Trespassing(47)

“Up.” She steps in front of me, her little arms stretched to the sky.

I wish I’d thought to shove the umbrella stroller into the car, but I didn’t think I’d need it at Plum Lake. Besides, big girls walk. Getting my daughter into a stroller is usually like forcing a cat into a bathtub.

“Up, up!” She jumps, as if she might magically land in arms.

“Mommy can’t carry you all the way.” My back is aching from three days in the car, and my abdomen is starting to cramp again, as the effects of IVF medication reverse. “Maybe on the way home, okay?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts, but at least she continues to walk.

“We’re city chicks, you and me,” I tell her.

She takes my hand. “City chicks?”

“We’re Old Town girls. We can walk.” I would’ve driven, but zipping around the island, I saw not a single open parking place, and the lots seemed to be as far away from restaurants and shops as my Goddess Island abode. Besides, I don’t know the lay of the land yet.

It’s cooler now, with the sun beginning to set, and as I opted—in the interest of blending in—to leave my sweater behind, my flesh pricks with chill bumps. If we’re going to stay, we’re going to need to find some more appropriate clothing. Sundresses. Flip-flops. At the very least, canvas slip-on shoes. These boots are killing my feet.

The walks along Elizabeth Street are sparsely populated, but once we turn onto Southard, the crowd thickens, and by the time we hit Duval Street, the energy of the island practically hums in my veins.

I’m not surprised Micah purchased a home here; he would have loved it. Must have loved it, I mentally correct myself, as he obviously spent some time here . . . with the children in the photographs and Natasha, apparently, if what my neighbor said was true. You don’t buy a home on an island you don’t love, after all.

And—I draw in a stutter of a breath—he hadn’t loved the place alone, if the pictures on the family room floor tell any tales.

Family room.

The house I’ll be squatting in once I feed Elizabella—my house—is home to a family, and it appears Micah was part of that family.

The kids . . .

The boys, both only a smidgen older than my daughter, are dark blond and blue-eyed. The girl, whom Bella refers to as Nini, is a gorgeous strawberry blonde.

Perhaps she inherited the red from her mother.

A lump forms in my throat, and tears well in my eyes. I swallow over it and wipe them away. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. There has to be another explanation.

But Micah obviously knew the people living in my house on Elizabeth Street, and he was obviously close to them. And Christian Renwick referred to a Tasha.

The betrayal is doubly painful if he actually means my college roommate. I remember shopping at a thrift store for a murder mystery party we attended our first New Year’s Eve. Natasha, emerging from a dressing room in a high-necked calico dress and her hair in a bun: Aren’t I ravishing as a schoolmarm? It’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for.

I shake free from the memory, which raises chill bumps on my arms.

Listen to your daughter.

Someone wanted me to arrive at “God Land” to see for myself. Someone wanted me to see Micah’s secrets.

Maybe Claudette was right. Maybe Micah’s Misty Morningside came in the form of his ex-girlfriend and three times the children I was able to bear for him.

A pang of jealousy tightens in my gut—envy for those who can conceive, bitter wariness that someone else may have done what I couldn’t do for him—but it quickly morphs into something else, something nondescript. Something that borders on well, can you blame him?

He wanted a big family. I couldn’t provide one.

Bella tugs on my hand.

But he always said that I was more than enough, and Bella was the cherry atop our sundae.

“Mommy! Hungry!”

“I know, baby.” We’re just off the corner of Duval and Caroline, and as luck would have it, there’s a restaurant right here. Palm trees edge the property line, along with a charming, white, may-as-well-be-a-picket fence. I hesitate for a moment, when my gaze locks on the bar at the far end of the place. The Flying Monkey. Maybe this isn’t the best place for a child. But a glance to my right reassures me. An enormous, three-story house, complete with a two-tier balcony, sits separate from the rowdy outdoor bar. It’s sided in blue-gray and trimmed in bright white, with high-top tables outside. It looks like an old, southern plantation house.

Elizabella clings to me, even begins to yank on my T-shirt in an effort to climb up my torso and into my arms. She doesn’t remember living in Old Town, doesn’t remember parting our way through crowds denser than this one. The murmur of diners rises all around us. I give in and lift her to my hip.

We weave our way through the tables. Despite her best imitation of a baby monkey clinging to its mother, I manage to lower Elizabella at the wide steps of the house. Her grip is tight on my fingers as we ascend.

I flash back to a time Bella would have had a grip on both my hand and Micah’s, and we’d swing her between us as we’d walk—one, two, three, fly. More tears surface. Why, why, why?

Why is he suddenly gone? Why did he lie—about everything? Why weren’t his daughter and I enough for him?

But we weren’t enough for me, either. I took the fertility shots. I took drastic measures to increase our numbers. Even after the miscarriage, even after I swore I couldn’t go through it all again, I opted to keep trying.