“I wouldn’t have taken you for a smoker.”

My eyes fly open, and I leap off the back steps. “Mrs. Lily. I didn’t see you.”

She’s wearing gardening gloves, but her hair is perfect, the lily-shaped locket glittering at her neck, her dress ironed, wearing pumps wildly ill-suited for outdoor work. Her mouth folds into a slow smile. “Just doing some outdoor work. Stanley used to take care of all of that, but he isn’t able to any longer.”

Saint Dorothy must tend to her kingdom after her king, Sad Stanley, is paralyzed by an evil ogre.

“I can help you,” I say immediately, stabbing out the cigarette. I mean it. She shouldn’t have to do all that messy gardening herself. She must be in her sixties, and besides, she looks too precious to work outdoors.

Her smile widens. She tugs off one of her gloves. With her bare hand, she reaches over to touch my hair, pushing a lock behind my ear. It’s an oddly personal gesture, unsettling and soothing at the same time, and it brings to mind her staring at me across our yards the first night I arrived. “You’re such a pretty girl. I used to be attractive, you know.”

“Mrs. Lily—”

She gives a little tug to my hair, stopping my words. “Now now, no need for false compliments. I’m getting old, and that’s the truth of it. And don’t mind me. I’ve always been a jealous one. I tell you what, though. I couldn’t be happier to have a baby in the neighborhood.” Her gaze lingers on my belly before returning to my face.

She chuckles at my expression. “Small-town gossip is quite a thing. I suppose you wanted to be the one to tell us all first? I certainly would have.”

A warmth fills my chest, unexpected gratitude at being understood. “Well, it’s out now.”

She pulls her glove back on. “I suppose it is. Now to that,” she says, pointing at the cigarette stubbed out on the steps. (I’d give up my left ear to make it disappear.) “We won’t tell Deck about it. He’s never liked women smoking. We must have at least one or two of our own secrets, mustn’t we?” With a wink, she turns on her heel and walks back into her house.

The cigarette isn’t completely out, the acrid smoke crawling up my nostrils. A realization makes me shudder. Dorothy wasn’t outside when I came home, either in her front or backyard. And why would she need to wear gardening gloves inside her house?

Ronald’s words from earlier today return.

You have to understand how a small town works. We’re a family here. You don’t keep secrets from family.

I spear my cigarette into the ground, dousing it once and for all, and make my way inside.

CHAPTER 11

Lilydale’s school reminds me of every elementary school I’ve ever attended. It has the gray lockers, poured-concrete floors, and the slightly fishy, salty smell of a million school lunches. Being within its walls is surprisingly comforting.

The stroll here was wonderful, the evening lovely, cool but clear, ripe with joyful conversation as clusters of townsfolk file toward the school. The principal greets me at the door. I’m still tuckered from my earlier goodwill tour and so forgo introducing myself, instead walking in with what I hope is an “I belong here” gait. I follow the crowds past the lockers, the classroom doors taped with names and construction-paper cutouts, until I reach the gym. The bleachers are crowded with beaming families.

That’ll be me and Deck one day, I think, studying them. Parents coming to watch their children in a school production. I scan the crowd, searching for other pregnant women. I don’t spot any, but I notice that everyone here seems to look alike, probably because they’re all dressed similarly. I suppose that’s true of most small towns. Humans tend to prefer blending in with the herd.

I stroke my stomach. Hey, Beautiful Baby. Ready for your first concert?

A gale of laughter catches my attention. A group of people—a woman and children—stand on the edge of the bleachers, probably a family, Mexican by the look of them.

“The Gomezes. Too many kids, if you ask me.”

I swivel. The woman at my side appears to be approximately my age, her brown hair curled into the tight bouffant similar to how Mrs. Lily wears her hair. The yarn-strung name tag at her neck reads “Miss Colivan, 4th grade.”

“That must be common in a farming community,” I say. I thought I’d spotted quite a few large families in the bleachers. “You’re a teacher here?”

The woman nods curtly. “Fourth grade. You’re Joan Schmidt.”

I flinch but allow Deck’s last name to stick. “Yes. Joan . . . Schmidt.”

The teacher raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “I graduated with Deck. He was quite popular. We were all so happy to hear he was moving back. This is his home.”

An irrational needle of jealousy pokes me near the base of my spine. “I’m here as a journalist for the Gazette.” It’s a ten-dollar word for a nickel job, but Miss Colivan has me defensive. “Any comments you’d like to make about the music program?”

She beams at the mass of kids horsing around on the gym floor, all of them dressed in their Sunday best. “Only that the children have worked very hard. The theme is the Beatles. Each grade will sing one of their songs, and then they’ll all come together for ‘Yellow Submarine.’”

“That actually sounds nice,” I say before I can stop myself.

Miss Colivan grimaces. “We have culture here, you know. We’re more of a family than a school. The students spent all week painting the submarine. Our janitor mounted it on wheels. The older children will guide it out at the finale. It will be quite something.”

More of the Lilydale spirit I’ve been hearing about all day. I murmur something vaguely supportive (I hope), my glance pulled by the Gomez family moving toward the bleachers. I spot a child in the group I didn’t notice before. He’s small, prekindergarten if I have to guess, and he’s so gorgeous that he steals my breath away.

“That’s Angel,” Miss Colivan says. “A boy shouldn’t be that pretty. He’ll get snatched right up.”

I suck in my breath, turning to stare at her. “Like Paulie Aandeg?”

Her eyes are sparkling, but I can’t read her expression. “That was decades ago.”

“Deck told me about it,” I say, too smugly. Why do I feel the need to remind her that he’s mine?

“I wasn’t born yet, of course, but I don’t remember hearing that he was a particularly pretty child, not like Angel,” Miss Colivan continues, as if she didn’t hear me. “Paulie was wearing a proper little sailor suit when he was snatched, that much I do remember hearing.”

My hand goes back to my stomach. I can’t help it. “That poor family.”

“Rumor was the mother did it. A drinker. Shoplifter,” she says, with special emphasis on the last word.

The warm thump-thump in my veins freezes. She can’t possibly know about the cloisonné pineapple brooch I left back at the house. “Why would a mother steal her own child?”

Miss Colivan seems to notice my outfit for the first time. I’m wearing a lavender-colored knee-length sheath with pantyhose and black kitten heels. Her eyes narrow. “I love that dress.”