The Postmistress by Sarah Blake Page B

roughly the same amount of time as the others, though this one sounded lower than before, and maybe a bit more desperate to Will’s ear.
    Will looked at Jim Tom. “Does that help her, do you think?”
    “What?”
    “Making that noise.”
    Jim Tom stuck out his chin. “You bet,” he said.
    Will nodded and made for the stairs. As he climbed, he could hear Maggie panting and he climbed a little faster. When he rounded the corner into the room, she was kneeling on the bed with her back to him, holding on to the headboard, her head down between her outstretched arms. He waited until she’d finished and then stepped in. She turned around and he saw that she was growing tired. Her eyes showed her weariness. And this worried him. “How are you holding up there, Maggie?” he said quietly. She nodded and exhaled. “Good,” she said.
    He drew the fetoscope out of his bag to make an initial assessment of the baby’s heartbeat, and the sound, regular and steady, felt like a hand reached out to him from the other side, a greeting.
    “He’s right there, waiting,” Will reassured Maggie. She nodded, blowing against the grip of the next contraction, and as Will watched her face, he had such a profound longing for Emma, for her quiet eyes on his, for her calm—yes, she was his calm—that he stood up and paced to the end of the room without thinking. He wanted to tell her again, firmly—he’d have found her.
    When he’d first stumbled upon her at the hospital Christmas party two years ago, she had been staring out the grand windows draped for the season in holly and velvet with her back to the party. The doctors and nurses coming off duty entered with the cold air clinging to them, their bright voices bowling hard and tight into the cloudy good cheer of partygoers on their way out. She hadn’t moved for several minutes, and her absorption made all else in that room tiny. On a private dare, he wandered toward her. If she turned before he got there, he’d get a glance at her but not need to engage her. If she remained staring like that, her back to him, he’d offer her a drink.
    But she stepped back from the window without turning, bumping into him. For an instant he felt her body light against him and smelled lemon in her hair. She leapt away from him and turned, her face gone pink. “I’m sorry!”
    “I’m not.” He grinned and held out his hand. “Will Fitch.”
    “Yes.” She took it, shook it, and quickly dropped it.
    “Having fun?”
    She looked directly at him then, with a slight smile on her lips. “No,” she answered. “Not at all.”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s Christmas,” she said.
    “I see,” he said, noticing the tender line of her chin tipped as she watched him. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to say next.
    “We’re not for Christmas?” he groped.
    She smiled more broadly now, though still a little shy. “No.”
    “Why’s that? If you don’t mind my asking.”
    She didn’t answer. He leaned against the wall beside her. After a minute or so he realized she wasn’t going to answer. He slid his gaze sideways. “I guess you do mind my asking.”
    She looked straight at him. “I don’t know you.”
    He straightened up quickly. “True enough. I’m sorry.”
    She turned away from him and faced the room. “I’m not very good at small talk. Can I have a drink?”
    Will was suddenly, painfully happy. “What’ll it be?”
    “Bourbon,” she answered quickly, “and water.”
    He nodded and made his way through the thick crowd toward the bar at the end of the room. Johnny Lambert was standing in the alcove there, surrounded by two or three other residents. He was telling a story and the circle around him had leaned in slightly to hear. There was a beat and then the group erupted, one of the men slapping Johnny on the back as if keeping time to his laughter, and the sound broke over the rest of the crowd carrying the delicious joke, the thick, hot gaiety gathering everyone in. For a