Three Sisters. Сьюзен Мэллери

talking about the power that flows from the earth until we cash the checks.”

      Boston rolled her eyes. “I only celebrated the summer solstice once and that was just to be nice to my friend from the art class I was teaching.”

      “You can be plenty weird without blaming other people.”

      “Redneck.”

      “Flake.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Let me go get my stuff.”

      He walked back outside to his truck. Boston glanced at the clock and saw it was too early to start dinner. With the weather so nice, she was thinking they would just barbecue burgers. Their first of the season. Zeke had pulled out the high-tech stainless monstrosity the previous weekend and was itching to fire it up.

      She could make a salad, she thought. Maybe invite Andi over. She had to be exhausted after a hard day of moving, and Boston knew there wasn’t anything remotely close to a working kitchen in her house.

      Zeke returned, his arms full of plans and contracts. He had his lunch box in one hand and a small box in another.

      She smiled. “Is that for me?”

      “I don’t know. I bought it for the most beautiful girl in the world. Is that you?”

      Whatever else might go wrong, Zeke always tried, she thought. He was a thoughtful guy, regularly bringing her little presents.

      The gifts themselves weren’t expensive. A new paintbrush, a single flower, an antique pin for her hair. For all the years they’d been married, he’d always gone out of his way to let her know he was thinking of her. That she was important to him. It was part of the glue that held their marriage together.

      She reached for the box, but he turned, keeping it out of reach. “Not so fast, young lady.”

      He put his paperwork down, then slowly held out the box. She took it, letting the anticipation build.

      “Diamonds?” she asked, knowing they weren’t something either of them would be interested in.

      “Darn it. Did you want diamonds? Because it’s a new truck.”

      Despite the tease, something in his voice sounded different. When she looked up, she saw the hesitation in his eyes. Boston opened the box slowly. Her gaze settled on the tiny pink booties.

      They had been knit in the finest gauge, with a little crocheted lace trim and delicate ties. Lovely and girly. Staring at them made her chest tighten. She couldn’t breathe. Her body went cold and the box with the booties slipped from her grasp.

      “How could you?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Pain shot through her, slicing and cleaving. She turned away, determined to keep the monster that was her pain firmly in its cage.

      Zeke grabbed her arm. “Boston, don’t block me out. Don’t turn way. Give me something, hon. We have to talk about it. It’s been six months. We could still have a family. Another baby.”

      She jerked her arm free and glared at him. “Our son died.”

      “You think I don’t know that?”

      “You’re not acting like it. You say six months like it’s a lifetime. Well, it’s not. It’s nothing. I will never get over him, you hear me? Never.”

      She watched the affection fade from her husband’s eyes as something much darker took its place. “You keep doing this,” he told her. “Shutting me out. We have to move on.”

      “You move on,” she told him, the familiar numbness settling over her. “I’m staying right where I am.”

      Resignation settled into the lines around his mouth. “Like always,” he said. “Fine. You want more of the same, you can have it. I’m leaving. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

      He hesitated before turning, as if waiting for her to ask him not to go. She pressed her lips tightly together, wanting, no, needing to be alone. He was off to get drunk and she was fine with that. She got lost in her painting and he got lost in his bottle. It was how they got through the pain.

      He shook his head and stalked out. A few seconds later she heard his truck start up.

      When the sound of the engine had faded away, she walked back to her studio. As she stepped inside, she didn’t see the light spilling in through tall windows, the hand-built shelves, carefully constructed to her specifications, the easels and empty canvases awaiting their destiny. Instead her gaze fell on the pictures of Liam. Her son.

      Tiny sketches and life-size portraits. Drawings and watercolors. She’d used every material, every medium. She had created hundreds of pictures, maybe thousands. Since they’d buried him, he was all she could draw. All she wanted to create.

      Now, her heart still pounding, her body still cold, she picked up a sketchpad and a pencil. Then she settled onto her favorite stool and began to draw.

      Chapter Three

      DEANNA SAT IN her car in the parking lot. Spring had come to the Pacific Northwest. New leaves reflected sunlight and buds covered the bushes. The municipal park had soft green grass that had yet to be trampled by the children who would soon come to play.

      She reached for her take-out coffee, only to realize she was shaking too hard to hold it, let alone guide it to her mouth. She’d spent the past two days shaking. Shaking and not eating and trying to figure out how to salvage the shattered remains of her once perfect life. She’d alternated between blaming herself and wanting to kill Colin. She’d cried, screamed and when the children were around, pretended absolutely nothing was wrong. Then she’d come up with a plan.

      On the passenger seat next to her were several sheets of paper. Notes she’d made, phone numbers and statistics. She had all the girls’ paperwork and copies of her and Colin’s joint bank statements.

      Her options were limited. The bottom line was, she didn’t want a divorce. Being married was part of her identity, part of what she’d always wanted, and Colin wasn’t going to take that from her, too. So she was going to explain that while she might forgive, she wasn’t planning on forgetting. That he would have some serious work to do if he planned to win her back.

      She had several weapons she was willing to use. The girls, of course. His standing in the community. Colin loved the island, but if he didn’t come around, he would find himself ostracized.

      In the back of her mind, a voice whispered that maybe he didn’t want to give up the other woman. Maybe he wasn’t interested in his family anymore. And by family, she knew the voice meant her because no one could doubt Colin’s love for his girls.

      She ignored the voice, knowing it came from a weaker part of herself. Strength was required, and she would be strong. She knew how. She’d survived so much worse than this.

      She drew in a breath and steadied herself enough to pick up her coffee and take a sip. Once Colin agreed to end the affair, she was going to insist on couple’s therapy. She would casually mention that she had the names of several good lawyers. Lawyers who weren’t sure a straying father deserved much time with their children.

      The house wasn’t an issue, thank God. It was in her name and would be until the day she died. A few times over the years, she’d thought about putting his name on the deed, but never had done it. Now she was grateful.

      She glanced at her watch. About an hour ago, when she’d known he was close to home, she’d sent Colin a text saying that she knew about the other woman and telling him to meet her at the park. This conversation needed to be conducted in private, and with five girls in the house, privacy was rare. Madison was with a friend, and Deanna had hired a sitter to stay with the other four.

      Colin’s battered sedan pulled next to her SUV. Deanna put down the coffee and reached for the folders. As her fingers closed around the door handle, anger flooded her. Cold, thick fury that made her want to lash out, to cut and wound. How dare he? She’d spent her life in service