Virginia McCullough - Girl In The Spotlight

Guilt alone forced her back into the conversation. Filled with optimism about introducing Lark to Bruce, Dawn had done everything a best friend could to make this evening a success.

Lark sent Dawn a reassuring smile. It wasn’t her friend’s fault that on this particular evening she couldn’t quiet her inner turmoil and be 100 percent present at the table. She vowed to be pleasant, even enthusiastic, until she could duck out. Thankfully, she had her own car, so there’d be no awkward moments at the door to contend with.

“How long have you two been friends?” Bruce asked, pointing back and forth between Dawn and Lark.

“Not all that long, really,” Dawn responded. “Three years or so. We bonded over the snack committee for our sons’ basketball team.”

“Dawn and I noted that it was left to the mothers to figure out the snacks on game days.” Lark knew she sounded resentful, but so what? Way too many of these school sports rituals fell to the moms to handle, as if the dads couldn’t manage to pick up boxes of granola bars on their way to the games.

Dawn playfully bumped her shoulder against Chip’s. “We actually solidified our friendship over the plan we hatched to get the kids’ dads more involved.”

“Did it work?” Bruce asked.

“Not really,” Lark said, chuckling, “but we planted a seed, or so we like to think.”

This small talk was getting old. As close as Lark was to Dawn, she’d never for one minute considered confiding details about certain parts of her past. Lark could talk freely and without embarrassment about her ill-fated marriage and, paradoxically, her confidence-building divorce. She had no trouble bragging about her son, or grousing about her sometimes troublesome parents, but she’d become completely resigned to silence about one of the most significant—and wrenching—events of her life.

Lark was content to listen as Dawn switched topics. “Lark and I have our best times during our weekly coffee dates, where we brainstorm about our businesses. We’ve both worked for ourselves for years, but it can be isolating, too, especially for Lark. She spends so much time hunched over her laptop.”

“Ah, yes,” Lark said, putting the back of her hand on her forehead, “the loneliness of the writer in her garret. Seriously, though, I do have my nose buried in research much of the time. My regular trips to the Bean Grinder with Dawn provide the best breaks.”

“It sounds interesting, what you do,” Chip said. “Were you a science major in school?”

“No. Typical English major, specifically creative writing and literature. Not the most practical degree, but rewarding in other ways.”

“Seems so,” Bruce said, smiling in a genuinely admiring way.

By the time they’d finished their coffee, Lark’s spirits had lifted. They’d passed a pleasant hour chatting about Dawn’s latest PR client, a new fitness center and Lark’s recent series of articles about learning disabilities for a parenting magazine. Chip and Bruce contributed stories about office politics in the accounting department of the energy consortium they worked for.

The stilted conversation that defined the atmosphere over dinner had subtly given way to an amicable camaraderie as they topped off the evening with blueberry pie and coffee. By the time they said good-night in front of the restaurant, Lark was sincere in telling Bruce she’d enjoy seeing him again. Perhaps for dinner one night soon.

And for almost one whole hour, she’d pushed the memories into the storage box in her mind. She arrived home and let herself into her house, grateful that Evan was with his dad for the weekend. After shedding her coat and boots, she filled the kettle to make herb tea. Then she sat at her table to check her phone, starting with the texts. Nothing urgent. Mom seeing if they could meet for lunch at the Half Moon Café soon, maybe on her day off from the gift shop in town, where she’d recently been promoted to assistant manager. Lark mentally pictured her day planner. She could probably manage time for lunch with her mother. She hadn’t seen her in quite a while.

A text from Dawn. A thumbs-up on their dinner with Chip and Bruce. Lark grinned. It had taken her friend less than half an hour to send a message about their double date.

She thumbed quickly through unimportant emails, mostly from journals and health newsletters. The kettle began its boiling-point hum at the instant the familiar name popped up on her screen. She quickly turned off the burner to stop the rising volume. A strong buzz traveled through her chest and down her arms to the tips of her fingers. Miles Jenkins. Not letting go of her phone, she used her other hand to go through the motion of pouring water over a bag of ginger tea. She let it sit on the counter to steep and went back to the table and stared at her phone.

Miles had never tried to contact her before. Why now? On this day. Could it be he wanted to talk to her for no other reason than to acknowledge this landmark eighteenth birthday? This was the day their daughter would leave childhood behind. Legally, anyway.

Years ago, Lark had been clear about not wanting to be in touch with Miles. But that was way in the past. Now he’d left his phone number. Same area code as hers, so he wasn’t far away, and he wanted to talk that very night.

Jittery nerves expanded inside her. Before she could take the next deep breath she sat at the table and held her head in her hands, conscious of the rapid beating of her heart as panic moved up from her solar plexus and filled her chest. This birthday meant so much to her, but Miles hadn’t figured into her thoughts. Not at all. He’d played no part in the hopes she harbored over what could—would—happen in the years to come, now that their little girl had turned eighteen. She’d seen Miles only once since their final meeting after giving up their baby, and their stilted conversation was painful to recall.

Odd, though, as much as she’d tried to suppress them, her memories of Miles weren’t all bad. When her thoughts drifted back to that cold December day in a hospital in Minnesota, Miles’s soft dark eyes appeared in her mind. In reality, he’d been her only comfort. But she’d been so wrapped up in herself, she hadn’t given much thought to his emotions. Whatever he’d been feeling he kept to himself and, instead, concentrated on her.

She and Miles had shared an important—and irreversible—decision. They’d given up their baby. Since neither had told anyone about her pregnancy, they’d acted entirely in secret. She didn’t know whom he’d confided in over the subsequent years, but she’d never spoken one word about the infant who’d come into the world already sporting thick dark hair and perfect hands. She’d counted the fingers and toes, a distraction, she later realized, from the moment she’d allowed the nurse to carry her baby away.

Her arms empty, Lark had gone limp, dead weight falling back against Miles. He’d half carried her to a chair, holding her until she’d pulled away.

His support in the moment aside, Lark also cynically assumed what Miles felt was relief—deep, profound relief. He’d been free and unencumbered as he headed back to Stevens Point to finish his senior year at the University of Wisconsin. Determined to keep her secret from the start, Lark had already transferred to a small private college in Minnesota early that fall. She’d known no one when she arrived and deliberately had made few connections.

She’d never blamed Miles for what happened, not for a minute. He had offered to help her with the baby if she decided to keep her. Sure, he’d said the right words, but Lark knew that’s all they were. No emotion, no conviction, propped them up and gave them a spine. He’d made gestures, but hadn’t tried to persuade her to make a different choice.