Free Beach Girls by Luanne Rice Page B

a book about emperor penguins,” Nell said. “She wrote it! It was about her father and her, but it could also be about you and me!”
    “Wow,” Jack said, for the second time in two minutes. They had really gotten a lot said on that visit upstairs. He looked up at Stevie and saw her violet eyes looking incredibly dramatic in the light coming through the west-facing windows. Again, he recalled Emma's disapproval of her books.
    He reached for his wine, knocking it over.
     
    WITHOUT KIDS
of her own, Stevie was never too sure what to serve for dinner. She had a beloved aunt, her father's sister Aida, who had married a man with a very young son. Raising Henry, Aida had learned that she could never go wrong with steak, salad, mashed potatoes, and chocolate cake for dessert. So, hoping for the best, Stevie served Aunt Aida's menu.
    “I love mashed potatoes,” Nell said. “Dad, how come we never have them except on Thanksgiving?”
    “I don't know,” Jack said. “I guess because I thought you liked frozen fries.”
    “Is the steak done enough?” Stevie asked.
    “It's good,” Nell said.
    “Great,” Jack said.
    The sun was setting, casting a golden glow throughout the room. Stevie loved this time of day, and often used this last hour of light to do her best work. Having friends for dinner felt unfamiliar. It had been
so long . . .
    She wanted everything to be right for Emma's family. She had caught the way he'd looked taken aback when Nell had mentioned the wren pictures. Should Stevie have kept them to herself? Motherless children seemed to be everywhere, reminding Stevie of her own life, of Emma and Nell.
    “Cake, anyone?” she asked, clearing the table.
    “Sure,” Jack said, helping her.
    “Can I visit the bird again?” Nell asked.
    “If it's okay with your dad,” Stevie said, and Jack nodded. Nell clapped her hands and went running upstairs.
    Stevie put coffee on, and she and Jack went into the living room to wait for it to perk. The worry lines in his brow reminded her of her father. She wanted to ask about Emma, but she didn't want to upset him. It all seemed so difficult to navigate. He cleared his throat and, as if he'd read her mind, spoke in a voice too low for Nell to hear.
    “It was a car crash,” he said. “In Georgia, on her way home from a weekend away.”
    “Oh, Emma,” Stevie said, her hand going to her mouth.
    “Nell was eight. Last year. It was Emma's first time away, without us, since Nell was born.”
    “Was she alone?”
    Jack shook his head. He started to speak, then closed his mouth. In that space—in whatever lay between Stevie's question and the answer he'd been about to give—there was great anger. She could see it in the set of his eyes and mouth. He looked at the beach, at the flowers he and Nell had brought, and then at Stevie. “She was with my sister,” he said.
    “Madeleine?”
    Jack nodded.
    “Maddie—was she—?” Stevie asked, barely able to ask.
    “She was hurt,” Jack said. “But she's fine now.”
    “I'm sorry, Jack,” Stevie said.
    He nodded, as if there was nothing more to say. Stevie tried to imagine what it might be like, to lose a wife and have a sister hurt in the same accident. They were silent for a minute, listening to Nell talk to the bird upstairs.
    “How about you, Stevie?” he asked. “Do you have kids? You're great with Nell.”
    “No,” she said, feeling strangely hollow as she told what felt like a partial truth. “I don't.”
    “Were you ever married?”
    She hesitated. This was not fun. “Three times,” she said.
    “Oh.” He smiled—was it her imagination, or did he already know? She was embarrassed about some of the press she'd gotten: “Some birds mate for life, but not beloved children's book author Stevie Moore.”
    “Guess I'm not the married type,” she said, trying to make a joke, just as at other times she'd called herself “the Elizabeth Taylor of southeastern New England.”
    “Hmm,” he said, not