Geri Krotow - Sasha's Dad

Anything would be better than going back to Claire’s—especially with Sasha.

CLAIRE HEARD the truck pull in, the crunch of gravel and the slam of doors.

Doors?

She looked out the window and saw the person who’d accompanied Dutch. A small, thin figure walked beside him, shadowing his moves.

His and Natalie’s daughter.

Claire let the curtain fall. She’d planned on staying in, poking her head out when Dutch came back from the barn, keeping their conversation to a minimum.

But he’d brought his daughter.

Their daughter.

Natalie hadn’t gotten pregnant after she and Dutch made love that fateful night in high school, while Claire was away. They’d had a scare when her period was late. And the fallout from that scare put the lid on the coffin that held Dutch and Claire’s dying relationship.

What hurt the most was that Dutch and Natalie had stayed together after the scare and Dutch’s one-night indiscretion. Dutch and Natalie had gone to college together, married and had a child. Dutch’s night with Natalie hadn’t been just a one-night stand, although that was what they’d both told her in those dark days of senior year.

It was a long time ago, she reminded herself.

Claire wondered if she’d made a mistake in assuming she’d never get over the emotional trauma Dutch and Natalie’s relationship had inflicted on her. Maybe if she’d come clean with Natalie all those years ago and told her they couldn’t be friends anymore…

But back when they were in grade school, Claire and Natalie had promised each other they’d always be friends. In high school they’d watched other girls fight and lose lifelong friendships over boys and swore that would never happen to them.

But it had. And instead of leveling with Natalie, Claire had told her she was over Dutch and happy for Natalie, and the two of them would remain friends.

It had worked for a while. Claire came back from college for weekends and spent time with Natalie. It was better when Dutch wasn’t around, which had been often. When he was, Claire never spoke to him if she could avoid it. More importantly, she never allowed herself to be alone with him.

Except the night of Natalie’s bachelorette party.

Claire groaned at the humiliating memory.

After that, Claire had kept up her charade of friendship-as-usual as long as she could. But when the baby came, and Dutch and Natalie were a no-kidding family, Claire found she didn’t have the energy to put on her show of indifference anymore. She’d loved Natalie, but had to save the few scraps of self-respect she had left. She’d seen Sasha once, as an infant at Natalie’s belated baby shower; she’d never spent time with her again.

If she was smart she’d continue that approach and stay in the house.

Her thoughts warred with her curiosity. Curiosity won. What kind of girl had Dutch and Natalie’s baby become?

Claire threw on her merino cardigan, shoved the wool cap she’d just finished knitting onto her head and went out the back door. The afternoon air hung heavy with the threat of rain. As she entered the barn, she saw the gray clouds through the open stalls. They served as a perfect backdrop for the young girl in her periwinkle jacket.

If Claire expected an immediate earth-shattering recognition of Dutch and Natalie’s daughter, it didn’t happen.

Sasha stood quietly off to the side, smiling at the smallest cria. Dutch examined Stormy with the same focus she’d seen this morning. He was a gifted vet; she had to give him that. He knew his job and he didn’t permit any distractions.

Claire walked toward them, her footsteps virtually silent on the hay-strewn ground. She wore her favorite barn shoes—slip-on suede mules with supportive rubber soles. Hand-knit socks from the local yarn store kept her feet warm. She looked forward to the day when she’d be able to knit her own socks.

“Hello,” Claire greeted the girl.

Dutch didn’t respond as he tended to Stormy. But his daughter met Claire’s gaze with uncompromising candor. Just like Natalie would have done.

“Hi. I’m Sasha, Dr. Archer’s daughter.”

“I’m Claire.”

Sasha stared at her and Claire thought she saw a question in Sasha’s huge brown eyes. But none came.

“You look like your mom.”

“You knew my mom?” Claire cringed at the hopeful expression on Sasha’s face. Great. She should’ve kept her mouth shut.

“That was years ago, Sasha, before you were born.” Dutch’s voice cut across the stable, but it didn’t appear to affect Sasha as it did Claire. Claire wanted to climb over the slats and run for the hills.

“Huh. So you went to school with her? Have you always lived in Dovetail?”

“No, yes… I mean, yes, I lived here as a child, then left for school.” Complete with a broken heart.

“I know who you are!” Sasha stepped closer. “You’re the TV reporter who came back because you had nowhere else to go.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Claire slipped her hands in her pockets. Why had she allowed her curiosity to bring her out here? She would’ve been more comfortable in the dentist chair getting a root canal.

“So you did know my mom—she used to point you out on TV. You look a lot different now.”

Claire couldn’t help laughing.

“I don’t dress like that anymore, and my hair’s longer.” She’d abandoned her expensive coif the minute she’d left the press corps. She’d had a few trims in the past year, and her former chin-length bob had grown past her shoulders and was wavy now. No more blow-dried-straight haircuts. She wanted to be herself.

Whoever herself was.

“I gave Stormy an extra shot of anti-inflammatory. She’s doing okay, but I don’t like how swollen she still is.” Dutch’s deep voice interrupted them and Claire welcomed the reprieve.

Claire bit her lip. She wanted him and his daughter out of here. It was bad enough finally meeting Sasha, but to have Dutch observe the event…

This could’ve been our daughter.

She blew the thought out of her mind as quickly as it’d blown in. Life hadn’t worked out the way they’d expected. But it wasn’t fair to involve Sasha in any of it.

As Dutch went over to examine the crias, Sasha stared at her with unnerving intensity.

“Did someone make that hat for you?”

Claire’s hand jerked to her head. “It’s a beret.”

Sasha kept staring. “The ribbing’s messed up. That’s why it keeps slipping down past your eyes.”

Claire swiped the hat off her head and looked at it in the barn’s fluorescent light. The creation she’d planned to knit, modeled after a hat she’d seen in the local yarn store, didn’t measure up to her own expectations, either.

“It’s a blend of llama and merino wools. The hand-painted color is supposed to give it a variegated appearance.”

“You did make it, didn’t you?” Sasha was more effective than a lot of the journalists Claire had worked with. The kid wouldn’t let up.

Claire raised her eyebrows. “Yes, I did. I haven’t been knitting that long, and it’s my first finished project.”

“Where did you learn?”

“To knit?” Claire stalled. Now came the pathetic truth about her circumstances. “I taught myself.”

“From what?”

“A book. Internet videos.”

“Did you know knitters sometimes get together at bookstores? There’s a group that meets every Thursday at the store in Annapolis.”

Yes, Claire knew that knitters met in bookstores, and she knew about the Annapolis group in particular. She’d already been there. Once. They’d all but ignored her. There were members from all over Maryland, but the core group was from Dovetail. The women in this group remembered her as the girl who left. They remembered Natalie, too.