Chapter Twenty Four
On the morning the baby had been due, Summer woke before the alarm and turned it off. Jonah was still asleep. She watched his face for a while, then got up before she could wake him by staring.
She’d imagined being enormous by now. In April she’d looked ahead at the bakery calendar and wondered how close she’d be able to stand to the workbench, whether she’d still be able to tie an apron behind her.
The thought had made her laugh, alone in the kitchen before anyone came in.
This morning she fastened her jeans and had to sit down again.
Jonah found her still sitting on the bed when he woke. She said yes to breakfast before he finished asking; when he brought the egg, it was exactly as she liked it. She ate half, then took the plate away while he was looking for the pepper.
Macy had the bakery covered. Summer checked her messages anyway, hoping for a question she could answer quickly, something finished before she had to decide what to do next.
There were only advertisements and a photograph her mother had sent of a broken plant pot. She put the phone back in her pocket.
In the spare room, she found the wrapping paper beneath her wedding pantsuit. She hung the pantsuit in the cupboard and pulled the rolls of paper onto the floor.
Jonah came upstairs with two mugs. He set one on the windowsill and stood beside her, looking at the rolls of paper on the floor.
Jonah picked up a roll that had come open. “Which presents? I’ll help if you tell me what’s for who.”
“We’re not wrapping anything,” Summer said, taking the paper from him. “I just wanted something to do. I don’t know why I came in here.”
He sat on the edge of the spare bed. She could see that he’d put on his work shirt, then left the cuffs unfastened.
“I sent the estimate yesterday,” he said. He rubbed one eye. “I’ve got today, if you want it.”
Summer sat beside him. The little room was cold, and she held the mug between her palms while somebody outside knocked ice from a windshield. She could hear every blow.
Summer touched his unfastened cuff. “Were you going to work? I thought you’d said you were staying.”
“I got dressed without thinking.” Jonah looked down at himself. “I didn’t know where we were going.”
“Somewhere warm,” she said. She stood and took his hand. “I don’t want a walk with a view.”
He found a café outside Salem with a parking place near the door.
They went in at the beginning of lunch, before the windows had fully steamed over, and took a small table beside a radiator.
Summer ordered coffee, changed it to tea, and looked away from the waitress while Jonah ordered a sandwich they could share.
There was a child at the next table trying to remove her coat without surrendering her cookie.
Her father offered to hold it and was refused so vehemently that Summer smiled.
Then he took one sleeve while the girl turned, their heads close together as they worked it out, and Summer looked into her cup until she could breathe evenly again.
Jonah moved the plate between them and left his hand very still beside his knife. Summer broke a piece of bread from the sandwich and put it back, unable to eat it.
“I wanted to see you do that,” she said. Her voice was low enough that he leaned closer. “Be somebody’s dad.”
His mouth tightened. For a moment he looked toward the child, then back at the sandwich.
“So did I,” Jonah said. He kept his palm flat on the table. “I still want to.”
Summer reached for his hand. He turned it beneath hers, and they sat without speaking until the waitress came to ask whether everything was all right. Jonah said the food was good. Summer managed to thank her, then waited for her to leave before lifting his hand to her mouth.
They didn’t talk about another pregnancy.
Summer couldn’t get past the child who should have been arriving now, the weight she had imagined holding, the foolish little arguments she’d expected to have about whose mother was allowed to visit first. She told Jonah that part, and he said he had pictured putting everyone out of the house and having the baby to themselves.
Then Jonah admitted he wouldn’t have had the nerve to send her mother home.
The girl left carrying her cookie, her father holding the coat over his arm. Summer watched them go and took a bite of the sandwich. There was a smear of butter on Jonah’s thumb; she pointed it out, and he wiped it on his napkin before reaching for her again.
On the way home she fell asleep against the window. She woke as Jonah turned into their street and sat up too quickly, catching his arm before she knew where they were. He stopped at the curb and waited while she looked around the car.
Summer let go of his arm. “Sorry. I was asleep.” She looked out at their front door, waiting for her heart to slow.
“I’ll get the bag,” he said, switching off the engine. “Stay there. There’s no hurry.”
She watched him walk around the car, open the back door, and retrieve the piece of cake they’d brought away.
She could remember buying it. She could remember the waitress folding the paper over the plate, Jonah looking for his card, the cold on her face outside.
By the time he opened her door she could get out without help, though she took his hand for the walk to the house.
Her mother called that evening. Summer spoke to her from the sofa while Jonah cut the cake, and for a few minutes they discussed a delivery her mother had missed.
“We went out,” Summer said before the question came. “It was all right. Parts of it.”
Her mother said she was glad. Then she asked whether Summer had thought of coming swimming with her again, and Summer sat up far enough that Jonah paused with the plates.
“Why today?” Summer asked. “Why are you asking me today?” Her mother took a moment to answer.
“Because I’ve been meaning to ask,” her mother said. “I go on Friday mornings now. It’s quieter. I thought you might want to come.”
“I have work,” Summer said. Jonah put her plate on the table without looking at her.
“I know you have work.” Her mother’s voice sharpened too. “I wasn’t asking you to abandon the bakery. Come once, if you want to. Or don’t.”
Summer pressed her fingers into the sofa cushion.
She could hear the irritation that had surfaced between them long before the miscarriage, over school clothes and driving lessons and whether buying the bakery meant she would ever have a weekend.
Her mother was waiting for her to answer, and Summer wanted to refuse because the suggestion had come on a day when she had no room for being improved.
“What time on Friday?” Summer asked, taking the plate from the table. “I’d have to tell Macy.”
“Eight. You’d need to get there a little before.” Her mother paused. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”
Summer told her she’d think about it. After the call, she ate half the cake before asking Jonah whether he thought she ought to go. He was putting the other half aside for morning; he looked up with crumbs on his fingers.
“I think you want to,” he said. “You’ve mentioned it a few times.”
“Have I?” Summer asked. “I don’t remember. Not recently.”
“Before Halloween. At the shop, when somebody asked about the pool.” He closed the box. “And when we started going out. You told me about getting there before anyone else.”
She had forgotten telling him that. She remembered his face across a restaurant table, her sudden fear that there would be nothing to talk about once she’d exhausted the bakery.
“Are you still practicing?” she asked. She looked toward the guitar beside the bookcase. “I haven’t heard you this week.”
“I’ve nearly got through the first verse,” he said, rubbing his fingertips together. “I’m quicker when nobody’s listening.”
“I’ll be upstairs, then.” She set her plate beside his. “Completely deaf.”
After dinner she found her swimming things in a bag she hadn’t opened since spring.
The towel smelled stale, and one strap of the swimsuit had twisted around itself; she took everything out, washed what needed washing, and sent Macy a message saying she’d be in late on Friday.
Macy replied with a photograph of the order book and a request for more labels.
Summer put the labels with her keys and left the swimming bag by the door.
Her mother met her outside the pool. She was carrying two bags because she had brought a towel for Summer as well, although Summer hadn’t asked for one. Summer almost made a remark about it, then took the heavier bag while her mother searched for her membership card.
Inside, the air smelled of chlorine. Summer paid at the desk and followed her mother into the changing room, where a woman stood on a bench trying to free a broken bag strap from a high hook.
Shoes lay beneath the benches, a cap had been left by the sinks, and damp footprints led toward the showers.
Summer chose a locker at the end of the row and made herself stop checking whether the door behind her had closed.
Her mother changed quickly. Summer waited until the room was quieter before taking off her sweater, suddenly unwilling to be seen, though no one had looked at her.
In the mirror above the sinks she could see her own bare shoulders and the red mark her bra had left beneath one arm.
She turned toward the locker and put the swimsuit on beneath the towel.
“I’ll be out there,” her mother said. She held the door open for another woman, then let it close behind them.
Summer sat on the bench. She had come all the way here; now she was dressed for the water and still couldn’t make herself leave the changing room.
The pool would have people in it, men as well as women, bodies close enough to brush against hers at the steps.
She could take her bag and go to the café instead.
Her mother would know better than to ask why.
A child ran through from the showers, pursued by a woman carrying a towel.
Water spattered Summer’s ankle, cold enough to make her flinch, and the woman apologized over her shoulder without stopping.
Summer reached for her own towel, folded it across the bag, and stood.
She could see the pool through the door’s little window.
Her mother was already halfway down a lane.
At the shallow end, Summer sat on the edge and let her feet into the water. It was colder than she remembered. She stayed there while a swimmer passed, then lowered herself in and held the side until she was used to it. Her mother turned at the far end, saw her, and kept swimming.
The first length was poor. Summer began too fast and reached the other end breathless, angry with herself for expecting the months away to make no difference. She rested beside the lane rope while a man passed and pushed off again without looking at her. When there was space, she followed him.
On the next length she slowed down. Water closed over her ears, leaving only the muffled rush of her own movements, and she counted the strokes to the end.
At the wall she rested her cheek against the cold tile, catching her breath.
She stayed for another length, then another, until her shoulders began to ache and her mother was waiting at the steps.
“You coming?” her mother asked. She was shivering, one hand on the rail. “I want coffee before I freeze.”
Summer wiped water from her face. “One more,” she said, and went before her mother could decide whether to wait.
In the café afterward, she ate a piece of toast too quickly and burned the roof of her mouth.
Her mother was searching her bag for a receipt, muttering that she hadn’t brought her glasses.
Summer took it, read the amount, and handed it back.
Her hands were steady around the mug, and she felt tired in a way she recognized.
“I’ll book you in for Friday,” her mother said, still searching her bag. “Unless you want a different day. You’ll have to tell me.”
“After Christmas,” Summer said. She checked the time on her phone. “I’ll do it. I’ve got the app.”
Jonah was at work when she called. He answered with someone speaking behind him, and she could hear him walking into a quieter room before he asked how it had gone.
“I’m going to be sore tomorrow,” she said. She sat in the car with the damp bag beside her. “I used to be good at this.”
“You can complain when you get home. I’ll have the bath ready.”
She laughed and told him she had to go to the bakery first. After she ended the call, she stayed in the car long enough to finish the coffee she’d brought out.
There were messages she hadn’t answered, orders waiting, the small wooden box in her wardrobe at home.
She started the engine and went to work with her hair still wet at the back of her neck.