“A little, yes.” Christine felt grateful for the cover story. She picked up the half sandwich, cut in a neat triangle with the mustard on the top.

“God closes a door, and he opens a window.”

“Right.” Christine took a bite of her sandwich, which tasted delicious.

“And when the baby comes, there’ll be so much to do.” Her mother’s face lit up again. “That’s really something to look forward to, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it really is.”

Her mother leaned forward on her elbows. “Did the doctor say if it was going to be a boy or a girl? You can’t tell yet, can you?”

“No, she didn’t say.” Christine chewed her sandwich, eyeing her mother. “Mom, you really don’t care if it’s a boy or girl, do you?”

“No, I don’t. Do you?”

“No, not really. I’m just excited about having a baby.”

“Me, too!” Her mother clasped her hands together, giving her little body a wiggle. “Can you imagine how much fun that will be? A little baby running around here? I think it will help your Dad, too, I really do.”

“It just might,” Christine said, noncommittal. She didn’t want her mother to get her hopes up, and at some level, they both knew that Dad was never going to come back, even for a new baby. Neither of them needed a seminar to tell them that.

“Does Marcus still want a boy?”

Christine felt a twinge. Marcus still hadn’t called or texted, and she hadn’t either. She hated feeling so disconnected from him. Still, she couldn’t tell him she was thinking about driving to Philadelphia to see Zachary Jeffcoat. “He never said he wanted a boy. He just says he wants a golf partner.”

“That means a boy.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Girls play golf, Mom.”

“I can’t imagine your husband playing golf with a woman. Does he play with any women now? No!” Her mother chuckled, and Christine joined her, because it was true.

“Mom, let me ask you a harder question. Does it really not matter to you that we used a donor?”

“It really doesn’t matter to me at all,” her mother answered, easily.

“Is that because you know that the child is genetically mine? Or half-mine? Is that why?”

“No.” Her mother shrugged. “I didn’t care if you adopted, I didn’t care if you got a baby from China. I don’t care if it’s yours and not his, or his and not yours. You know why, honey?” Her mother paused, musing. “Because as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand that there are very few things that are as big a deal as we think. This is what matters.” Her mother gestured to her father, then to her. “All I care about is around my kitchen table, and that’s all I ever cared about. As long as we have each other, nothing else matters. And your baby, whether it’s a boy or girl, or whatever it is, it’s going to sit right here and we’re gonna love it to pieces!”

Christine felt relief flooding back to her at her mother’s words, and they talked some more, sitting at the kitchen table where they always had. It struck her that she couldn’t have foreseen what would happen to her parents, or to her and Marcus, her father getting Alzheimer’s and Marcus infertile, both men betrayed by their bodies. She never would have realized, until she’d lived it, how the ripple effects of those illnesses would change her and her family, for all time.

And later, when coffee was ready, and Christine watched as her mother carefully cooled each teaspoonful before she placed it in her father’s mouth, she realized that love could endure almost any obstacle. Real, abiding love. It was right before her eyes, lifelong, in them.

And she knew she had to go to Pennsylvania, if only to save her marriage.

Chapter Sixteen

Christine was loading the dishwasher when her phone on the counter rang. It was Marcus calling, and on the screen was an old photo she had taken of him, from their first trip to Presque Isle, where his family used to have a vacation house. The Nilssons sailed, and Marcus loved to work on the boat; in the photo, he was hand-sanding its wooden hull with the boombox blasting. What Christine loved about the photo was how carefree he looked, his grin loose and relaxed, his shirt off, his back tanned, his muscles defined, his body effortlessly sexy in the way of twenty-one-year-olds. They had been crazy in love then, with their future ahead of them, their successes merely assumed, their struggles unforeseen. She ignored the lump in her throat to answer the phone.

“Christine? Hey, how are you?”

“Okay.” Christine could read his voice instantly, like any wife. He was still remote but too tired to be angry. “How about you?”

“It was a bitch of a day.”

“I bet.” Christine knew it was code for he was sorry he hadn’t called earlier.

“So did you go to Gary?”

“Yes, Lauren came with.” Christine would’ve bet that he had already talked with Gary, but she was tired, too, and in no mood to play games. “Gary said that we don’t need to sue Davidow but we should sue Homestead, and I’m going along with it.”

“Good, great, well, thanks. I know that was a concession and I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” Christine could tell that he was trying to be nice. It made her want to tell him about the ultrasound, but she didn’t want to risk a fight, and she had a lie to tell. “You know, since you’re not coming home, Lauren and I were thinking about making a girl trip to New Jersey this weekend.”

“Really, what’s going on?”

“Well, you know her parents have a house there, on Long Beach Island?”

“Right, yes.” Marcus sounded vague, and Christine knew he didn’t remember. She barely remembered it herself. It was the only story that she and Lauren could come up with that was virtually uncheckable.

“Yes, her parents have a house there and all the kids use it. You know, one of those deals where they divide the summer into weeks and they rotate?”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, she always gets stuck closing it, but this year she gets to open it, which is a helluva lot easier. She asked if I wanted to go with her. Take a weekend. Just take a break, you know, with all that’s been going on.”