The Swap(31)

On my second shift after the incident, I was dusting the merchandise when Jamie said, “You miss her, don’t you?”

How had she known I’d been thinking about Freya? Had I murmured her name unconsciously? Then I looked down at the dish I was cradling, gently stroking it with the dust cloth. It was one of Freya’s; she had made it with her own two hands. I’d been there when she glazed it. I set it down.

Jamie said, “I don’t know the full story, but I’m sorry your friendship with Freya had to end. And I hope you won’t feel awkward around me. Freya and I are close, but that won’t affect your employment.”

Her tone was sympathetic and her eyes full of warmth. But she wasn’t fooling me. Jamie thought she had replaced me in Freya’s affections. She thought she had won. I met her gaze and shrugged.

“I don’t blame her,” I said. “I blame the pregnancy hormones.”

My boss’s tawny face paled, evidence that she was unaware of Freya’s condition. The news clearly pained her, but she deserved it for gloating about their friendship. Besides, Freya was almost four months pregnant now. She couldn’t hide behind stretchy pants and flowing tops for much longer. If, in fact, she was still pregnant. Either way . . . now she’d have to explain why she’d kept her situation a secret from her supposed best friend. I suppressed a grin of satisfaction.

Jamie fussed around the till, but I could see her grappling with the news. Her brow was wrinkled with confusion, her jaw clenched with tension. But mostly, she just looked sad. When she felt my gaze on her, she looked up and her eyes were shiny with emotion.

“Hormones can be really powerful,” she said weakly. “I just hope you two can sort things out one day.”

“I don’t know. She made some pretty crazy accusations.”

“Do you want some tea?” her voice was strained. “I’m going to make some.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Jamie scuttled to the kitchen. I picked up another one of Freya’s creations and wiped it gently with the cloth.





26


jamie


Alone in the kitchen, I flicked the kettle on and paced the tiny space, waiting for the water to boil. My stomach was queasy, my forehead hot. Freya was pregnant. Why had she kept it from me? I thought we were friends . . . best friends. Her pretense disappointed me. But I had to admit the real source of my distress. I was jealous. Freya, who hated children, who had never wanted one, was pregnant. And I was not.

Of course, Low could be lying. Freya had warned me that the girl would say anything to hurt Freya and Max, the gorgeous couple in the glass house. But this pregnancy news didn’t hurt Freya, it hurt me. Low had no reason to wound me like that. I had stood by her. I had kept her employed even after Freya had banished her. Why would she tell me my best friend was expecting if it wasn’t true?

The electric kettle boiled then and automatically turned itself off. I reached for a mug but stopped. I couldn’t stand there, drinking tea with Low, wondering if what she had told me was the truth. I had to know for sure. And there was only one way to find out. I hurried out of the kitchen.

“It’s so dead today,” I chirped. “Let’s close early.”

Low glanced at the clock on the wall. “But it’s only four.”

“I know. But we haven’t had a customer in hours. There’s not much point staying open.”

“If you want to go, I can stay till five thirty,” my assistant offered. “I’ll cash out and lock up.”

Low had worked alone before. She knew the closing procedures and was fully capable of handling them on her own. But Freya’s words rang in my memory. Don’t trust her. And Low may have just lied to my face, may have said those words just to crush me. Until I knew for sure, I couldn’t leave her alone in my store.

“It’s fine,” I insisted. “You can go. I’ll close up.”

Low loped into the back room to grab her coat. Shooting me a resentful look, she left. I immediately texted Freya.

Closed early. Meet me for happy hour?

If she were pregnant, she wouldn’t be drinking. Shouldn’t be drinking, anyway. I tried to remember the last time we’d had alcohol together. Our recent visits had mostly been walks and coffee dates. She’d brought sandwiches to the store a couple of times and we’d had a picnic on the front counter. But I was almost certain that Freya had had a mimosa on a recent brunch date. Maybe she wasn’t expecting?

Her text came back.

Busy in the studio. Coffee tomorrow morning?

Her refusal to meet for drinks meant that she could be pregnant. But I needed confirmation. And I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

I need to see you. It’s about Low.

The message was read, but she didn’t respond right away. My heart pounded as I waited for the shivering ellipsis that prefaced her reply. Finally, they came, followed closely by the words:

Come to the studio.

? ? ?

I’d been in Freya’s pottery studio a couple of times. In contrast to her pristine home, it was a disaster: dust coating every surface, buckets full of muddy clay on the floor, filthy rags draped over the backs of chairs or the edge of the sink. But in the midst of it all were racks of Freya’s creations at various stages of finish. They were all so beautiful that they compensated for the slovenliness of the space.