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Back The Second Home Save as PDF
Chapters (47)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraphs
  5. Prologue
  6. Part One
  7. ONE
  8. TWO
  9. THREE
  10. FOUR
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. TWELVE
  19. THIRTEEN
  20. FOURTEEN
  21. FIFTEEN
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. Part Two
  25. EIGHTEEN
  26. NINETEEN
  27. TWENTY
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. TWENTY-NINE
  37. THIRTY
  38. THIRTY-ONE
  39. THIRTY-TWO
  40. THIRTY-THREE
  41. THIRTY-FOUR
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. Acknowledgments
  46. About the Author
  47. Newsletter Sign-up

She savored her time here in a way she hadn’t savored the other places she’d been. She loved watching the fishing women in their colorful skirts sit by the beach sewing their nets while the seagulls picked at the junk the beachgoers had left behind. She wished she could talk to the women, and learn from them. But, hard as she’d tried, she couldn’t learn Portuguese, a language that sounded especially foreign to her ear. When they spoke, it sounded like someone had filled a blender with words and turned it on.

Poppy didn’t need to know the language when she taught yoga, a practice she’d begun to enjoy again. She’d nod, give hand signals, and make gentle adjustments. Her tourist yogis were mostly tall, sunburned Germans who smiled a lot at her growing belly.

The house in Milwaukee belonged to Brad now, and the money she’d made on the sale had ironically set her free, whatever “free” meant. Brad said he wouldn’t follow Poppy around the world by putting pushpins in a map the way her father had. He didn’t need to follow her. Soon she’d go back. She wanted to deliver their baby in the same hospital where she and Ann and Noah had been born, and return the baby to the same wonderful home and city she’d grown up in. Brad couldn’t wait. He’d sent her photos of the crib he’d put together and the mobile he’d made in the welding shop out of odd pieces of metal. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. Not long ago, she realized he was the man who’d clutched her arms in that vision she’d had during that long-ago ayahuasca ceremony, telling her she was a healer. Funny that that image had sent her searching all over the world for a man in Milwaukee; funny they’d healed each other.

Maybe this would be her last long trip abroad. Maybe she’d stay in Wisconsin, and they’d spend their summers on the Cape in the house her child would someday become part owner of. Brad had plans to renovate the barn so they’d have their own space.

So many maybes.

The only certainty was the kick she felt against her ribs, the pressure on her bladder, the heartburn that kept her up at night.