Chapter 33

“What’s going on, Quinn?” Lyn asked, her voice cool and contained.

“Sit down. I’ll fill you in.”

7

I called Mark as soon as I got home, but it went directly to voicemail.

“Mark, it’s me. Call me as soon as you get this. I need to talk to you.” I wasn’t his keeper, but where could he be on a Monday evening?

After arranging to have my mail held and my newspaper stopped, I made myself some dinner: lamb chops, a baked potato, and a tossed salad. It was delicious, but it was lonely. Was I a fool to daydream of a family who’d sit at the table with me one day? A little boy with my father’s dark good looks, or a little girl who was blue-eyed and blonde like Mother? And Mark, at the bottom of the table, grinning as I instructed our children on the use of their silverware.