“Thank you,” I say, inwardly relaxing. I make a mental note to ask Dennis Roth about the Paulie Aandeg case. He must have something in the archives. There’s likely no story there, but now I’m curious. “I purchased it at Dayton’s. In Minneapolis.”

She perches her chin on her thumb, the picture of reflection. “You know what would go great with that? One of the new cloisonné brooches that just arrived at Ben Franklin. They’re lovely. You should check them out next time you’re downtown.”

My mouth turns dry as dust. I can’t make a sound to save my soul, and it doesn’t matter, because she’s flashed me a blinding grin and trotted off to the sidelines. The concert is about to begin.

Cruel Miss Colivan, dipping girls’ braids in the glue pot.

She wasn’t in the store when I stole the brooch. Was she? Impossible. Her mentioning it is the wildest of coincidences. I steady my breath and claim a spot on the bleachers, but I feel like I’m balancing on marbles the whole way. Miss Colivan has unsettled me, and if I don’t put her out of my mind, I won’t get what I need for this article.

Through sheer force of will, I manage to concentrate on the concert.

The evening is a mixed bag. The children butcher every song, but they’re beaming with pride and sing with so much heart. My neck is prickling constantly during the show, like I’m being watched, but when I turn to see who’s staring, everyone is focused on the stage and the children. Still, one time I catch Miss Colivan pointing in my direction before leaning toward a fellow teacher to whisper something.

That’s when I realize I’ve felt watched the whole time I’ve been in this town, above and beyond what I’d expect as a newcomer. I shudder. Am I imagining it?

After the program, I gather quotes from parents and pose the children to snap some photos with the camera Dennis has lent me.

If only Ursula could see me now.

She would hate how I’m backsliding into a hausfrau reporter, right on the heels of transforming into a just plain hausfrau.

At least I’m finally looking forward to my baby being born, I decide on the walk home.

When I reach the house and discover that Deck has not yet returned, I’m too tired to go to sleep. Though the thought of a cocktail is as appetizing as swallowing a raw egg, I crave adult interaction after that terrible run-in with Miss Colivan. I write my own note, slip it under the magnet for Deck to find, pet Slow Henry, and hoof it to Little John’s Pub.

Time to meet Lilydale’s nightlife.

CHAPTER 12

Little John’s reminds me of the 620 Club in Minneapolis, where I first met Deck, minus the perpetually turning plastic turkey on a spit that is the 620’s showcase. Both bars are dim and murky, with thick currents of smoke lending the spaces an underwater feel. My eyes take a moment to adjust, inflating my other senses. I smell Aqua Velva and cigarettes and the sour lick of spilled cocktails. The conversation drops when I step into the bar, and it sounds like I’m being stared at, and then the door closes behind me and my eyes adjust and everyone in the bar is doing what people in bars do.

Elbows on the counter, talking to one another.

The click clack of a pair shooting a game of pool.

Men in shirtsleeves arguing across tables, their drinks sweating.

A handful of couples, the women coarse, their hair bound under kerchiefs, the men with dirty hands and wide smiles. Someone stands in a dark corner, his back to me. For a crazy second, it looks like he’s licking the wall, but then he turns, a lighter illuminating his face followed by the orange ember of a drawn cigarette, before he returns to shadow.

Pulse thudding in my wrists, I have a moment to decide between sitting at the bar or a table. Any more time taken and I’ll be making a spectacle of myself.

I select the bar because it’s the nearest. My legs quiver on the way to the stool. I tell myself it’s nerves. It’s never easy being the new person. I crave an icy-cold Tab and good conversation, but ordering pop in this establishment will surely only call more unwanted attention to me. “Tom Collins, please.”

The bartender, a small man with a face like a withered apple, studies me for so long that I think he’s going to demand identification. I still occasionally got carded in Minneapolis, but I never imagined it would happen here. The thought, oddly, makes me feel extra small. Like I don’t belong. I mean, I know I’m new to town, but something about the prospect of being carded right now feels like more than my ego can handle.

When the bartender opens his mouth, I discover it’s even worse.

“How about lemonade, Mrs. Schmidt?”

I shrink to the size of a cockroach. “Pardon me?”

“I could pour you a refreshing glass of lemonade. It’ll be better for you.”

The bar has gone quiet but for the haunting strains of “Ode to Billie Joe” drifting out of the jukebox.

Ursula, Libby, and I used to catch Candid Camera together on Sunday nights, but I know I’m not being recorded, not having a prank played on me. The bartender is visibly uncomfortable. I glance down the bar at the men staring back at me, their expressions inscrutable. Honestly, I would have preferred a lemonade, but there’s more at stake.

“Is everyone else having lemonade?” My voice jelly-wobbles.

“It’s just, ma’am . . . your condition.”

The second time today I’ve heard that. A fever starts in my chest and fires up my neck, torching my cheeks. I don’t know who or what my anger would have burned if a woman around my age didn’t pop behind the bar, grab a collins glass, and start mixing a drink as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Judging by the apron at her waist, it is.

“I’ve got this, Albert,” she says, smiling at the bartender. Her overbite and dimples give her a playful, childlike appearance. “Ladies waiting on ladies. That’s how it should be, eh?”

Albert grunts and walks to the other end of the bar. The waitress laughs, a deep chuckle that counterbalances her dimples.

“I’m Regina.” She offers me her hand.

Rescue Regina, saving ladies in distress and smelling of verbena.

I shake her hand, realize my own is trembling.

She leans in so she can talk without everyone overhearing. “Small towns. Everyone knows your business. What’re you gonna do?”

Regina suddenly reminds me of my mother so much that my heart twists. I don’t trust myself to hold the drink she’s offering, so I indicate the bar. She sets the Tom Collins in front of me.

“Are you going to get in trouble for serving me?” I ask, my voice chalky.

Regina rests one hand on the bar, the other on her hip. Now that she’s in front of me, I can see that she’s in her midtwenties, a few years younger than my twenty-eight. “Maybe. There’s worse trouble to come if we don’t stand up for each other, though. Since when does someone else get to decide what you drink?”

“I’m pregnant.” Here it feels like admitting to leprosy, or murder. My mouth is dry, but I can’t bring my lips to the straw to drink.

“I’m Canadian,” Regina says.

It takes the joke a moment to settle. It’s not particularly funny, but Regina’s effort relaxes me enough that I can finally take a sip. The crisp bite of gin unlocks my jaw. “How’d you end up here?”