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Of all the things I did at the store, dusting was my least favorite. It had to be done. I got that. But there was nothing saying it all had to happen on the same day, right?
I slipped the paperback I was reading out from under the counter and opened it at my bookmark. It was a good story. Not one of my usual genres, but I was trying to broaden my scope there. A bookseller needed to be able to recommend titles across the board. And I had a vague notion of doing a blind date with a book kind of thing in October except theming it more like a costume party slash masquerade for books. I hadn’t completely fleshed out the idea, but if I did it, I’d need good recommendations beyond my perennial favorites.
Maybe I’d ask for the gang to make suggestions as well. I could also put out a call in the bookstore’s e-newsletter.
I scribbled a reminder on the notepad I kept nearby for this exact purpose and returned to the book.
I got lost in the story, only surfacing when a sleepy-looking Whitney shuffled up to the counter, the blanket draped over one arm, coffee in hand.
“I guess I was tired.” She sipped the coffee, frowned at it, then did a sort of spinning and shaking motion to try and mix it.
“Maybe I should have stuck that in the fridge so less ice melted. Sorry.” I scrutinized her. “You look a little better.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I grinned. “That was a compliment.”
She chuckled. “I’ll take it as such. But since I know what I look like when I wake up from a nap, I’m now marginally terrified about what I looked like before.”
“Pale, tired, and sad.”
Whitney sighed and leaned against the counter. “I guess I can’t complain, since that sums up how I feel pretty well.”
“So.” I stuck my bookmark between the pages and set the paperback aside. “I should probably mention that I suggested a trip to Scott, too.”
“He called? How long was I asleep?” Whitney fumbled at her pocket before pulling out her phone. “Oh, wow. It’s been almost two hours.”
“You were tired. But also no. I called him when I went to get the coffee.”
She seemed to think this over for a moment before nodding. “All right. I think I probably would have done the same, if the situation was reversed.”
I exhaled. Phew. I wasn’t trying to make her mad, but also? She needed time to process. And heal. And Whitney was a family gal, hands down, which meant seeing her folks and Scott’s folks was the perfect cure.
“I don’t like feeling this way.”
“What way is that?” I cringed inside. Talk about awkward. Except I really didn’t know. I’d never been pregnant. I’d never miscarried. The one time I’d been worried I was pregnant was something I pushed far, far away into the back recesses of my mind, because God promised that He kept the memory of our sin as far as the east was from the west. And if He didn’t remember it? I shouldn’t keep dredging it up, either.
Whitney was quiet for so long I wasn’t convinced she was going to answer. Then she said, “Broken.”
“Oh, Whitney.” I reached out and rested my hand on the one she’d placed on the counter.
She shrugged, but I could tell it cost her. She wasn’t nearly as nonchalant as she was trying to be. “Statistics say one in five detected first pregnancies end in miscarriage. One in three is more likely if you take undetected pregnancies into consideration. So I could sort of roll with the one in the spring, you know? I mean, it hurt. Even though we weren’t trying, I would have been okay with it. But this one?”
I nodded, a lump in my throat keeping me from offering words that would inevitably have been dumb or unsuitable.
“I’m scared. What if it keeps happening? What if I can’t ever get pregnant and stay that way? What if—”
I held up a hand and arched an eyebrow. “What if monkeys land on the moon?”
Whitney blinked.
“Grandma always used to ask me that when I’d start down that road. Then she’d start singingHis Eye Is on the Sparrow, which I will not do, as one, I don’t really remember the words and two, you’ve heard me sing.”
Whitney snorted half of a laugh. “Your voice is fine.”
“Exactly.” I pointed at her. “It’s fine. That old hymn requires more than fine to do it justice. Did people just sing better in the early 1900s?”
“I think people were more used to singing. And maybe everyone was a little less critical about it, too.” Whitney shrugged. “But I wasn’t there, so maybe not. You shouldn’t be self-conscious about your voice, though. It’s strong and on key, which is more than many can say, and even if it wasn’t, we’re told to make a joyful noise. It doesn’t say make a professional quality song.”
