Guilt pressed his ribs like a five-hundred-pound gorilla. “Until today.”
“Today was not a good day,” Liz agreed. “But you‟re still my son, Zack. I love you.”
“I‟m his son, too,” he said, hoping for . . . what? Reassurance, confirmation, denial?
Her eyes met his, straight on. “Yes.”
His sneer slipped. He wrenched it back into place. “So what am I supposed to call him? Dad?”
She couldn‟t quite hide her wince. “You‟ll have to decide that for yourself.”
A knock, sharp and imperative, sounded from the front door.
Zack swallowed the lump of nerves in his throat. Like this guy never heard of a doorbell.
His mother stood, wiping her palms on her slacks. “That‟s probably him now. Why don‟t you answer the door while I add
peas to the asopao?”
Liz looked around the dining room table, trying to snatch satisfaction from the jaws of impending doom.
Dinner so far was not a disaster. The chicken was good, not as good as Ben‟s mother‟s, but with the same desirable soupy
texture. Emily was spooning up rice with the concentration of a starving child. Zack hunched over his plate, sullen and silent.
On Liz‟s right, Morgan was dressed all in black, fitted black pants, slim black sweater. Like a jewel thief or an assassin.
Like . . . Zack, she realized. An older, Esquire version of Zack. He leaned back in his chair, a glint in his eye she didn‟t trust.
Not a problem. All she had to do was stick to neutral subjects, satisfy whatever curiosity Zack harbored about his biological
father, and then shove him out the door.
“I hear it‟s supposed to be warmer tomorrow,” she said.
The glint sharpened.
She cleared her throat. “Of course, if it‟s overcast, that will make a difference.”
“No doubt.”
Okay, so Morgan didn‟t share most Mainers‟ ability to talk for hours on end about fog and rain.
Emily raised her gaze from her plate and fixed it on Morgan. “I want a kitten.”
Morgan frowned as if she‟d announced she could grow two heads. “I beg your pardon.”
Liz fought a grin.
“There was a sign. At the police station,” Emily explained. “Free kittens. I want one.”
As if she expected him to go out and get it for her.
Liz‟s smile faded. “The kittens aren‟t really free, Emily.”
“The sign said they were.”
“Yes, but there are costs involved in owning a pet. Shots and food and—”
“You could take the money out of my allowance.”
Liz was no longer remotely amused. “Honey, we talked about this. This is a bad time for us to take on another
responsibility.”
And a worse time to discuss it, she thought.
“But—”
“Later, Em,” she said firmly and turned to Morgan. “Thank you for bringing the wine.”
A very nice Tuscan red, a Barolo. She used to like a glass of wine with dinner. It was another thing she‟d given up when
Ben died. She didn‟t want to drink alone, to finish the bottle after the children went to bed.
He shrugged. “Dylan said it would be appropriate.”
She ran through her mental file of patients. “Dylan Hunter?”
“You know him.”
This was an island. Eventually, she would know everyone. It was one of the reasons she‟d moved her family here.
“He brought in his daughter for her three-month checkup last week,” she said.
“Ah.” Morgan turned his attention to his plate.
He ate with controlled appreciation, she noticed, an almost animal grace and focus. She watched the movement of his
mouth, the flex of his hands on knife and fork, and felt herself flush.
She stabbed at the chicken thigh on her plate. “How did you two meet?”
“Dylan is a colleague.”