Chapter 9 Christina
CHRISTINA
The bell above Spilled Milk’s door chimed as Christina waddled inside like a penguin, one hand pressed to the small of her back. Eight months pregnant in June meant everything ached, everything swelled, and the simple act of grocery shopping had become an Olympic event.
At least the store was cool. She stood just inside the entrance for a moment, letting the air conditioning wash over her, breathing in the familiar smell of fresh bread and ripe produce that always reminded her this place was nothing like the enormous supermarkets back in Miami.
A crash in the produce section made her turn.
Bertha the goat stood on her hind legs, front hooves planted on the edge of the kale display, her pink tulle tutu—clearly Mary’s summer costume choice—fluttering as she stretched her neck toward the leafiest bunch. Green bits already clung to her chin.
“Bertha, no!” Mary’s voice carried across the store, exasperated but affectionate. “That’s organic! Do you have any idea what I pay for organic? There’s plenty in the garden out back.”
Bertha bleated cheerfully and grabbed another mouthful.
Christina found herself smiling despite her exhaustion. This was Blueberry Hill—where goats wore tutus and ate the merchandise, where everyone knew your name and your business, where life moved at a pace that still sometimes felt foreign after twenty-three years of Miami hustle.
She grabbed a cart and started down the first aisle, mentally reviewing her list. Prenatal vitamins. Crackers for the nausea that still hadn’t completely faded. Ice cream, because Violet seemed to demand it at all hours. Ingredients for the casserole she’d promised to bring to Sunday dinner.
“Christina!”
She turned to find Francesca approaching, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, green eyes bright.
Bo Cooper walked beside her, one hand resting at the small of Francesca’s back.
They moved together like people who’d grown comfortable in each other’s space, and she bet her mom was right, there’d be a wedding coming soon.
“You look wonderful,” Francesca said, reaching out to squeeze Christina’s arm. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a whale who swallowed another whale.” Christina kept her voice light. “But the doctor says everything’s on track. Six more weeks.”
“Six weeks.” Bo shook his head, smiling. “Town’s going to go crazy when that baby arrives. Mary’s already organizing a meal train.”
“She mentioned that.” Christina shifted, trying to ease the pressure on her hip. “She doesn’t have to—”
“This is Blueberry Hill,” Francesca said gently. “She wanted to. We all do.”
Bo’s hand moved from Francesca’s back to her shoulder, an unconscious gesture of connection. Francesca leaned into him slightly, naturally, the way people did when they’d found their person.
Something in Christina’s chest tightened.
“Well,” she managed, “I should finish up. Trying to beat the afternoon heat.”
“Of course.” Francesca’s eyes held something that looked uncomfortably like understanding. “Let us know if you need anything. I mean it.”
Christina nodded and moved past them, her smile firmly in place until she rounded the corner into the cereal aisle. Then she stopped, leaning against the cart to steady herself.
They looked happy. Francesca and Bo, her mother and Will, Evan and Emily with baby Grace. Even Ally, despite the Colton situation, had her bees and her business and a sense of purpose that carried her through the hard days.
And Christina had... what? A growing belly full of secrets. A father for her baby who didn’t know he was a father.
Violet shifted, pressing against Christina’s ribs, and she winced.
“I know,” she murmured, rubbing the spot. “I’m being dramatic. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
The baby kicked again, harder this time, as if in agreement. Or protest. With Violet, it was hard to tell.
Christina took a breath and continued shopping. Ice cream—orange sorbet and chocolate, the one craving combination she couldn’t shake. Bread. Eggs. A jar of Ally’s honey with Sam’s hand-designed label, because supporting her sister was important.
At the checkout counter, Mary was wrestling Bertha away from a display of summer squash, her bright red hair escaping from its ponytail.
“I swear this goat gets worse every year,” Mary said, finally managing to clip a leash to Bertha’s collar. The goat’s tutu was now askew, bits of kale still decorating her chin. “Sorry about that, hon. Let me ring you up.”
Christina unloaded her groceries onto the counter. Mary began scanning items, but her movements slowed as she reached the prenatal vitamins, the crackers, the ice cream and sorbet.
“How are you really doing, sweetheart?” Mary’s voice was quieter now, meant just for her. “And don’t give me that ‘fine’ business. I’ve got three kids and seven grandkids. I know what ‘fine’ looks like, and you’re not it.”
Christina’s throat tightened. “I’m just tired. The heat, you know.”
Mary studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. She didn’t push—that wasn’t the Blueberry Hill way—but she packed Christina’s groceries with extra care, wrapping the eggs in additional padding, slipping in a chocolate bar that Christina definitely hadn’t paid for.
“On the house,” Mary said when Christina tried to protest. “You’re growing a whole person in there. You need chocolate.”
“Mary—”
“Don’t argue with me. I’m old and I’m stubborn and I’ve got a goat who eats my profits, anyway.
” She pushed the bags across the counter.
“You call if you need anything. And I mean anything—middle of the night ice cream cravings, someone to talk to, help carrying groceries. That’s what we’re here for. ”
Christina blinked against the sudden burning in her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Go on now.” Mary waved her toward the door. “Before Bertha decides your bags look tasty.”
The heat hit like a wall as Christina stepped outside, the afternoon sun blazing down on Main Street. It might only be seventy-two, but to her it felt like a hundred and two. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, grocery bags hanging from her hands, watching the town move around her.
Milt Jenkins was sweeping the sidewalk outside The Iron Spade, pausing to wave at a passing truck. Two kids on bicycles raced past, their laughter trailing behind them. Through the window of The Lonely Pen, she could see Francesca shelving books.
Violet kicked again, a flutter against her palm when she pressed her hand to her belly.
“Okay,” Christina whispered. “I have you. That counts.”
Her phone buzzed with a text from her mom.
Dinner at 6. Will’s making his famous fried chicken.
I’ve been craving fried chicken. Tell him to make extra
She smiled as she loaded the groceries into her car. Across the street, the window display at The Lonely Pen had changed since last week—summer reading picks now, bright covers promising escape and adventure and, knowing Francesca’s taste, at least three enemies-to-lovers romances.
Maybe she’d stop by tomorrow. Pick up something to read during those middle-of-the-night hours when Violet seemed determined to practice her kickboxing routine.
She slid behind the wheel, cranked the AC, and pulled out of the parking lot. Will’s chicken was delicious, and baby Grace would be there—Christina could use some practice holding a newborn before Violet arrived.
The road curved through the mountains, green and lush with summer. Christina turned up the radio and rolled down her window despite the heat, letting the warm air whip through the car.
Six more weeks. She could do six more weeks.