Chapter 3

A knock at the door.

I opened it. My neighbor, Mrs. Martha, stood there holding a still-steaming casserole dish, a checkered cloth draped across the top.

"Emma, I saw James was home. I made a chicken bake, thought the two of you—oh?"

She glanced past me and saw the two figures standing side by side in the study.

Her face changed on the spot.

She shoved the casserole into my hands. Her voice was low, but every word had a barb in it.

"Lieutenant Callahan. Emma sits at home waiting for you. Drives out to the Coronado piers before sunup. Rain, wind—doesn't miss a day."

"You come home and spend it with somebody else, and leave her standing to the side?"

The rustling in the study stopped.

Lily came out, eyes red. "Mrs. Martha, you're misunderstanding—"

"Misunderstanding, my foot. I've got eyes."

Mrs. Martha's face was pure disdain.

"These girls now, all day long, only thing on their minds is stealing somebody else's husband—"

She didn't finish.

Lily covered her face and bolted out the door.

James snatched up his service jacket and went tearing after her.

Passing me, he flung a cold sentence over his shoulder. "So this is how you talk about Lily to the neighbors when I'm not home."

"If anything happens to her, I will never forgive you."

I stood in the empty doorway.

The casserole was still hot. The steam blew up into my face.

Mrs. Martha looked stricken.

"I'm sorry, honey. Did I make it worse?"

My voice came out rough.

"You're not what's wrong with us."

I suddenly remembered that winter.

The wind at Coronado had been strong enough to knock you off your feet. I'd stood on the pier in a down parka for three hours, waiting.

He'd stepped off the ship. Lily had called—said she'd twisted her ankle and couldn't get down the stairs.

He'd left me alone in the parking lot.

The sea wind slid down my collar, cold as knives.

Halfway home something warm ran down my leg and stained half my pants leg red.

I called James.

He didn't pick up.

Not until the next day did he send back a few brief words:

Underway on short notice. Back at sea.

I didn't want him blaming himself, so I never told him about the pregnancy—or the miscarriage.

Now I knew. There was no emergency underway. He'd just taken Lily out on the ship, on the spot, to smooth her feelings.

...

When James came home that night, his face was darker than a Pacific storm.

He stood in the entryway, still in his service jacket, and led with:

"Are you happy now?"

"Lily cried for hours. You're going to Mrs. Martha's tomorrow to set the record straight."

"Lily and I are clean. You're the one who imagines things all day long."

"If you can't handle her being around..."

He paused.

"Then there's no point continuing this marriage either."

"Done?"

I stopped what I was doing.

James frowned.

"I can't handle it."

He blinked.

"What did you say?"

"I said—"

I touched a hand to my belly. There had once been a small life there.

"Go find Lily. We're getting divorced."

James straightened up sharply. His face went ugly.

"Emma Whitaker. Remember what you said today. Don't come crawling back begging."

He expected a fight.

Because in the past, with our precious little time together, I never had the heart to spend it in silence.

So I always bowed my head, gave ground, let him go to Lily.

But now I simply turned, walked to the nightstand, and pulled open the bottom drawer.

Inside was a thin manila envelope.

I took it out and laid it on top of the nightstand.

The iMessage Zoe had sent an hour earlier still lit up the phone screen:

Divorce papers drafted. Look them over. Sign if the terms work.