by Beth K. Vogt
“I need to check these.” She straightened, backing away from the oven, reaching for the door.
Now I did move in front of her. “Stop. You can’t keep opening the door. Let the muffins bake.”
“Why did I decide to make vegan jelly-filled muffins?” Payton’s chin quivered. “It’s not like Johanna is going to eat one. You might—”
“Don’t worry about it. If they don’t turn out or Johanna doesn’t want one, we’ve got coffee and fruit salad—”
“Keurig coffee and cantaloupe and honeydew I sliced up. How’s that supposed to compare to Johanna’s French-press coffee and her homemade quiche? Served on china, no less.” Payton opened a cupboard and started removing plates.
“Let me do that.”
“Fine. Should I have bought juice?”
“Coffee is fine. And Johanna will probably bring her own coffee, anyway.”
“You’re right about that.” She groaned. “I forgot to get cream.”
“Like I said, she’ll probably show up with her own coffee.”
“Right. Right.”
When she started toward the oven again, I shook my head. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Okay.” Payton relaxed her shoulders and offered me a strained smile. “So why didn’t you ride up with Johanna today?”
“She said she was leaving early to check in at the hospital, so I decided to drive myself. I thought she’d be here already.”
“I’m glad she’s not. No need for her to see me getting all crazy in the kitchen.” Payton arranged three coffee mugs on the kitchen counter. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I stopped trying to impress her years ago. It’s not going to suddenly happen this morning.”
“I didn’t even know you wanted to impress Johanna.”
“I don’t. Not until something like this happens, and then some invisible switch gets flipped and I’m the little sister again, trying to make her like me.” Payton grimaced. “Forget I said that, will you?”
“Said what?”
“Perfect response.” Payton pulled the bowl of fruit from the fridge. Put it back. “No need to put this out now. I guess we need to clear the table in the breakfast nook before we set it, huh? Would you mind clearing my books off the table?”
“No problem. Up late studying again?”
“Yes. Zach came over and we studied for a while, then watched a movie.”
“You two spend a lot of time together.”
“As much as we can, what with him living in Winter Park.” A true smile accompanied Payton’s words. “He’s become a good friend. Probably the best friend I have.”
“Just friends?” I tried to keep the question casual.
Payton’s smile disappeared and she hesitated before answering. “Just friends.”
I waited to see if Payton would say anything else, but when she spoke, it was to change the topic. “Do you think Johanna is even going to show up today?”
“Of course she is.” I began loading the dirty dishes piled up in her sink into the dishwasher. “Aren’t you glad you started our sisters’ book club?”
“Sometimes. I don’t know. I was trying to do the right thing . . . trying to help us find some common ground, you know? I hear about women doing book clubs all the time, and I thought, Why not?”
“Based on the first two times we’ve gotten together, it doesn’t look like books are our common ground.”
“Then what is? The fact that we share the same genes? The fact that we grew up in the same house? That certainly hasn’t created a lot of closeness between us.”
“You and Pepper were close . . .” I closed my mouth, the sentence unfinished. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No. It’s okay. You’re right. It’s like our family was some sort of genetic mathematical equation. Two plus two equals four Thatcher sisters. Johanna and you and then me and Pepper. No mixing and mismatching allowed.”
Payton’s eyes dimmed. She’d always seemed fine with how the boundary lines fell within our family and how they separated the two oldest Thatcher sisters from the two youngest. It made sense that way. But maybe she hadn’t been . . . and then Pepper had died and she’d had to learn to live solo—a twinless twin.
And maybe that reality was the true reason behind the book club.
My cell phone pinged at the same time the oven timer went off.
“It’s probably Johanna.” I read my text. “Yep. She’s here.”
“Why don’t you get the door, Jill? I’ll see if these muffins are a success or a disaster.”
I gathered the books from the table, stuffing them into Payton’s backpack. “Where shall I put this?”
Payton slipped a pair of tattered oven mitts onto her hands. “Just set it at the bottom of the stairs for now.”
“Got it. And relax.” I slung the book bag over my shoulder with a groan. “How heavy is this thing?”
“Be thankful you don’t have to lug it across campus.”
When I opened the front door, Johanna stood there in a stylish ice-blue peacoat paired with slim black jeans and short gray boots, a travel thermos in one hand and a cloth grocery bag in the other. Stepping inside, she placed the bag next to several pairs of Payton’s volleyball shoes and discarded socks.
“What’s in the bag? Payton’s got breakfast covered.”
“Books.”
“Books?” Sure enough, a quick glance revealed a stack of hardback and paperback books. “Why did you bring a bunch of books? Are you cleaning your bookshelves?”
“No.” Johanna shrugged out of her coat, tossing it on Payton’s couch next to mine. “I thought we should consider reading a different book.”
This was worse than if my sister had brought her French press and offered to make coffee for all of us.
I stepped in front of her. “Jo . . . don’t do this.”
“Do what? I’m offering a suggestion—well, several suggestions.”
Payton appeared in the living room. “You two coming? The muffins turned out great.”
I stepped to the side, pointing at the bag of books. “Ask her.”
“Ask her what?”
“Ask Johanna what’s in the bag.”
Johanna tsked. “Jillian, you’re being melodramatic.”
Payton stepped forward. “What’s in the bag?”
“I brought some books for us to look at—to consider instead of the biography that no one is reading.”
Payton rested her hands on her hips. “And where did these books come from?”
“I bought them.”
I knelt and began pulling books from the bag, forming a semicircle around myself. “You bought . . . as in purchased . . . a dozen books?”
“Yes. But first I did some research because I wanted a good variety. There’s fiction and nonfiction. Another biography, if you want to consider that genre again. Historical. Mystery. An older one that was an Oprah book club pick. Romance, although that’s not my favorite, but I’m open.” Johanna took a few of the books from my hands as I removed them from the bag. “A thriller. Women’s fiction. One that was made into a movie last year. All sorts for us to choose from.”
I stared up at Johanna. “We already chose the book—”
“Fine.” Payton’s bare foot tapped the floor. “If we’re reconsidering what we’re reading, I want to read a comic book.”
Johanna looked like she couldn’t even be bothered to laugh at Payton’s joke. “A comic book? Really?”
“We used to read them all the time on family vacations, remember?” Payton’s reply was softened with a laugh. “Jo, you went out and spent I don’t know how much money on a bunch of books . . .”
This was so familiar . . . what Johanna and Payton did best—facing off with one another. But it wasn’t as hard-hitting as it could have been. For once, it was as if they were pulling their punches. Did Payton even realize she’d called Johanna “Jo”? Maybe, somehow, they had learned something this past year, somet
hing they’d forgotten during the first two book club mishaps—that there was no need to be brutal with one another.
Things had gone quiet as I mused on the difference in my sisters. Both Johanna and Payton watched me.
“Nothing to say, Jill?”
“You two are doing fine.” I turned my back on both of them. “I’m hungry.”
Once all three of us were in the kitchen, Payton concentrated on placing the muffins on a pretty glass plate, the slices of melon on another. Johanna had lugged her precious bag of books with her, setting it in one of the chairs at the breakfast nook table like an uninvited guest. We kept our conversation casual until we all sat down.
“It looks like you get to cast the deciding vote, Jill.” Johanna sipped her brought-from-home coffee.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“No, I’m not getting caught in the middle of this. Stop treating me like some sort of human tiebreaker.” I couldn’t have said that more plainly. “Payton, can I have some fruit, please?”
“How are we going to decide, then?”
“There’s nothing to decide, Joey.” I could only hope using her nickname would soften my betrayal. “We already agreed on what we were going to read—”
“But no one’s reading it.”
“Because life’s been hectic. Things happen.” I set my fork down. “I wasn’t realistic about the house renovation. And I certainly didn’t know I was going to lose my job. Payton’s busy. We’re all busy. But that doesn’t mean we—that you change the plan. It just means it takes a little longer for us to read the book.”
“I did read more this month.” Payton smiled. “A whole chapter. Of course, I read it last night.”
“I read a chapter, too.” I placed a still-warm muffin on my plate. “See, improvement already.”
“At this rate, it’ll take us a year to finish.” Johanna accepted the muffin Payton offered her.
“Then it takes a year.”
Johanna obviously didn’t believe in the “it’s about the journey, not the destination” philosophy. She was counting pages, overlooking the value of spending time together. I wanted to shake her until she uncrossed her arms . . . and then hug her.
“If nothing else, we can choose our next book to read from the bag, right, Payton?”
“Absolutely.”
“Next book?” Johanna looked as if I’d suggested that our next book be in a foreign language.
“You don’t plan on disbanding the group after one book, do you?” I widened my eyes, then winked. “Since you made such an investment, you can select the next one we read.”
“Now wait a minute . . .”
“Or maybe we should have her close her eyes and randomly pick one out of the bag.”
“That is not how we’re picking the next book.”
Payton’s snort almost covered up my giggle. Almost. Johanna’s eyes narrowed . . . and then at last her face relaxed into a smile.
I tilted my head. “Are we okay here?”
“Yes.”
“We’re all agreed that we’ll keep reading the same book?”
Both of my sisters nodded.
A small literary victory . . . but I’d take it.
I NEVER REALIZED what I was missing when I worked full-time. How pleasant late afternoon was when it was uninterrupted by phone calls and the pressure of things needing to be done and—when the workmen had gone home—their clamor replaced with calm. With my back resting against the arm of the couch, facing away from the now–open concept dining room and kitchen, I could ignore the uncompleted project.
I’d accepted the fact Geoff and I were still waiting for the countertops to be delivered and that they wouldn’t be the trendy pressed-paper ones I’d originally selected. That was one easy way to cut costs, as Zach had pointed out. And he’d assured me I would be just as satisfied with the less expensive option. I had no choice but to believe him—and no budget, either.
And the wrong wood flooring had been delivered—another delay.
With Winston tired out from a walk, and the workmen gone, I’d moved downstairs instead of hiding in my bedroom. I chose to enjoy the warmth of Winston’s furry body curled up against my bare feet. The softness of a blanket thrown across my legs. The chance to sip a cup of coffee while it was still warm, instead of finding it, hours later, neglected on the corner of my desk.
I shifted my shoulders, switching back to another tab on my laptop screen. I’d cut and pasted multiple paragraphs from the half-dozen open tabs into a never-ending Word document, trying to make sense of all the information about adoption I’d read for the past two hours.
International versus US. Foster adoption. Private adoption. Open adoption. And then the questions started. Should I contact a lawyer or an agency first? How much was this going to cost? How far into the process could I go without trying to talk to Geoff again? When would he need to get involved?
Juggling all this information was reminiscent of being at work, the information and questions and answers blurring together. Which website had I looked at last? Which requirements applied where?
Winston nuzzled my arm, his soft whimper drawing my attention. I ruffled his ears. “You want to go outside, don’t you? Just give me a minute. . . .”
I had other things to do besides researching adoption, including figuring out some sort of decent dinner or deciding to order takeout or, since it was just me, skipping eating altogether. Continue the nonstop game of out-in-out-in with Winston. Maybe bundle up and take him for another short walk before it got too dark. Pick up the house some—at least make the bed from my midday nap.
But I wasn’t ready to stop researching yet.
I stared at the “Contact Us” box at the top of one page. They asked for both an e-mail and a home address. I couldn’t have an information packet showing up at the house. Maybe I could call instead. . . .
Wait.
I could call someone. Thea. Thea from work had talked on occasion about adopting her son, the ginger-haired, freckle-faced little boy growing up, picture by picture, in framed photos on her desk. It would be so much easier to ask questions of someone I knew—and it would be safer, too, until I was ready to talk to Geoff. Maybe he’d be more open to hearing someone’s personal success story. I checked the time. How was it already five o’clock?
Please, please, please, let her still be there. . . .
“This is Thea Phelps. How can I help you?”
“Oh, Thea, this is Jillian. Jillian Hennessey. I’m so glad you’re still at work.”
“Jillian. Hi, how are you? We miss you around here.”
“I’m fine.” Winston yipped, jumping down from the couch. “Would you hold on one sec? I need to let my dog out.”
I set my laptop aside, carrying Winston through the work area, my footsteps causing the heavy-duty plastic still covering the floor to crinkle, and opening the door so he could run into the backyard. When I worked full-time, Winston had spent his days in his kennel. Until I was home, I never realized how often he wanted to be let in and out. “Sorry. We’re renovating the kitchen. It’s a bit like walking through my personal construction zone.”
“No problem.”
“I realize it’s the end of the day, but I was wondering if I could ask you a question or two.”
“Sure. I was getting ready to leave, but I have a few minutes to spare.”
I stayed by the back door, waiting for Winston to return and scratch to be let back in. “I remember you mentioning you’d adopted your son.”
“Franklin? Yes.”
“I’m considering adoption . . . started doing some research . . . and I didn’t realize how complicated the whole process is.”
Thea laughed. “I remember feeling exactly that way. It’s like learning a new language.”
“It is!” Her words cleared a bit of the muddle from my brain. I wasn’t the only one who was confused by all of this.
“I assume you already know you can’t p
ursue private adoption in Colorado—you have to go through an agency.”
“Yes.”
“Are you considering international or US adoption?”
“Probably US.”
“That will make it easier for us to talk, since that’s what my husband and I chose, too.”
Winston was content to run in the backyard, so I remained standing where I was. “So what can you tell me about adopting?”
“Where to start? It’s expensive—an average of twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Thea wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t already read, but hearing the number out loud shook me—especially when we were still dealing with the added costs of the renovation. “I gathered that from what I’ve read on some different websites.”
“And it doesn’t happen overnight. Just prepare yourself for that. My husband and I waited a couple of years before being selected. But it isn’t always that long.”
“Well, I’m already waiting five years before I can even try to get pregnant because of the medication I’m on after chemo and radiation.” Might as well be honest with Thea if I was going to be asking her questions. “I’m hoping adoption might be quicker.”
“What other questions do you have?”
“Adoption is just a bigger undertaking than I realized. There are different agencies. And do I contact an agency or a lawyer first? What was your experience like?”
“What if we met for lunch and talked then? It might be easier.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Would sometime next week work for you?”
“Pick a day—my schedule is more flexible than yours.”
After we chose a date, I stood there for a moment, my phone clasped in my hands, pressed against my heart. Talking, even for such a short time, with someone who’d already adopted a child made the process real. Attainable—well, if I didn’t think about the cost. And meeting with Thea would be easier than scrolling through paragraphs of information that started blurring in front of my eyes. The undercurrent of excitement in Thea’s voice fed my own eagerness.
“Who were you talking to?”
Geoff’s question—his unexpected appearance—caused me to whirl around to face him.
“Thea . . . someone I know at the bank.”
