopping, just enough to keep a person busy without overwhelming them. “I wish Libby was here.”

  Ursula’s mouth grew tight. She snapped open the rhinestone-encased lighter and spun the wheel, staring into the flame as she inhaled. “Me too.”

  “Remember that great Halloween party? Where you dressed up like Eleanor Roosevelt?”

  She tossed me the oddest look. I kept the smile perched on my face. The party was one of my favorite memories. I had a framed photo from the evening on my desk at the Star. It featured me, Ursula, and Libby dressed for Halloween.

  Libby, wearing a bomber jacket and flight goggles, was supposed to be Amelia Earhart. Ursula camouflaged herself to resemble a prim Eleanor Roosevelt complete with wavy hair and a floral dress. I was supposed to be Natalie Wood as Marjorie Morningstar but ended up looking like me wearing more makeup. Only one person guessed who I was impersonating, but it didn’t matter because that evening, the three of us laughed until our bellies ached, an emotion perfectly captured in the photograph: three young women tumbled into each other, bright-eyed and open-mouthed, the world at our feet.

  “I remember that night,” she said, the words sounding like sand in her mouth.

  My smile slipped. Ursula was in a mood. I c
ouldn’t account for it.

  “Hillbillies,” she murmured, glaring outside.

  At first I thought she meant the tiny people streaming below, but then she continued. “Each and every person in Lilydale is a hillbilly, I guarantee it. It’s a good thing you’re not moving. The best thing.” She lowered her voice to a mock whisper. “They’re probably rat-fucking Nixon supporters.”

  I threw my head back and laughed. That’s why she was acting so odd. She didn’t want me to move.

  Smiling a satisfied grin, Ursula held out the cigarette pack. “Now, show me you’re your own woman and have a smoke.”

  She ended up giving me the whole pack along with her rhinestone lighter, and now seems like the perfect time to crack them both out. I reach under the kitchen sink, where I hid them, and make my way to the back steps. I sit down and light the cigarette, eyes closing in ecstasy as I draw in the silky smoke, enjoying the sweet relaxation in my shoulders.

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a smoker.”

  My eyes fly open, and I leap off the back steps. “Mrs. Lily. I didn’t see you.”

  She’s wearing gardening gloves, but her hair is perfect, the lily-shaped locket glittering at her neck, her dress ironed, wearing pumps wildly ill-suited for outdoor work. Her mouth folds into a slow smile. “Just doing some outdoor work. Stanley used to take care of all of that, but he isn’t able to any longer.”

  Saint Dorothy must tend to her kingdom after her king, Sad Stanley, is paralyzed by an evil ogre.

  “I can help you,” I say immediately, stabbing out the cigarette. I mean it. She shouldn’t have to do all that messy gardening herself. She must be in her sixties, and besides, she looks too precious to work outdoors.

  Her smile widens. She tugs off one of her gloves. With her bare hand, she reaches over to touch my hair, pushing a lock behind my ear. It’s an oddly personal gesture, unsettling and soothing at the same time, and it brings to mind her staring at me across our yards the first night I arrived. “You’re such a pretty girl. I used to be attractive, you know.”

  “Mrs. Lily—”

  She gives a little tug to my hair, stopping my words. “Now now, no need for false compliments. I’m getting old, and that’s the truth of it. And don’t mind me. I’ve always been a jealous one. I tell you what, though. I couldn’t be happier to have a baby in the neighborhood.” Her gaze lingers on my belly before returning to my face.

  She chuckles at my expression. “Small-town gossip is quite a thing. I suppose you wanted to be the one to tell us all first? I certainly would have.”

  A warmth fills my chest, unexpected gratitude at being understood. “Well, it’s out now.”

  She pulls her glove back on. “I suppose it is. Now to that,” she says, pointing at the cigarette stubbed out on the steps. (I’d give up my left ear to make it disappear.) “We won’t tell Deck about it. He’s never liked women smoking. We must have at least one or two of our own secrets, mustn’t we?” With a wink, she turns on her heel and walks back into her house.

  The cigarette isn’t completely out, the acrid smoke crawling up my nostrils. A realization makes me shudder. Dorothy wasn’t outside when I came home, either in her front or backyard. And why would she need to wear gardening gloves inside her house?

  Ronald’s words from earlier today return.

  You have to understand how a small town works. We’re a family here. You don’t keep secrets from family.

  I spear my cigarette into the ground, dousing it once and for all, and make my way inside.

  CHAPTER 11

  Lilydale’s school reminds me of every elementary school I’ve ever attended. It has the gray lockers, poured-concrete floors, and the slightly fishy, salty smell of a million school lunches. Being within its walls is surprisingly comforting.

  The stroll here was wonderful, the evening lovely, cool but clear, ripe with joyful conversation as clusters of townsfolk file toward the school. The principal greets me at the door. I’m still tuckered from my earlier goodwill tour and so forgo introducing myself, instead walking in with what I hope is an “I belong here” gait. I follow the crowds past the lockers, the classroom doors taped with names and construction-paper cutouts, until I reach the gym. The bleachers are crowded with beaming families.

  That’ll be me and Deck one day, I think, studying them. Parents coming to watch their children in a school production. I scan the crowd, searching for other pregnant women. I don’t spot any, but I notice that everyone here seems to look alike, probably because they’re all dressed similarly. I suppose that’s true of most small towns. Humans tend to prefer blending in with the herd.

  I stroke my stomach. Hey, Beautiful Baby. Ready for your first concert?

  A gale of laughter catches my attention. A group of people—a woman and children—stand on the edge of the bleachers, probably a family, Mexican by the look of them.

  “The Gomezes. Too many kids, if you ask me.”

  I swivel. The woman at my side appears to be approximately my age, her brown hair curled into the tight bouffant similar to how Mrs. Lily wears her hair. The yarn-strung name tag at her neck reads “Miss Colivan, 4th grade.”

  “That must be common in a farming community,” I say. I thought I’d spotted quite a few large families in the bleachers. “You’re a teacher here?”

  The woman nods curtly. “Fourth grade. You’re Joan Schmidt.”

  I flinch but allow Deck’s last name to stick. “Yes. Joan . . . Schmidt.”

  The teacher raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “I graduated with Deck. He was quite popular. We were all so happy to hear he was moving back. This is his home.”

  An irrational needle of jealousy pokes me near the base of my spine. “I’m here as a journalist for the Gazette.” It’s a ten-dollar word for a nickel job, but Miss Colivan has me defensive. “Any comments you’d like to make about the music program?”

  She beams at the mass of kids horsing around on the gym floor, all of them dressed in their Sunday best. “Only that the children have worked very hard. The theme is the Beatles. Each grade will sing one of their songs, and then they’ll all come together for ‘Yellow Submarine.’”

  “That actually sounds nice,” I say before I can stop myself.

  Miss Colivan grimaces. “We have culture here, you know. We’re more of a family than a school. The students spent all week painting the submarine. Our janitor mounted it on wheels. The older children will guide it out at the finale. It will be quite something.”

  More of the Lilydale spirit I’ve been hearing about all day. I murmur something vaguely supportive (I hope), my glance pulled by the Gomez family moving toward the bleachers. I spot a child in the group I didn’t notice before. He’s small, prekindergarten if I have to guess, and he’s so gorgeous that he steals my breath away.

  “That’s Angel,” Miss Colivan says. “A boy shouldn’t be that pretty. He’ll get snatched right up.”

  I suck in my breath, turning to stare at her. “Like Paulie Aandeg?”

  Her eyes are sparkling, but I can’t read her expression. “That was decades ago.”

  “Deck told me about it,” I say, too smugly. Why do I feel the need to remind her that he’s mine?

  “I wasn’t born yet, of course, but I don’t remember hearing that he was a particularly pretty child, not like Angel,” Miss Colivan continues, as if she didn’t hear me. “Paulie was wearing a proper little sailor suit when he was snatched, that much I do remember hearing.”

  My hand goes back to my stomach. I can’t help it. “That poor family.”

  “Rumor was the mother did it. A drinker. Shoplifter,” she says, with special emphasis on the last word.

  The warm thump-thump in my veins freezes. She can’t possibly know about the cloisonné pineapple brooch I left back at the house. “Why would a mother steal her own child?”

  Miss Colivan seems to notice my outfit for the first time. I’m wearing a lavender-colored knee-length sheath with pantyhose and black
kitten heels. Her eyes narrow. “I love that dress.”

  “Thank you,” I say, inwardly relaxing. I make a mental note to ask Dennis Roth about the Paulie Aandeg case. He must have something in the archives. There’s likely no story there, but now I’m curious. “I purchased it at Dayton’s. In Minneapolis.”

  She perches her chin on her thumb, the picture of reflection. “You know what would go great with that? One of the new cloisonné brooches that just arrived at Ben Franklin. They’re lovely. You should check them out next time you’re downtown.”

  My mouth turns dry as dust. I can’t make a sound to save my soul, and it doesn’t matter, because she’s flashed me a blinding grin and trotted off to the sidelines. The concert is about to begin.

  Cruel Miss Colivan, dipping girls’ braids in the glue pot.

  She wasn’t in the store when I stole the brooch. Was she? Impossible. Her mentioning it is the wildest of coincidences. I steady my breath and claim a spot on the bleachers, but I feel like I’m balancing on marbles the whole way. Miss Colivan has unsettled me, and if I don’t put her out of my mind, I won’t get what I need for this article.

  Through sheer force of will, I manage to concentrate on the concert.

  The evening is a mixed bag. The children butcher every song, but they’re beaming with pride and sing with so much heart. My neck is prickling constantly during the show, like I’m being watched, but when I turn to see who’s staring, everyone is focused on the stage and the children. Still, one time I catch Miss Colivan pointing in my direction before leaning toward a fellow teacher to whisper something.

  That’s when I realize I’ve felt watched the whole time I’ve been in this town, above and beyond what I’d expect as a newcomer. I shudder. Am I imagining it?

  After the program, I gather quotes from parents and pose the children to snap some photos with the camera Dennis has lent me.

  If only Ursula could see me now.

  She would hate how I’m backsliding into a hausfrau reporter, right on the heels of transforming into a just plain hausfrau.