Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(49)

Karyn shakes her brunette curls. “Close. The runt is Frenchy, but the other one’s a male—his name is Greased Lightning.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see when you pick him up. Listen, why don’t you grab yourself some coffee and then update the Web site with the puppies? I took some pictures of them earlier—they’re in the digital camera by the computer.”

Elsa heads over to the coffeepot in a kitchenette alcove, then settles herself in front of the computer with a steaming cup.

Of all the tasks that come along with her shelter volunteer work, this is her least favorite. Every time she logs onto the site’s pet adoption page—with its tagline Won’t You Provide One of These Lost Souls with a Loving Home?—she’s reminded of Jeremy.

Karyn doesn’t know about him, though. When Elsa met her, and Karyn asked whether she had any children, she said no. It’s not the whole truth, but it spares her having to answer additional questions that are even more painful.

She uploads the photo of the puppies, then writes the copy to go along with it.

Somewhere out there, someone has a loving home and a heartful of longing…

Just as Elsa once did.

I still do.

If Jeremy were to come home now…

Eyes flooded with tears, Elsa checks to make sure Karyn hasn’t noticed. No, she’s over by the cardboard box, trying to get a grip on a squirming reddish puppy—Greased Lightning, no doubt.

She hastily wipes away the tears and does her best to focus on the copywriting until Karyn interrupts her.

“Hey, want to trade places? This little guy needs his bottle and some serious cuddling—and I’m pretty much cuddled out.”

With an eager nod, Elsa goes over to the most comfortable guest chair in the office, settles into it, and holds out her arms.

“Careful—he’s a little escape artist. I’ll go grab the bottle. Got him?”

“Got him,” she assures Karyn, holding the writhing puppy close and nuzzling his soft fur with her cheek. Within moments, he settles his warm little body against her.

Karyn returns with the bottle, her brown eyes widening in surprise behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Wow. What’d you do to him?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, you’ve definitely got the touch. Too bad you never had kids—you’d be a great mom.”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, Karyn looks as if she wants to take them back. “Sorry,” she tells Elsa, “I know that’s personal. I mean, maybe you didn’t want kids, or maybe you couldn’t have them—oh God, why do I always say the wrong thing?”

“It’s okay.” Not really, but…poor Karyn. And poor me. “You’re right. It is too bad. And maybe I would have been a great mom…”

But I wasn’t.

If Jeremy were here, you could ask him. He’d probably be glad to tell you about all the mistakes I made.

But Jeremy isn’t here.

Jeremy doesn’t know that Elsa can see many things more clearly now—things she would have done differently, given the chance.

And if she’s right—and he isn’t coming back—then she’ll never be able to tell him how sorry she is for failing him.



Glenhaven Episcopal Church, a classic white clapboard structure with a steeple and stained glass windows, sits on the tree-shaded green in the heart of town.

When Ryan and Lucy were little, Lauren brought them to a series of music classes in the basement recreation room. She hasn’t set foot in here since, but it’s changed little, if at all, over the years. Same damp smell, same dim fluorescent lighting, same wooden stage framed by worn maroon velvet curtains and filled with folding chairs and tables that are taken out as needed.

They’re not needed today—and if they were, there wouldn’t be space to set them up. The rec room is jam-packed with castoffs for the upcoming tag sale. Not just boxes of knickknacks and bags of clothing, but furniture, too. Nice furniture.

As Ryan returns to the car for their last box, Lauren runs her fingers along the polished surface of an Art Deco–style dressing table with a rounded mirror.

“If you’re interested in that, you’d better get here early on sale day.”

Lauren turns to see the woman who introduced herself as Alana from the Junior League. She’s either stiff or shy—Lauren couldn’t tell which at first, but—noting her arch smile—she’s now leaning toward stiff.

She’s noticed that Alana keeps peeking into the boxes Lauren and Ryan have brought in, taking stock of what’s inside. She isn’t exactly wrinkling her nose, but she’s not looking tempted to put aside anything for herself, either.

“Oh, I’m not interested in this.” Lauren hastily removes her hand from the dressing table. “I’m here to get rid of things, not accumulate more.”

“Well, there really are some great pieces here. Furniture, and clothing, too.”

Was that a hint? Is she taking in Lauren’s coffee-stained shorts and faded Gap T-shirt and thinking she’d do better in some other mom’s hand-me-downs?

“I’ll be back with clothes, too, before the week is out,” Lauren informs her. “My kids are growing like weeds, so I’ve got to go through their closets.”