"Why is she in trouble?" Adam Sinclair asked, leaning across the table at the diner. "Is it because she wasn't married when she had the baby? God, if she'd just written to me, this wouldn't have happened."
"She couldn't write to you," I said gently. "Jacob never forwarded your letters."
"He didn't? That bastard--"
"--was doing what he thought was in the best interest of his sister," I said. "He didn't think she could bear the stigma of having to leave her faith, and that's what marrying you would have entailed."
Adam pushed away his plate. "Look. I appreciate you getting in touch with me and letting me know that Katie's in some kind of trouble. I appreciate the ride from the airport out here to East Paradise. I even appreciate the free lunch. But I'm sure that by now, Katie's back home with the baby, and I really need to go speak to her directly."
I watched his hands play over the table and imagined them touching Katie, holding Katie. And with a great and sudden rage I hated this man whom I hardly knew, for unwittingly bringing Katie to this point. Who was he, to decide that his affection for Katie overruled everything she'd been brought up to believe? Who was he, to lead an eighteen-year-old girl down a path of seduction when he clearly knew better?
Something must have shown on my face, because beneath the table, Coop pressed his hand against my thigh in gentle warning. I blinked, and Adam came into clear focus: his bright eyes, his tapping foot, his sideways glance at every jingle of the bell over the door, as if he expected Katie and his son to come strolling in any minute.
"Adam," I said, "the baby didn't survive."
He froze. With precision he folded his hands on the table, fingers gripped so tight the tips turned bloodlessly white. "What ..." he said softly, his voice breaking in the middle of the word. "What happened?"
"We don't know. He was born prematurely and died shortly after delivery."
Adam's head sagged. "For the past three days, since you called, all I've been thinking of is that baby. Whether it's got her eyes, or my chin. Whether I'd know him in an instant. Jesus. If I'd been here, maybe I could have done something."
I looked at Coop. "We didn't think it was right to tell you over the phone."
"No. No, of course not." Adam looked up, quickly wiping his eyes. "Katie must be devastated."
"She is," Coop said.
"Is that what you meant when you said she's in trouble? Did you need me to come because she's depressed?"
"We need you to stand up for her in court," I said quietly. "Katie's been charged with murdering the baby."
He reeled back. "She didn't."
"No, I don't think so either."
Pushing to his feet, Adam threw down his napkin. "I have to see her. Now."
"I'd rather you wait." I stood in front of him, blocking his exit.
Adam loomed over me. "Do you think I give a flying fuck what you want?"
"Katie doesn't even know you're here."
"Then it's high time she found out."
I put my hand on his arm. "As Katie's lawyer, I believe that if the jury is given a front-row seat the first time she sees you again, they're going to be moved by her emotion. They're going to think that anyone who wears her heart on her sleeve like that couldn't be cold enough to kill her own infant." I stepped away. "If you want to see Katie now, Adam, I'll take you there. But think hard about that. Because the last time she needed you, you weren't here to help. This time, you can."
Adam looked from me to Coop, and slowly sank back into his seat.
The moment Adam went to use the restroom, I told Coop we had to talk.
"I'm all ears." Coop picked up a french fry from my plate and popped it into his mouth.
"In private."
"My pleasure," Coop said, "but what do I do with my babysitting charge?"
"Keep him far away from mine." I sighed, and considered keeping the news to myself until after the trial; this was a moment I should have been concentrating on Katie, after all, and not myself. But I had only to look as far as Adam Sinclair to see the grief that could come from remaining silent, even with the best of intentions.
Before I could puzzle out a solution, Adam provided me with one. Coming from the restroom with red-rimmed eyes and the smell of soap fresh about him, he stood awkwardly at the edge of the table. "If it's not too much trouble," he asked, "could you take me to my son's grave?"
Coop parked beside the Amish cemetery. "Take as long as you'd like," he said. Adam stepped out of the back of the car, his shoulders hunched against the wind, as I got out of my own seat and led him through the small gate.
We kicked up small tornadoes of fallen leaves as we crossed to the new grave. The stone, chipped by Katie's hands, was the color of winter. Adam shoved his hands into his pockets and spoke without turning to me. "The funeral ... were you here?"
"Yes. It was lovely."
"Was there a service? Flowers?"
I thought of the brief, uncomfortable prayer said by the bishop, of the Plain customs that did not allow for any adornment of the grave, neither flowers nor fancy headstones. "It was lovely," I repeated.
Adam nodded, then sat down on the ground beside the grave. He held out his hand, gently running one finger over the rounded edge of the headstone, the way a new father might reverently touch the soft curve of a newborn's cheek. Eyes stinging, I turned abruptly and walked back to Coop's car.
As I slid into the passenger seat, Coop watched Adam through the window. "Poor guy. I can't even imagine."
"Coop," I said. "I'm pregnant."
He turned. "You're what?"
I folded my hands over my abdomen. "You heard right."
The fact of this baby had tangled my thoughts. I had once left Coop for all the wrong reasons; I didn't want to stay with him for all the wrong reasons, either. I stared at his face, waiting; telling myself that his reaction wouldn't affect my decision about the future in the least; wondering why, then, I wanted to hear his response so badly. For the first time I could remember, I was unsure about Coop's commitment to me. Sure, he had asked me to move in with him, but this wasn't the same thing at all. Maybe he wanted to spend a lifetime together, but he might not have expected that lifetime to begin quite so suddenly or with such lasting consequences. He had never mentioned marriage. He had never mentioned children.
I'd provided Coop with the perfect reason to walk out of my life and leave me the breathing room I'd always craved--but now I reali2ed I didn't want him to go.
When he did not smile, or touch me, or do anything but sit frozen across from me, I began to panic. Maybe Katie had it right; maybe the best thing would have been to wait a few days, if not more. "So," I said, my voice shaking. "What are you thinking?"
He reached across the seat and tugged my hand away from the place where it covered my stomach. He edged up the hem of my sweatshirt and leaned forward, and then I felt his kiss low against my belly.
The breath I did not realize I'd been holding rushed out in a great flood of relief. After a moment I cradled his head in my hands, sifting strands of his hair through my fingers, as Coop wrapped his arms around my hips and held tight to the two of us.
*
He insisted on walking me to the door of the Fishers' house. "I'm not handicapped, Coop," I argued. "Just pregnant." But the feminist in me rolled over, secretly thrilled to be treated like spun sugar.
At the porch, he took my hands and turned me to face him. "I know this part is supposed to come before you actually make the baby, but I want you to know I love you. I've loved you so long I can't remember when it started."
"I can. It was after the Kappa Alpha Theta San Juan Night party, somewhere between you diving into the grain alcohol and the naked blow pong tournament."
Coop groaned. "Let's not tell him how we met, okay?"
"What makes you so sure it's a he?"
Suddenly Coop stilled and held his hand up to his ear. "Do you hear that?"
I strained, then shook my head. "No. What?"
"
Us," he said, kissing me lightly. "Sounding like parents."
"Scary thought."
He smiled, then cocked his head and stared at me. "What?" I asked, self-conscious. "Do I have spinach between my teeth?"
"No. It's just that I'm only going to get this moment once, and I want to remember it."
"I think we can arrange for you to walk me into the house a few more times, if it's that important to you."
"God, can't a guy get a break? Do all women talk this much, or is it just because you're an attorney?"
"Well, if I were you I'd say whatever it is you're going to say, because Adam's liable to get sick of waiting in the car and drive back to Philly without you."
Coop cupped my face in his palms. "You're a pain in the ass, El, but you're my pain in the ass." His thumbs smoothed over my cheeks. "Marry me," he whispered.
I brought my hands up to grasp his wrists. Over his shoulder, the moon was rising, a ghost in the sky. I realized that Coop was right: I would remember this moment with the same level of detail and clarity that came to mind when I thought back to the last time Coop had asked me to share his life; the last time I'd told him no.
"Don't hate me," I said.
His hands fell away. "You are not doing this to me again. I won't let you." A muscle jumped along his jaw as he struggled for control.
"I'm not saying no. I'm just not saying yes, either. Coop, I just found out about this. I'm still seeing how the word mother fits. I can't try on wife at the same time."
"Millions of other women manage."
"Not quite in this order." I smoothed my hand over his chest, hoping to soothe. "You told me a little while ago I could take a while to think. Does that still hold?"
Coop nodded, and slowly let the tension drain out of his shoulders. "But this time, you won't be able to get rid of me so easily." Then he splayed his hand over my abdomen, where part of him already was, and kissed me good-bye.
"You were gone for so long," Katie whispered from her bed. "Did you tell him?"
I stared up at the ceiling, at the small yellow stain that reminded me of Abraham Lincoln's profile. "Yeah, I did."
She came up on one elbow. "And?"
"And he's happy. That's it." I refused to let myself look at her. If I did, I would remember Adam's expression when he first heard about their baby, Adam's sorrow as he knelt at the grave. I couldn't trust myself to keep from Katie the news that Adam Sinclair was home again.
"I bet he couldn't stop smiling," Katie said.
"Uh-huh."
"I bet that he looked into your eyes." Her voice grew more dreamy. "I bet he told you that he loved you."
"As a matter of fact--"
"And he put his arms around you," Katie continued, "and said that even if everyone else turned their backs, even if you never saw your friends or family again, a world with only you and him and the baby would feel downright crowded because of all the love that would be stuffed into it."
I stared at Katie, at her eyes shining in the darkness, her mouth twisted in a half smile somewhere between rapture and remorse. "Yes," I said. "It was just like that."
FIFTEEN
Ellie might never have made it out the door on Monday morning, if not for the chamomile tea. She finally managed to get downstairs after a sleepless night and morning sickness, and found the steaming mug on her plate with a few saltines. By that time, the others had left the breakfast table; only Katie and Sarah remained in the kitchen cleaning the dishes. "You understand we have to drive in with Leda today," Ellie said, steeling herself against the smell of leftover food. "Coop's meeting us at the courthouse."
Katie nodded, but didn't turn around. Ellie glanced at the women's backs, thankful that Katie had known enough to spare her the sight of a platter heaped with eggs and bacon and sausage. She took a tentative sip of the tea, expecting her stomach to heave again, but curiously the nausea ebbed. By the time she finished, she felt better than she had all weekend.
She did not want to harp on the pregnancy, especially not today, but she felt duty-bound to acknowledge Katie's thoughtfulness. "The tea," Ellie whispered, as they climbed into the backseat of Leda's car twenty minutes later. "It was just what I needed."
"Don't thank me," Katie whispered back. "Mam made it for you."
For the past months, Sarah had been piling her plate at mealtime as if she were a sow to be fattened up for the kill; the sudden change in menu seemed suspicious. "Did you tell her I'm pregnant?" Ellie demanded.
"No. She made it for you because you're worried about the trial. She thinks chamomile settles your nerves."
Relaxing, Ellie sat back. "It settles your stomach, too."
"Ja, I know," Katie said. "She used to make it for me."
"When did she think you were worried?"
Katie shrugged. "Back when I was carrying."
Before she could say anything else, Leda got into the driver's seat and peered into the rearview mirror. "You're okay with me at the wheel, Katie?"
"I figure the bishop's getting used to making exceptions to the rules for me."
"Is Samuel coming with us today or what?" Ellie muttered, peering out the window. "Being late on the first day of testimony doesn't usually sit well with judges."
As if she had conjured him, Samuel came running from the field behind the barn. The jacket of his good Sunday suit hung open, his black hat sat askew on his head. Pulling it off, he ducked into the seat beside Leda. "Sorry," he muttered, twisting around as Leda began to drive. He handed a tiny, fading sprig of clover to Katie, the four leaves of its head lying limp in her palm. "For luck," Samuel said, smiling at her. "For you."
"You have a nice weekend?" George asked as they took their places in court.
"It was fine," Ellie answered brusquely, arranging the defense table to her satisfaction.
"Sounds like someone's cranky. Must've gone to bed too late last night." George grinned. "Guess you were partying till the cows came home. What time do they come home, anyway?"
"Are you finished?" Ellie asked, staring at him with indifference.
"All rise! The Honorable Philomena Ledbetter presiding!"
The judge settled into her chair. "Good morning, everyone," she said, slipping on her half-glasses. "I believe we left off on Friday with the prosecution resting its case, which means that today, Ms. Hathaway, you're on. I trust you're ready to go?"
Ellie rose. "Yes, Your Honor."
"Excellent. You may call your first witness."
"The defense calls Jacob Fisher to the stand."
Katie watched as her brother entered the courtroom from the lobby, where he'd been sequestered as an upcoming witness. He winked at her as he was being sworn in. Ellie smiled at him, reassuring. "Could you state your name and address?"
"Jacob Fisher. Two-fifty-five North Street, in State College, Pennsylvania."
"What's your relationship to Katie?"
"I'm her older brother."
"Yet you don't live at home with the Fishers?"
Jacob shook his head. "I haven't for several years, now. I grew up Plain on my parents' farm and got baptized at eighteen, but then I left the church."
"Why?"
Jacob looked at the jury. "I truly believed I would be Plain my whole life, but then I discovered something that meant just as much to me as my faith, if not more."
"What was that?"
"Learning. The Amish don't believe in schooling past eighth grade. It goes against the Ordnung, the rules of the church."
"There are rules?"
"Yes. It's what most people associate with the Amish--the fact that you can't drive cars, or use tractors. The way you dress. The lack of electricity and telephones. All the things that make you recognizable as a group. When you're baptized, you vow to live by these conditions." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I was working as a carpenter's apprentice, building bookshelves for a high school English teacher over in Gap. He caught me leafing through his books, and let me take some home. He planted the thought in my mi
nd that I might want to further my studies. I hid my books for as long as I could from my family, but eventually, when I knew I would be applying to college, I realized that I could no longer be Plain."
"At that point, what happened?"
"The Amish church gave me a choice: Give up on college, or leave the faith."
"That sounds harsh."
"It's not," Jacob said. "At any point--today, even--if I went back and confessed in front of the congregation, I'd be accepted back with open arms."
"But you can't erase the things you've learned at college, can you?"
"That's not the point. It's that I'd agree to yield to a set of circumstances chosen by the group, instead of trailblazing my own."
"What do you do today, Jacob?"
"I'm getting my master's degree in English at Penn State."
"Your parents must be quite proud of you," Ellie said.
Jacob smiled faintly. "I don't know about that. You see, what commands praise in the English world is very different from what commands praise in the Plain world. In fact, you don't want to command praise if you're Plain. You want to blend in, to live a good Christian life without calling attention to yourself. So, no, Ms. Hathaway, I wouldn't say my parents are proud of me. They're confused by the choice I've made."
"Do you still see them?"
Jacob glanced at his sister. "I saw my parents for the first time in six years just the other night. I went back to their farm even though my father had disowned me after I was excommunicated."
Ellie raised her brows. "If you leave the Amish church, you can't stay in touch with those who are Amish?"
"No, that's the exception rather than the rule. Sure, having someone around who's excommunicated can make things uncomfortable for everyone else, especially if you all live in the same house, because of the Meidung --shunning. One of those church rules I was talking about says that members of the church have to avoid those who've broken the rules. People who've sinned are put under the bann for a little while, and during that time, other Plain folks can't eat with them, or conduct business, or have sexual relations."
"So a husband would have to shun his wife? A mother would have to shun her child?"
"Technically, yes. But then again, when I was Plain, I knew of a husband who owned a car and was put under the bann. He still lived with his wife, who was a member of the church--and even though she was supposed to be shunning him, they somehow managed to have seven children who all got baptized Amish when it came time. So basically, the distancing is up to the individuals involved."