Chapter 7: The Harvest Supper

"Vitamins don't usually do much either way," the doctor said.

"But people take all sorts of things. Bring me the bottle at your next visit."

"It's not mine. My husband orders them."

She stopped scrolling.

"Then ask him for the name of the pharmacy," she said, in the same even voice. "And bring whatever you have."

I thanked her, and she watched me go out the door.

In the waiting room Frances stood up and took one look at me.

"Heartbeat?" she asked.

"Strong," I said. "Six weeks and a day."

She put her arm around me, right there between the pamphlets and the fish tank, and held on.

On Saturday night the Port Alder Grange hall was hot and loud and smelled of baked beans.

The harvest supper had been held there every November for a hundred years.

Long tables ran down the middle of the room under strings of paper lanterns, and every pie in the county sat on the back counter.

I had meant to stay home.

Frances said that if I hid, the town would decide I had something to hide.

So I wore my mother's green dress, which still fit.

I sat down at the end of a table with her and ate a plate of beans.

Jude came in late with his hair wet, and took the chair across from mine.

He nodded at me, and I nodded back.

Declan was already working the room.

He wore his good gray suit.

He moved from table to table with a hand on each shoulder, bending to listen to each person.

I watched him lean down to the minister's wife.

I could not hear what he said, but I saw her face go soft and sorry, and she looked over at me.

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