Chapter 8: The Spare Room

On Thursday night Rupert's silver sedan was parked in front of Fran's house with its engine running.

He sat inside it for two hours with the dome light on, and sent me nine texts.

I deleted all of them without reading past the first line.

At ten o'clock Fran put on her slippers and her quilted coat and picked up the casserole dish.

"Stay here," she said.

I didn't stay.

I stood behind her on the porch, in my socks, and watched my husband get out of the car and put both hands in the air.

"Fran," he called across the lawn. "Fran, I just want to talk to her."

"You're on my lawn," said Fran.

"I'm on the curb."

"Your tire is on my lawn, and the neighbors have a camera." She hefted the dish. "Go home."

"She's carrying my child!" Rupert said.

He said it loudly, and the house across the street turned its porch light on.

Fran lowered the casserole dish.

She turned, very slowly, and looked at me, and I couldn't meet her eyes.

"I was going to tell you," I said. "I couldn't get it out."

"When?"

"When I could say it without crying."

"Oh, honey," said Fran.

She put the dish down on the porch rail and held her arms open, and I walked into them.

Over my shoulder she said, "Rupert Kessling, if you're not gone in one minute, I'll tell the whole block what you did, and I have a very good voice."

The sedan was gone before the minute was up.

At the kitchen table, over a pot of weak tea, Fran said the thing I had been afraid of.

"He knows where I live. His mother knows where I live. You can't stay here, Leah."