The Wishing Jar Read online

  She motioned him over. “I need to talk to you. Someplace private.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, turning up a half-smile in her direction. He looked over his shoulder toward his friend. “Take a hike, Pete,” he said. “My woman wants privacy.”

  Pete threw down the pool cue and stalked into the bar, muttering about getting back the money he had lost to Mike.

  “Sore loser,” Mike said when he was gone. “Can’t shoot pool worth—”

  “Mike,” Neal interrupted. “I need your attention.”

  “Sure, I’ll give you attention.” He began backing her into a corner. “All the attention you want.” He started touching her, running his hands over her body, grabbing at her. “Knew you’d come back,” he mumbled. “Knew you couldn’t stay away.”

  She tried to make him listen, but he kept talking over her. “I’ll give you what you want, babe. Just me and you.”

  “No, Mike,” she said, pushing him away. “There is no me and you. It’s over.”

  “Over?” he eased off a little, looking dazed. “What do you mean, over?”

  “I can’t see you again. We’re finished.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.” He turned aside and picked up a glass of beer from the bar, then retrieved the cue stick and waved it. “Come on, have a drink. Let’s play some pool.”

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “Sure you do.” He leaned close and pressed the rim of the glass to her lips. “Drink up. Let’s have a little fun, babe.”

  “Stop it!” Neal jerked away. The glass slipped out of his hand and smashed to splinters across the concrete floor.

  “See what you done?” he yelled. “You made me spill a perfectly good beer! Why, I ought to—”

  “You ought to listen for once, Mike,” she said evenly. “I have to tell you something. It’s important.”

  He glared at her. “What’s so important that it’s worth losing my beer?”

  Neal shut her eyes. “Mike, I’m pregnant.”

  There was a long silence. When Neal looked up again, he was staring at her with his mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. And since you’re the only person I’ve ever been with—”

  His face contorted into a mask of rage. Those sleepy eyes, which Neal had once thought so smoldering and sexy, took on a dark and ominous expression. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He took a step forward, forcing her back against the bar, and when he spoke again, his voice was tight and menacing. “You conniving little b—”

  “Mike, wait,” she interrupted. “You don’t understand. I’m not asking for anything from you. I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.”

  He didn’t hear her. “I shoulda known when you said you wanted to get married that you’d pull something like this!” he yelled. “Had it all planned, didn’t you? Get pregnant and trap me into—”

  “I’m not trapping you into anything!” Neal shouted back, raising her voice to be heard over his tirade.

  The skin under his stubble of beard went pale, then flushed red. He lifted the pool cue and slammed it down on the bar. “You’ll pay for this, you scheming little tramp. Nobody takes advantage of Mike Damatto. Nobody!”

  She felt the wood of the bar pressing into the small of her back. He swung the cue before she could duck and caught her on the left side of the head. She saw flashing lights, and the room began to sway. He hit her again, a glancing blow just as she fell.

  Dazed, Neal pulled her knees up to her chest to ward off the kicks he was aiming at her midsection. She could hear scuffling, could see shadowy images of feet and legs.

  “Mike, cut it out! Let her go!”

  The bartender’s shout sliced through the confusion, the voice of an avenging angel come to save. Someone pulled her attacker away—his friend Pete, she thought. When she dared to look up, Mike was caught, struggling to free himself. The bartender, who was burly enough to have doubled as a bouncer, had Mike’s arms pinned behind him. “Call the police,” he said to Pete. “Tell them to send an ambulance, too.”

  Neal got slowly to her feet. Her forehead was bleeding, but she didn’t think the gash was deep. “Forget it,” she said. “I’m all right.”

  “Yeah, but you want to press charges against this jerk, don’t you?”

  Neal shook her head. “Not this time.”

  The bartender wrenched Mike’s arms until he cried out in pain. “You lucked out, Damatto. Don’t ever lemme see you in here again. You got it?” He twisted harder.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mike snarled.

  “Good. Now get outta here before I call the cops and sign a complaint myself.” He shoved Mike toward the exit. Pete followed him, casting an apologetic glance in Neal’s direction.

  When they were gone, the bartender led Neal out of the poolroom and settled her gently at a table near the door. “Are you all right, Miss?”

  Neal managed a faint smile, calmed by his polite formality. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Let me get you a drink, or something to eat. We got great sandwiches. On the house.”

  “Just a Coke, please.”

  The bartender left and returned a few minutes later with the Coke, a clean bar towel, and a glass of ice. As Neal sipped her drink, he applied ice to the wound and cleaned the blood from her face.

  Neal looked at him. “What’s your name?”

  “Angelo,” the man replied.

  “Angelo,” Neal mused. “Figures.”

  He blushed and ducked his head. “I ain’t no angel, Miss, if that’s what you’re thinking. You can ask my mama if you don’t believe me.”

  “You were for me.” Neal took a deep breath. “Thanks for helping, Angelo. You may have saved my life.”

  “Don’t have no respect for any man hits a woman,” he said gruffly. “If ya don’t mind me asking, what’s—”

  “What’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?” Neal chuckled.

  “Well, yeah, that too. But I was gonna ask, what’s a girl like you doing with a butthead like Damatto.”

  Neal shook her head. “Temporary insanity.” She finished her Coke and fished in her purse. “Sure I can’t pay you?”

  “Naw, forget it,” he said. “How you gonna get home?”

  “I got a friend waiting for me.”

  At the thought of T. J. outside in the parking lot, Neal cringed. If Teej ever had the inclination to say I told you so, this was her big chance.

  Abby pulled up in front of Devin Connor’s cabin and got out of the car. The afternoon was beginning to fade, and long shadows stretched across the pond and into the woods behind the cabin.

  She had taken no more than two steps toward the door, and was just rethinking the wisdom of coming here, when Devin’s golden retriever barreled out of the woods barking. He came to her immediately, poking his nose into her hand and sidling up to her to be petted.

  “Hello, Mozart.” She knelt down to greet him, stroking his silky ears.

  “With Mo around, I don’t need a doorbell, do I?”

  Abby raised her head. Devin Connor stood to one side of the path, backlit by a slant of sunlight, and her heart did a little flip. She struggled awkwardly to her feet.

  “Come in,” he offered. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

  “No, I—” She groped for an explanation. “I was just driving by, and—”

  Devin came closer. “Nobody just happens to drive by here,” he said with a faint smile. “Come inside and sit, and you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Twenty minutes later, Abby was sipping at her second cup of coffee and toying with a third cookie. She had told him about her engagement to Charles, about Neal Grace’s pregnancy, about her own confusion and mixed emotions—everything.

  He had made it easy. He never once expressed shock, hadn’t asked why she was coming to him after such a long stretch of silence between them—and about something so personal. Nor had he given so much as a hint of disapproval about anything she said.
He had simply listened, nodding, holding eye contact, touching her arm once or twice.

  “Mama’s handling this much better than I am,” Abby confessed. “She’s so—strong.”

  “And you think you’re not?”

  “I feel completely overwhelmed, Devin. If Neal Grace does decide to keep the baby, I’ll support her, of course, but it’s so much responsibility. I thought . . . I thought my life was about to become simpler, less complicated.”

  He gazed into her eyes. “And that’s why you agreed to marry Charles—to uncomplicate your life.”

  Abby nodded. “Partly, I guess. I thought if I had someone to share the burden with, it wouldn’t seem so . . . so—”

  “Burdensome?” He smiled.

  “Yes. Charles is a good man. He’s stable and secure. It makes sense for me to marry him. He would take on a lot of the responsibility I’ve been shouldering for so long, and—”

  “Abby?”

  She stopped fidgeting with her napkin and looked up. “What?”

  “Have you told Charles about Neal Grace’s baby?”

  “Not yet. I . . . I’m a little apprehensive about telling him, I’ll admit. He has very definite opinions about what kinds of decisions we should make for the future. And I’m afraid—” She stopped, unable or unwilling to articulate what she was feeling.

  “Afraid of what his reaction might be?” Devin said softly.

  “Yes. He already wants to put Mama into a nursing home. She can get better care there, he says. He has this ideal image, I think, of what our life together should be like. Just the two of us alone, with Neal Grace off at college and Mama being cared for elsewhere. I can’t imagine how he would respond to the idea of a single mother and a new baby in the house.”

  Abby fell silent, and for a minute or two neither of them spoke. After a moment Devin reached out and took her hand. The contact sent a thrill through her, fire and ice running across her nerves and into her veins. She kept very still, concentrating on maintaining her composure.

  “I only have one thing to ask, Abby,” he whispered. “Why are you here telling me instead of there telling him?”

  And Abby didn’t have the faintest idea how to answer him.

  23

  Abby’s Dilemma

  Quinn House

  October 31

  I n a gust of wind October was departing, swirling away in its multicolored cape without a backward glance. Leaves that had so brilliantly clothed the mountainsides only a few weeks ago now lay in soggy brown heaps, and bare tree limbs shivered in the cool late-autumn wind.

  Abby sat on the front porch swing, wrapped in a shawl, watching the rain dripping off the eaves. On either side of the top step, two carved pumpkins glowed orange in the gathering dusk.

  A buffet was already spread on the kitchen counter—roast beef and carved turkey and crusty French loaves, spinach dip, a pumpkin Bundt cake with orange drizzle frosting, and the iced cutout cookies Neal Grace, T. J., and Mama had spent all afternoon baking and decorating. The table was set with pumpkin-shaped plates and jet-black candles, and the chandelier swathed with fake spider webs. A big plastic jack-o’-lantern full of miniature candy bars sat on the table in the front hallway, ready for trick-or-treaters. Birdie and Taylor would be arriving any minute.

  And Charles.

  Abby shivered with apprehension. She still hadn’t told Charles about Neal Grace’s pregnancy, and she couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to tell him tonight, no matter what his response might be. Sometime during the evening, she’d get him alone and break the news to him.

  The party had been Neal’s idea. She had become quite the little homebody, spending much of her after-school time in the kitchen with T. J. and her grandmother. Mama was teaching the girls how to cook. Neal actually made her bed most days, and a week or so ago Abby arrived home from work to find her doing laundry.

  Maybe it was hormones. Maybe aliens had abducted her real daughter and left this new Neal Grace in her place. Whatever the case, Abby had decided just to accept things as they were and be grateful.

  Lights from a car swung into the driveway, and Abby recognized Birdie’s SUV. She got to her feet, her stomach churning, and watched as Birdie and Taylor got out of the front seat. A moment later Charles drove up and emerged from his car.

  The three of them dashed through the rain and ran up the stairs to the porch. Charles leaned down to kiss her. Abby turned aside, and his lips grazed her cheek.

  “I brought a potato salad,” Birdie explained as she handed over a large plastic container. “Hope that’s OK.” She shook the water off her umbrella and set it in the corner.

  “Perfect.” Abby hugged her and greeted Taylor. “We’re having build-your-own subs with roast beef and turkey.”

  She ushered them inside. “Neal! Mama! Our guests are here!”

  Neal and T. J. came barreling down the stairs from the second floor, and Mama appeared in the kitchen doorway. While Birdie and Taylor were being introduced to T. J., Charles grabbed Abby’s elbow and steered her back out onto the porch.

  “I want to know what’s going on,” he demanded.

  “What do you mean?” Abby attempted an innocent tone but couldn’t meet Charles’s gaze.

  “I mean,” he said in a low, deliberate voice, “you’ve been avoiding talking to me. I know you’re hiding something, Abby.”

  “This is not the time to talk, Charles.” Abby edged away from him.

  “We haven’t been alone together in weeks,” he said. “And even when we’re together, you’re not really there. You always seem to be someplace else. If you’re having second thoughts about marrying me, I think I should know it.”

  A tiny, unexpected ray of hope flared to life inside her. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Of course not. But there shouldn’t be secrets between us. Something’s bothering you, and I think I deserve to know what it is.”

  Devin Connor’s question surfaced in Abby’s mind: Why are you here telling me instead of there telling him? For the first time since that conversation, Abby had an answer. Because you feel safe and he doesn’t.

  It was an unwelcome revelation—and an unfair assessment, since she hadn’t really given Charles a chance. Abby looked up at him. “You’re absolutely right,” she said. “Later tonight we’ll get some time alone and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang. Abby pushed her chair back from the table. “Trick-or-treaters, probably. I’ll get it.” She went into the hall, grabbed the bucket of candy, and opened the front door.

  It was Devin Connor.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He held out a leather case. “I believe these sunglasses are yours. You left them at the cabin.”

  Abby stared at him. “You . . . you could have called.”

  “Yes, I could have. I probably should have, now that I think about it. But I wanted to—” He stopped abruptly, peering past her shoulder into the dining room. “You have company. I’m sorry to interrupt. I’ll be going.”

  Just then a pod of tiny Power Rangers swarmed onto the porch, followed by Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, and Cinderella. Abby found herself diverted by the task of handing out candy and complimenting the children’s costumes, and by the time she waved good-bye to them, Devin had disappeared.

  She turned to go back into the house and felt her knees give way.

  He was in the dining room, being ushered to a chair by Mama, shaking hands with Taylor and Birdie and . . . and Charles. Neal Grace was setting a place for him.

  All the air rushed out of Abby’s lungs. Her two worlds had just collided.

  Neal had recognized Devin Connor the moment she spotted him standing at the front door. Mom had let her read a final draft of the article about the man who played his fiddle on the streets of Asheville, and had shown Neal the photographs she had taken. Mom had obviously been proud of that article. But Neal had also seen a change come over her mother’s face whenever she talked ab
out this man. An aliveness, an expression of enthusiasm that went beyond journalistic interest. There was something about him—something Mom wasn’t telling.

  Now Neal knew what it was. The man wasn’t exactly gorgeous, not like Brad Pitt or anything, but he was good-looking, for an older guy. Great smile. Fabulous blue eyes that lit up when he talked. She felt an immediate connection with him. When she drew him into the house, he took her hand, leaned over, and whispered, “Your mom told me about your little miracle. Congratulations.” She could have kissed him.

  Little miracle. Had anyone else even thought about interpreting this pregnancy as something to celebrate? Not a chance. Her condition had been described as a mistake, an “unwanted pregnancy,” something to be endured. But Devin Connor, a man she had never met until this moment, intuitively understood what Neal herself had begun to recognize. The mystery of life, growing inside her. Her child. Her baby. No matter what its origins, it was, indeed, a miracle. And at last someone else had affirmed the wonder.

  She set a place for him at one end of the table and watched as he created a sandwich of roast turkey, spinach dip, and Swiss cheese. Granny Q was already engaging him in conversation when Mom shut the porch door and came back into the dining room.

  Devin looked up. “Your daughter invited me to stay a while,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Neal watched her mother closely. Her face reddened a bit, but she somehow managed to find her manners. “Of course not,” she said, sounding a little shaky. She sank into her seat and began shooting daggers at Neal—the look of silent reprimand only a mother could give.

  Neal frowned. What was the big deal about inviting an unexpected guest to join them? There was plenty of food.

  She glanced down the table and saw Charles glaring at Mom. So that was it. The man looked positively livid. He’s jealous, Neal thought.

  She turned and smiled brightly at the fiddler. “So, Mr. Connor,” she said, “Mom tells us you’re quite a good musician. I loved the article about you, by the way.”

  “Call me Devin,” he said. “I haven’t seen the article yet, but I’m sure your mother made me seem much wiser and more interesting than I actually am.”