Murder Crops Up by Lora Roberts Page B

on my garden shoes. He sprang to attention, prancing out the door before me.
    We went around the raised beds, tending the baby veggies. I pulled enough carrots and little beets for dinner, then added some more, remembering Amy’s appetite. I also cut the small ruby leaves of kale, and the baby spinach and mustard greens. Whatever she did about her maternal dilemma, Amy had to eat properly.
    Bridget stopped by just as I finished plucking a few ripe cherry tomatoes off the browning vines. She was wearing that vertical line between her eyebrows, the one that indicated worry. “Where’s your young visitor?” she asked, glancing around the yard.
    I remembered her concern when she heard Amy was coming. “You guessed Amy was pregnant, didn’t you?”
    “So she is? God, I hoped I was wrong.” Bridget sank onto the edge of the raised bed. “You certainly don’t need this.”
    ‘‘Neither does Amy.
    Bridget pressed her lips together. “Amy did the deed, so she should take responsibility. And if she needs help, she should go to her parents for it, not you.”
    It was a little surprising to hear Bridget speak so sternly; she usually bends over backward to give people the benefit of the doubt. Part of me agreed with her. Part of me felt put upon by having to cope with Amy’s troubles. But in this particular case, I didn’t think Bridget’s poor opinion of my niece was deserved.
    “It wasn’t as much her fault as you might think.” I spoke cautiously, not knowing how much of the story was mine to reveal.
    “Oh, no. She wasn’t raped, was she?” Bridget looked aghast. “Oh, how could I say such mean things? Poor Amy.”
    “No, no. She wasn’t raped. Not technically. Not in any way that seems to bother her.”
    “Liz, if you think you’re reassuring me—”
    I tried not to say anything, but it popped out regardless. “Hot tub.”
    For a moment, Bridget looked blank. “You mean—”
    I nodded. “Evidently it happens a lot. Amy said people write Ann Landers about it.”
    We stared at each other, faces solemn. Bridget spoke, her lips barely moving. “Is she watching?”
    “She’s asleep.”
    Her jaw began to quiver, and finally I could stand it no longer. We burst into laughter simultaneously, smothering the whoops and giggles as best we could against each other’s shoulders. From a distance it must have seemed that two women were crying and consoling each other.
    Bridget was the first to recover. “I feel terrible for doing that,” she gasped, wiping her eyes.
    “I feel much better.” I reached for my bandanna and realized I’d left it with Amy, already sodden with female emotional collapse. “But I know what you mean. It’s so hard to have to make this kind of choice knowing that people are trying not to laugh.”
    “It’s no laughing matter.” Bridget sobered completely. “She’s thinking about an abortion?”
    “My family is Catholic, you know.” I wanted Bridget to understand why Amy dragged her troubles to my doorstep, like a cat with a dead mouse. “And Amy already doesn’t get along well with her parents.”
    “Then they all really need counseling.” Bridget’s voice was gentler, but adamant. “Unless she’s in physical danger from them, she should give them a chance to help her. They might surprise her.”
    “I said that, too.” I picked up my basket. “But the thing is, I can see her point. I wouldn’t want to tell them I was pregnant, knowing my brother, my dad. They’re so proud of Amy’s grades, and she’s the only granddaughter. Renee would probably be on Amy’s side, but she would feel compelled to tear a few strips off her verbally first.”
    “Well, I do feel for her.” Bridget sighed. “Especially since she didn’t really ask for it. And birth control can fail, as I personally know. It’s just too bad anytime a baby isn’t cause for celebration.”
    We ambled toward the house, Bridget stopping to smell the roses. “Why don’t my flowers ever look this