Ironically, she’d once knelt on this very floor and prayed not to be pregnant. She’d been seventeen at the time, dating Tommy Matucci. Her first love.
The door opened and Conlan walked in. Her big, black-haired Irishman husband looked ridiculously out of place in her little girl’s room.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Yeah, right.”
She heard the bitterness in his voice, felt stung by it. There was nothing she could do, though. He couldn’t comfort her; God knew that had been proven often enough.
“You need help.” He said it tiredly, and no wonder. The words were old.
“I’m fine.”
He stared at her for a long time. The blue eyes that had once looked at her with adoration now held an almost unbearable defeat. With a sigh, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
A few moments later it opened again. Mama stood in the doorway, her fists planted on her narrow hips. The shoulder pads on her Sunday dress were Blade Runner big and practically touched the door frame on either side. “You always did run to your room when you were sad. Or angry.”
Angie scooted sideways to make room. “And you always came running up after me.”
“Your father made me. You never knew that, did you?” Mama sat down beside Angie. The old mattress sagged beneath their weight. “He could not stand to see you cry. Poor Livvy could shriek her lungs out and he never noticed. But you . . . you were his princess. One tear could break his heart.” She sighed. It was a heavy sound, full of disappointment and empathy. “You’re thirty-eight years old, Angela,” Mama said. “It’s time to grow up. Your papa— God rest his soul—would have agreed with me on this.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
Mama slipped an arm around her, pulled her close. “God has given you an answer to your prayers, Angela. It is not the answer you wanted, so you don’t hear. It’s time to listen.”
Angie woke with a start. The coolness on her cheeks was from tears.
She’d had the baby dream again; the one in which she and Conlan stood on opposite shores. Between them, on the shimmering expanse of blue sea, was a tiny pink-swaddled bundle. Inch by inch, it floated away and disappeared. When it was gone, they were left alone, she and Conlan, standing too far apart.
It was the same dream she’d been having for years, as she and her husband trudged from doctor’s office to doctor’s office, trying one procedure after another. Supposedly she was one of the lucky ones; in eight years, she’d conceived three children. Two had ended in miscarriage; one—her daughter, Sophia—had lived for only a few short days. That had been the end of it. Neither she nor Conlan had the heart to try again.
She eased away from her husband, grabbed her pink chenille robe off the floor, and left the bedroom.
The shadowy hallway waited for her. To her right, dozens of family photographs, all framed in thick mahogany, covered the wall. Portraits of five generations of DeSarias and Malones.
She looked down the long hallway at the last, closed door. The brass knob glinted in moonlight from the nearby window.
When was the last time she’d dared to enter that room?
God has given you an answer. . . . It’s time to listen.
She walked slowly past the stairs and the vacant guest room to the final door.
There she drew in a deep breath and exhaled it. Her hands were trembling as she opened the door and went inside. The air felt heavy in here, old and musty.
She turned on the light and closed the door behind her.
The room was so perfect.
She closed her eyes, as if darkness could help. The sweet notes of Beauty and the Beast filled her mind, took her back in time to the first time she’d closed the door on this room, so many years ago. It was after they’d decided on adoption.
We have a baby, Mrs. Malone. The mother—a teenager—chose you and Conlan. Come down to my office and meet her.
It had taken Angie the full four hours until their appointment to choose the outfit and do her makeup. When she and Conlan finally met Sarah Dekker in the lawyer’s office, the three of them had bonded instantly. We’ll love your child, Angie had promised the girl. You can trust us.
For six wonderful months Angie and Conlan had given up trying to get pregnant. Sex had become fun again; they’d fallen effortlessly back in love. Life had been good. There had been hope in this house. They’d celebrated with their families. They’d brought Sarah into their home and shared their hearts with her. They’d accompanied her to every OB appointment. Two weeks before her due date, Sarah had come home with some stencils and paint. She and Angie had decorated this room. A sky blue ceiling and walls, crowded by puffy white clouds. White picket fencing entwined with bright flowers, their colorful faces attended to by bees and butterflies and fairies.
The first sign of disaster had come on the day Sarah went into labor. Angie and Conlan had been at work. They’d come home to an empty, too-quiet house, with no message on the answering machine and no note on the kitchen table. They’d been home less than an hour when the phone rang.
They’d huddled by the phone together, holding hands, crying with happiness when they heard of the birth. It had taken a moment for the other words to register. Even now, Angie only remembered bits and pieces of the conversation.
I’m sorry—
changed her mind
back with her boyfriend
keeping the baby
They’d shut the door to this room and kept it closed. Once a week, their cleaning woman ventured inside, but Angie and Conlan never did. For well over a year, this room had stood empty, a shrine to their dream of someday. They’d given up on all of it—the doctors, the treatments, the injections, and the procedures. Then, miraculously, Angie had conceived again. By the time she was five months pregnant, they’d dared once more to enter this room and fill it with their dreams. They should have known better.
She went to the closet and pulled out a big cardboard box. One by one, she began to put things into it, trying not to attach memories to every piece she touched.
“Hey.”
She hadn’t even heard the door open, and yet here he was, in the room with her.
She knew how crazy it must seem to him, to find his wife sitting in the middle of the room, with a big cardboard box beside her. Inside it were all of her precious knickknacks— the Winnie-the-Pooh bedside lamp, the Aladdin picture frame, the crisp new collection of Dr. Seuss books. The only piece of furniture left was the crib. The bedding was on the floor beside it, a neat little stack of pale pink flannel.
She turned to look up at him. There were tears in her eyes, blurring her vision, but she hadn’t noticed until now. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was; it had all gone wrong between them. She picked up a small pink stack of sheets, stroking the fabric. “It made me crazy” was all she could say.
He sat down beside her.
She waited for him to speak, but he just sat there, watching her. She understood. The past had taught him caution. He was like an animal that had adapted to its dangerous environment by being still and quiet. Between the fertility drugs and the broken dreams, Angie’s emotions were unpredictable. “I forgot about us,” she said.
“There is no us, Angie.” The gentle way he said it broke her heart.
Finally. One of them had dared to say it. “I know.”
“I wanted a baby, too.”
She swallowed hard, trying to keep her tears under control. She’d forgotten that in the last few years; Conlan had dreamed of fatherhood just as she wanted motherhood. Somewhere along the way, it had all become about her. She’d focused so much on her own grief that his had become incidental. It was one of those realizations that would haunt her, she knew. She had always been dedicated to success in her life—her family called her obsessive— and becoming a mother had been one more goal to attain. She should have remembered that it was a team sport.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
&
nbsp; He took her in his arms and kissed her. It was the kind of kiss they hadn’t shared in years.
They sat that way, entwined, for a long time.
She wished his love could have been enough for her. It should have been. But her need for a child had been like a high tide, an overwhelming force that had drowned them. Maybe a year ago she could have kicked to the surface. Not now. “I loved you. . . .”
“I know.”
“We should have been more careful.”
Later that night, when she was alone in the bed they’d bought together, she tried to remember the hows and whys of it, the things they’d said to each other at the end of their love, but none of it came back to her. All she could really remember was the smell of baby powder and the sound of his voice when he said good-bye.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KRISTIN HANNAH is the bestselling author of On Mystic Lake, Angel Falls, Summer Island, Distant Shores, and Between Sisters. She lives with her husband and son in the Pacific Northwest. Visit her online at www.kristinhannah. com
By Kristin Hannah
Published by Ballantine Books
A HANDFUL OF HEAVEN
THE ENCHANTMENT
ONCE IN EVERY LIFETIME
IF YOU BELIEVE
WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES
WAITING FOR THE MOON
HOME AGAIN
ON MYSTIC LAKE
ANGEL FALLS
SUMMER ISLAND
DISTANT SHORES
BETWEEN SISTERS
THE THINGS WE DO FOR LOVE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1999 by Kristin Hannah
Reader’s Guide copyright © 2004 by Kristin Hannah and The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc. Excerpt from The Things We Do for Love Copyright © 2004 by Kristin Hannah
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Ballantine Reader’s Circle and colophon are trademarks of Random House Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2004091979
This edition published by arrangement with Crown Publishers, a division of Random House, Inc.
First Mass Market Edition: April 2000
www.randomhouse.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-41631-5
v3.0
Kristin Hannah Page 36
