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  I sat back in my chair, my stomach grumbling as I tried not to think too hard about the bag of candy in his hands. “What do you want, Jack? I’m very busy. . . .”

  As if I hadn’t spoken, he said, “Your eyes are brighter than I ever remember seeing them, and your face looks good with a little padding.” He paused, leaning forward, his voice lowering a notch. “And your body—it’s like ripening fruit.” His eyes dipped for a moment to my chest, where I knew the buttons on my blouse were straining to keep it closed. His eyes rose to meet mine. “Pregnancy definitely suits you.”

  My hands loosened their death grip on the edge of the desk, and I looked down into my lap. “Jack, please. Don’t.”

  “Don’t shut me out. Not now.”

  I hadn’t heard him leave his chair or come squat beside me, but he was there now, touching my cheek and wiping away a tear that I had no memory of shedding. I couldn’t speak, afraid I’d start bawling like a little girl who’d fallen and scraped her knee.

  Jack took my hands in his, the jolt from his touch doing wild things to my heart rhythm, and I focused on breathing in and out. He continued. “Mellie, regardless of what has gone on between the two of us or where we stand now, there’s a third person we need to consider. It’s no longer just about you and me. We do work nicely as a team—and there’s no reason why we can’t put our feelings aside and work together to bring this baby safely into the world, and to give him or her the best life that we can. You won’t marry me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a father to our baby. Don’t you agree?”

  His thumb was rubbing my knuckles, threatening to interfere with my brain waves. Since the first time I’d met him, I’d found it impossible to think clearly when he was anywhere near me. That—and the infamous red dress—were mostly to blame for my current predicament.

  I nodded, unable to speak any words that might be interpreted as, “You’re right.”

  He took my hands and brought them to his mouth before kissing the back of each one. I must have suffered a ministroke, because I didn’t recall him standing or pulling me up with him, his hands on my shoulders.

  He was smiling widely. “You’re making the right decision, Mellie. There’s no reason we can’t act like responsible adults for the sake of our baby.” His hands were rubbing my shoulders, and it was all I could do not to melt at his feet.

  Jack continued. “I’ll coordinate with you regarding all your prenatal appointments, because I don’t want to miss a single one. And of course we’ll want to sign up for Lamaze classes. . . .”

  I woke from my daze. “Lamaze?”

  “Yes, and breast-feeding classes, and we’ll need to go shopping for a crib. . . .”

  I sank down into my chair. “A crib?”

  Jack regarded me warily. “Yeah, a crib. You don’t want our baby sleeping in General Lee’s crate, do you? Maybe we can convert your dressing room into a nursery, and then one of the bedrooms down the hall when the baby gets older. . . .”

  I felt like a bird hurtling toward a glass window. I was going to have a baby. One day, that little person inside of me would want to come out and would probably even need a place to stay. And even clothes to wear. The source of my panic was starting to form a clearer picture in my mind. I blinked rapidly at Jack and he stopped talking.

  “Are you all right, Mellie?”

  I nodded, not completely convinced myself. But I felt buffered from the impact of whatever it was I was hurtling toward; the knowledge that Jack and I were in this together had given me a cushion from the inevitable collision.

  “And that’s the other reason why I came to see you today. I’m going to need a bigger place to live—with Nola and the baby it’s going to be crowded in my condo.”

  I continued to blink and stare.

  “Is something in your eye?”

  I shook my head, trying to collect myself. “No. I’m just . . . surprised. Your condo is so . . . you.” I wanted to say “bachelor,” and “elegant,” or even “holds a lot of memories—especially the couch,” but I clamped my mouth shut.

  “Exactly. But it’s just not going to function in my life anymore, as a dad of a teenager and a baby. Time to grow up.” He grinned and I was made to believe that he wasn’t thinking that growing up was such a bad idea. He was a good father to Nola, and when I pictured him now with a tiny baby in his arms, something inside my chest thawed just a little.

  I straightened in my chair, his words finally making sense to the ordered and logical part of my brain. “And you want me to help you find the perfect house for your new family?”

  “Pretty much. You’re always telling me you’re the best Realtor in town. I won’t even ask for the friends-and-family discount.”

  I was shaking my head before he’d stopped speaking. “This isn’t a good idea, Jack. I agree that we need to find a way to parent our child, but I don’t think working together to find a house is a good idea.” Because every time I look at you I relive the humiliation of saying those three little words and how you could only say, “I’m sorry.”

  “But who else knows what I need more than you do? Our son or daughter will be living at least half the time with me and you’ll want him or her to be in a great environment.” As if that were the end of the argument, he continued. “I’d like something big—something with lots of entertaining spaces so I can throw huge birthday parties for Nola and the baby. And a big garden that has space for a little swing set—maybe even a spot for a small lap pool for Nola. Definitely something older, even historical, with lots of architectural elements and loads of character that you can’t find in today’s cookie-cutter McMansions. I think all the bedrooms should be on one floor—preferably upstairs—so if the baby cries at night I can be right there. . . .” He paused. “Don’t you need to write this down?”

  “I haven’t agreed to work with you.”

  “But you will.”

  I frowned. “How would you know?”

  He grinned that grin and I braced myself. “Because that’s how it always works with us. I say something, you say no, I keep going as if you hadn’t said anything, and then eventually you say yes.” His gaze traveled down to my swollen belly. “Sometimes the results are unexpected, but you can’t say the journey wasn’t fun.”

  I felt my cheeks heat. “Jack . . .”

  He reached across the desk and took my hand. His voice turned serious. “Please, Mellie. There’s nobody else I’d trust to do this. You know Nola, and you know me. More important, you’ll have control over our baby’s environment. And we both know how much you enjoy controlling things.” He smiled gently, taking the sting from his words.

  Our eyes met and I was momentarily transported back in time. Marry me, Mellie. It was the first and only time he’d ever taken no for an answer from me. But we’d both moved too far beyond that point to go back and analyze or question. At least without losing a part of ourselves. Like two dogs fighting over a single bone, Jack and I had a knack for tenaciously clinging to things we didn’t know how to share.

  Realizing that arguing with him would be a waste of energy, I sighed. “Fine. I suppose you do need a new home, and I’d probably be perturbed if you chose another Realtor.” I felt a thrill of excitement course through me at the thought of not only being back in the real estate saddle again, but also at knowing that I’d be seeing Jack on a regular basis. The latter reassured me and terrified me at the same time.

  I sighed again. “When would you like to get started?”

  “As soon as possible. I’m in the middle of the Manigault book, so I’m at home working most days and my schedule’s flexible. I’m assuming you still have my cell number on speed dial?”

  He knew me so well. “Of course. If Nola ever needed you while she was with me, I would need to get hold of you.”

  “Uh-huh.” He stood, then moved toward the door, clutching the bag of candy. It took all my willpower not to look at the bag or beg for just a single piece. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon.” He opened the door, then looked back at me. “If you want to go maternity-clothes shopping, I’d be happy to go with you.”

  Straightening in my chair, I protested, “I’m barely three months pregnant. I probably won’t start showing for another few months.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, his smile frozen in place. “Sure. Well, good-bye then.” He let himself out of the door and had almost closed it behind him before he jerked it back open. “Mellie?”

  I perked up. He was going to give me a piece of candy without my asking! “Yes?”

  “You really are beautiful pregnant, you know.”

  Before I could respond, he’d closed the door, leaving me with a mouth that kept opening and closing like a sucker-punched boxer’s. I felt a cool spot on my chest, and I looked down at my blouse that I had carefully buttoned that morning and found myself wondering how long I’d sat there talking to Jack with the gaping hole where the buttons had sprung open, revealing my utilitarian—and too small—white lace bra and a wide expanse of skin.

  I pressed my forehead against the top of my desk, relishing the cool feel of the wood, and considered at what moment my once carefully ordered life had suddenly veered so permanently off course, and why the thought of returning to that life filled me with so much panic.

  CHAPTER 4

  A few days later, I was sitting in the front parlor of my house with my feet up on the recently recovered eighteenth-century Chippendale ottoman, trying to focus on my laptop. I was in the middle of preparing a portfolio of possible homes to show Jack—not too close to Tradd Street but not too far, either—but I kept getting distracted at the sight of my slightly swollen ankles that managed to make mini muffin tops over the edges of my thick socks.

  Mrs. Houlihan had already gone home and the house was silent except for the ticking of the antique grandfather clock and the sound of General Lee licking himself. I hadn’t heard the crying baby since Jack’s visit; nor had I heard anything from Detective Riley. I knew better than to believe that I’d heard the end of the story of the remains and why they were in my foundation, but my favorite pastime was denial, and while I sat in the quiet of my old house, I was content to think that maybe this time I was right.

  General Lee’s head perked up, his attention focused expectantly on the foyer. I had no idea how old he was, having inherited him, but his ears were sharper than mine. I followed his gaze toward the darkened vestibule. I was eager to replace the broken light fixture, but I’d made the mistake of mentioning it to Sophie in an e-mail and she was adamant that I wait until she returned from her honeymoon so that she could help me find a historically accurate replacement. Which actually meant overpriced and damaged in some way that would require extensive and expensive restoration—two words I had become overly familiar with since moving to 55 Tradd Street.

  General Lee stood and moved toward the foyer, his plumed tail motionless where it fell over his back. I closed my laptop and listened carefully. The dog gave a soft woof at the light footfall on the outside piazza, and then a much louder woof when the doorbell rang. Relief poured through me. The dead rarely rang the doorbell to announce their presence.

  I shuffled to the vestibule, not wanting to slip in my socks, and peered through the sidelight before opening the door.

  “Nola!” I said, my welcome completely overwhelmed by General Lee’s, who threw himself at the teenager and liberally washed her face with his tongue when she knelt down to pet him.

  She laughed, craning her neck to avoid the doggy kisses aimed at her mouth.

  “He’s not the only one who’s missed you,” I said, trying to keep the reproach out of my voice.

  She nuzzled her face into the dog’s fluffy neck, her dark hair gleaming in the porch lights. I had to force myself not to look away when she glanced up with Jack’s eyes. Nola looked like the fourteen-year-old she was supposed to be instead of the black-eyeliner-wearing waif with the combat boots and heavy attitude who’d shown up on my doorstep less than a year before.

  I blinked as if needing to clear my vision as I realized what she was actually wearing: a purple-and-ivory plaid skirt and gray blazer, and black kneesocks—albeit socks to which peace-sign pins had been attached in a row on one side. I’d have to ask Sophie who’d given Nola the idea. “You’ve started school already?”

  She grinned her father’s smile and my heart seemed to slam against the wall of my chest. I almost opened my mouth to recommend she start wearing heavy makeup again so she’d stop reminding me so much of her unfortunate paternity.

  Leaning down, she placed General Lee on the ground, where he stayed so he could gaze up at her adoringly. “Yeah. For a few weeks now.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to suppress the excitement I could read on her face. “It doesn’t suck too much. Well, except for math, anyway. But Alston and I are in the same French and math class, which makes it bearable.” She paused. “And I’m taking piano and voice. My teacher says I should audition for the school musical.” She shrugged as if she were barely able to find the energy to even talk about it. “I guess I could if I’m not doing something else.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I opened the door wider. “Come on in. Mrs. Houlihan made some brownies that I’m not supposed to know about—presumably for my dad or Jack or anybody who’s not me—and I have about three dozen bran-and-broccoli muffins from Ruth’s Bakery that I haven’t thrown away yet, if you’d prefer those.”

  She glanced over her shoulder once before stepping inside and stopping abruptly. I followed her gaze upward, where the hanging chain from the shattered light fixture still swung from the ceiling. Before she could make a comment, she caught sight of my straining blouse buttons and waterlogged ankles. “You should travel to all the area high schools as a sort of warning against pregnancy, you know? Kind of like those pictures they show kids of the blackened lungs of smokers, or the rotting teeth of meth addicts.”

  “Thank you, Nola,” I said, starting to walk toward the kitchen. “If I decide to switch careers, I’ll keep that in mind.” I pushed open the kitchen door and flipped on the lights. From what Mrs. Houlihan told me, it was a chef’s dream—all granite and stainless steel. As I was still happily ignorant as to what the appliances besides the dishwasher and microwave were really used for, I had to take her word for it.

  When I caught sight of Nola in the better light of the kitchen, I noticed the small stripe of green hair on the side of her head that could probably be fully hidden by a well-placed barrette. I smiled to myself, glad to see that even though she was wearing a school uniform, Nola—aka Emmaline Amelia Pettigrew—was still the same teenage girl I’d grown to love.

  I pulled out one of the unopened bags from Ruth’s Bakery—which I still went to every morning in the hopes Ruth would take pity on me and throw in just one doughnut—then leaned down into the warming oven. I pulled out the Tupperware container of brownies that Mrs. Houlihan had attempted to hide under a roasting pan. Apparently she hadn’t been working for me long enough to know that I had the sense of smell of a bloodhound and that my pregnancy had only made it stronger.

  I motioned for Nola to sit down, then placed plates and napkins on the table along with the brownies and a paper bag full of the inedible muffins. I took a brownie and placed it on my plate while sliding the bag of muffins in Nola’s direction. “Enjoy.”

  “Do you have any organic soy milk?” she asked, her face neutral.

  I stood and filled two glasses—my search for normal milk having ended in disappointment—and when I returned I noticed that the bag of muffins remained untouched, but there was a suspicious-looking brownie crumb stuck to the corner of Nola’s mouth. I reached over and handed her a napkin, giving the crumb a pointed stare.

  “I’m glad to hear Ashley Hall is working out for you. I don’t think your grandmother or my mother could have handled the disappointment.” I played with my milk glass, wondering how to word my next question. “How’s . . . everything else?”

  “Dad’s fine.”

  I opened my mouth to let her know that I hadn’t been asking about Jack, but immediately closed it. She would have known I was lying.

  Nola took a sip of her milk. “He’s still a bit shell-shocked from you turning him down, but he’s surviving. He’s working a lot on his book, but when he’s not, he’s spending an awful lot of time watching all those stupid baby shows on TLC. He even takes notes.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like you’d ever allow a natural childbirth, so why he’s even bothering I have no idea.”

  She paused, as if waiting for me to make a rebuttal, but I remained silent.

  “But he’s real excited about finding a family home. I guess I wouldn’t mind having a little more privacy. Last week, Alston brought over her older brother, Cooper—he’s a first-year at the Citadel—to meet me. Dad spent about fifteen minutes grilling him on the intercom and checking him out on the closed-circuit TV before letting him into the building. It was embarrassing.”

  It was a struggle to keep my face straight as I imagined Jack’s new role as guardian of his daughter’s virtue, knowing full well that he’d been the object of the same sort of scrutiny when he was a teenager. And with good reason.

  I eyed a stray crumb that had fallen on the table, wondering whether I could snatch it without Nola noticing. “He’s certainly looking for something with more living space—with lots of entertaining rooms and a big garden. And he definitely wants something older, with tons of character—which is just another way to say money sucking—with all the bedrooms on one floor, preferably upstairs.” I sighed. “He’s being so specific that I’m not sure I can find everything he wants in a single house, so he’s going to have to compromise. . . .”