Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Leanna delights in the conversation, and when Mable and Belle call us up to take a seat, they ask us what color we want on our nails then immediately disagree with both of us.
“That pink isn’t for you, dear,” Mable tells me with a shake of her head. “No. You try this red instead.” She looks at the bottom of the polish bottle. “Candy Apple’s the name. It’ll drive your man wild. You got a man?”
I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What man would I have, Mable?”
She shrugs innocently. “Pretty young thing like you should always have a man. Want me to set you up with someone?”
Leanna laughs beside me, but it’s not long until they turn their attention on her and start digging for details.
“You’re married to one of them basketball players?” Belle asks, her eyes round with appreciation. “Had I known, I would have said something earlier. It’s like we’ve got a real celebrity in our midst.”
Leanna blushes and shakes her head. “It’s not like that. My husband might be famous in the sports world, but I’m not.”
“You could be,” Mable says. “With that face, you could do movies or somethin’.”
Leanna smiles. “Thanks.”
Then suddenly, she grimaces and jerks back as if in pain, glancing down at her belly.
“You okay?” I ask, leaning in while Belle and Mable are occupied.
“Yeah. Just some cramping. It’s never happened before.”
She looks up and our gazes catch, and I see the worry she’s keeping in.
“You expectin’, dear?” Mable asks, because of course she was eavesdropping on our conversation.
We all glance down at Leanna’s minuscule bump not quite visible underneath her dress.
“Just barely. Still in my first trimester.”
This elicits excited squeals from both women, who aren’t exactly good at reading the room, but maybe that’s okay. They start talking a mile a minute about all the things Leanna needs to do about the baby—“little whiskey on the gums really helps with teething”—which leaves Leanna in relative peace to worry about what’s going on. She nibbles on her bottom lip, mulling something over. Then her face contorts in pain again, as if she’s having more cramps.
“We should leave,” I say as a horrible feeling sinks into my gut.
What if something is happening to the baby? We can’t just sit here.
“It’s really not that bad, just weird. I’m probably reading too much into it.”
But then she jerks again and I’m up out of the salon chair.
“Leanna, let’s go. I’ll take you to see a doctor.”
“No, no. There’s no sense in worrying over nothing.”
But even as she argues, her eyes lock with mine, and it’s impossible to misread the worry there.
“I’m sorry to run out on you, Mable,” I say as I gather my stuff. “My nails were going to look really pretty.”
At the moment, I have one hand sporting Candy Apple and one hand that’s totally bare, but I’ll worry about that later.
“Nonsense. You go get that girl checked out, and y’all come back here another day for manicures on the house.”
“Come on, Leanna. I’ll drive you over to the doctor.”
“I think I’m making this out to be a bigger deal than it is,” she says as we head out the door toward my nan’s car. I’ve been driving us around this afternoon just to make it easier. Her car’s still back at the diner, and I don’t feel comfortable taking her back to get it just yet.
“I’d like to stay with you if that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to be by myself.”
She gives me an appreciative smile as we climb in and then I peel out of the parking lot, heading toward Pine Hill’s sole family practice doctor. There’s not an obstetrician nearby. We’d have to go one town over to Maken for that, and it’s already getting late. There’s a chance the doctor’s office is already closed for the day, so I tell Leanna to call Dr. Sanders on the way and hand me the phone. As expected, the front desk girl tries to tell me they can’t fit Leanna in today as Dr. Sanders is done seeing patients, but I ask her twice to put Dr. Sanders on the phone. Every summer while I was growing up, Nan would deliver bushels full of her prized tomatoes to Dr. Sanders so he could use them to can his signature salsa. The second he gets on the phone and I explain the situation, he tells me to come right in.
Once we arrive, it’s obvious Dr. Sanders was closing up shop. His front desk area is already deserted, and there’s only a medical assistant there to unlock the door for us. She smiles kindly and starts to show us back to one of the rooms.
“I could sit in the waiting room—”
“No.”
That one word is uttered so quickly and firmly I know Leanna means it.