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willing and available.
    Finally he stopped writing. He took off his glasses and smiled. “Well, well. You’re looking quite well, Rita.”
    She wished he would sit down. She wondered if this was some kind of menopausal ritual, respect for the woman whose youth had passed over. “Thanks, doc, but I feel like shit. My mother thinks I need estrogen.”
    He smiled but did not answer.
    Rita sat back, then forward on the damned chair. It occurred to her that a doctor’s office should have more comfortable chairs. She tried to remember what kind had been in Dr. Palmer’s airless cubicle, but she could not.
    “It’s too soon for estrogen,” Doc Hastings commented. Then at last he sat down.
    Rita frowned. “But I’ve already skipped a couple of periods. And I feel like crap most of the time.”
    He smiled. “Yes. That’s often expected. But estrogen can’t help you, Rita.”
    Her annoyance rose. “What do you suggest? Tofu and soybeans?”
    “Well, I do suggest vitamins. And a healthy diet. And plenty of prenatal checkups. Oh, and especially because you’re over forty, we’ll want to do an amniocentesis and an ultrasound at about sixteen weeks.”
    She started to protest, then stopped herself. “What did you say?”
    His smile had not faded. “An amnio and an ultrasound. They’re standard for pregnancy at your age.”

Chapter 4
    Ben wondered if he had suddenly developed that nervous condition, what was it called? Agoraphobia? The one where you were afraid to leave your house; when even to stick your head outside the door would make your heart race and your body sweat like all get-out, the way he was sweating now, as he stood at the window, peeking through the drapes, wondering if anyone on North Water Street had learned that Hugh Talbot had been to Menemsha and escorted him off in handcuffs.
    Was it possible that he had developed agoraphobia in the few hours since his life had gone completely out of focus? Since he’d gone from Ben Niles, respected home-builder, family man, and model citizen, to Ben Niles, child molester?
    “Ben?” The voice came first, followed by the slamming of the back door.
    Shit. Amy was home. He let the drape fall back into place.
    She rounded the corner on energetic teenage feet, tossing her corduroy jacket onto the wingback chair that had been in the room since her great-grandfather’s day.
    “Guess what?” she blurted out in teenage style.
    Guess what?
Oh, God, did she know? His throat and chest and gut tightened up.
    “Charlie’s going to let me run the Halloween party at the tavern. I’m so psyched. It’ll be so cool.” Her dark eyes flashed—the same dark eyes that resembled her grandmother’s, the beautiful woman whose photo stood on the mantel in a small oval frame, the woman who might or might not have chattered and laughed as often as Amy.
    Amy would stop laughing if she learned that her new stepfather was an accused sex offender.
    He tried to smile or simply to breathe. “If you’re in charge, the party will be nothing less than cool.”
    He backed up a step to put more distance between them.
    She flopped onto the chair atop her corduroy and flipped back her short now-burgundy hair, which she’d recently chopped “techno-like,” as she called it. “I want the party to be totally outrageous, the latest chic.” She spoke as much to the ceiling as to Ben. “I want it to be the one Halloween party that everyone will remember. Maybe I’ll get a special guest. Hey! Elvira! Remember Elvira, Mistress of the Dark?” She jumped from the chair. “Maybe Mom can get her—wow! Funky! When’s Mom coming back?”
    Ben watched Amy’s animation and marveled at the innocence of youth. Had Mindy ever been allowed such innocence, or had she been too neglected? “Tomorrow,” he said more quietly than he’d intended. “She’s coming home tomorrow.” He lightly pressed his hand against his shirt, as if that would calm his distress.
    “I’ll pick her up at the airport.