Christmas in Hawthorn Bay. Kathleen O'Brien

wasn’t sure. For all her childlike displays of emotion, Maggie kept her deepest truths in darkest secret. That’s how you knew something really mattered to her—the bubbling stream of chatter suddenly dried up to dust.

      Though they’d been best friends since they’d eaten paste together in kindergarten, Nora had accepted that there were things she’d never learn, no matter how many times she asked.

      Like where Maggie got that old-fashioned gold ring she wore on a chain around her neck.

      Or who was the father of her baby.

      “Land ahoy!” Maggie leaned way out this time, pointing east. “I see it!”

      “Maggie,” Ethan said sharply, “don’t lean out so far! You could fall overboard!”

      “Stop being such a worrywart.” Maggie cast a sour look at Ethan, then went back to dragging her hand in the water. “Even if I did fall over, I know how to swim.”

      Nora gave Ethan a look, too. She tried to signal that bossing Maggie around was not a good idea. Maggie hated domineering, patriarchal men—probably because her father was one of the worst. Nora knew that Mr. Nicholson had hit Maggie, at least twice, and she often wondered what else might have happened that Maggie didn’t confide.

      But Ethan wasn’t paying any attention to Nora. He was still watching Maggie, and his mouth was set in an anxious line. Nora looked over at her friend, too. Maggie had both hands on her belly, and her face was gripped in a sudden, strange tension.

      “What is it?” Nora leaned forward. “Is something wrong?”

      “I’m fine. Carry on.”

      Ethan’s dark brows pulled together. “Are you having contractions?”

      “I’m fine, sailor.” Maggie waved her hand nonchalantly, clearly trying to lighten the mood. Nora couldn’t blame her. Ethan did hover a bit. “Colin was just giving me one of his Morse code messages. You know, punch-punch-jab-poke. I think he said something about nappy turfday.”

      Nora smiled. Maggie always called the baby Colin, though the ultrasound had been inconclusive as to sex. She’d decided it was a boy, and, as usual, the facts didn’t really concern her.

      But Ethan wasn’t buying it. He reached out with a doctor’s instinctive authority and put his hand on Maggie’s stomach. “I don’t like it. You sure he’s not saying something about going into labor?”

      Maggie stood up and moved beyond Ethan’s reach. “My Morse code is pretty rusty, but I think I could tell the difference between ‘Happy birthday, Mom,’ and ‘Look out, here I come!’”

      “Could you?”

      She glared at him. “Colin is fine. I said carry on.” It always frustrated her when the universe didn’t fall right in line with her plans. “Look, not only is this my birthday, but this may be the last completely free day I have for—oh, say eighteen years? So don’t you two go all smothery and cheat me out of it, okay?”

      Ethan adjusted his glasses. “But in the third trimester—”

      Maggie stood on the seat, stepped one foot up onto the gunwale and pointed her hands over her head in the classic diving position. “I’m going to that island,” she said, “if I have to swim the rest of the way.”

      Ethan laughed nervously. “Get down, you dork. Do you want to slip?”

      He wasn’t really concerned that she’d jump. But Nora knew Maggie better than he did. She glanced quickly toward the island, calculating the distance. Only about a hundred yards. Maggie could swim it. And, if he didn’t back off, she just might.

      “Ethan, don’t piss me off.” Maggie wasn’t laughing. “You’re not my father.”

      “No, I’m your doctor. I simply can’t allow you to take foolish risks—”

      Nora groaned. Too bossy. He even sounded a little like Maggie’s father. Maggie despised her father.

      She dove into the ocean with an emphatic splash.

      Ethan lurched. “For God’s sake, Maggie!”

      She ignored him, her arms cutting through the water with a brisk freestyle. Her feet churned up little green-white whirlpools, and soon she was moving faster than the boat.

      “She’s a great swimmer,” Nora said when Ethan turned around to give her a horrified, open-mouthed stare. “At home, we swim all the time.”

      “But she’s eight months pregnant! She has no idea how dangerous that is.”

      He looked down at the water, and Nora knew he was thinking of diving in after Maggie.

      “Bad idea,” she said. “You know how stubborn she is. She’ll fight you till you both drown.”

      Though his adoration made him act silly sometimes, Ethan wasn’t stupid. He knew when he was outmaneuvered. Obviously the only thing they could do right now was stay close to Maggie, and get to the island as fast as possible.

      He sat, wiped his water-speckled glasses on his shirt, and then grabbed hold of the tiller. It took several seconds, but he adjusted the sails until they caught the wind.

      They were only a few yards behind Maggie, just a few feet to her left—Ethan was steering as close to the wind as he could, so that they wouldn’t separate much. Her small white face kept turning toward them every other stroke. Once, Nora could have sworn Maggie stuck out her tongue at them.

      “Little brat,” Ethan murmured. But Nora saw that he was smiling—and, in spite of her annoyance with Maggie, she felt happy for her. How great to have someone love you so much they even found your flaws adorable.

      Back in high school, Maggie’s edgy personality had scared off most of the guys. She’d had only one boyfriend, as far as Nora knew—a short, dumb fling with Mr. Jenkins, their senior biology teacher who shortly afterward had married the English lit teacher and had moved out of town. Nora assumed Mr. J. must be the father of the baby, though of course Maggie wouldn’t discuss it.

      But perhaps Mr. Jenkins had been a sign. Maggie needed someone a little older, a lot wiser.

      Yes. Nice, honest, loyal and unmarried Ethan would be good for Maggie.

      If only she’d have him.

      The wind had shifted, so Ethan had to tack. Maggie beat them to the beach by at least five minutes, and they were coming in several yards west of her.

      All they could do was watch as she climbed out of the surf, little bits of foam clinging to her bare legs. She shook water from her ears and ran her fingers through her hair to spike it back up where it belonged. Finally, she assumed a pose of exaggerated boredom, as if they were taking forever.

      And then, abruptly, she doubled over, gripping her stomach with both hands.

      Ethan made a skeptical sound. “Faker,” he said. “I’m not falling for that one.”

      Was it just a joke? If so, it wasn’t one bit funny—it was actually damned scary. Would Maggie really be such a jerk? Nora frowned and moved to the other side of the boat, hoping to make out the details of Maggie’s face.

      But her chin was tucked down against her breastbone. Her shoulders were hunched, and her hands were still hanging onto her stomach, fingers widespread and curved, like stiff claws.

      “No,” Nora said through suddenly cold lips. “No, she’s not faking. You know how she is. She never pretends to be weak. She always pretends to be strong.”

      Ethan frowned. They had almost made land. A shrill cry reached them, knifing through the crisp autumn silence. It sounded like a gull, but it was Maggie.

      “Oh, my God,” he said. His knuckles were stark white around the tiller.

      As they watched, Maggie swayed from side to side, as if she were wrestling