“Why should you feel that way?”

“Because I let Mother’s resentment color the way I felt about you for far too many years. You’re my sister and I love you—no matter what.”

“And our mother doesn’t.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m sorry. Nothing can make up for what she’s done or how she feels.”

Tricia sighed. This was all too much information to take in all at once, and yet it seemed to echo what she’d learned not an hour before from Joelle. Betsy Dittmeyer had changed—soured—after the death of her child. Was it so surprising that Tricia’s mother had had the very same experience? But oddly enough Tricia didn’t feel angry toward her mother. Instead, she felt sorry for her. And more, she felt a strong sense of relief. Nothing she had done in the past or could do in the future would ever make a difference to her mother. If she still loved her dead child . . . well, who could blame her?

“Are you okay, Trish?” Angelica asked, sounding worried.

“Yes. I am. And thank you for finally telling me.”

“You have to promise me that you won’t tell Mother I told you.”

“I promise.”

“And that you’ll never bring it up.”

Tricia wasn’t sure about that one. “I don’t know.”

“Please,” Angelica pleaded.

“I don’t know!” Tricia repeated. “I’m going to have to think about this long and hard. And I do mean long. Days. Weeks. Maybe even months.”

Angelica lifted her glass and drained it, her expression distraught. “I knew I should never have told you.”

“How could you keep such terrible secret to yourself for so long?” Tricia asked.

“You’d be surprised how good we are at keeping secrets in this family,” Angelica said tartly.

“Does that mean there are more?” Tricia demanded.

Angelica pursed her lips, not taking the bait.

“Did Mother make you swear not to tell me?”

“No, she didn’t.”

If that was true, had their mother been waiting for decades for it to come out? What if she had? What if she’d wanted Angelica to tell the truth so she wouldn’t have to? And why had their father never said a word?

“What are you thinking?” Angelica asked.

“That our family might have healed from that terrible loss if only someone had spoken the truth a long, long time ago.”

“I don’t disagree with you. But it wasn’t my secret to tell; it was Mother and Daddy’s.”

Tricia turned away, taking another sip of her drink. Did the news of her infant brother’s death really change things between her and her parents? Their father had always been pleasant but distant. Why hadn’t he insisted her mother get counseling? But then her mother was not known for taking suggestions from anyone.

Tricia heard Angelica open the oven door, felt the rush of heat on her back, and inhaled the aroma of something wonderful. She took another sip of her drink. It was all too much to take in in one evening. She needed to think it all through, but now wasn’t the time.

Tricia turned back to the kitchen and found Angelica standing with a silver tray in hand, a dainty white paper doily offsetting the golden popovers she’d taken from the oven. She looked like she was about to cry.

“I’m sorry, Tricia. Mother was wrong not to tell you. But I may have been wrong to tell you. Please don’t do anything rash.”

Tricia sighed. “I will not mention any of this to Mother. At least not tonight. And not tomorrow, either. With everything that’s already happened today, it’s all just too much to contemplate.”

“Here, have a blue cheese popover. It’ll make me feel better.”

Tricia reached out and took one of the still-steaming appetizers. She blew on it, and then nibbled. As with almost everything Angelica cooked, it was delicious, and she said so.

Angelica blew out a harsh breath. “I think I could use another martini. How about you?”

Tricia shook her head. “I’m still working on mine.”

Angelica nodded and turned back to the counter, picking up the gin bottle.

Tricia stared into her glass, admiring the golden frill on the toothpick that pierced the olives. It looked so festive . . . the way Angelica had felt before Tricia had come over and ruined her mood, and probably her evening. Feeling the need to lighten the mood, she started to hum.

As Angelica shook the cocktail shaker she absently joined in . . . and Tricia was sure if she looked outside, the moon might just look like a big pizza pie.

SIX

Despite hearing the distressing news about a deceased baby brother the night before, Tricia slept heavily and ended up waking later than she’d anticipated. She tried to put those thoughts out of her mind as she went through her usual morning routine and concentrated on the tasks that needed to be accomplished during the day. One of them was to stock up on coffee for her customers, and to purchase some kind of tasty treat to go along with it. Mr. Everett was particularly fond of the Patisserie’s thumbprint cookies, but Pixie had grumbled the last few times Tricia had put them out for her staff and customers. It was time to find something that Pixie would enjoy as well.

Tricia donned her knit hat and wrapped a heavy scarf around her neck before she braved the fierce wind and trudged down the sidewalk toward the Patisserie. She glanced across the street and saw the lights were already on at the Happy Domestic and decided she’d visit Ginny to see how she was doing before she returned to Haven’t Got a Clue to open for the day.

She paused to look through the heavy glass door before entering. The bakery was empty, save for Nikki, who sat on a stool behind the big glass display case filled with all sorts of wonderful baked goodies. The day before she’d been ecstatic when spreading her happy news. Now she looked anything but happy.

Tricia wrestled with the door before she could wrench it open, and had to jump inside before the door slammed on her hand. Startled, Nikki looked up. “Good morning, Tricia.” The words were cheerful, but the delivery was not. It looked like she’d been crying. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy and Tricia wasn’t sure she should mention it.

“Hi, Nikki. Boy, that’s some wind. I hope it doesn’t keep potential customers from visiting us today.”

“Same here. I’ve been open for more than an hour and you’re only my second customer.”

“Things will pick up soon,” Tricia said optimistically. In reality, she knew sales wouldn’t get better until April—a full two months away—but there was no sense dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.

“What can I get you this morning?” Nikki asked.

Tricia looked over the offerings. There were gaps in the big glass refrigerated case that also served as Nikki’s sales counter. Instead of several dozen cupcakes, only twelve were displayed, and they were plain—with no beautifully piped decorative flowers in pastel shades. Several loaves of bread were stacked on the shelf behind the counter, but nowhere near the usual amount or variety. What was going on? Worst of all—there were absolutely no thumbprint cookies! Mr. Everett would be so disappointed, but that so much was absent meant something was definitely up.

“I’ll take a couple of bran muffins and how about a dozen of those almond cookies.”

“Coming right up,” Nikki said, her voice cracking.

Tricia could no longer ignore Nikki’s beleaguered state. “Is everything okay?”

Nikki shook her head. “I thought I’d be beyond morning sickness by now. But I’ve felt queasy all morning.” Was that all?

“When’s your due date?”

“September eighth,” Nikki said as she plucked two muffins from the rack behind her. “It seems so far away right now, but we have a lot of decisions to make before the baby comes.”