“Thanks, Grace. But like I said—”

I banged my cup onto the table, spilling a little into the saucer. “Neva. You don’t have to be cryptic, darling. Honestly, I don’t care who the father is. This is my grandchild. This baby will know nothing but love, even if its father isn’t part of its life. But at least tell us who he is.”

Neva’s jaw clamped shut. She met my eye, almost defiantly. And I knew the subject had been closed. Despite my shock and frustration, a pleasant surge of adrenaline rushed through me. It started in the sternum, then spread pleasantly through my center, like ice cream into hot pudding. Neva didn’t do things like this. She never got into any trouble, not interesting trouble. She’d always been so bookish that I’d actually looked forward to her teenage years, when I was sure she’d come into her own and make her mark on the world. But her teenage years had come and gone and her twenties were worse. She’d studied hard, then loyally followed Mom and me into our profession, where she’d quickly eclipsed us both in skill and success. Now, at twenty-nine, Neva was rebelling. And despite my desperation to know the parentage of my grandchild-to-be, I was excited.

“I’m tired,” she said. “Can we talk more tomorrow?” Neva stood with some difficulty and peeled the damp shirt away from her skin. Immediately, it stuck again. “Dinner was great. I’ll call you both tomorrow.”

“Wait!” I sprang to my feet. I didn’t know what I’d say, but I knew I couldn’t let her leave. “Aren’t you … going to open your present?”

She paused in the archway leading to the hall. “Oh. Uh … yes. Sorry.”

I darted past her into the dining room and returned with the box, which I thrust at Neva. “You open it this time.” I held my hands up and away from the gift. “No interference from me. Promise.”

Cautiously she opened the box and tipped it up. The silver frame slid into her waiting hand.

The photo was an old one, taken when pictures were smaller and browner and rounder at the edges. Mom sat in her wicker garden chair on the piazza, her salt-and-pepper hair collected in a coil at her nape. In the foreground, I knelt with a four- or five-year old Neva in front of me. The hem of my skirt was pulled up and I was hiding behind it, while Neva—serious even as a child—gave her Gran an exasperated look. I’d stumbled over the picture in an album, and even though Neva said no presents, I thought she might make an exception.

A smile inched its way onto Neva’s face. “Who took this?” she asked, staring at the picture.

“Probably your father. Do you like it?”

I watched her closely. Her eyes, I noticed, were dry but filled with emotion. Perhaps for once I’d gotten it right with my daughter?

“I love it, Grace,” she said, looking up. “And I’m sorry. I know this is a shock. I just need some time. Is that okay?”

What could I say? If she meant accepting that her baby didn’t have a father, then, no, it wasn’t okay. I’d never heard anything less okay in my whole life.

“Of course, darling,” I heard myself saying. “Whatever you need.”

*   *   *

I was pleased to see the bedroom light on when I turned into the driveway. I knew I’d never sleep if I couldn’t debrief the night’s events. I locked the front door behind me, slipped out of my shoes, and hurried to the bedroom. Just as I turned the door knob, the night-light went out.

“Honey?” I scurried into the dark room and turned on the lamp. “Wake up. You won’t believe what has happened.”

Robert made a noise that sounded like “hmmm” but his eyes remained closed.

I jostled him. “Rob. I need to talk to you.”

He muttered something, which sounded like “talk in the morning,” and rolled over.

“Neva’s pregnant,” I said finally.

There was a pause, then he rolled back, opened his eyes.

“Six months along,” I continued. “Mom and I only found out because she spilled water down the front of her blouse and there was no hiding it.”

I waited for Robert to snap to attention and beg for more information. Or at least display some overt signs of surprise. But in true Robert style, his movements were slow. Measured. Once, I had loved this about him. Now it made me want to punch him in the face.

“Who’s the father?” he asked.

“There isn’t one, she says.”

Despite my frustration, it gave me a certain satisfaction saying that. And even more when Robert sat up and reached for his glasses from the side table. Now I had his attention.

“What on earth do you mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know what it means. But that’s what Neva says. That there’s no father.”

“As in, the virgin birth?”

“Who knows? Whatever it is, she’s not talking. And the more I pressed her—”

“The more she clammed up, yes.” He sighed and thought. “Well, there’s no point in speculating. I’ll call her in the morning to get to the bottom of it.” He took off his glasses and returned them to the table. “Why don’t you go to sleep, love?”

He shut off the light, leaving me in darkness. I resented his insinuation that one phone call from him would get all the answers we needed, even though a small part of me believed it was true. Neva often confided in her father, possibly just to irritate me. But whatever the reason, I hoped she did tell Robert. I needed to know who the father of that baby was. And the sooner, the better.

With nothing left to do, I stood, slipping out of my clothes and underwear. I was too pumped up to sleep. And experience told me that only one thing helped with pent-up energy at this time of night. I peeled back the covers and slipped into my husband’s side of the bed. His skin was rough and warm and I shimmied against it.

“Grace,” he protested, but I silenced him with a kiss and rolled him onto his back.

“Just lie back.”

I followed the trail of salt-and-pepper hair south. He’d had a shower before bed, I could smell—and taste—the soap on his skin. It made me want him more. I needed intimacy. Needed someone to want me. It would be a tall order from my sleepy husband, but I had my ways of convincing him. I’d gotten as far as his navel when his hands curled over my shoulders.

“I have to work in the morning, Grace. And honestly, after the news you’ve given me, I’m a little distracted.” He tugged me upward and pressed my cheek to his chest. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? It’s a full moon tonight—someone is bound to go into labor. You’ll want to have had some rest before you get the call.”

His voice was controlled, completely uninfluenced by desire. The tone of a master to its dog. No more catch tonight, Fido. These dismissals had been happening more often lately. A sudden headache, an immediate steadying of his breathing when I came to bed. But this rejection was the most overt. How many times had I sat around at book club, listening to my friends complain that all their husbands thought about was sex, sex, sex? And, if they did submit, it was for three minutes of missionary, no foreplay, no fellatio. I was ready to give my husband the whole shebang and … was I that repulsive? Once, Robert had found me irresistible. We’d prided ourselves on being part of a couple who maintained their “spark.” What had happened to us?

I lay in his arms for as long as I could, probably no more than a minute, and then whispered, “I think I’ll get some water.”

Robert didn’t protest, nor did I expect him to. By the time I had slipped into my dressing gown he was snoring. In the kitchen, the reeds lashed against the house so loudly it sounded like the wind might lift our cottage right off the ground and toss it into Mackerel Cove. I sat in the blue chair with my sketchbook on my lap and face-planted into it.

What was going on with Neva? When it was all boiled down, there were only two possibilities: Neva didn’t know who the father was, or she didn’t want me to know. Whichever it was, there wasn’t going to be a father in the picture for this baby. It was something my grandchild and I would have in common.