“How could I? She left the summer before last, and I warned her that if she went, I wouldn’t…” Felicity swallows and doesn’t finish.
“You said you wouldn’t help her, but you didn’t really mean that. She took you seriously and stayed away.”
“I was angry. I begged her to stay. Not to give him up. I knew better than to ask that. But if she’d given me time, I could have brought Grandfather around to the idea. She didn’t even give me time to ask him. She staged her own death, like Juliet. Can you believe that? They both did, the fools. They left bloodied clothing, and I was supposed to grieve as if she’d died.” Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t. That would feel like a lie. So I pretended I didn’t believe she’d died, and everyone thinks I just can’t handle the truth.”
“She put you in a very awkward position.”
“Yes, she did. Grandfather listens to me, but she didn’t trust me. She thought if she asked, they’d marry her off to Angus. I’ve known her since we were babies, and she is … She was very important to me, and I was not so important to…”
A deep breath as she blinks back tears and straightens. “She chose him. She met him, and she chose him, and she forgot me.”
It’s an old story. Diana accused me of shunning her when I fell for Dalton. Of course, that ignores the fact that she dumped me with every new boyfriend since we were in high school together. Also, the entire reason I’m in Rockton is because she and her ex conspired to convince me I’d been found out for Blaine’s murder.
This has, I suspect, been the complaint of friends since time immemorial. A romantic partner shouldn’t replace a best friend, but they are competition for that role. In circumstances like mine, your lover is also your friend, yet it’s not like simply adding a new friend to the mix, because you want plenty of alone time with this one. That leaves your best friends to the timeworn wail of “you’re always with them,” devolving into the desperate battle cries of “bros before hos” and “chicks before dicks.”
I doubt Sidra forgot Felicity. It just feels that way.
As much as I value my friendships, no one can ever be as close to me as Dalton. We work together, play together, live together, plan our futures together. That doesn’t mean I fail to understand Felicity’s hurt. I felt it myself every time Diana swanned off with a new lover, forgetting me until a hole in her social calendar needed filling.
I could give Felicity advice. But she won’t want it. She needs to work this out for herself. Instead, I ask if she has any idea where to find Sidra and her partner. She doesn’t know exactly where they’re camping, but she has a rough idea. The region is about a half day’s walk from here … in the direction of where we found Abby.
“May I see the baby?” she asks.
“Of course.”
THIRTY-SIX
Petra has Abby while Jen naps. We pass Dalton, who strides by with a gesture that I think means he’ll catch up with us, but he’s moving too fast for me to be sure. I call after him that we’ll be at Petra’s, and he lifts a hand in acknowledgment without slowing.
When Petra opens the door to Felicity, she does a subtle shift into the young woman’s line of sight, as if blocking her from seeing Abby.
“This is Felicity,” I say. “She’s Edwin’s granddaughter. She’s a friend of the baby’s mom.”
Petra nods, but she’s still wary as she escorts us in. We find Abby in a wooden cradle that someone has painted with a carousel of wild animals.
“We’re gone three days, and you guys have built her a cradle and decorated it.”
“She was in a box,” Petra says. “A cardboard box.”
I lift a fur teddy bear from the floor and sigh, shaking my head. Abby’s eyes open, and her head rolls as her lips purse in what threatens to be a wail if I don’t pick her up in the next two seconds. I scoop her out of the cradle and hug her, crooning under my breath. She snuggles in and then stops, head rolling again.
“No, Eric isn’t here,” I say. “You have to make do with me.”
“Daddy’s little—” Petra begins, and then her gaze shunts to Felicity and
she stops herself. This isn’t our baby. She has parents, and unless they abandoned her, she’s going back to them. Still, Petra’s lips tighten as she assesses Felicity again.
I turn to Felicity, who hasn’t said a word. I hold out Abby, and she just stands there, looking at her. Then she touches one finger to the baby’s cheek.
“Does she look like your friend?” Petra asks, and there’s challenge in that, as if she’s going to make damned sure we aren’t being misled.
“She looks like a baby,” Felicity says. “My friend does not.”
I smile at that. “True.”
“Sidra has skin the color of mine,” she says. “Her grandmother was Arab. That’s what Grandfather called her. Sidra has dark hair and blue eyes. The boy—Baptiste—is French. He also has dark hair, but lighter skin and brown eyes. I see nothing that says this baby is not theirs, but they will need to confirm that, of course.”
I explain the full situation, and Petra only says, “So you don’t even know if your friends had a baby?”