Lie, Lie Again(35)
“Oh my. Why not?” She lowered her voice. “Not his?”
“No! Of course not. Why would you think that?”
Sylvia lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “It just popped into my head. People cheat.”
“Well, I don’t! And I haven’t told him because I don’t know how to yet. It was unexpected.” She met her eyes with a pleading gaze. “Please don’t say anything.”
Sylvia’s expression reminded Embry of the pictures in her old Raggedy Ann book where the doll had come to life and, upon hearing her mistress walk into the room, made a quick, slightly creepy change back to stillness. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’ll tell him soon. It’s just the acting thing, um—well, you know. Anyway. Please let us know if you need anything. We were so sorry to hear about your fall.”
“In the scheme of things, I’m lucky. Very, very lucky. Lots of people don’t survive falls like that,” Sylvia said in a clipped tone. She took a jar of strawberry preserves from the shelf. “Have a good day. And congratulations.”
“Thanks. And remember not to say anything. I just—”
She laughed and mimed locking her lips. “I’m a vault. Your secret is safe with me.”
Embry smiled as she passed her. She kept the grin plastered to her face until she had turned the corner and was in the next aisle. It was then that she exhaled loudly. This is bad. How could she have told Sylvia before Brandon? It was all wrong. If she hadn’t seen that woman at the entrance who made her feel hopeful about the baby, and if Sylvia hadn’t reminded her of her mother for that split second, her secret would still be locked up tight.
“Mama, I get cookies?” Kylie was pointing to the bag of Oreos on the shelf. Normally, she would roll right past them, saying, Next time, sweetie. But today she said yes.
“Here you go.”
Kylie gripped the bag in her little hands and brought it to her nose, inhaling plastic more than cookie, Embry assumed. “I love these, Mama. You’re a good mama.”
Embry tousled her hair. “You’re my sweet girl.”
So Embry was pregnant. Sylvia gripped the jar of jam and slammed it to the ground. Glass shattered near her boots, and the jam sat in grotesque clumps. It reminded her of Hugh and his sorry, sugar-free, cat-gut jam. She stepped around the mess and headed to the front of the store, where she found a clerk, easily identifiable in his red T-shirt. “Excuse me, but there’s a broken jar in aisle seven. A child must’ve knocked it from the shelf.” She rolled her eyes. “Kids these days.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” the young clerk said. “I’m on it.”
She steered her cart to the opposite side of the store, but suddenly, the thought of shopping seemed overwhelming. Embry was pregnant with her third child. Unexpectedly, no less. Lucky, lucky Embry. And Sylvia had been ghosted by a married motherfucker. She gripped the cart handle, steadying herself from another imminent fall. A voice from within sneered, Toughen up, you pathetic loser.
With a determined stride, she abandoned the cart and fled from the store. The rain beat the earth relentlessly. After popping open her gigantic golf umbrella, she marched into the chaos. It wasn’t like she would get wet. She was suited in the proper rain gear. She crossed the parking lot while the rain pelted the black umbrella. Ha, she thought. Not even close. She stormed toward her car, but as she neared it, her steps slowed. Was she ready to drive home and sit with Embry’s secret?
Shaking her head, she tromped toward the coffeehouse across the lot. The café was warm and dry and smelled of freshly baked blueberry muffins.
This was better. A lovely barista with a tattoo of a broken, bleeding heart on her inner forearm took Sylvia’s order. How obvious, wearing her heart on her sleeve like that.
Sylvia chose a table in the corner, setting her number in the center. Most of the other tables were filled. There was a group of young people with books spread out, and another with two women, their foreheads nearly touching as one spoke in a rapid whisper, her eyes darting after every few words as though she were checking for eavesdroppers. Sylvia wished she were closer so she could listen in. It always fascinated her to hear what other women talked about. Were they sharing secrets and pinkie swearing they’d never tell? And upon leaving, they’d rush to call another friend and spill the beans? Pretty little betrayals.
Directly in front of her was a father with his young son. The boy looked to be about two. He had a shock of blond hair that clearly hadn’t been brushed that morning. She scanned the man’s left hand for a ring. It was there, all right, bright and shiny. Had his wife allowed him to leave with their son looking like a street urchin? Maybe they had fought, and he had grabbed the small boy and left, barely missing a well-aimed frying pan that was careering across the room toward him.
On the other hand, it could be that she was a businesswoman who was finalizing an important project for Monday, and she was relieved to have her husband take their son out for some Sunday fun.
The man stared at his phone screen, scrolling now and then to read more of whatever was so enthralling. And that sweet little boy held a white plastic fork with a determined grip, and after two tries, he stabbed a piece of watermelon. Her hands quivered with the desire to clap. He put the food in his mouth and chewed. Sylvia wanted to shake the man. Are you seeing this? Do you even know what’s going on right in front of you, you big idiot? Your son—your own flesh and blood—just succeeded. And you missed it because you’re too goddamn busy. As if her wrath had drifted across the room and snatched him by the neck, the man turned, meeting Sylvia’s eyes. “Your son is adorable,” she said loudly, pointing.