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“No one rang me,” I say with mock indignation.
“You’re not a Carnegie, are you?”
My throat aches as I force a smile. “I suppose not.”
I steel myself as Dot parks the Bronco in front of the café, where everyone and their lamb has gathered.
Lamb! Baby! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I realize Mrs. White has Baby. When I got back to the clinic quarters yesterday, I didn’t even think to call her. Oh, how awful of me. Perhaps she’s here now. How is poor, wee Baby? Guilt drags at me. I blink to find Dot’s hand waving in front of my face.
“What on earth?” she asks.
“I realized Mrs. White has Baby.”
“Indeed she does. She’s done a fine job, as you’d assume. Come now, you can worry over that later.”
Dot and I leave the food there in the Bronco and make our way through the mud to the porch, where I get shoulder pats and one-armed hugs.
“So delighted to see that face,” crows Mrs. Burns, my old piano instructor.
I smell cheese and eggs, perhaps cinnamon milk toast, as Dot escorts me through the café’s doorway. We step inside and someone pats my shoulder—Mr. Braun, my dear diabetic patient.
“Glad to see you, lady.”
We chat for a few moments. As we do, he shifts his weight, moving slightly rightward. The café’s rear corner comes into view over his shoulder, and my eyes snap to him: Declan.
Oh, but he looks radiant. He’s seated at round table, surrounded by adoring fans. His dark hair is neat—a wee bit wavy—and his handsome face clean-shaven. He’s clad in a pale blue Polo shirt, one thick arm resting atop the table as he nods attentively at Dot’s Mike Green.
As for me, I’m ensnared in greeting after greeting, but it’s all a dull buzz.
Between answering questions—it’s the same few on repeat—I catalog the motley crew seated around him: Holly, bottle Mac, Mike Green, Baby’s Mrs. White, Horris Ballard, and Father Russo. Declan moves and speaks as if he’s quite accustomed to the spotlight. I see his smile more in my periphery than perhaps I ever have. His low laughter makes my belly curl. My legs feel like a colt’s.
Dot and I move through the room together. Her eyes press at me in sidelong glances that I don’t return. She takes my hand and moves me toward the kitchen, where Miss Alice throws her arms around me like a mum.
“My dear girl…” My cheek presses against her mighty bosom as she squeezes me. “Rubbed the color off my beads.”
“I’m sorry.”
She steps back, her warm hands cupping my shoulders. “Don’t be. Apologizing for what’s not your fault is a disservice to yourself.” A fond smile crinkles her face. “You look well enough. So does that young man. I’ll suppose it’s you who kept him safe and not the reverse.” She winks, and heat suffuses my cheeks.
“Thank you for your faith, Miss Alice.”
She moves in for another hug and whispers, “You know I worry for you. And I love you.”
“I love you more.”
My eyes are welling as I step away, and my mind races. Now I’ve got to go into the dining hall and speak to him. What has he heard in my absence? What will he think of me? The more he hears…
I’m distracted from my worry by Rachel and Maura, who step into the kitchen through the back door, bearing a large pot of stew. Rachel is a year younger than Dot, and Maura two. Dot is closer to them than I am, so when she sees them, she rushes over. I think of the questions Dot just asked me and cringe. If I stay, there’ll be more of that, so I head off into the dining hall.
Mrs. Dillon appears out of nowhere, looking a bit like a fat bird in a mauve dress and feather-adorned pillbox hat. Her perfume is overwhelming. My head aches as she hugs me. “Oh you poor, unlucky dearie!”
Over her shoulder, I see Declan standing by his table. Old Mr. Button has him by the arm.
“We searched for days,” Mrs. Dillon murmurs. “Days and days.”
As she releases me, I hear my name called. I turn to find Rachel coming out the kitchen’s swinging doorway. Her blonde hair’s done up in dozens of tiny braids. As she throws herself at me, I smell something sweet—perhaps her lotion.
“So delighted,” she cries.
