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CHAPTERONE
Madison Coelho cranked up the heat in her mother’s beat-up Camry and stared out through the darkness, eyes glued to the house’s lit windows.
She tried to shrink down into the seat but grunted when her belly wouldn’t let her—she still wasn’t used to the ever-growing bump. But they couldn’t see her anyway, she was pretty sure; even if they glanced out of the wide-open curtains they’d only see their own reflections.
She clenched her teeth at the cozy tableau shining out through the cold fall evening—such a pretty domestic picture.Hesat in the living room, watching some sitcom on the huge TV, sipping whiskey from a tumbler.Sheset the dining room table beyond him, periodically disappearing into the kitchen. Dripping gold and designer clothes, gliding in and out with plates and silverware and food, mouth moving as she sang some song through it all.
Of course she was singing—why wouldn’t she be?Shehad all the comfort and peace and security that money could buy.
Madison’s eyes narrowed as she imagined blowing up their illusion of perfection. Sauntering up and ringing the doorbell, drinking inherconfused politeness. Seeing the panic on his face as he realized what was happening and raced to stop it.
“Your husband is my baby’s father,” she’d proclaim, watching his face.
What would he do? Call her a liar and slam the door? Or start begging for forgiveness, promising Madison meant nothing to him?
Yeah, well. That much was true, at least.
He needed to pay for what he’d done. But was calling him out the answer? It would only have the desired effect ifshedidn’t already know what sort of man he was—but how could she not when it all paid for the fancy clothes and the big house and the bling? She’d probably just laugh and call the cops.
And if Madison did do that, he’d know the baby was his. With her luck, his one redeeming feature would be some deep desire to be a father, and he’d sue to be involved—maybe even try to take the baby away from her. And she didn’t have money to pay the fees for small claims court, let alone fight that kind of legal battle.
He got up, refreshed his drink, and sat back down on the leather sofa. The sight of his profile sent a bundle of emotions Madison couldn’t even label swirling up from her stomach, and suddenly the car was sweltering. It was all so jacked up—not only what he’d done to her, but that she’d been in that situation in the first place. She’d busted her ass in high school to get her scholarship, kept straight A’s despite being on the debate teamandin French clubandworking at McDonald’s to save for the expenses the scholarship didn’t cover. But then—
“Stop,” she said aloud. There was no point going over it again and again. Life wasn’t fair and crying about it wasn’t going to change anything. Soon she’d have yet another person to take care of when she could barely hold it together as things were. She needed money and solutions, and she needed them fast.
As he laughed at whatever zany half-hour problem the sitcom players were navigating, she gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white, trying to convince herself to just walk away. She needed every bit of energy she had to continue putting one foot in front of the other.
But there was only so much any one person could take.
CHAPTERTWO
“Madison was late again tonight.”
Naomie Alexander watched Madison’s navy jacket disappear into the bistro’s bathroom before she responded to the comment. “It’s just an exercise class, Julia. Give her a little grace.”
“I have.” Julia Gagnon’s dark eyes followed Naomie’s gaze. “She was late to one session last week and missed another completely.”
“She has so much on her plate, and our Friday klatch should be a safe space. Don’t get on her about it.” Keeping one hand on her belly, Naomie braced herself with the other as she slid onto the ice-cream-parlor-style chair, hoping the little flutter she’d just felt would repeat.
“Everything okay?” Julia’s razor-sharp professional gaze bounced between Naomie’s face and belly.
Naomie pulled her mahogany waves up to let the cool air brush her neck. “The baby’s just kicking. It’s getting more distinct now, like she’s trying to say hi.”
Julia’s face eased, and she picked up the menu. “Right on track for twenty-three weeks.”
Naomie stroked her bump. In addition to being a certified nurse midwife who worked with Naomie at Beautiful Bouncing Babies—Naomie’s maternal-and-infant-health non-profit that served Oakhurst on a sliding-scale basis—Julia was her aunt-in-law and friend. Julia was married to her uncle Pete, the youngest of her father’s brothers, and was only ten years older than Naomie’s thirty. Naomie had been ten when they’d married, and she’d adored her aunt as long as she could remember. Julia had taught her how to apply make-up, style outfits, and speak Puerto-Rican Spanish like a native. Now she was guiding Naomie through her first pregnancy.
One of Julia’s phones buzzed and she dipped into her omnipresent black tote to check the notification. “Should we just order for Madison and Chelsea? They always get the same thing.”
Naomie glanced toward the restroom, then the entrance. “No, let’s wait in case they want something different. I’m sure they won’t be long.”
Julia glanced at her watch, then poked at her braided black topknot, absently ensuring it was in place.
Naomie studied her face. Even at Julia’s most relaxed, she could never be called easy-going, but something seemed off tonight. “Everything okay?”
Julia grimaced and flicked the question away with her hand. “Just a few things I need to take care of. I’ll do the Mango Madness this time.” She set the menu down and glanced back toward the entrance.
“Something to do with Triple-B?” While Naomie ran the administrative side of Beautiful Bouncing Babies with her cofounder, Julia was the hands-on medical professional who saw clients and taught classes to expectant mothers.
