CHAPTER ONE
AMANDA
There ought to be a warning anytime you wake up on a day that will forever change your life. Some harbinger—like a robin, lightning bolt, or black cat—so you don’t find yourself blindsided. This morning’s brilliant sunshine hadn’t exactly screamed, “Beware, today you’ll discover that the most destructive lies are the ones you tell yourself.”
If anything, the clear blue sky promised a perfect spring day. And so, blissfully ignorant, I stopped at Sugar Momma’s on my way home from my routine three-mile walk along Chesapeake Bay. Normally I’d never order a peanut butter–chocolate chunk cookie the size of a dessert plate and a decaffeinated salted-caramel latte with extra whipped cream before nine o’clock in the morning. I’d promised Lyle I’d be good, for the baby’s sake. But my husband had been away on business all week. While I wouldn’t recommend that anyone lie to a spouse, in this case, I figured what Lyle didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Honestly, I deserved this little—or not so little—cheat. The pressure of putting together his new company’s first real estate development deal was turning my mostly charming husband into a male version of Martha Stewart on steroids. So much so that I almost wished he’d return to his former job: at Chesapeake Properties he’d been a successful commercial broker with less stress.
Lately most of my attempts to alleviate his anxiety had backfired. Thank God I had my mom as a sounding board when his moods blew cold. The day after our last argument three weeks ago, Lyle had come home with a small gift—his standard means of making amends—a silver pinkie ring. Not to complain about his generosity, but I couldn’t recall a single “I’m sorry” since we’d met. I’d prefer an apology to a makeup present, but we ended up in the same place either way.
I broke off a section of the still-warm cookie and took a nibble, and my eyelids drooped from cocoa-infused ecstasy. “Oh my goodness, Hannah. This is delicious.”
Everything about her and her bakeshop intrigued me, making it my favorite discovery since moving into our new house back in December. The turquoise, gold, and red decor mimicked the bold colors she draped across her generous figure. Crimson lips framed her larger-than-life smile, which made her look younger than the fifty or so years I guessed she was. And she gathered all her blonde-and-pink braids into a single ponytail that was as thick as a fire hose.
I didn’t know Hannah as well as I would’ve liked. We spoke only here, where her animated personality filled the shop with upbeat energy. When I’d sensed her keeping me in the “patron” box, I gave up my attempts at friendship. Yet I often wondered about her life. Pictured her in a busy home kitchen, testing recipes. Imagined her knitting her handmade shawls and vests. Most of all, I questioned what kind of partner could handle all her vivacity.
Not someone like Lyle. He preferred white tablecloths and efficient waiters to an eclectic shop like this—with its mismatched tables and chairs, folk art, and hipster music—but I found the vibe here warm and inviting. A friendly sort of place where you could exhale.
Hannah layered whipped cream on my coffee while winking at me. “Amanda, get yourself another cookie. You’re eating for two.”
I shook my head, begging off. “I need to watch myself.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” She tsk-tsked, then proceeded to squirt a liberal amount of liquid caramel atop the whipped cream.
“I know, but it’s important to Lyle.” When I rubbed my six-month bump, our daughter kicked my hand. My heart swelled. Two years ago I couldn’t have imagined anything would eclipse the joy of my wedding day, yet our growing family made each day brighter and everything seem possible. “This morning’s little detour has to stay our secret.”
Hannah handed me the coffee, grinning. “That’s exactly what he always says.”
Wait, what?
“He does, does he?” Then why has he acted like he hates this place? I chomped on the cookie, wondering why he’d kept his visits here a secret.
I couldn’t exactly ask him when I was planning to keep my visit a secret. On the other hand, it wouldn’t need to be a secret if I weren’t appeasing my overanxious husband. In fairness his concern for our welfare made me feel cherished. Still . . .
“Haven’t seen Lyle all week. Where’s he been hiding?” Hannah raised her brows while she waited.
I choked on the cookie. Did he really stop in that often? “Away on business.”
Hannah had to be exaggerating. Given Lyle’s current obsession with diet and exercise, Sugar Momma’s heavy aroma of vanilla and butter alone should make him run in the opposite direction.
“Mm, that man works hard. He always looks sharp in his jacket and tie. A man with goals, am I right?” Hannah chuckled, a rich, resonant sound that warmed the soul, like her latte. “He keeps offering to find me a cheaper space in town, but I like this location.”
“Don’t you dare move, Hannah. This shop is perfect for you.” I hoped she couldn’t see how baffled I was to be learning these things about my own husband.
“That’s what I tell him.”
“I’m sorry he’s pestering you. He’s hyperfocused on his new business.” I’d lost count of the skipped dinners and early-morning meetings. Financial freedom might be nice, but I didn’t need a big bank account to be happy. I did need him.
“Well, you know men. They want to provide.”
I’d always suspected his relentless drive to prove himself sprang from his mom’s abandonment. No one would call Lyle easy to live with, but my heart ached whenever I thought of the cruelty he suffered in childhood. If healing that wound required me to tiptoe around his feelings or defer to his whims now and then, I would do so happily. He’d taken the leap of trust that I would not leave him like his mother had, so he deserved my devotion.
“He’s excited about getting an inside line on some condo development in South Florida. Apparently it’s a ‘booming’ market. I hope we don’t have to move there, though. I grew up here in Potomac Point, and my mom’s recently widowed and . . . Oh, I don’t know. I have torn loyalties, I suppose.” I suspected Hannah had lost interest in my rambling, so I stopped.
“Well, good luck to you.” She wiped up the whipped cream spatter on the counter.
“Thank you.” A bell jingled behind me, and I turned to greet two other women who’d entered the shop. “Hello, Barb. How are you?”
Barb lived on my block. Divorced after five years of marriage, she and her ex-husband, Lenny, shared one preschooler, Collin. She’d kept the house, while Lenny had moved closer to Baltimore and saw his son only every other weekend.
“Hey, Amanda.” Barb smiled. “This is my friend Sandy Bello. Sandy, this is Amanda Foster, my neighbor and Collin’s nursery school teacher.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shook Sandy’s hand, but my thoughts ran to little Collin and the extra attention I’d been giving him while he adjusted to his new family dynamic. He was not my first or only student facing that confusing upheaval. Some kids handled it better than others.
While Collin still struggled, Barb’s mood had improved since her divorce. In fact, at the moment, she and Sandy shone with the contentment that comes from true friendship. I recognized that look from the faces of a lot of the young moms who made playdates for their kids and spa dates for themselves.