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  Everyone thought Lizzie was a beauty and that she had a sweet temperament. A few tried to see resemblances—Hugh, I think she has your mouth, or, That is definitely Dana’s nose—none of which Hugh saw. They remarked on her skin and her hair, praising both features—Her coloring is elegant, or, What I would give for curls like these. And, of course, there were questions about their source, with more than one teasing glance at Hugh. So, Hugh, where did you say you were nine months ago?

  Hugh laughed the first time and smiled the second, but when the question came a third time, he said a blunt “Philadelphia,” which brought laughter from the questioner and a quick explanation from Dana. The next time he said the same thing, she shot him an annoyed look. But he felt no remorse. He had warned her that there would be questions, and he was tired of being the sole butt of the joke.

  By five in the afternoon, it was Hugh’s friends who began appearing. There were several from his office bearing flowers and gifts, and their remarks about Lizzie were enthusiastic and kind; but then came Hugh’s family friends, young men with whom he had grown up. Clearly, they had been told about Lizzie and wanted to see her for themselves. There was an intensity to their curiosity. They said nothing aloud about the baby’s parentage, not so much as an acknowledgment of her color, which was a statement in and of itself.

  His basketball buddies weren’t as restrained. They appeared shortly after six, four big guys en route to their weekly game. They carried roses for Dana and a Celtics onesie for Lizzie, and the silence when they saw her was comical.

  Hugh, my man, who is this?

  Dana, you little minx. Working with a client, you say? We’ve heard that one before.

  So, I guess we’re all cleared, except for Denny. Where is Denny, anyway?

  Denny, the only African American in the group, was singing that night—as he did with a group from his church once a month. David was another matter. Just as the basketball group was getting ready to leave, the man strode through the front door. Granted, the door was wide open. Granted, David strode everywhere. Granted, he was a physical guy who had never been stingy with hugs. Hugh watched him swoop down to kiss Dana, then lean over the bassinet to stare at a baby who looked so much like his own that it would have taken a saint not to think twice.

  Out on the front walk minutes later, Hugh’s basketball buddy Tom said, “What’s the story with that guy?”

  “Story?”

  “His relationship with Dana. Is it on the up-and-up?”

  “Totally,” Hugh said, but he was suddenly angry—angry at Tom, at his parents, at David. David was such a good friend that Hugh had never before considered his skin color. Now, all that was changed.

  And then, with the basketball foursome pulling away from the curb, Hugh turned back to the house only to hear his name called. Looking down the street, he saw his neighbor jogging toward him. Monica French was one of the women who had visited earlier. In her midforties, she was married to a man who was rarely seen, but she had two teenagers and three dogs who made up for it. The dogs were with her now, three big Akitas, all crowding around her so eagerly that as she attempted to stop she almost fell.

  “Hugh,” she said then. “There’s something I have to say, and I know it may not be appropriate, but it really is a matter of conscience. Is David a friend?”

  “The best,” Hugh replied, because he knew where this was headed. Monica was a busybody who walked her dogs three times a day and had no problem stopping along the way to point out, for the benefit of the ignorant homeowner, a dead shrub in the garden, a blown bulb above the garage door, or the swarm of bees by a shutter.

  “If that’s true,” she said, “then you have nothing to worry about, because a best friend wouldn’t do what I’m suggesting. But I looked at that little baby earlier and kept asking myself where her color was from, and I have to tell you, David is around a lot.”

  “So?” Hugh asked.

  “So, he’s black.”

  “I think I noticed that.”

  “I’ve seen him inside with Dana when you’re not home.”

  “Yes. She tells me—not that you saw her, but that David stops by.”

  “He’s sometimes there for an hour.”

  “Sixty minutes? Not forty-five or ninety?”

  Monica stared. “Make fun of me if you want, but I think David is in love with your wife.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Hugh said, sounding calmer than he felt, “but that doesn’t mean he’d ever get her in bed. My wife loves me, Monica.”

  “But there’s love-sex and there’s sex-sex. David is one sexy guy.”

  “Ah. That explains your keeping track of his comings and goings. Have the hots for him, do you?”

  She stared up at him for another minute, then said, “Forget I mentioned it.”

  Tugging at the dogs, she let them pull her back home, and just in time. Had she stayed a minute longer, she would have seen the black sedan that came down the street. Hugh’s brother, Robert, emerged and turned back to help his uncle climb out.

  Bradley Clarke was five years older than Eaton, which put him at seventy-four, give or take. He wasn’t as tall or good-looking as his brother, though the Clarke jaw and broad brow were marked, but what he lacked in physical stature he made up for in business acumen. There were older living Clarkes, a cluster of cousins in their nineties, but Bradley was the one who feathered the family nest and, in so doing, was perceived as being the patriarch.

  Hugh admired his uncle. He was grateful that the family interests were in such capable hands.

  That said, he had never liked the man. He found him arrogant, curt, and devoid of warmth. Robert, who worked with him on a regular basis—and who now went on into the house while Bradley stood with Hugh at the curb—claimed to have seen the warmth many times. Hugh had to take it on faith.

  That faith was tested the minute the older man opened his mouth. “What in the hell did you say to your father? He’s in a lousy mood.”

  “I’m sorry if he’s taken it out on you,” Hugh said with due deference, though he refused to cower. “He said some ugly things about my child.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you figure out yet where its coloring is from?”

  “It’s a she, and we assume one of Dana’s ancestors was African American.”

  “Then Dana is black.”

  “So’s your chauffeur,” Hugh said lightly, and ducked his head to smile at Caleb. Hugh had passed many an otherwise unbearably boring family event standing outside on the drive by the car, talking with Caleb. “Maybe he’d like to come take a look at my daughter?”

  Bradley said, “No need for that, but I would.” He was halfway up the stairs when David came from the house and innocently extended his hand.

  “Mr. Clarke. David Johnson. Good to see you again.”

  Bradley’s face was stony. His hand met David’s in a perfunctory shake. Then he went on inside.

  Hugh swore softly and rubbed the aching back of his neck.

  “Trouble?” David asked.

  Hugh snorted. “At least he didn’t see you sprawled all over her.”

  David made a face. “Huh?”

  “Oh, come on. I can only laugh up to a point.”

  “Can you explain that?”

  “They think you’re the father.”

  David drew in his chin. “They do? Wow. I’m flattered.”

  “Yeah, and while you’re flattered, I’m humiliated. Dana’s my wife. It’s all well and good that you think she’s great, but do you have to march into my house like you own the place?”

  David took a step back and held up a hand. “No harm meant.”

  But the dike had burst. Hugh couldn’t stop. “Where’s your common sense, man? Hell, we can pretend we don’t see her coloring, but there’s this baby who looks like you, and there you are, head over heels in love with my wife—”

  “Hold it, Hugh. Your wife is my friend.”

  “You knew h
er before I did,” Hugh realized with some discomfort. “Was there something going on between you two back then? A secret you agreed not to share?”

  “No.”

  “But you date white women all the time. You were married to one. In my field, that’s called precedent.”

  “You’re outta line.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m outta line,” Hugh shouted, “she’s my wife!”

  “Hugh,” said Robert, opening the screen.

  Hugh turned and glared at his brother and uncle. He felt like he was being cornered, pushed toward something he loathed but was helpless to stop.

  Eyes on Hugh, David held up a cautioning hand. Then he turned and went down the stairs.

  “What was that about?” Bradley asked in an imperial tone.

  Hugh lashed out, “Did you see my daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think she’s my daughter?”

  “She’s definitely a Joseph baby.”

  “And the father?” Hugh asked. “Who do you think that is?”

  “Who do you think?” Bradley shot back.

  “I thought it was me, until you all started looking at him,” he said, nodding toward David’s house, “but there’s a way to find out. Know how many DNA tests I’ve arranged for my clients? I know how it’s done and who does it best.” He strode past them and into the house.

  Dana was tired. Her bottom ached and her breasts were starting to harden. She loved seeing friends, loved seeing David, but she could have done without Hugh’s brother and uncle. Robert had made a brief show of affection; his uncle hadn’t even tried. And now Hugh, saying…what?

  “I want DNA tests done. There’s been one remark too many.”

  “DNA tests?” she asked, unable to grasp it.

  “To prove I’m Lizzie’s father.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking,” he said grimly, “about David. His name keeps coming up. I want it decided.”

  Dana was incredulous. “Decided?”

  The baby started to cry. Pushing herself up from the sofa, Dana retrieved Lizzie from the bassinet. She rocked her from side to side, but she kept crying. So Dana propped herself on the cushions, raised her tee shirt, opened her bra, and brushed the baby’s mouth with her nipple. Lizzie didn’t latch on at first. She rooted and searched and cried. Dana was starting to think that something had to be wrong, because hadn’t Tara said babies were born knowing how to suck, and Lizzie had done this now—what—ten, twenty, thirty times?—when it finally worked.

  “Decided,” Hugh said.

  Dana’s eyes met his and stayed only long enough to see that he was serious, before focusing on the baby again. “If you actually believe, for one instant, that this is David’s child—if you actually believe I would be interested in any man but you—if you actually believe I would be with someone other than my husband—something’s wrong with us, worse, with our marriage.” Her voice shook. “I thought you trusted me.”

  “I do.”

  “But you’re accusing me of having an affair with David,” she said, keeping her eyes on Lizzie so that she wouldn’t lose it completely, “and don’t tell me you’re playing devil’s advocate, because that doesn’t work in this case. This is about trust.” Tears threatened. She managed to hold them off, but her voice shrank in the process. She did raise her eyes then. “What’s happening to us, Hugh?”

  Hugh pushed a forearm over his brow, then put his hands on his hips.

  Dana’s heart was breaking. This was her husband, her husband, so distant from her now. Quietly, she asked, “Do you honestly think she’s David’s?”

  “She doesn’t have my coloring.”

  “Or mine, but neither one of us knows for sure about the coloring of every single one of our ancestors.” She quickly nodded. “Okay. Uh-huh. You do. So one of my relatives came from Africa. I don’t have a problem with that. Do you? I mean, what’s the big deal here? You’re not a bigot, Hugh.”

  “Don’t confuse the issues. Infidelity has nothing to do with bigotry.”

  She was beside herself with—what? Disbelief? Anger? Hurt? “You do think I’ve had an affair. If you’d been honest with your geneticist, she might have reassured you. Shouldn’t we be looking for my father?”

  Hugh raised his eyes to the window and looked out at the sea. When he looked back, her heart sank. She needed warmth, but there was none. He was the lawyer on a quest.

  “First a DNA test,” he said. “That’ll prove I’m the father.”

  Dana bowed her head over the baby and began to cry. She would have never, never, never in a million years imagined it would come to this.

  “Prove, Dana,” he said. “This is about damage control. You don’t care what other people say—we’ve established that—but I do. You’re not up to searching for your father yet and that could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. This is the quickest way to rule out one possibility.”

  In a burst of fury, she looked up. “While you’re at it, why not ask David to take the test?”

  “If we ask David, we offend him. If we call my geneticist, who then tells me to do the test, we embarrass me.”

  “What about me?” Dana whispered into the baby’s short curls.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  Obviously, she thought, rocking gently.

  “And there’s another thing,” Hugh charged, forceful again. “You feed the baby. Ellie Jo rocks the baby. Gillian or Tara or Juliette changes the baby. If I’m the father, what’s my job?”

  He was feeling left out. Dana wondered if that was what this was about. It would be a bizarre explanation, but at least it would be something. The rest didn’t make sense.

  So she finished feeding Lizzie and handed her to Hugh, then slowly went up the stairs, showered, and, needing an escape, picked up her knitting. Only it was suddenly all wrong—yarn, pattern, everything. In a fit of dissatisfaction, she pulled the stitches off the needles and ripped out her work, which dissolved like nothing more than another illusion when she gave it a tug. Stuffing the mess of yarn into her bag, she opened the window, eased into bed, and listened to the surf, desperate to hear her mother’s voice. But there were no words of comfort coming in on the tide, only this great lump in her throat. Bizarre explanations notwithstanding, Hugh had said things that cut to the core.

  Dropped stitches could be picked up, an ill-fitting sweater could be reknit, a bad skein of yarn exchanged. Words were something else. Once said, they couldn’t be taken back.

  Chapter 8

  Dana knew what a DNA test entailed. She also knew that there were different kinds of DNA tests, ranging from those that used blood, hair, or bone marrow, to those that analyzed the saliva in a wad of chewing gum. Hugh had used DNA evidence increasingly when trying cases, and had spoken often of it with her. She knew that for the results of a DNA test to be admissible in court, strict standards were required. But she flat-out rejected anything invasive, such as drawing blood from the baby. She had told Hugh—dead serious—that he would have to take her to court for that.

  He was satisfied using buccal swabs, a method in which small applicators collected cells from the inside of the cheek. And he wasted no time. On Thursday morning, a courier arrived at the house with the three test kits.

  “Three?” Dana asked, eyeing the kits with distaste.

  “One for each of us,” Hugh replied patiently.

  “Why me? We know I’m her mother,” she said with a glimmer of challenge.

  “You’re our baseline,” he explained. “Since the maternity of the baby isn’t in doubt, the lab starts by comparing your DNA to Lizzie’s. Whatever genetic components don’t match up between you two have to come from the father. They then test my DNA for those components.”

  Dana glanced at the courier, who stood in the kitchen waiting. “Is he your witness that I won’t try to switch your sample with a sample from David?”

  Hugh asked the courier to wait outside. When the man had lef
t, he said, “That was unnecessary.”

  “Why? It’s all a matter of trust.”

  “You’re not making this any easier on me.”

  Dana was livid. “The last forty-eight hours should have been the happiest of my life, but you’ve made them miserable. Truly, Hugh, in my world right now, it’s not all about you.” She shot a resentful look at the kits. “Can we get this done, please?”

  It didn’t take long. Hugh swabbed the baby’s cheek, then Dana’s. She forced herself to watch while he did his own, then sealed the kits and delivered them to the courier. By the time he returned to the house, she was upstairs, showering again herself, then sponging the baby head-to-toe on the changing table. She felt dirty after the procedure. She had to clean them both.

  Dressing Lizzie in a new onesie, she put her in her crib and covered her with the blanket Gram Ellie had knit. For a few minutes, while the baby settled in to sleep, she watched, astonished, still, at her daughter’s perfection. Then she looked around the nursery. It was to have embodied contentment and joy. As idylls went, it was perfect in every physical regard, which went to show how deceptive appearances could be.

  Dana might have cried at the unfairness of it had she not been so tired. Curling sideways in the rocker, she closed her eyes and dozed. The doorbell rang; she ignored it. Same with the phone.

  Shortly before noon, she tried feeding Lizzie again. Her milk was coming in, and her swollen breasts made it hard for Lizzie to nurse. Or maybe it was the milk. Dana went through all the possibilities until Lizzie finally latched on, but it was one more thing to worry about.

  “Want me to burp her?” Hugh asked from the door.

  Startled, Dana looked up. “You’re still here.”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “The office,” she said, hating the whiny sound of her voice.

  “You knew I was taking time off after the baby was born,” he reasoned.

  Oh yes, and these days together were supposed to have been wonderful. Taking the baby from her breast, she put her to her shoulder and rubbed her back.