Catching Air (18 page)

Chapter Sixteen

SHE’D BEEN RELEGATED TO
the very end of the alphabet for so long that it seemed time for her to claim a spot at the beginning now. Of course, her name wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny. The background check would crack apart her story, and then everyone would know she was a fraud. Peter had kept her secret, but Dawn sensed the others wouldn’t be as sympathetic.

Kira would be able to find someone else to help out with the wedding—someone who brought fewer complications, Dawn thought as she unrolled her sleeping bag on top of the mattress pad Kira had somehow scrounged up. She’d leave in a couple of days, before the others discovered the truth about her.

The room was cold—the garage wasn’t heated—but her sleeping bag felt warm and cozy. It smelled faintly woodsy and very male. Being enveloped by it, and knowing Peter had been wrapped inside it, too, stirred up odd emotions in Dawn.

Peter was the first man she’d met, other than her father, who seemed to want to take care of her without expecting anything in return. He’d cleared the spiders from this room, brought in an extension cord and electric heating pad to warm her while she slept, and had left a book that she assumed was from his own collection:
Life of Pi
. It was a story of a castaway who’d survived against all odds. She wondered if he’d meant to convey a message of hope to her.

His brother, Rand, so tall and muscular and ruggedly handsome, was the one who’d draw the eyes of women if they were at a bar together. But Peter’s quieter charms were the kind that took hold almost imperceptibly.

It wasn’t that she had a crush on him, not exactly. And even if she did, it was clear he adored Kira. Dawn had watched them work together to defuse a potentially disastrous situation when their second set of guests had arrived. The parents and their two preteens had retired to their rooms with the Scrabble board and mugs of hot chocolate while she and Kira began prepping for the wedding tasting and Terry and his friends loudly held court in the living room. At ten o’clock, the father had come downstairs.

“My kids need to go to sleep,” he’d said, his voice carrying into the kitchen.

Kira had hurried into the living room and Dawn had followed in case she could help, but one look at the scene told her she was in over her head: The father with his sloped shoulders and wire-rimmed glasses was glaring at Terry and his equally beefy friend.
This is not going to end well,
Dawn had thought.

But then Peter had stepped in with an easy smile that belied the tension rising in the room.

“I didn’t realize how late it was,” he said. “We’ve got a quiet policy after ten
P.M.
”

Kira had looked surprised, but she’d recovered quickly. “That’s right. And with all that fresh powder we got today, you all are going to want to be hitting the slopes early tomorrow,” she’d said. Just like that, everyone had headed obediently off to bed and Peter had given Kira a wink.

How could she imagine Peter would even look at someone like her, when Kira was so pretty and capable? She kept four pots going at once on the stove, she wore jeans and winter-white turtlenecks that skimmed her delicate curves, and she calculated the prices of the items she needed at the grocery store in her head and then gave Dawn the right amount of cash. Even Kira’s toenails were pretty—perfectly formed and polished a hot pink. Dawn’s own toenails were a mess; she’d splurged on mani-pedis and bikini waxes when she and Tucker had been dating, but now her pedicure was growing out and just the tips of her toes were still red. Her hair had the same two-tone look; she had to get hold of another box of dye soon.

She’d stay as long as she could, but as soon as Kira asked for her social security number, she’d slip off without anyone noticing. She’d leave behind a note for the family who had been so kind to her. She began to compose it in her mind.
I’m sorry
, she’d begin.
I’m not who you think I am. I wish I could stay here. I wish it more than anything. I will always remember your kindness . . .

• • •

Alyssa awoke with a scream trapped in her throat.

It was a dream, she told herself as she looked wildly around the bedroom. There was her dresser, and the photograph of Grace on the wall. The house was still, and she was tucked underneath her heavy, wheat-colored comforter.

The dream had seemed so real, though. In it, she’d delivered her baby four months early. It was a boy! Miraculously, he’d been huge and perfectly healthy and they’d gotten on a plane together to go to China. As the plane’s wheels had lifted off the ground, though, she’d realized she’d forgotten her bag containing Grace’s little ducky bathrobe. Her good-luck talisman.

She’d rung for the flight attendant and begged her to ask the pilot to turn the plane around, sobbing as she tried to explain that Grace needed the robe. But it was too late. And then suddenly they were in Jiangxi, walking off the plane, and a long line of smiling Chinese women were waiting, right there on the tarmac, each holding a little girl wrapped in a red blanket—the color of good luck. Every other person on the plane was an adoptive parent, Alyssa realized. They were racing toward their babies, their arms outstretched, scooping up their daughters and showering them with kisses. Cries of joy rang through the air. Alyssa pushed through the crowds and saw one woman was left, at the end of the line.

Alyssa ran to her, and the woman placed the blanket in Alyssa’s arms. Alyssa dug through its folds, searching for a glimpse of Grace’s dark curving eyes, that tiny scar. But the blanket was empty and it fluttered to the ground. Then Alyssa realized something: The blanket wasn’t red like all the others. It was white, a symbol of death in China.

“Grace!” she screamed as she collapsed to her knees, the rough pavement biting into her flesh. The other parents were getting back on the plane with their daughters now, and the Chinese women were walking away. Alyssa was all alone. She looked down, and her sling was empty; her baby had disappeared, too.

She awoke with her face drenched with tears. The clock on her nightstand said it was just after 3:00
A.M.
, a time she’d always thought of as the loneliest hour. She’d asked Rand to sleep somewhere—anywhere—else, and the space next to her was empty. The house seemed unnaturally quiet.

“It wasn’t real,” she whispered again, needing to hear the words aloud so they’d feel more solid.

She slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stood up and walked to the bathroom. She used the toilet and washed her hands, then slid back under the covers again. It was only then that she realized she was starving. She hadn’t been able to eat before the surgery, and her appetite had vanished after it.

Her stomach rumbled, and she wished she’d thought to get a snack when she’d been up. The doctor had said she needed to minimize her movements. Would it harm the baby if she went into the kitchen now?

The enormity of her situation hit her full force: She was completely helpless, yet Grace and the baby were depending on her. Maybe the baby needed nourishment, too. Should she risk getting something to eat? She had no idea which decision was the right one.

Then she saw: There, on the nightstand right next to her cell phone, was a tray containing a full glass of water and a plate covered with Saran Wrap. Alyssa turned on the nightstand lamp, then reached for the tray and settled it on her legs. There were two thick slices of whole-grain bread, a dish of homemade blackberry jam, an orange, a blueberry yogurt, and one of those little milk boxes that didn’t need to be refrigerated to stay fresh. And a note, written in Kira’s precise script:
For midnight snacking. If you need anything else, use your cell phone to call mine and I’ll come running. P.S. I froze the yogurt so it wouldn’t spoil. It should be thawed and ready to eat by the time you read this.

Alyssa uncovered the plate and reached for a slice of bread. She covered it thickly with jam and bit into it, savoring the sweetness. She sipped the milk and nibbled on juicy sections of orange, then began on the yogurt. Kira was right; it was cool and creamy now. She used the crust of the second piece of bread to swipe the inside of the jam pot so she could get out every last bit, then she drank deeply from the water glass. She put the tray back and turned out the light and lay down on her side.

She wasn’t scared, not anymore.

She wrapped her hand around her belly and gave it a few strokes. The doctor had advised her to lie on her side, which meant that she was also facing her daughter’s picture.

She’d said the words aloud before, but they’d been rooted in terror. Now she spoke them with conviction: “I can’t choose.”

Her eyelids grew heavy, and she knew she’d fall asleep quickly and easily, and that she wouldn’t dream again that night.

“I choose you both,” she whispered into the darkness.

Part Two

Chapter Seventeen

WINTER HELD VERMONT IN
a tight embrace. The landscape had been completely transformed during the preceding weeks, and now everything was hushed and still. Little drifts leaned against the B-and-B, and icicles hung from the eaves, reminding Kira of the frosting on gingerbread houses.

Kira had just finished doing a final check of the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Soup simmered on the stove, releasing savory notes of roasted garlic and tarragon, and the two place settings in front of the counter stools were worthy of a Martha Stewart magazine cover—real silver and china from Kira’s own wedding set, and freshly ironed linen napkins tied together with delicate sprigs of white freesia and a bit of twine.

Kira wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to answer the door while Peter turned on the “Wedding” playlist she’d created on her iPod.

“Come in!” she said to Jessica and Scott. “Welcome!”

“It’s so nice to be back,” Jessica said, enveloping Kira in a hug. “Wow, this place looks wonderful!”

At least things were off to a good start, Kira thought, feeling her cheeks relax into a more natural smile.

“Just one thing. Can you move those big wooden chairs off the porch? I mean, they’re fine but nothing special, and it would look so much better if the space was clear. Maybe with a lot of little lights in votives on the railings and some silk ribbons wound around the banisters . . .”

Maybe “good” start was optimistic, Kira thought, but she kept smiling until Jessica finally ran out of breath. For such a petite girl, she had the lung capacity of a Pavarotti.

“We can move the chairs,” she told Jessica. “But your florist should be able to handle the ribbons and candles.”

“Oh. I just thought, since it was something so simple . . . ,” Jessica said, letting her sentences trail off. “I mean, my dad will pay . . .”

Simple? Nothing was simple with Jessica, Kira was learning.

“Let me take your coats,” Kira said, deciding distraction was a better course than arguing. “Why don’t you and Scott go into the kitchen?”

Kira hung the jackets in the closet by the front door, and by the time she rejoined the couple, Jessica was holding up the china plate, examining it like a pawnbroker might scrutinize a square of cubic zirconium masquerading as a diamond.

“Is this the pattern we’re using for the dinner?” Jessica asked, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not sure I like the rim of gold around the edge. Doesn’t it kind of scream . . . ‘old lady’?”

Kira caught Peter’s eye and smiled tightly. She’d spent a long time picking out that pattern, passing dreamy hours in Bloomingdale’s as she imagined cooking fancy dinners for Peter, envisioning the two of them ending every day awash in candlelight and happiness. The truth was, though, she’d ended up storing the china in a hard-to-reach cupboard and they’d used cheap plates from Target, ones she didn’t mind chipping. This was the first time she’d used it in years, and Jessica’s reaction felt cutting. The customer is always right, she told herself, even if the customer is a spoiled, self-centered, greedy Bridezilla. One with bad taste, too—these plates were tasteful and gorgeous.

“Actually, you’ll need to rent china and tables and chairs for the dinner along with a tent,” Kira said. “Glassware, too. Obviously we don’t have all of those things here.”

Jessica sighed. “It seems overwhelming all of a sudden. Things are just so stressful, with work and all my relatives nagging me about doing things their way for the wedding . . .”

Her eyes filled with tears and her bottom lip quivered.

No, Kira thought. Unbelievable! How had she ever been foolish enough to fall for Jessica’s act? Clearly the girl could access tears like water from a spigot.

She had to take a stand now, before Jessica really began pushing her around. Kira straightened up, gaining a crucial inch over the young woman, and started to say something firm but pleasant to establish reasonable boundaries. But Jessica, perhaps sensing what was to come, beat her to it.

“I thought having the wedding here would be nice, but maybe doing it at a big hotel would make more sense . . . ,” Jessica said, looking up at Kira from underneath her damp lashes.

Game, set, and match to the bride, Kira thought, realizing that if they lost this wedding, they’d also lose all the money they were counting on to make up for the slow weeks.

“Okay, we can take care of decorating.” Kira sighed. “And Peter, you can find a rental company that will deliver everything, right?”

“Sure,” he said. “No problem.”

“We’ll arrange it and I’ll just tack it onto the bill,” Kira said.

“That would be so much easier,” Jessica said. She smiled the small, private smile of one who has known all along she’d get her own way.

Poor Scott, Kira thought. Did he realize what he was in for? Maybe there was a good reason why he never said much.

“You guys must be getting excited for the wedding,” Peter was saying.

“I’m getting excited for the soup,” Scott said. “Smells amazing.”

“Have a seat,” Kira said.

Kira reached for her note card with the words
Roasted butternut squash soup with a garlic-cheese crouton
written on it in her best script, and set it down on the counter in front of the couple.

She pulled the sheet of croutons out of the oven, where they’d been warming, and ladled a bit of the creamy soup into two oversize white spoons. She dotted each with a crusty, fragrant crouton. Vivaldi was coming over the iPod’s speakers, filling the room with light, happy notes, and the sun was streaming in through the windows. Outside, the sky was clear and blue, and the snow sparkled as it reflected the sun’s light.

“Mmmm,” Jessica said, accepting one of the spoons. “Smells delicious.”

“It’s a house favorite,” Peter said, uncorking a bottle of white wine and pouring a bit into their guests’ glasses.

“Scottie, what do you think?” Jessica asked after she’d taken a tiny taste.

“It’s great,” he said.

Jessica took another small sip. “It is,” she said, daintily licking her lips. “It’s perfect.”

One down, seven to go, Kira thought, reaching into the oven and bringing out the tray of latkes.

“Latkes?” Jessica asked.

Kira paused. “Your uncle is Jewish, and you said you wanted to have something representing his faith for the wedding meal . . .”

“Oh, I meant he keeps kosher. So we just need to have a kosher meal for him.”

Kira gritted her teeth. She remembered the conversation differently. “It’ll be a little tricky to bring in a kosher meal for one person,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a restaurant that can deliver,” Jessica responded, waving away the issue with a flick of her hand. “Or mail order or something.”

A kosher restaurant willing to make a special delivery all the way up here for one meal? She’d deal with that complication later, put it on her growing list.

“Oh, speaking of, I told you my aunt is allergic to dairy, right?” Jessica said, looking at the tart Kira had put on her plate. “Does this have cheese?”

“Goat cheese, yes,” Kira said. She realized she was practically strangling a spatula with her right hand, so she loosened her grip and took a deep breath. “And sun-dried tomatoes. We’ll make sure all the foods that contain dairy have cards listing the ingredients. Some will have dairy, but most won’t.”

“Maybe we should have ingredient cards for all the foods, not just the ones with dairy,” Jessica said. “What do you think, Scott?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I mean, that way if people are dieting or something, they can avoid fattening stuff . . . We might want to have a few low-cal appetizers, too—”

“Are you nuts, girl?”

Everyone turned at the sound of Rand’s voice. Kira started. She’d barely seen him or Alyssa since they’d returned from the hospital. Alyssa was spending all her time in bed, of course, while Rand disappeared for hours every day, riding his motorcycle or hiking somewhere.

“Seems like he wants to be anywhere but here,” Peter had commented yesterday. “Don’t you think his wife needs him around a little more?”

“It’s probably just his way of relieving stress,” Kira had said, but she couldn’t help wondering if Alyssa felt lonely.

Kira had been respecting the request for quiet Rand had made on Alyssa’s behalf, going into her room only to bring meals or treats or new magazines. But when this tasting was done, she was planning to gently knock on the door and see if Alyssa was ready to talk.

Now here Rand stood, looking like he’d just stepped out of an Eddie Bauer ad, giving no hint of the emotional turmoil that must be consuming him. He wore a gray shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap, and he was holding his guitar.

“Listen, sweetheart, a wedding is the one time people can go crazy and eat whatever they want,” Rand said, coming into the kitchen. “Do you really want your guests to be counting calories at your wedding, or do you want them drinking and dancing and celebrating
you
?”

Jessica gave a giggle and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s my day.” She looked at Scott. “Our day,” she amended, and Kira muffled a snort.

Rand switched off the iPod. “How about this song for one of your dances?” he asked and began to play his guitar, serenading Jessica with Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely.”

How subtle
, Kira thought, but Jessica’s smile spread all the way across her face.

“Yummy!” Jessica said, taking a bite of the tart. “Kira, this is so good!”

She watched as Rand put down his guitar and poured himself a glass of wine. He clinked it against Jessica’s and Scott’s, turning the tasting into a party with that single gesture.

“Have you gotten ugly bridesmaid dresses yet?” he was asking as Jessica giggled again. “Isn’t that some kind of girl rule? Make your friends look bad so you look even prettier?”

Kira wondered how Alyssa put up with the fact that every female around seemed to fall prey to the charm Rand spread around like icing on a cake. She thought again of the bachelorettes’ giggles coming from the hot tub, mingled with Rand’s deep voice. Peter, on the other hand, was so steady and true. Peter, who’d once told her she was the only woman he’d ever loved besides his mom.

She looked over to see her husband clearing away Jessica’s and Scott’s plates while Rand leaned against the counter, taking another sip of wine. “Get something in fuchsia,” he was saying. “And remember: You can’t go wrong with ruffles.”

Peter was a wonderful husband, Kira thought. He’d be an incredible father, too. He hadn’t brought up getting pregnant recently, so maybe he realized the timing was terrible, with Alyssa on bed rest. Or maybe he was waiting for her to start the conversation. She sighed and finished arranging cheeses on a wooden cutting board, dotting the edges with small mounds of raspberries and spoonfuls of apricot and fig chutneys.

“Hoopskirts!” Rand pounded his fist on the table. “No one looks good in a hoopskirt. Come on, you know your friends are going to do it to you when they get married. Lay down the gauntlet early.”

Even Scott was joining in now: “Ugly hats?” he suggested. “Maybe parasols?”

“Now you’re talking!” Rand said, giving Scott a high-five. Rand had to be upset about the risky pregnancy and Grace, but you’d never know it from the way he was acting. He was putting on a good show.

Kira slid the board in front of Jessica and Scott and reached for the card detailing the items she’d so carefully selected. She waited for a break in conversation so she could announce the next appetizer and talk about how the sweet fig spread should be paired with the creamy Brie on a lightly toasted slice of French bread, and how the raspberries would enhance the goat cheese.

Kira cleared her throat. “Try the Brie,” she began. But now Rand was segueing into another story—this one about the time he’d attended a wedding where the best man had slid across the dance floor on his knees and crashed directly into a waiter holding a tray of champagne—and no one was looking at Kira’s cheese platter. She waited another moment, then set the note card on the counter and turned off the broiler so the salmon didn’t burn. The main course, she supposed, would have to wait.

• • •

She had to get rid of the money. It was an albatross, a bad-luck charm, an anchor dragging her down. What if someone looked in her purse and spotted the huge bundle of hundred-dollar bills? Or a thief could snatch it away. And if the police caught up to her, no one would believe her story if she was still in possession of all that cash. They probably wouldn’t in any case, but at least it would look better if she returned it. Or most of it, since she’d need a few thousand to keep going. Tucker obviously believed he could still manipulate her from afar, but maybe word would get back to him that she’d relinquished the money, and he’d finally leave her alone.

Dawn was surprised she hadn’t realized it sooner, but her mind had been muddy from stress and the lack of sleep or decent food. Until she’d arrived at the B-and-B, basic survival had monopolized most of her brain cells.

The only question now was how to deliver it. Western Union seemed safest, but she didn’t know what kind of electronic trail it left. So that left FedEx. She could wrap the cash in a newspaper and address the package to Kay at the office. If she used a two-day delivery method, she could be in a new state by the time the box arrived.

Her plan in place, Dawn unrolled the sleeping bag Peter had left for her and turned down her lantern. It was midnight now, and the house was dark and quiet. The tasting had gone well, and the guests had all packed up and left. It was time for her to go, too. Kira hadn’t asked for her birth date and social security number yet—things had been too busy—but she surely would soon.

Dawn slept fitfully, waking every hour or two, fearful of oversleeping and missing her chance to leave unnoticed. Finally she gave up. The sky was still dark, but it was a long walk into town, so she might as well get started. She rolled up the sleeping bag and left Peter’s book propped against it, grabbed her backpack and purse, and climbed down the stairs. She entered the kitchen and was reaching for the farewell note in her purse when a sound drew her to the living room.