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“Okay, then. If you decide to go for it and do get pregnant again, we’ll monitor you very closely.”
She hadn’t said “again,” but it was there.
“You’re in the high-risk category because of the multiple miscarriages, but that doesn’t mean there’s any reason you can’t have a healthy baby.”
As always, Dr. Kasey had been encouraging and comforting, though Nikki had heard the words before.
N
ow, as Nikki drove onto the wider part of Tybee, she decided she was ready. She wanted a baby. Reed wanted a baby. They could afford a child and though she’d considered the idea of going throughout life without becoming a parent, it wasn’t for her. She had friends who had happily made that decision and were very happy, but Nikki couldn’t see herself without a growing family. So, she saw no need to wait, and her biological clock was already ticking loudly in her ears.
But Reed? He might need some convincing.
She didn’t know if he was ready to jump back on the pregnancy train so soon. The losses just tore him up inside.
She turned her thoughts to the interview ahead.
Ashley Jefferson hadn’t returned any of her calls and probably wouldn’t be thrilled to see Nikki on her doorstep. Well, too damned bad. The woman was Owen Duval’s alibi, so Nikki needed to talk to her.
Tybee Island had been in the hurricane’s path and was still recovering, utilities still iffy in some places, the road clean but buckled in spots where trees had been uprooted. She caught glimpses of the Atlantic, peaceful now, the tide lapping at the wide, sandy beaches, the rage of the hurricane now a memory.
Traffic clogged near the center of the island, where a construction crew was still working. She inched her Honda around a series of orange cones only to be stopped by a huge white truck parked near an open manhole cover with two workers peering into the depths. She checked her rearview, making certain the white Cadillac that had been on her bumper stopped. It did. Inches from her own bumper, a small, elderly woman peering over the steering wheel. Behind the Caddy a gray pickup with darkened windows idled and behind the truck, a motorcycle revved, its rider obviously impatient.
The driver of the Caddy honked.
Nikki threw up a hand. “Nothing I can do,” she said into the mirror, as if the drivers behind her could hear.
Finally, a flagger waved her through, the small caravan following. A few blocks later she found the address listed for Ryan and Ashley Jefferson. Their house wasn’t in a “gated community,” as Brit Sully had told her, but had its own set of private wrought iron gates and a tall stucco wall that blocked it from the street. Now the gates were propped open and Nikki seized her opportunity, turning into a wide drive that circled an area where palm trees surrounded a dry fountain, no water spraying upward or pouring over the sides of the tiered basins. Instead a pool of sludge had collected in the reservoir, and across the yard, palm fronds and shingles that had been torn from the roof littered the ground. A Georgian mansion, built of stucco and painted the same pale pink as the walls surrounding it, dominated the landscape. Tall black shutters framed the door and windows, and one door of three to the garage was open. Nikki spied a Range Rover and a Bentley SUV, parked side by side, a golf cart, bikes and various sporting equipment filling the third bay. A second two-storied building with more garage space beneath was positioned on the other side of the circle, a beat-up van parked near the covered entrance.
She assumed that was Ryan Jefferson’s vehicle and workspace. Nikki eased her Honda behind the van, parked and walked to the front door of the main house, where the salty air of the ocean was carried on the breeze. She peered inside through the windows flanking the door. The foyer was grand, a huge chandelier hanging from a ceiling two stories high. A sweeping staircase descended from the second balcony to a marble floor, where a circular table with a pot of vibrant flowers filled the space.
Nikki tried the bell, heard nothing and knocked on the wide glass doors. Seconds later she spied movement inside, a barefooted blonde in a sundress walking briskly from the back of the house.
Here we go.
She recognized Ashley McDonnell from pictures she’d seen browsing the Internet. Ashley was older now, blonder, her hair sun-streaked. Not quite as slim as she’d been in high school, she was still fit, her complexion flawless, a gold chain at her neck and irritation etched firmly across her face. After peering at Nikki through the sidelight, she opened the door just a crack.
Nikki spoke first. “Ashley McDonnell?”
“Jefferson,” she corrected, her eyes narrowing. “It’s Ashley Jefferson now. Has been for a long time.”
Nikki had known that, of course, had just wanted to see the reaction it evoked.
“Who’re you?”
“My mistake. Sorry. I’m Nikki Gillette. I’m with the Savannah Sentinel.”
“The Sentinel? You’re a reporter? For the love of God.” Her lips twisted into a deeper frown.
“Yes, and I’d just like to ask you a few questions and clear up any—”
Crash!
Both women jumped at the sound.
Ashley’s sour expression changed to one of distress. “Oh, God!” She looked over her shoulder. “Zeke!” And then she was running toward the back of the house, hurrying down a short hall, bare feet slapping on the tile as she disappeared through an archway.
Nikki stepped inside and followed as a child’s wail echoed through the house. “Oh, honey, are you okay?” Ashley said.
