Finding Colin Firth: A Novel (16 page)

Penelope glanced at her, as though surprised Veronica could want something. “I’ll try it.”

“Is this why you took the class? For the recipe?”

“Among other reasons,” Penelope said.

“Veronica,” Leigh called. “The oven dinged. Preheating is done.”

“Coming!” Veronica called back.

“Let’s go put the pie in the oven,” she said to Penelope. “I’ll be spending the remaining class time going over techniques, and each student will work independently on a piecrust. You can try again at the feeling you’re after with this person.”

Penelope nodded and looked away. There was defeat in her face now.

“And Penelope, if you need to, you can call me. For whatever reason.”

Penelope glanced at her. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

A few minutes later, the brown sugar crumb topping was over the pie and it was in the oven, and everyone was making their own piecrusts as practice. The class was going well. Nick and Leigh were laughing about the dusting of flour on
Nick’s cheek and in Leigh’s hair. June and Isabel were chatting away about family memories. And Penelope was forming her dough into a ball, much too roughly, as though she were trying to force the feeling again, forge a bond where maybe none existed. Veronica reminded her to be gentle or the dough would be too tough. And then again, out of nowhere, Veronica felt the strangest sensation of a tiny weight in her arms.

Gemma sat on the porch swing of the Three Captains’ Inn with her laptop, typing up her notes from her visit to Hope Home earlier that day. She had about ten minutes left before Bea would arrive for the introduction to Isabel about the job in the kitchen. Gemma was glad she’d recorded her interview with Pauline Lee and had taken notes; there was so much to digest, and each answer she got from Pauline had elicited more questions. Of the seven residents at Hope Home right now, one was keeping her baby, four were going the adoption route, including the two girls whose conversation with Bea had spiraled out of control, and two were undecided, including a newly pregnant seventeen-year-old with a college scholarship who was considering terminating the pregnancy.

The seven girls at Hope Home came from all over; two girls were from New York, four others from the New England states, including one from right here in Boothbay Harbor, and one came all the way from Georgia. According to Pauline Lee, none of the girls had intended to become pregnant. Two girls, caught up in the moment, had been assured when their partners said they would “pull out,” so they “had nothing to worry about.” Another used no birth control at all, having heard that a woman could only get pregnant at a certain time of the month,
and she was sure it wasn’t that time for her. Two others were careless with remembering to take their birth control pills. And two others had reported that their partners had used condoms, but that they had broken.

Gemma could attest to a broken condom causing an unexpected pregnancy.

She’d lost her own virginity at sixteen to her high school boyfriend, a cute, driven fellow reporter on the school newspaper who’d unfortunately taken “getting the story at all costs” to new heights and become very unpopular. They’d been a couple for over a year when Gemma had had enough of his relentless determination to put the story above people’s feelings; that was a line Gemma had never—and would never—cross as a reporter.

She’d asked her boss at
New York Weekly
if that was the real reason she’d made the list of those being let go, and he’d hemmed and hawed and said most of the time, in the types of stories she covered, people came first anyway. But there had been a time when Gemma was expected to hound a woman who’d recently lost her soldier son for reaction to a controversy surrounding his death, and Gemma had refused. Another newspaper had gotten the shot of the grieving, angry woman, who’d refused to talk to reporters anyway. But Gemma’s refusal to bother the woman had been noted.

There were questions she didn’t want to ask for the article on Hope Home either. Questions she wouldn’t ask, ones that were too personal and no one’s business. There was a line, and Gemma tended to know what it was. Her high school beau hadn’t believed in that line, and her admiration of him had turned to disdain.

And if she’d gotten pregnant then? If the condom had broken
at sixteen instead of at twenty-nine? What would she have done?

She didn’t know. But the thought that went through her mind was: There but for the grace of God go I.

Because you were having sex in the first place
, she heard her older sister say, as though Anna were sitting right next to her. Once, when Gemma was sixteen and worried that she might be pregnant because her period was almost a week late, Anna, home from college for Christmas break, had said almost exactly that.
If you weren’t having sex, you wouldn’t have to worry about being pregnant. Don’t do the thing, and you won’t be the thing. It’s that simple
.

Nothing was really ever so simple, Gemma thought. Absolutes, maybe. But not emotions.

Gemma’s phone rang and she grabbed for it, hopeful that it was the director of Hope Home. Pauline had promised to ask a few of the residents if they’d be willing to speak to Gemma to be interviewed and quoted in her article.

But it wasn’t the director. It was Mona Hendricks, her mother-in-law. Gemma sighed and answered. She could picture fifty-six-year-old Mona, with her curly brown bob and multicolored reading glasses on a beaded chain around her neck, working on an elaborate recipe like beef bourguignon in her kitchen, which was bigger than Gemma’s living room.

“Gemma, what’s this I hear about you staying up in Maine for the week?” Mona asked. “Is there trouble between you and Alex?”

Did all mothers-in-law ask such nosy, personal questions?

“I came up for a wedding and since I lost my job, I figured I’d extend my visit with my girlfriends. I don’t get to see them much.”

“Well, you won’t get to see Alexander much three hundred miles away either,” she said. “When are you coming home—I want to make an appointment with a Realtor I’ve heard great things about. There are two new houses on the market I think would be perfect for you and Alexander. One is a Colonial with—”

“Mona, I’m sorry to cut you short, but my friend just arrived, so I need to go. Talk soon. Bye.” It was a waste of Gemma’s breath to remind Mona that she didn’t want to leave New York City. Mona didn’t hear her, didn’t care how she felt. All the Hendrickses thought she was wrong and selfish for wanting to stay in the city.

Gemma might have felt guilty for practically hanging up on her mother-in-law, but Bea had indeed pulled into the driveway. She’d changed out of her jeans and T-shirt into a pretty cotton dress and ballet flats, her light blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. There was something about Bea that made Gemma feel protective. Bea was all alone in the world and was dealing with an emotionally heavy situation. While Bea had been telling Gemma her story, about receiving the deathbed confession letter—a year later—from her late mother, Gemma wondered how she’d feel if she’d received a letter like that.
I didn’t give birth to you. We adopted you
. But there was a big difference between Bea’s mother, whom Bea had described as mother of the year, twenty-one years strong, and Gemma’s mother, who Gemma was pretty sure suffered from some kind of dissociative disorder. Gemma would read that letter, addressed to herself, and want to think ah, yes, now it makes sense, no wonder, she wasn’t really my mother. But motherhood didn’t work like that—that much Gemma was sure of. Motherhood wasn’t about who gave birth
to you, who adopted you, who raised you. It was about love, commitment, responsibility. It was about being there. About wanting to be there.

It’s not that I don’t want to be there, she directed toward her belly. It’s just that . . . I don’t seem to want this—motherhood—the way I want my career back. I know that’s awful. Because I’m going to be a mother in seven and a half months.

You sound like Mom, she blasted herself, and again felt that icy squeeze in her heart.

“Hey,” Bea said as she came up the steps. “I can’t thank you enough for offering to introduce me to the inn manager. I don’t know if it’ll work out, since I don’t know how long I can promise to stay.”

“Well, let’s go find Isabel. I let her know that I met someone who might be perfect for the kitchen job, and she said to just come find her when you arrived. I’ll cross my fingers for you.”

They found Isabel, her baby strapped to her chest, refilling maps and brochures on the sideboard in the foyer. She extended her hand to Bea and introduced herself and baby Allie.

Gemma stared at the baby, again trying to imagine herself multitasking like this with a baby strapped to her chest. How did Isabel make it look so easy when it couldn’t be?

Isabel shook Bea’s hand. “My interview consists of you whipping me up a traditional American breakfast, then cleaning up,” Isabel said. “I should have told Gemma to tell you not to dress up for the interview—ratty old clothes would have done fine.”

Gemma almost laughed. Bea could have shown up in her turkey sandwich–encrusted jeans and been properly dressed for the interview.

“Gemma,” Isabel said, “I know this is a lot to ask, but we’ll
just need about a half hour—would you mind watching Allie for me?”

Gemma froze. Watch the baby? She was shocked that Isabel trusted her in the first place. Granted, Gemma was considered a family friend who had known the Nash sisters since they were kids, but what in the world made Isabel think Gemma knew how to hold a baby, let alone change a diaper? Maybe the baby wouldn’t poop in the next half hour.

“Won’t be more than thirty minutes,” Isabel said. “Trust me, if Bea takes half that long to make scrambled eggs and toast, she’s in trouble,” she added, winking at Bea.

Gemma eyed the baby, face out to the world with her big blue eyes and chubby cheeks. She was just sitting there, looking quite curious, not crying, not making strange noises. Gemma could do this for a half hour. She should be able to do this. It would be a good practice run.

“No problem,” she said to Isabel.

“You can take her in the backyard. Her swing is out there, and her diaper bag with everything you might need is right next to it. She’s been fed and changed very recently, so I think she’ll be content to just be held or rock in the swing.”

“Okay,” Gemma said.
I can do this. I will be doing this in seven months. I can do this
.

Isabel lifted the baby out of the BabyBjörn and handed her to Gemma. Just like that, the baby was in Gemma’s arms, Gemma shifting her so that she had a good grip on her. She was so light!

I’m doing this, she thought. She’d avoided holding her own niece, Alexander’s brother’s daughter, until she was a year old. Gemma had finally held her when she’d been foisted in her arms when her sister-in-law had needed to use the bathroom, and her
husband was on grilling duty. She’d been so uncomfortable until Mona had plucked the baby from her arms.

Bea smiled at Gemma and followed Isabel into the kitchen, and just like that, Gemma was left alone with the baby. She glanced down at Allie’s profile, her tiny nose, the big cheeks. She was so pretty. Gemma walked down the short hall to another small sitting room and a library, where sliding glass doors led to the backyard, fenced on all sides. The yard was big and went back far, with huge trees and a small boulder at the far end. On the patio were chaise lounges and umbrellas, and Allie’s swing was next to one of the chairs. Gemma sat down, the baby sitting on her lap, and Gemma gave her a little bounce.

This was going okay. This wasn’t so bad.

Gemma glanced along the windows until she found the kitchen and saw Bea at work at the counter, Isabel sitting at the table, talking.

“I’m going to have a baby,” Gemma whispered to Allie. “In January, I’ll have a baby just like you.”

Fear gripped her again. It was one thing to watch a baby for a half hour and give her back. It was another to be responsible for a baby for the next eighteen years. For the rest of her life, Gemma amended.

Allie began . . . fussing seemed the right word. Gemma stood and shifted her in her arms, rocking back and forth a bit the way she’d seen her sister-in-law do. Allie calmed down, but then got fidgety.

“Maybe you want to be in your swing,” Gemma said, setting Allie down in the swing. Yes, that seemed to do the trick. Gemma pushed the on switch, and the pale yellow and white swing gently swung back and forth.

Gemma’s phone rang again, and she wasn’t sure she should answer it, since she was babysitting, but she saw mothers and caregivers talking on the phone all the time as she passed them on the streets and playgrounds, and Allie was safely ensconced in the swing.

Gemma pulled her phone from her pocket. Pauline Lee, the director of Hope Home.

“One of our residents has expressed interest in talking to you for the article,” Pauline said. “Chloe Martin. She’s seventeen, five months pregnant, and planning to keep her baby.”

Seventeen and keeping her baby. At seventeen, Gemma’s biggest worry was about getting into the college of her choice. Chloe Martin’s life would be completely different.