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  Forgive and forget? Dana thought and bristled. If Hugh didn’t see that their lives were forever changed, if not by the DNA test then by the implications of Lizzie’s color, he was the one who was being childish. “Do you always listen to your parents?”

  “No,” he conceded, but changed the subject. “Did Ali notice her color?”

  “She hasn’t said anything.”

  “Do you think she was just afraid to comment?”

  “Ali, afraid to comment?” Dana asked dryly. “No. I think she just doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Many kids don’t. It’s all about how they’re raised.”

  “In other words, when the time comes, we have to make sure that whatever school Lizzie attends is multicultural.”

  “Which may rule out the public schools here,” Dana said. David was their only African-American neighbor.

  “Do you think it bothers Ali coming to this town?” Hugh asked. “Does she feel out of place?”

  Dana considered that. “I don’t know about her. I may not look like I’m of African descent, but apparently I am, which means I’m different from most people here. That’s unsettling.”

  “No one sees anything different.”

  “So, I’m okay because I don’t look black?”

  “That’s a loaded question.”

  “It’s a valid one. Why should my daughter be treated any different from me? Why should Ali?”

  He scratched the back of his head and left a hand on his nape. “In an ideal world, they wouldn’t.”

  “I’m a generation closer to Africa than Lizzie is. By rights, I should feel the brunt of the prejudice more than she does.”

  “By rights, you should, but that’s not the way it works.”

  “It’s pretty shocking, coming all of a sudden like this,” Dana said, trying to express some of what she felt. “At least Ali and Lizzie will be prepared.”

  From the minute Dana picked Ali up Monday morning, the child was full of talk. There was a detailed summary of the movie she and David had watched the night before, an in-depth description of the blueberry pancakes that had just been made for her by the babysitter David had hired to stay with her while he worked, a blow-by-blow of the phone conversation she had had with her mother no more than an hour before.

  She quieted some when they arrived at the shop. They had barely stepped foot in the place when she spotted the knitted dolls that sat together on display with a how-to book.

  They were adorable dolls—Dana had herself knit several in the display—remarkably simple in design compared to dolls on sale in traditional toy stores. They were either cream, brown, or beige, knit in stockinette stitch, finished with yarn-strand hair and felt features.

  Ali was intrigued. She touched a face, held a small hand, crossed a pair of floppy legs. When Dana said she could have one, her whole face lit up—and then, won over by that bliss, Dana said she could have two. But it wasn’t pure indulgence on Dana’s part. She couldn’t think of a better beginner’s project for a seven-year-old than a scarf for a doll.

  Ali studied the dolls with the care of one picking a diamond. Dana had time to feed Lizzie before the choice was finally made, and then Ali appeared before her, proudly holding her prizes. When Dana said she had to name them, Ali didn’t hesitate. “Cream,” she said, holding out the ivory doll, then held out the brown one, “and Cocoa.”

  Dana hadn’t been thinking of those particular names, but she couldn’t argue. “Cocoa and Cream it is,” she said and led the child to the odd-ball basket. It held leftovers from customers’ projects, along with remnants of discontinued dye lots, all for use by beginners.

  Ali wasted no time in choosing a ball of bright red wool. “This for Cream, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “And for Cocoa?”

  Ali was longer picking this one. Finally, she came up with one that she liked. It was a dark green worsted-weight wool with a touch of mohair for added softness.

  Dana took needles, sat at the table with Ali, and showed her the basic stitch. She went over it once, then twice, exaggerating the steps. When she did it a third time, she added the rhyme “In through the front door / once around the back / peek through the window / and off jumps Jack.”

  Ali grinned. “Do it again,” she ordered, and so Dana did, remembering the day Ellie Jo had sung her the song and taught her to knit.

  “Let me do it,” Ali said, taking the needles. Dana showed her how to hold the yarn and guided her hands through the first several stitches, but that was all it took. Ali was a quick learner. Focused on her work, she seemed perfectly comfortable with the other women, pausing from time to time to ask questions. What are you making? Who’s it for? What if he doesn’t like it? Why’d you pick that color?

  Watching as she rocked Lizzie’s cradle, Dana decided that Ali’s mother was definitely doing something right.

  Hugh was back at work, and none too soon, given the mounting backlog. He had a motion for discovery to file on a mail fraud case, a forensic pathologist to meet on a vehicular homicide one, and a meeting with a new client who was accused of perjury in a federal indictment. He also had decisions to make regarding a wrongful-termination suit, and kept drifting back to this case. His client, who sold homeowners’ insurance, claimed that he had brought in more accounts than any other single agent, but that since his contacts were, demographically, among a less wealthy group, his average yield was consistently lower, hence his firing. Hugh’s client—and most of that man’s clients—were African American.

  Hugh wanted to include racial discrimination in the suit and spent much of Monday trying to work out the logistics—only to decide against it at the end of the day. Racial discrimination would be hard to prove and might be a distraction from his client’s other, more solidly documented claims. Practicing law was about picking one’s fights.

  Life was about picking one’s fights, he realized. He might argue forever with Dana about his motive for running a DNA test, but the more pressing issue was finding her father. With so little to go on, that was posing a problem.

  Tuesday morning, when Crystal Kostas called, she was a welcome diversion. He was only too happy to buy her breakfast at the hospital in exchange for her notes. She ordered a three-egg omelet with toast, home fries, and coffee, and ate hungrily while he read. Her jottings were surprisingly coherent, with headings at the top of each page.

  There was a list of other patrons who had been at the restaurant at the time she had waited on the senator, with asterisks next to the names of regulars who knew her.

  There were descriptions of the motel clerk—late twenties, skinny, glasses—and the car the senator had driven—a dark SUV with a roof rack and step bars of a lighter color.

  She had listed the date and approximate time of the encounter, and had written out several pages of her recollection of her conversation with the senator. She listed the order of events—she had taken the room, he joined her once she was inside and left before she did. She described his tall, solid build, and the bald spot at the back of his head.

  He had sucked on breath strips and had offered her one. She didn’t know what kind they were.

  The last page had no heading and contained only one name.

  “Dahlia?” Hugh asked.

  Crystal put down her toast and wiped her mouth on a paper napkin. “He called it out.”

  “Called it out? When?”

  “When he came.”

  “Came? You mean, climaxed?”

  She nodded. “Is it his wife’s name?”

  “No, ma’am,” Hugh said, but his mind was working. “Maybe a mistress.”

  Crystal seemed disappointed. “He’ll deny it. He’ll deny having lovers.”

  “Maybe,” Hugh alleged with rising excitement, “but what if there are other women—women on that list Hutchinson’s chief of staff claims exists? What if they could testify under oath that he called out the same name when they were with him?”

  Chapter 15

  Tuesday mo
rning, Dana met Tara for breakfast. Three other friends joined them to celebrate Lizzie’s birth with cinnamon brioche French toast, broccoli quiche, and hazelnut decaf. Returning home afterward, she had barely pulled into the drive when Ali appeared beside her car.

  “Look, Dana!” she cried with glee as soon as the door opened. She was holding the tiny red scarf in her hand as though it were a ribbon of glass. “I finished! Now I want to make the one for Cocoa, but I don’t know how to cast out.”

  “Cast on,” Dana corrected, and looked at Ali’s work. “Ali, this is fabulous! Good for you!”

  “I love it. Daddy says I’ve found my itch.”

  “Niche?”

  “Niche. Will you help me start the next one? And after that one, I want to make them blankets for winter.” Eyes cupped, she put her face to the back window. “Why is Baby E-lizabeth crying?”

  “She’s hungry,” Dana said. “Tell you what. See those boxes at the front door? Help me bring them in while I feed Lizzie, and I’ll teach you how to cast on. You’re going to have to know how to do that yourself once you’re back in New York.” She opened the car door to get the baby.

  “I’m not going back to New York.”

  “You’re not?” This was news. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. I’m staying here.”

  Dana emerged from the car with a whimpering Lizzie. “Since when?” David hadn’t mentioned it. If Ali was going to live with him, he would be scrambling to find her a school. Her school in Manhattan didn’t start until mid-September. Schools here began in less than a week.

  “Since today,” Ali replied. “I decided I want to stay with Daddy.”

  “Does he know?”

  “I’m telling him tonight. He won’t mind. He loves having me here.” She ran toward the front door, where a stack of three boxes stood. She picked up the first just as Dana approached with the baby. “Are these all for Baby E-lizabeth?”

  Dana glanced at the labels, but Lizzie’s fussing allowed for no more. “Looks that way. Put them over here, sweetheart. Hugh will open them when he gets home.”

  Lizzie needed feeding and changing. When that was done, Dana taught Ali to cast on. Then, with Ali at her heels, she carried Lizzie up to the spare bedroom. Opening the closet door, she pulled out a carton. She gently laid the baby on the Oriental rug and opened the box.

  “Oooooooh,” breathed Ali. “More yarn.”

  “This yarn’s special,” Dana explained. “It’s my mother’s stash, mostly leftovers from things she knit when I was little. Look,” she said, pulling out a ball of bulky wool in avocado green that Elizabeth had used for a scarf and a remnant of the yellow yarn from Dana’s bunny hat. There were other skeins she didn’t recognize.

  Curious, she pulled out the patterns that were tucked in against the side of the box. Most were books, opened to the page her mother had worked. Dana thumbed through, finding other things Elizabeth had knit.

  Then she came to the single-page patterns. They were of the custom variety that The Stitchery offered for classic crew neck, V-neck, and cardigan sweaters. The basic pattern was pre-printed, then, based on the customer’s measurements and the weight of the yarn chosen, the sales clerk filled in the number of stitches to be cast on, the number of increases required, and the length for each of the sweater’s parts. In the course of knitting, the customer returned whenever adjustments were needed.

  Looking closer, Dana realized that the logo on these patterns wasn’t from The Stitchery. They had come from a store in Madison, which meant Elizabeth’s college years.

  Intrigued, while Lizzie slept on the floor and Ali neatly separated the yarn by color, Dana looked through the rest of the patterns. There were ones for making Fair Isle sweaters, fisherman’s knits, and a Shaker scarf. There was also one for a Faroese shawl, with a faded drawing on the front. Dana had seen new books at the shop containing patterns like these, a revival of shawls that had originated generations earlier on Denmark’s Faroe Islands. That her mother had worked up this style of shawl more than thirty-five years ago was stunning to Dana—and suddenly, without looking further, she knew this would be her signature project for fall. Knit from the hem up, with a gore in the center of the back and shaping at the shoulders to ease the fit, the shawl could be designed with long ends that wound around the wearer’s waist and tied out of the way. Dana’s deep teal alpaca-and-silk, while heavier than some of the more lacy, mohair-type shawls made on the Faroes, would be a modern twist, perfect for women her age.

  Excited, she was about to open the pattern when her cell phone rang. Taking it from her pocket, she flipped it open. “Hello?”

  “Dana? Marge Cunningham. How are you doing?”

  “Great, Marge. Thanks for calling back. I’m sorry I had to cancel last week. I was hoping we could set up another appointment.”

  “Actually,” Marge said, “we’ve rethought this. Since you have a new baby and we have a very large house to decorate as soon as possible, we’ve hired Heinrich and Dunn.”

  Dana felt a stab of disappointment. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized there was a rush, or I’d have met with you sooner.” She might have said that Heinrich and Dunn would give the Cunninghams exactly what the firm had given their two neighbors, which was precisely what Marge had said she didn’t want.

  “Oh, you know,” the woman breezed now, “it was one of those things where once we made the decision, we just got caught up in it and wanted to move-move-move.” She ended with a little laugh. “But thanks anyway, Dana. And good luck with that little baby girl. I hear she’s a winner.”

  Dana hung up feeling, surprisingly, no loss at all. With Ellie Jo sidelined, she had more than enough to do at the shop.

  Content, she opened the pattern in her hand. Like the title on the front, it was handwritten. A note was inside.

  Here are the instructions. My mom translated them into English from my grandmother’s Faroese, and they may have lost something in the process. You know everything about knitting, though. If there’s a mistake, you’ll catch it.

  We miss you here. I understand why you left, but the dorm isn’t the same without you. Please think of coming back with the baby next year. He’ll be gone by then, so you’ll be free.

  Dana reread the sentence. Heart pounding, she turned the note over to see the envelope that was affixed to it by a rusty paper clip. The sender’s name was there, as was a return address.

  Dana had uncovered two secrets. The first was the name and address of a woman who had known her mother during those crucial pregnant days in Madison, and though the address was very old, it was a starting point.

  The second was more intriguing. He’ll be gone by then, so you’ll be free—the implication being that Dana’s father may not have been the one-night stand Elizabeth had led people to believe. Dana wasn’t sure she liked the you’ll be free part; it implied something controlling, even evil about the man. And since Dana had checked on the Web for a Jack Jones at Elizabeth’s college during the years she was there, he may not have been a student at all. Still, her mother’s friend might know more.

  Ali left, but Dana didn’t immediately act on her discoveries. Hugh wanted her father found immediately, but for her, those old ambivalent feelings were strong. And, besides, Dorothy was due to arrive.

  She was tucking the envelope in the pocket of her jeans when the doorbell rang, and the next hour was truly pleasant. Dana shouldn’t have been surprised. One on one, she had always enjoyed her mother-in-law. The surprise—given what had happened in the hospital the week before—was the genuine delight Dorothy found in the baby. There was no standoffishness, no handling Lizzie like she was a stranger’s child, no withholding of the affection that Dana had seen her show Robert’s kids. Her gift too—matching hand-painted anoraks for Dana and Lizzie—was unusually sensitive.

  Dorothy insisted on holding Lizzie for all but the time the baby was nursing. It was only when she was about to leave, handing Lizzie back to Dana but keeping a hand on the
child’s head as if reluctant to sever the touch, that she mentioned that day the week before.

  “I want you to know,” she said, “how sorry I am about what happened at the hospital. You get settled into a certain social circle and start acting a certain way, and you don’t think twice about it because everyone else around you behaves exactly the same way. But it’s not who I am, certainly not who I was raised to be. I wasn’t born a snob. Being a Clarke for so long now, there are just certain expectations…” Her voice trailed off.

  What could Dana say? That it was all right? That being a Clarke justified poor behavior?

  Given how raw she felt on that score, all she could do was to ask, “Do you doubt that Hugh is her father?”

  “Of course not,” Dorothy scoffed, still touching the baby. “Even if I couldn’t see it with my own two eyes, which I can, I knew deep down that you wouldn’t be with anyone but Hugh. You’re a good woman, Dana. A good mother. You know, I was wrong before Lizzie was born when I insisted you needed a baby nurse. That was how we did it, but I’ve had time to think about it, and you don’t need help. You lost your own mother, so you want to be there as much as possible for your own daughter. I understand. Mothers want certain things. They dream that their family will be united and loving, and that isn’t always possible. But Eaton’s book party is coming up, and I desperately want everyone from the family there, especially you and Hugh. If you don’t have a babysitter, then I want you to bring Lizzie with you—and I don’t care what Eaton says.”

  Dana realized it was the first time since Dorothy had come that she had said her husband’s name.

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “Oh yes,” Dorothy said, then stopped short, met Dana’s eyes, and raised her chin. “No. Actually, he does not. He’s a stubborn man, and it’s not only with you and Hugh and this little girl. He picked a fight with his brother, so they’re not talking, and now Bradley is taking it out on Robert, so Robert is angry with Eaton and with me, because he thinks I ought to be able to talk sense into my husband. But isn’t this ridiculous. Here I am stealing out of the house to buy a gift for my newest grandchild. I charged it on my own credit card. Did you know I had one?”