“As my folks live down south now, it’s likely he’ll be a bigger part of the baby’s life.”

“Will your parents come up to see the baby?”

“Oh, sure. They don’t mind New Hampshire during the summer, but if our next one arrives in winter, they’d wait until spring to visit.”

“How does that make you feel?”

She shrugged. “I’m okay with it. I’ve still got family here,” she said, and smiled. “You and Grace and Mr. Everett. You’re all like family to me.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.” Because I do, too, Tricia thought.

Ginny scraped the last of the soup from her container. “Oh, that was good, but I think I’ll save the other half of my sandwich for later. Especially if we’re going to make a dent in that piece of cake.” She wrapped the sandwich in one of the paper napkins and returned it to the foam container. Struggling up from her chair, she deposited the container in the small fridge she kept under the table that housed the printer and other office supplies.

“We really need to convince Angelica to stop using foam take-out boxes at Booked for Lunch. They’re horrible for the environment.”

“You know, I’ll bet if you pitched a cost-effective alternative, she would seriously take it under consideration,” Tricia said, closing the container on the remains of her salad.

Ginny eyed her speculatively. “That’s a good idea. She’s been awfully nice to me lately. Well, ever since the wedding.”

“Really?” Tricia asked, opening the container that held the slab of carrot cake.

Ginny looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. She picked up one of the plastic forks but waited for Tricia to cut the cake in two. Tricia wasn’t as fond of the sour cream frosting as Ginny, so she took the lower portion, settling it onto one of the paper napkins before pushing the other piece across the desk to Ginny.

Ginny sampled a bite, letting it sit on her tongue for a bit before chewing and swallowing—her usual routine.

“Well?” Tricia asked.

“Nobody makes carrot cake as good as Angelica. I especially like her maple icing.”

“Maple?” Tricia asked. “Since when does she make it that way?”

“She’s always made it this way.” Tricia seldom ate cake and took a bite. It was good, and the maple frosting was a lot less cloying and sweet than that traditionally associated with carrot cake.

Ginny cut another piece but paused before eating it. “So, you found Pete Renquist.”

“He was alive at the time,” Tricia began in her own defense.

“So I heard.”

“Did you know him?”

Ginny shook her head. “But I heard rumors.”

“Oh?” Tricia asked, playing dumb.

“That he was a bit of a letch, but relatively harmless.”

“Did he ever flirt with you?” Tricia asked.

Again Ginny shook her head. She ate another bite of cake. “He seemed harmless enough, and honestly, the guy was old enough to be my father. I heard he hit on older women.”

“You mean like me?” Tricia asked with dread. Pete was always flirting with her.

“Heck, no. Older than you. Ladies in their fifties.”

An age that was only five years ahead for Tricia.

“The ones who’ve got empty nests and time on their hands to volunteer at fudd-dudd places like the Historical Society. That said, I heard the old broads ate up the attention. Their husbands had long ago given up giving them compliments.”

Was that how Toni Bennett felt? Though well preserved, she was probably fifty years old. She said she’d been volunteering at the Historical Society for at least ten years, long before Pete had become its president.

“Do you know anyone like that?” Tricia asked.

Ginny scraped some of the icing from what was left of her cake. “Julia Harrison is one of my regular customers. She’s a widow who often comes in on a Saturday. She hates to drive to Nashua, so she does her gift buying here—lots of figurines and pretty whatnots for her granddaughter. Once she kind of hinted that she was interested in Pete and that they’d dated a few times, but that it didn’t work out.”

“Did she give a reason?”

“Nope.” Ginny slid the last piece of cake onto her fork.

Tricia took a bite of cake. She thought she knew of the woman, half remembering an article that Russ Smith had run in the Stoneham Weekly News about the Historical Society’s Italianate garden.

“Does this woman volunteer for the Stoneham Horticultural Society?” she asked.

“I think so. Why?”

“No reason.” Tricia ate another bite of cake.

“Any word on the insurance coming through for the store?” Ginny asked. She was only being polite—showing interest in Tricia’s problems—but it seemed that Tricia was asked that question at least ten times a day, and after six months it depressed the heck out of her not to have an affirmative reply.

“Not yet,” she answered with a forced smile, and ate the last bite of cake.

“You must be sick of waiting.”

“I was sick of waiting a mere week after the fire—let alone six months later.”

“Well, it can’t be much longer. In fact, I’ll bet you five dollars you hear from them before the baby arrives,” she said, and looked down fondly at her belly.

“If only,” Tricia said wistfully. She gathered up the napkins and cutlery and tossed them away while Ginny shook her head at the waste. “I’d better get back to work.”

“Same time next week?” Ginny asked hopefully.

“If you’re not in the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Ginny asked, confused.

“You are going to have a baby,” Tricia reminded her.

Ginny laughed. “And, boy, will I be glad when it’s over.”

Tricia thought about the proposed dinner she and Angelica were to have with Ginny and Antonio. Since Ginny hadn’t mentioned it, she decided she’d better not.

Ginny struggled to her feet, and Tricia moved around the desk to give her a brief hug. “If the baby comes early, I’ll have Antonio call you right away.”

Tricia pulled back. “I’ll be waiting for his call.”

“Thanks for lunch,” Ginny called as Tricia left the office.

More customers had entered the store since her arrival, and Brittney waved to Tricia from her post at the register.

Lunch with Ginny was always a pleasure, and speaking with her had presented Tricia with a lead on one of Pete’s ex-girlfriends/paramours. Now all Tricia had to do was think of an excuse to meet Julia Harrison.

•   •   •

Mariana’s radio was on when Tricia returned to the Chamber office. She kept it turned to a soft rock station, and though Tricia didn’t dislike the tunes, she did get bored of the station’s limited repertoire. She wondered if Pixie and Mr. Everett got bored of the CDs she’d played at Haven’t Got a Clue—a mix of new age and Celtic-influenced music. They’d never complained, but then, she hadn’t complained to Mariana, either.

As Pixie was occupied with the new membership directory, it was up to Tricia to take care of a few low-priority tasks in her absence before she grabbed the tri-town phone directory and looked up the number for the Stoneham Horticultural Society. Was there a chance Mariana knew Julia Harrison? She decided to ask.

“Mariana, do you know a woman named Julia Harrison?”

“Sure. We go to the same church.”

“She works at the Horticultural Society, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Volunteers, then?” Tricia asked.

Mariana shrugged. “Maybe.”

“She’s a widow, right?”

Mariana nodded. “Her husband died a few years back. Car wreck. It was an icy night.”

“That’s so sad,” Tricia said with sympathy.

“Yeah, he was a great guy.”

The conversation waned.

Tricia didn’t want to call the woman with Mariana listening, but she pulled up the online white pages website, typed in Julia’s name, and got a message that said, “We did not find a match.” Perhaps Julia didn’t have a landline, or if she did, it was listed under her deceased husband’s name. Tricia decided she’d call the Horticultural Society when Mariana was out of the office.