He must see the capitulation on my face. “It’s not like the city, baby,” he coos. “Here the women think being pregnant is a good thing.”

“Deck!”

His expression is pained as he unwraps his second sandwich—ham, onions, and Miracle Whip on white bread, his favorite. The waxed paper makes a rustling sound. “People were bound to find out sooner than later,” he’s saying. “You look great, you really do, Joanie, but you’re gonna start showing any day now. If we don’t tell anyone before then, it looks like we’re either hiding something or like it was an accident.”

“But it was an accident!” I wring my hands.

“I’m afraid this is all my fault.”

Ronald’s unexpected voice from behind shocks me. My heart pounds, but I keep it cool on the surface. I won’t show him that I’m startled, will calm myself before I turn to face him. I’ve always been a cool head when angry. A stoic, everyone says. I’d be surprised if any Schmidt Insurance employees even noticed my rage when I came through the door, anyone except Deck. I had smiled at Becky (Blonde Becky, a receptionist as beautiful as a butterfly, she’d fall to the earth if she stopped smiling), nodded at the four men working behind desks. I recognized only one, the giant Clan Brody, as I took a seat in the break room, sitting primly until Deck finished a meeting in Ronald’s office.

I didn’t let loose until we were alone.

Thought we were alone.

“I was the one who blabbed the good news,” Ronald continues from behind me, where he opened the door and slipped in as quietly as a snake. “You have to understand how a small town works. We’re a big family here. You don’t keep secrets from family.”

I’m trying to hang on to my calm, but my hands are shaking beneath the table. I cannot unring this bell, and the powerlessness is unnerving. Deck is staring at his sandwich, the ham leering out like a tongue from the pillowy slice of bread. He’s leaving me to address Ronald alone.

Very well. I swivel in my seat and stand to face Deck’s father.

I’m shocked to see from his expression that he thinks he’s teasing me, that we’re all in on a big, harmless joke, that it doesn’t matter a whit that I wanted a job and identity before I become a mother in everyone’s eyes. When he holds out his arms, I’m so caught off guard that I walk toward them.

“We’re so happy for you and Deck,” he says, wrapping me in his embrace. I stiffen when he buries his face into my hair, but I don’t pull away. With a Ronald hug, I’m learning, retreating simply isn’t an option. “Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from Him.” He chuckles, his laugh as gritty as his voice. “Guess the Schmidts have planted our stake in your real estate.”

I take three full breaths before Ronald releases me. I don’t know about any of my body being real estate, but I can’t see any options. Be invisible when you can, harmless if they spot you. “Yes,” I say, patting my hair. “Deck and I are very happy.”

“You bet you are. Nothing greater in this world than a child. Barbara and I’ve been meaning to have the two of you over to celebrate ever since Deck told us the news. I’ll let her set that up with you.” He twists his arm to pull his wristwatch into view. “You should get going.”

I bristle. “Excuse me?”

Ronald ignores my question, glancing at my stomach, then Deck. “You have to understand—in my generation, pregnant women didn’t work.”

I swell, soaking up anger like a towel dropped in water. Screw having a cool head. Before I can sound off, though, Ronald raises his hand, laughing more deeply this time.

“Now, hold your horses before you lay into me. I was about to say that I understand you and Deck are from a different generation than me and Barbara. Deck told me you want to work, and I admire that. You want to contribute. I understand that. You women these days,” he says, shaking his head, smiling like he can’t believe what he’s about to say, “cooking for your husbands, cleaning, raising children, and working. If only we could build an army of you!”

Deck nods, finally abandoning his second sandwich to stand next to me. “Joanie is an incredible girl.”

“That’s what I told Dennis Roth over at the Gazette,” Ronald says, going serious. “It’s no big-city newspaper, but they do solid reporting. Now be a good daughter and head on over. He’s expecting you.”

I put Dennis Roth at fifty, and he is the skinniest man I have ever laid eyes on, his fingers nearly as long as my feet, his translucent green eyes wide beneath unruly red hair. I don’t know what’s in the Lilydale water, but between slender Dennis and giant Clan, this town could staff its own traveling sideshow.

When Dennis leaves his desk to greet me, he unfurls more than stands.

Dennis the Daddy Longlegs, dispatching the news.

“Mr. Schmidt speaks highly of you,” he says.

I wonder why the formality and whether he’s referring to Ronald or Deck. Ronald, I suppose. Dennis almost sounds afraid of Deck’s dad, but maybe that’s just the way he speaks.

“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t stop by earlier.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing, except that it’s habit.

Dennis indicates the chair in front of his desk and reclaims his own seat after I take mine. “My grandfather founded the Gazette in 1867, a decade after Johann Lily platted the town,” he says, stone-faced. “I’m pleased to say it’s grown since then.”

I can’t tell if he has a sense of humor. I passed only one other employee coming in, a woman who I’d also put in her fifties, her hair tight and short and seemingly cut with the same pruning shears I used on my bushes earlier this morning. She appeared to be sleeping when I arrived, surrounded by stacks of the Lilydale Gazette leaning precariously, some with dates over a year old. The sound of the front door closing caused her eyes to snap open, like a robot who’d been activated. She studied me top to bottom and then jabbed her thumb toward a single office in the back.

Dennis’s.

There’s a closed door in the rear of it, which I assume leads to a bathroom, and an open one that I guess leads to the research and records room. Although, given the hurricane state of the main room, I can’t imagine what sort of archives they keep.

“Journalism is an important business,” I say. Best to stick to vague facts until I can get a bead on him.

“Indeed.” Dennis steeples his elegant fingers and rests his chin on them. “Your father-in-law says you need a job.”

“I have a journalism degree from the University of Minnesota, and I’m an experienced reporter,” I say, not correcting his reference to Ronald as my father-in-law any more than I’d corrected Ronald calling me daughter. Pick your battles.

Dennis nods. “You can start today.”

My heart leaps. “Really?”

“I trust Mr. Schmidt. If he says you can do the job, you can. We need someone to cover tonight’s elementary school music program.”

The weight of the world settles onto my shoulders. For a brief moment, I thought I’d finally land my byline. At the Minneapolis Star, they’d confined me and the other female reporter to the Women’s News section. No bylines allowed there, just soothing stories of weddings and fashion and food. The handful of big stories I’d broken on my own, I’d had to hand off.