Free The One Safe Place by Kathleen O`Brien

it as keeping the three of them out of Reed Fairmont’s hair.
    It helped that the autumn weather was bright and breezy. The air tasted as crisp and sweet as a freshly picked apple. Lying on your back in a pile of cinnamon-gold leaves, you could watch fat, low-hanging clouds race flocks of noisy geese across the sky.
    On TV, the weatherman noted that the Glen was unseasonably warm, which might delay the full turning of the leaves, apparently a problem for the tourists who had booked the hotel rooms and crowded the cafes.
    But for Faith and Spencer, lifelong city dwellers, it was perfect. Every inch of this wooded estate was packed with treasures—bright red cardinals busy at the bird feeders, mysterious knotholes winking from tree trunks, blue patches of chicory blooming furiously at the edge of the road and, once, a woodchuck staring out at them, his mouth full of grass.
    And Autumn House had so many acres of open land. You could play leapfrog for hours and never reach the low log fence that ran along the outer boundary.
    Reed must have noticed their makeshift games, because this morning, when Faith got up, she found that he’d left a football on the kitchen table.
    She’d have to think of a way to thank him. Runningand tackling and tossing that little ball had kept Spencer busy all day, too busy to dwell on his losses.
    She collected a basket and a large pair of cutting shears from the potting shed and began looking for flowers. It wasn’t easy. This late in the season, even a garden as lush as this was fairly well spent.
    She had almost decided to settle for a nice pine branch with a couple of interesting cones when she remembered the chicory out by the front road. It would look beautiful with the yellow napkins and the ivory stoneware plates.
    Her basket wasn’t quite full when the commotion started. Someone slammed the clinic door, and suddenly she heard a female voice raised in clear distress.
    â€œMom, please. Try. There has to be a way!”
    It was Justine. Faith realized that, kneeling at the edge of the meadow, she might be obscured from sight. She didn’t know whether to stand up or—
    â€œI am trying,” an older woman, presumably Justine’s mother, said in an exhausted voice. “But you know your father. You know how he is if anyone defies him.”
    Justine made a pitiful noise, sounding for just a moment like her own infant crying. “This isn’t about Daddy, Mom. This is about Gavin. He’s my son, what was I supposed to do, throw him away? Would Daddy have thrown one of us away if we’d been inconvenient or embarrassing?”
    Her mother’s small hesitation was enough. Even Faith, who had no idea what was really going on,realized that Justine’s mother couldn’t swear to her husband’s unconditional love for his children.
    Justine’s voice turned bitter.
    â€œOh, right, I forgot, that’s exactly what he has done, isn’t it? I embarrassed him, so he threw me away.”
    â€œMaybe if you’d just tell him who the father is—”
    Faith had to let them know they had an audience. She arranged her face in a convincing expression of surprise and stood.
    â€œOh!” She smiled, as if she had just now realized anyone was there. “Hello.”
    Even if she hadn’t heard the women quarrelling, she would have recognized trouble. Justine had a sleeping Gavin draped over her shoulder, and her beautiful face was red and blotchy. These weren’t crocodile tears—she was in true distress. Even when she saw Faith she couldn’t stop crying.
    Justine’s mother was petite and elegant, and she probably had once been as stunning as her daughter. But, though Faith guessed her to be only in her early forties, her beauty was so faded she was like a walking ghost. Her watery blue eyes were deep-set and shadowed. A worry line neatly bisected her pale brow like a knife cut.
    â€œHello,” the woman