The Swallow's Nest. Emilie Richards

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      “I probably like being outside or in bed better than I’d like being at a card table anyway.” She winked at him.

      His eyes lit approvingly. “Do you like it here?”

      “Why wouldn’t I? The place is gorgeous.”

      “Sometimes I miss my house. Four bedrooms and a view of the mountains. My wife’s garden was her life. After Franny died I couldn’t stand to see it going to seed.”

      “Is that why you moved here?”

      “I wanted something smaller. Everything I could possibly want is here.” He had long, slender fingers, like a musician or an artist. He touched her hair and pushed a strand off her cheek, his fingertips lingering. “Especially now that you’re here, too.”

      “I’ll come back if you want me. Maybe on weekends?”

      “You could move in, Rina. There’s room.”

      She took a moment to imagine life here. She would still have to keep her apartment, in case Blake got tired of her. She’d have the usual bills, although he always paid when they went out. After Toby’s birth he’d taken her to the symphony, expensive restaurants, a play. Deedee had been persuaded to take Toby for those hours, and Marina had wanted to forget everything about her real life and pretend she was the woman she’d been before the pregnancy.

      Somehow, because she hadn’t wanted to scare him away, even then she hadn’t gotten around to telling Blake she was a new mother.

      For a week now she’d carefully schooled herself not to think about the baby. Graham’s frantic texts—unanswered—had assured her that Toby was still alive and screaming. She wondered where Lilia fit into that scenario, or if she even did. Since Marina didn’t want to think about any of it, after one text too many she had blocked Graham’s number.

      Did she feel guilty? If she did, guilt was buried under layers of disappointment and anger. She had fulfilled her part of their bargain, but Graham had not. Now the baby she had never wanted was his to fix. And okay, that made her a bad person, or at least a bad mother. But sadly she had never felt like a mother, just an overworked babysitter.

      The whole situation had finally come to a head one night on one of her marathon phone calls with Blake. Realizing she couldn’t continue to keep such a big secret, she had finally broached the subject of children. He’d confessed he was glad child rearing was behind him. His sons were adults, and he wasn’t sorry they were.

      She’d hung up once more without telling him about Toby, but in that final week before Graham’s party, when her thoughts about the baby had frightened her, she’d realized that, like Blake, she needed to put child rearing behind her, too.

      “You could, you know,” he prompted, “move in with me.”

      She smiled in answer. Did she love him? Of course not, and besides, what did love have to do with it? But money and security? Those were different matters. She liked him. Wasn’t that a good enough start?

      “I would like to live here with you,” she said, feeling her way. “But I really can’t afford to, Blake. I’d still have all my expenses and a longer commute. And with my hectic work schedule, we wouldn’t see that much of each other, anyway. But when I’m free, I hope we’ll get together.”

      “I like having you right here.”

      “And I like being here.” She set down her coffee and held out her arms, letting the sheet drift to her waist. He might be dressed already, but they could fix that. Blake was past fifty, but his libido hadn’t suffered. He was an enthusiastic lover and surprisingly intent on making sure she found as much pleasure as he did.

      And every time, he seemed to get his way.

      “One for the road?” She winked at him.

      “You could be the death of me.”

      She pulled him closer. “Oh, I don’t think so, but what a way to go.”

       8

      Feathering your nest with imagination and love

      MARCH 10TH:

      I’m home in Kauai after an unexpected challenge in my life. Your patience during my absence means everything to me.

      Aloha, Lilia

      In the days since she’d left California, Lilia hadn’t answered any communication from Graham, or Carrick, either. Carrick probably had been as much in the dark about Toby as she had. She believed he was furious at Graham. But the two men had been friends since they began rooming together as young teens at a New England boarding school. Since then Carrick had proven his loyalty over and over.

      Of course so had she, and look where that had gotten her.

      Today she planned to think of other things. Her parents were having a party in her honor, and now her mother, Nalani, came out to the yard behind the Swallows’ plantation-style house carrying platters of food to the picnic tables. The family had given Lilia a week to recover, but everyone knew the time to publicly welcome her home had come, whether she felt up to it or not. She couldn’t hurt the people who loved and wanted the best for her.

      Unlike the man who had hurt her.

      When family came for a meal, people sat on the lanai, in the kitchen or in the yard, wherever they could squeeze in. Here the outdoor tables were shaded by a spectacular Poinciana tree which in summer would set the yard ablaze with brilliant red flowers.

      “You feeling more rested after your nap?” Nalani asked.

      “A little.” Lilia hadn’t napped as much as collapsed in a lounge chair after breakfast. She was fairly certain she hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time since her arrival. She was still too angry, too torn, and despite herself, in the deepest part of her heart, too worried about her husband and his son. Some habits were hard to break, and she’d spent a year thinking of little other than Graham’s survival.

      Nalani read between the lines. “If you disappear after you’ve greeted everybody, no one will ask where you are.”

      Nodding her gratitude, Lilia took two of the platters of her mother’s shoyu chicken and set one on each end of two wooden tables placed end to end. Cabbage salad topped with crunchy ramen noodles, macaroni and cheese dotted with Spam—a local favorite—and a platter of fresh fruit had preceded them. Steaming bowls of rice would be set out when the family began to arrive in a few minutes. Identical bowls adorned two tables inside, and her brothers’ families would bring their own additions, as would the relatives and neighbors who came and went through the evening. Kai had agreed to sing and play, probably with friends from his band, and music magically turned the welcome home party into a luau. Children would chase each other, too excited to sit and eat. Grown-ups would “talk story,” which was local pidgin for chatting.

      “Talk stink” was trash talking, and considering that by now everyone already knew why Lilia had come home, there would be plenty of that, too.

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