Chapters (47)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Epigraphs
- Prologue
- Part One
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- Part Two
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
But before she could say anything about her plan, before she could apologize and try to marshal Poppy’s support, Poppy leaned close to her and said, “Michael isn’t Noah’s father. Is that true?”
Ann was so shocked she didn’t respond.
“Is it?”
Ann shook her head. “Yes. That is the truth.”
There it was, the same relief she’d felt when she’d told her father—if only her younger self had known how cathartic the truth was.
“If he’s not the dad, why do you hate him so much?”
“I don’t hate him,” Ann said, and realized this was true. What an inconvenient revelation!
Poppy bent down for a second, letting herself hang in one of those Raggedy Ann yoga poses with her hands on her elbows, her ponytail scraping the wide floorboards. Ann had taken a few classes over the years but her hamstrings were so tight from running that she felt like she had steel rods in the backs of her legs. Without looking up, Poppy said, “Does Noah know that Michael isn’t his dad?”
“Now he does. I told him after … well, I told him when I needed to.”
“How come you never told me?” Poppy spoke in barely a whisper.
“What was I supposed to do, Poppy? Should I have sent you a text? An email? A vibe?”
“Ann, please. You’ve got to stop making fun of me. It hurts. It’s always hurt.”
Ann collapsed onto the couch and felt something against her back. She pulled out a needlepoint throw pillow that read, OLD TEACHERS NEVER DIE, THEY JUST LOSE THEIR CLASS. Poppy and Ann had chipped in to buy it as a birthday present for their mom back when they were in what—first and second grade? They’d bought it at the Christmas Tree Shops, the Cape’s knickknacky version of a dollar store. “It’s not the sort of thing that just comes up. ‘Oh hey, the weather here has been cool and overcast and by the way, my kid’s dad isn’t who I said he was.’” Ann threw the pillow across the room in frustration.
Poppy sat next to her, in the spot where her mother always used to sit. She was careful to leave a safe distance between them. “Will you tell me who is?” Her chin quivered. “I know we haven’t been close, but we’ve only got each other now. Tell me. Talk to me.”
Ann took a deep breath and put her hand on Poppy’s leg as if to attach a rope line to a buoy. “I had this … this thing with the father of the family I babysat for.”
“Mr. Shaw?” Poppy cringed. “The golf shirt guy?”