“Still, she’s right, Harrington. You shouldn’t go out of your way to give her privileges other employees don’t enjoy.”

“I think I know how to run the bank, Rosemary. No worries there,” he said sternly.

“Well, I was the one who suggested she take a day of rest.”

“So noted,” my father said. “And a good, sensible business suggestion it is. If an employee is not up to his or her usual standards, I always suggest something similar. Take the day off,” he told me. “That’s an order from your official boss.”

“Thank you,” I said. I looked at my mother. “Thank you, Mommy.”

She looked quite satisfied. It wasn’t often that I called her Mommy. There was always so wide a gap of formality between us, but right now, my fear had turned me into a little girl again. I waited for nearly an hour after my father left, dressed in my cycling outfit, and told my mother I needed some fresh air and a little exercise. Before she could protest, I left the house.

I set off quickly.

I knew exactly where I was going.

I knew exactly where I would find Nurse Grace Rose.

Chapter 9

After I described my concerns, Nurse Rose’s words, although spoken softly, were thunderous.

“A woman can lose her virginity and at the same time have one of her eggs fertilized. Losing your virginity has nothing to do with the natural process.”

I guess I wore a stunned expression, looking like I either didn’t understand or refused to.

“You can get pregnant, yes, Corrine,” she emphasized, more like pounded.

“But the first time ever?”

“Nature doesn’t know that or care. I explained to you why and when you had to be most careful, when you would be most susceptible. Why didn’t you listen? You seemed like a very intelligent young lady. I told you more than I tell most girls when they are your age. I even described methods to ensure you avoided all this. Most women would have simply said, ‘Don’t have sex until you’re married.’ I’ve lived long enough and seen enough to know that’s unrealistic.”

I sat back, hoping I was in a dream. I’d wake up soon. She wasn’t telling me what I had hoped to hear.

We were on the screened front porch of her small Queen Anne home. I had been lucky to catch her there. She was on a night schedule for an elderly lady, Mrs. Louella Woodhouse, whose son was a church deacon. She looked at me with a mixed expression of pity and anger and disappointment.

“It wasn’t something I intended to happen,” I said dryly, like someone who had just been struck in the face by a gust of heavy, wet wind. “I didn’t forget most of what you told me. It wasn’t because of remembering all that this morning that I came over here.”