The Midwife’s Playlist: A Now Entering Hillford Novel Read online

  While they clean up the baby and examine Caroline, I give the CliffsNotes of the birth to her doctor.

  “Glad you were there to take charge,” he says. His breath is painted in Red Bull. “We’ve got her from here, though.”

  He says it in this tone like, “Thanks for laying the groundwork; I’ll handle the rest,” which is laughable. What’s left to do? Caroline’s only here because a hospital birth was her preference in the first place, and a day or two on the ward is strictly for her peace of mind. I’m tempted to have Ford convince her to go home and save herself a few grand.

  Nope, I coach myself. Not your problem.

  “Easton!” Caroline beams when I enter her room. “Come see. Isn’t he perfect?”

  Even with Ford a few feet away, I feel a smile on my face, not a scowl. It’s impossible to feel anything but happiness when I peer down at Caroline’s son, sleeping peacefully in his new blanket and hat.

  “I’m naming him Bentley,” she whispers, running her fingertip down the baby’s nose. “I thought about Bennett, Junior—but those are horrible initials.”

  I laugh. Ford does, too, and it takes everything in me not to look up.

  “He looks like you, Ford,” Caroline tells him. “That newborn photo Mom put up in the den, with the blue overalls?”

  Ford glances at me, like he needs my permission or something, before stepping closer. “Yeah,” he says. “He kind of does, I guess.”

  I feel him look at me again.

  “I should get going,” I tell Caroline, bending down to hug her and kiss the top of Bentley’s head through his hat. She thanks me again, sounding on the verge of tears while I assure her it was nothing, I was glad to help.

  At the elevator, the exact thing I knew would happen if I came here, does.

  “Mighty impressive, Easy E.”

  I slam the Down button again. Another point for the city hospital: faster elevators. “Don’t call me that.”

  Ford leans on the wall beside the panel. “Thank you. It meant a lot...you helping.”

  “I did it for her. Not you.”

  “I know.” He pauses. “About that slap....”

  “Trust me, I’ve thought about doing far worse to you.”

  He’s quiet a minute, rubbing his jaw in the same spot I hit him. I hate that there’s no handprint—at least, not one I can see—underneath his stubble. “Yeah. I figured as much.”

  The elevator opens. I hurry in, not one bit surprised when he follows.

  While the elevator lurches us to the lobby, I dig my keys out of my purse. Stupid move, tossing them in here. I should have known I would need a quick escape.

  “So.” The notches of my house key dig into my palm. “You’re back in Hillford.”

  “Three months and counting. Helping Caroline get things ready for the baby and...some other stuff. I’ll probably move again when she gets settled, but I don’t know.” He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Not thinking that far ahead, just yet.”

  “Well.” I take a breath. One display of decency from Ford is not going to shake my resolve. “Let me know if you decide to stay.”

  He hooks his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. “Yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm. So I can move as fast as possible.”

  His laugh rattles across my spine. “Come on, E. I know you’re still mad at me, but—”

  “I wish I was ‘mad’ at you.” My head snaps to face him. He winces like I’ve just drawn a gun. “My life would be so fucking easy if you were just something I had to ‘let go of’ and ‘move on’ from, Ford.”

  I turn, fighting the sting in my throat when I tell him the one thing I’ve rehearsed more than anything else, the last six years.

  “I’m not mad. I could get over being mad. I hate you.”

  Ford blinks. The elevator opens and I walk ahead, wondering why this moment doesn’t feel like the Rapture itself, the way I’ve always daydreamed.

  “Yeah,” he says, following me, “I figured that, too.”

  “Would it help if I said I was sorry?”

  Easton’s hair whips in the wind. A piece catches in my eye, I’m following so closely.

  “You said sorry. On the card with my flowers. Remember?”

  She makes the mistake of unlocking both her car doors, so I climb into the passenger side. Her hands hit the horn with a bleat and a curse.

  “Can I apologize for real, this time? In person, eye contact”—I take the risk: my fingers touch her cheek and turn her face toward mine—“and no excuses.”

  It’s damn near a miracle she doesn’t haul off and slap me again. Even more astounding: she inhales, nods, and says, “Go ahead, then.”

  “I’m so sorry.” My hand slips down her jawline to her neck, fingertips burning with the heat of her skin. How many nights did I put my hand in this exact same spot, just staring at her, all those years ago?

  Not enough nights.

  When I pull her in, her pulse kicks into a flutter under my hand. Her mouth making contact with mine unlocks something in me—the part that never lets me think about Easton too long. Because if I did, I could never have stayed away. I’m starting to wonder how I did it to begin with.

  When we pull apart, she sniffs and roams her eyes over my face.

  “I shouldn’t have left the way I did,” I go on. “And if I could do it differently, I would.”

  She draws back. Her brow sinks.

  “Differently,” she repeats. “That’s it?”

  “What? I’m saying I wouldn’t leave things that way, if I could do it over.”

  “But you would leave. You’d do it differently, but you’d still do it.”

  I plunk my skull against the headrest. “Easton, don’t do this. You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.” More tears gather on her bottom eyelids, but don’t fall. She stares ahead through the windshield. “Get out.”

  I grip the door handle, twisting my body to slide out of the car—and her life—as smoothly as possible.

  Then I stop.

  “Do you really hate me?” I whisper.

  Easton looks at me like I’ve just revealed a secret of hers she didn’t know I knew. Her mouth opens, but shuts again before she speaks.

  Guess I have to take it as confirmation.

  I mutter goodbye as I climb out. I close the door firmly, but don’t slam it.

  That’s the weird part: I’m not mad at her for hating me, rejecting my apology, or even slapping me. I’m not angry at Easton at all.

  Happy, I realize: that’s what I am. Thrilled and panicked at once just to see her again, and scared shitless at this wound opening in me I thought for sure was scarred shut.

  In the room, Caroline’s asleep. I go to the nursery; Bentley’s in the front row, hat slipping back to reveal a shock of thick brown hair. It’s the only trait that confirms my nephew is, in fact, half McLean.

  If you’re lucky, I tell him silently, it’ll stay that way.

  Four

  “Are you sure? Because I don’t mind.”

  My mother snaps a dishtowel at my legs; I’m rifling through the mail on her kitchen table, a definite Rude Thing We Do Not Do, no matter how old I get. Never mind the fact she goes through every piece of my mail that still gets delivered here.

  “I’m sure. Now get your nosy self out of my kitchen.”

  I let her chase me back to the living room. “It just...seems like you’re spreading yourself kind of thin. With Grandma living here and Dad being out of work—”

  “Hush,” she warns, and both of us glance at the stairs. “He’s not ‘out of work.’ Telecommuting offers fewer hours, that’s all.”

  I shrug: potato, po-tah-to. Point is, Dad isn’t bringing home much of a paycheck until the diabetes gets under control and he can walk comfortably again—and that leaves my mother with full-time bills on a part-time salary. That’s to say nothing for her own mother, who moved in last month.

  Not that Grandma is all that frail: just that needy.
>
  “April, baby, is Easton here yet? I got a job for her.”

  Mom turns her pleading stare on me. I shake my head and mouth, “No way.”

  “She’s here, Mama. What do you need?”

  “Traitor,” I hiss, and follow her down the hall to the sewing-room-turned-guest-room. Grandma’s bed has the same floral bedspread I remember from when I was little. I stare at it while she hugs me, immediately finding the juice stain I left on it during the week she watched me, while my parents took a cruise for their anniversary.

  “Hi, Grandma. How can I help?”

  “I was hoping you’d take my car out for a drive today, maybe get the oil changed?”

  My eyes widen. “The Chevy?”

  Grandma nods like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t the single coolest thing she’s ever done for me—as though it’s a real favor I’m doing her, instead of the other way around.

  “It needs to stay in good shape, and I haven’t driven it since March. Not with my hip acting the way it is.” She motions for me to get her pocketbook from the bedpost. “There’s some cash in the glove box. Give the boys a nice tip when they’re all done. They special order that oil for me.”

  “Mama,” my mother scolds, “I told you, just carry the debit card Jason and I got you. It’s not safe to keep cash in the car like that.”

  “No speeding,” Grandma warns me, ignoring her.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be careful.” I kiss her and give Mom a smug smile as I pass her in the doorway. She’s tried, unsuccessfully, to drive Grandma’s car since before she was my age. Perk of being a grandkid, I guess.

  That, or it’s karma for not telling me Caroline and Ford moved back home. She’d said it “didn’t seem like something I’d care about,” a fact which has never stopped her from sharing news about Hillford’s other residents. Truthfully, I think she worried I wouldn’t visit as much, if I knew.

  I wish I could say she was wrong.

  “Pick up milk on your way back,” Mom calls from the window. I stick a thumbs-up into the air.

  The Chevy Bel Air is the best thing my grandmother owns, hands-down. Most of her possessions fall under the Creepy Doll or Bulky Furniture category, but the Chevy stood out long before I knew it was worth a small fortune. Just its candy-apple red paint was enough to steal my heart as a kid. I loved the glimmer when it drove through a stretch of sunlight, and the stares we got when Pawpaw drove us to church each Sunday.

  The mechanics at Barkley Automotive know my grandmother’s car like the mini-legend it is in Hillford, so a collective whistle goes up when I pull into the bay. And, when they realize it’s me behind the wheel instead of her, they nearly riot.

  “You steal this car, Easy?” Tanner Lochlan sidles up to my window and leans inside. I make a big show of shoving him out, but can’t help my smile: Tanner was one of Ford’s best friends, so we built a weird kind of rapport after he disappeared. Everyone in our group took it personally, I think, that they didn’t get a goodbye. Ford’s friends were livid for me, rallying around me when I needed it most.

  In other words: Tanner can get away with using my old nickname, and accusing me of grand theft auto. He’s earned that right.

  “Grandma has had a change of heart,” I tell him, climbing out and passing him the keys, “because she asked me personally to bring it in.”

  “‘Change of heart,’ my ass. ‘Temporary insanity?’ Now that, I’ll buy.” Tanner grins and flicks off the coworker who tries to steal the keys from his hand. “What can we do for you?”

  “Oil change. Think it’ll take long?”

  Tanner wipes his hands on the rag hooked in his pocket. “Nah, it’s a slow day. I’ll start it now.”

  I thank him and slip into the waiting room before the conversation can turn awkward. Tanner has been the talk of the town lately, and not in a good way. I figure it’s better to pretend I’ve got a phone call than to stand there until we have no choice but to trade rumors. Hillford problems: everyone’s always in your business.

  Another downside of small-town life: you can never avoid a person. Especially when it’s the last person you want to see, ever again.

  Ford’s father’s truck has an unmistakable rattle to it, so I hear it before I spot Ford, pulling into the bay through the Plexiglas. He doesn’t see me while I slouch in my chair, too busy chatting with the mechanics.

  Tanner shakes his hand and they laugh over something, but even from here, I can tell it’s strained. Ford hurt a lot more people than just me when he left.

  Thankfully, Tanner doesn’t gesture inside or give me away. In fact, it becomes pretty obvious after a moment that he’s only still talking so I have time to escape.

  I make it out the door just when Ford notices Grandma’s car and looks around, gaze sweeping the waiting room. I’m gone before he even touches the door handle.

  “Here you go.” Tanner sets up a folding chair for me in the back alley when I scurry around, heart hammering. Even the smell of the dumpster can’t bother me. Better than twenty minutes of absolute hell.

  “I’ll be quick,” he promises. “Wait here and I’ll drive it around, when it’s all done.”

  “Thanks, Tan,” I sigh. Avoiding Ford feels just a little pathetic, but more than anything, it’s infuriating. Hillford is my home. Why should I have to hide, all because he decided to tumble back into town?

  I blink away the anger and scroll through my texts. Mom’s sent another reminder to pick up milk on my way back. Ari and Wren, my clients closest to their due date, want an appointment to try and turn the baby. Kennedy, my newest client and only a few months along, wants to know if it’s normal she doesn’t have morning sickness.

  While I slog through a backlog of emails, mostly spam, I feel it: that relentless nudge in my brain, my memory stuck on a loop of last night. Ford’s hand skating down my face, resting there on my neck like all those nights he snuck into my bedroom. Nights we crept down to the river. Nights he tried to twist away, hiding a bruise or wound, and it was my turn to put my hand on his face. My turn to pull him into me.

  A lot of nights, a lot of sneaking. Talk about missing a red flag: daylight hours and Ford’s affection went together like oil and water.

  Last night, his kiss tore me apart.

  The contact of his lips jostled something loose inside me I’ve barely kept together the last six years. I told myself I was over him, I was stable—but my heart was held in place with nothing but a few songs and a lot of denial. The equivalent of paper clips and chewing gum.

  One encounter, one half-assed apology and slow kiss, and he broke it all to pieces.

  Everyone has The Ex. One who stands out from the others, either because the pain they inflicted was the first or the worst. That person who built you up to the highest high, the best version of yourself you thought you could ever be—then cut you down in one fell swoop, without even trying. Without even caring.

  It’s that ex that makes you hold your breath when you see a car like theirs pull out into traffic ahead of you. When you smell the same brand of shampoo or cologne, maybe in a bar or aisle of the grocery store, you feel like you’ve time-traveled.

  Sometimes, The Ex ruins you for anyone else. I’ve yet to find out if Ford ruined me or not—I basically threw myself into school and my career, after he left, with little time for dating—but I wouldn’t be surprised. When the mere thought of someone dilates your blood vessels and paints you in a cold sweat, there’s a decent chance you’re chained to that baggage.

  Ruined. I hate how accurate that word feels.

  When Tanner pulls the Chevy around the back of the building, I will my heart to steady. So Ford is nearby: big deal. Until his sister gets settled, wherever she lives now, he’s going to be nearby a lot. Might as well get used to it.

  “Did you, uh…did you know he was back in town?” I ask Tanner. I’m going for casual. I miss.

  “Yeah. Didn’t you?”

  It hurts to shake my head.

  “Shit,” he
sighs, “I’m sorry, I honestly thought you did. Like, I thought you were the first to know. And I didn’t bring it up because I knew—”

  I hold up my palm. “It’s okay.” My pride can’t bear to hear the rest. I knew you’d freak out. I knew you’d go crazy. I knew he basically destroyed you. All pitiful. All valid.

  I thank Tanner for his help, hoping the sigh I give afterwards encompasses more than just “thanks for the oil.” He nods, touching the brim of his hat as I leave.

  Five

  I would know that car anywhere.

  Of course, so would every other person in town: Easton’s grandparents kept it in pristine condition and drove it every Sunday, unless the roads were slick or salted. When they went to the Lawrences’ house for dinner, I’d peek out my bedroom window and stare at it, shining over that fence like a ruby.

  I sat it in once. Easton’s grandfather forgot to lock it when they went inside, so I crept through the gate and army-crawled my way to the door.

  The interior was cream-colored, with ridged leather and vacuumed carpet. Easton had left a plastic compass near her seatbelt buckle. I pocketed it and lay across the bench, while the August heat seeped through the metal and throttled me.

  Easton got to ride in this thing every week. I wondered if it still felt special to her.

  I wondered if she felt what I suddenly did: cream-colored calmness and the sense you were safe, in a place like this. Like a security blanket that could take you away from anything.

  “Ford!” Our screen door clapped shut. Dad’s boots rattled down the length of our porch, before he gave up and went back inside. I held my breath until the door closed.

  Sweat streaked down my face when I sat up; I wiped my eyes and flung the droplets onto the perfect upholstery.

  I wanted to ruin the seat. I wanted to ruin the car and leave Easton’s little compass in my wake so she’d get blamed, and I had no idea why. It was as sudden an urge as when I stole her pencils in class, just because I could, or embarrassed her in front of her friends with stories of the footie pajamas I saw her wear last winter.