eremy knew that what he saw shouldn’t bother him. Deep down, he knew that Lexie wasn’t interested in Rodney, but as April rolled in over the next week, he found himself dwelling on the scene he’d witnessed. Even when he’d asked Lexie whether anything unusual had happened that day, she’d said no, telling him that she’d spent the afternoon at the library. While he could have questioned her further about the lie, he hadn’t seen the need. She’d been thrilled by the flowers and had kissed him immediately after he’d handed them over. He’d searched for anything different about the kiss-whether it was hesitant or lingered too long, as if overcompensating for guilt-but he’d sensed nothing amiss. Nor was there anything unusual about their conversation over dinner, or their spell on the porch afterward.

Even so, he couldn’t forget the image of Lexie holding Rodney’s hand. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that they looked like a couple, but he reminded himself that it didn’t make sense. Lexie and Rodney couldn’t be seeing each other secretly. He spent most days at the library doing research and every evening with Lexie. Jeremy couldn’t force himself to believe that Lexie spent a single moment dreaming of what might have been between her and Rodney had Jeremy never come along. She’d told him that Rodney had had a crush on her since they’d been young and that every now and then they’d attended some town function together as a couple, but that was in the past. Lexie had always resisted further development in their relationship, and he couldn’t imagine that she would change her mind now. Yes, she’d been holding his hand, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was feeling any differently toward him. There had been times when Jeremy held his mother’s hand, for goodness’ sake. It could have been a sign of affection or support or just a way to show that she was listening to him as he spilled out his troubles. In a relationship like Lexie and Rodney’s, it could have been a gesture of comfort, since they’d known each other for years.

It wasn’t as if he should expect Lexie to start ignoring people she’d known all her life, right? Or stop caring about other people? Weren’t those the reasons he’d fallen in love with her in the first place? Of course they were. Lexie had a way of making everyone she spent time with feel as if they were the center of the world, and though that included Rodney, it didn’t mean she was in love with him. Which meant, of course, there was nothing to worry about.

So why on earth was he still thinking about it? And why, when he saw them, had he felt a stab of jealousy?

Because she’d lied about it. A lie of omission, perhaps, but a lie nonetheless. Finally, unable to stand it a moment longer, he rose from his desk, grabbed his car keys, and drove toward the library.

Slowing as he approached, he saw her car parked exactly where it should be and stared at the light on in her office. He watched for a few minutes, turning away quickly when he caught a glimpse of her. Despite the foolishness he felt at this new obsession, he nonetheless breathed a sigh of relief. He told himself again that he had nothing to worry about, that it was ridiculous to have even considered the possibility that Lexie might be elsewhere, and the foolish feeling lasted until he returned to Greenleaf.

Yes, he thought as he perched himself in front of the screen again, he and Lexie were doing just fine, and he chided himself for his suspicion, promising to make it up to her somehow. He could do that, he thought, he should do that-even if he would never admit the reason. Maybe they’d head out of town tonight for dinner.

Yeah, he decided, aside from porch sitting, there was nothing pressing on the old agenda, and a little change of pace might do them both some good. More than that, she’d be surprised at his thoughtfulness. If there was one thing he’d learned in the dating world, it was that women loved surprises, and if it helped him alleviate the guilt he felt from checking up on her in the first place, all the better.

He nodded to himself. A special night was just what they needed. He’d even buy her another bouquet of flowers, and he spent the next twenty minutes on the Internet, trying to figure out a good place to go. He found one, called Doris to see if she’d heard of it-she recommended it with gusto-and then made reservations before showering again.

With another couple of hours until she got off work, he sat in front of the computer again, his fingers poised on the keyboard. But even after a day spent mostly at the desk, Jeremy realized that he was no closer to writing than he had been when he’d risen that morning.

“I saw you earlier today,” Lexie said, peeking over her menu at him.

“You did?”

She nodded. “I saw you driving past the library. Where were you going?”

“Oh,” he said, glad she hadn’t caught him staring up at her window. “Nowhere, really. Just driving around to clear my mind before hitting the computer again.”

Surprised with a bouquet of daffodils and an out-of-town dinner reservation, she’d been thrilled, just as he’d expected. But of course, being thrilled meant heading back to her house so she could change and get ready, which delayed their departure by nearly forty-five minutes. By the time they arrived at the Carriage House on the outskirts of Greenville, their table had been given away and they’d had to wait at the bar for twenty minutes.

Lexie seemed reluctant to ask the obvious follow-up question, which made sense. Every day she asked how his writing went; every day Jeremy answered there had been no change. It was probably beginning to wear on her the same way it was beginning to wear on him.

“Did you get any ideas?” she ventured.

“A few, actually,” Jeremy lied. Technically, it wasn’t a lie-he’d had that strange idea about Lexie and Rodney-but he knew it wasn’t the sort of idea she was referring to.

“Really?”

“I’m still noodling with it, and we’ll see where it leads.”

“That’s great, honey,” she said, her mood brightening even more. “We should celebrate, then.” She gazed around the dimly lit room; with the waiters in black and white and candles on every table, the setting was surprisingly elegant. “How on earth did you find out about this place, anyway? I’ve never been here before, but I’ve always wanted to go.”

“Just a bit of research,” he said, “and then I called Doris.”

“She loves this place,” Lexie said. “If she had her way, I think she’d run a restaurant like this instead of Herbs.”

“But you have to pay the bills, right?”

“Exactly,” she said. “What are you planning on ordering?”

“I was thinking about the porterhouse,” he said, scanning the menu. “I haven’t had a good steak since I left New York. And the au gratin potatoes.”

“Isn’t a porterhouse two steaks? The strip and the filet?”

“That’s why it sounds good,” he said, closing the menu, his mouth already watering. As he looked across at her, he noticed her nose was wrinkling. “What?” he asked.

“How many calories do you think that has?”

“I have no idea. And I don’t care, either.”

She forced a smile, returning to the menu again. “You’re right,” she said. “We don’t go out like this all the time, so what’s the big deal? Even if it is . . . what? A pound, pound and a half of red meat?”

He felt his brow furrowing. “I didn’t say I was going to eat the whole thing.”

“It doesn’t matter even if you do. It’s not my place to say anything. Get what you want.”

“I will,” he said, feeling defiant. In the silence, he watched her study the menu, thinking about the porterhouse. It was a lot of red meat, now that he thought about it, packed with cholesterol and fat. Didn’t the experts say you should eat no more than three ounces at a time? And this steak . . . what was that? Sixteen ounces? Twenty-four? It was enough to feed an entire family.

Ah, who cared? He was young, and he’d make it a point to work out tomorrow. Go for a jog, do some extra push-ups. “What are you thinking about getting?”

“I’m still deciding,” she said. “I’m not sure which one I’m in the mood for, but it’ll either be the broiled tuna or the stuffed chicken breast with the sauce on the side. And steamed vegetables.”

Of course that’s what you’re getting, Jeremy thought. Something light and healthy. She’d stay fit and thin, even though she was pregnant, while he would waddle out of the restaurant.

He reached for the menu again, noticing that she made a point of ignoring him. Which meant, obviously, that she did notice. Scanning the items, he moved to the seafood and poultry sections. Everything sounded wonderful. Just not as wonderful as the porterhouse. He closed the menu again, thinking this was guilt he could have done without.

Since when had food become such a reflection of character? If he ordered something healthy, he was a good person; if he ordered something unhealthy, he was bad? It wasn’t as if he were overweight, right? He would order the porterhouse, he resolved, but reminded himself again to have only half of it, maybe less. If wasn’t as if he’d waste it, either. He’d bring the rest home for leftovers. He nodded to himself, pleased with his decision. The porterhouse it was.

When the waiter appeared, Lexie ordered a cranberry juice and the stuffed chicken breast. Jeremy said he’d have the cranberry juice as well.

“And for your dinner?”

He felt Lexie watching him. “The . . . tuna,” he said. “Medium rare.”

After the waiter left, Lexie smiled. “The tuna?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It sounded good when you mentioned it.”

She shrugged, unreadable.

“What now?”

“It’s just that this place is famous for its steaks. I was kind of hoping to try a bite of yours.”

Jeremy felt his shoulders sag. “Next time,” he said.

Try as he might, Jeremy wasn’t sure he’d ever figure out women. There were times while he’d been dating that he believed he was getting closer, that he would be able to anticipate their subtle expressions and mannerisms and use them to his own advantage. But as his dinner with Lexie demonstrated, he had a long way to go.

The problem wasn’t the fact that he’d ordered the tuna instead of the porterhouse. It went deeper than that. The real problem was that most men wanted a woman’s admiration; consequently, men were willing to do nearly anything to achieve that. Women, he suspected, had never fully grasped this simple fact. For instance, women might assume that men who spent a great deal of time at the office did so because they viewed their job as the most important thing in their life, when nothing could be further from the truth. It wasn’t about power for power’s sake-well, okay, for some men it was, but they were in a minority-it was the fact that women were drawn to power for the same reasons men were drawn to attractive young women. These were evolutionary traits, traits passed down since the caveman days, and neither gender had much control over them. Years ago he’d written a column about the evolutionary basis of behavior, pointing out that among other things, men were drawn to young, shapely, attractive women because they tended to be fertile and in good health-in other words, a mate likely to create strong offspring-and that women were likewise drawn to men who were powerful enough to protect and provide for them and their offspring.

He got a lot of mail about that column, he remembered, but what was odd about it were the reactions. While men tended to agree with this representation of evolution, women tended to disagree, sometimes vehemently. A few months later, he wrote another column about the differences, using excerpts from the letters as examples.

But even if he could understand objectively that he’d ordered the tuna because he’d wanted Lexie to admire him-thus making him feel powerful-it still didn’t help him decipher what made her tick, and pregnancy only complicated the matter further. He admitted that he didn’t know much about pregnancy, but if there was one thing he was sure about, it was the fact that pregnant women often had strange cravings. Lexie may have been an expert on virtually everything else, but he was ready for whatever she might throw at him in that particular department. His brothers had told him to expect anything; one sister-in-law had craved spinach salad, another wanted pastrami and olives, still another would wake up in the middle of the night to eat tomato soup and cheddar cheese. Consequently, when he wasn’t trying to write, he found himself heading to the grocery store to fill the car with whatever he could think of, anything that might satisfy Lexie’s cravings, no matter how odd they might be.

What he didn’t expect, however, were the irrational mood swings. One night, about a week after their dinner at the Carriage House, he woke up to the sound of Lexie sniffling. When he rolled over, he found her sitting up in bed with her back against the headboard. In the dim light, he could barely make out her features, but he noticed a pile of used tissues in her lap. He sat up in bed.

“Lex? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding as if she had a bad cold. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s okay . . . no problem. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

It sounded as though she’d said “nudding.” He watched her, still unsure what was going on. The fact that he was staring didn’t stop her from crying, and she sniffled again. “I’m just sad,” she explained.

“Can I get you anything? Pastrami? Tomato soup?”

She blinked through her tears, as if trying to figure out if she’d heard him right. “Why on earth would you think I want pastrami?”

“No reason,” he said. Sliding closer, he slipped his arm around her. “So you’re not hungry, though? No strange cravings?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I just feel sad.”

“And you don’t know why?”

All at once she broke down again, big heaving cries that left her shoulders shaking. Jeremy felt his throat constrict. There was nothing worse than the sound of a woman crying, and he found himself wanting to comfort her. “There, there,” he murmured. “It’ll be okay, whatever it is.”

“No, it won’t,” she blubbered. “It’s not going to be okay. It’s never going to be okay.”

“What is it?”

It took a long time before she was able to regain some semblance of control. Finally, she faced him with red, puffy eyes.

“I killed my cat,” she announced.

There were a lot of things he’d expected her to say. Perhaps she was overwhelmed by the changes in her life, for instance. Or maybe, in the surge of hormones, she had found herself missing her parents. He had no doubt her emotional outburst had to do with the pregnancy, but this was not the sort of comment he could ever have anticipated. All he could do was stare.

“Your cat?” he asked at last.

She nodded and reached for another tissue, talking through her sobs. “I . . . killed . . . it.”

“Huh,” Jeremy said. Frankly, he didn’t know what else to say. He’d never seen a cat around her place, never heard her talk about a cat. Didn’t even know she liked cats.

Meanwhile, she went on, her voice still raspy. He could tell by her body language that she’d been hurt by his comment. “That’s . . . all you can . . . say?”

He was at a loss. Should he agree with her? You really shouldn’t have killed the cat. Should he empathize? That’s okay. The cat deserved it. Should he support her? I still think you’re a good person, even if you did kill that cat. At the same time, he was frantically searching his memory, trying to figure out if there actually had been a cat, and if so, what its name was. Or how on earth he’d gone this long without ever seeing it. But in a burst of inspiration, the perfect response leapt to mind.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” he said, trying his best to sound soothing.

It seemed to be exactly what she’d needed to hear, thank goodness, and her sobs began to subside. Again, she blew her nose.

“I was doing laundry and emptied the dryer to add the next load,” she said. “I knew he liked warm places, but I never bothered to check inside before I closed the door. I killed Boots.”

Boots, he thought. Got it. The cat was named Boots. Still, it didn’t make the rest of the story any clearer.

“When did this happen?” he tried again.

“Over the summer.” She sighed. “While I was packing for Chapel Hill.”

“Oh, we’re talking about when you went to college,” he said, feeling triumphant.

She looked over at him, obviously confused and irritated. “Of course I am. What did you think I was talking about?”

Jeremy knew it was probably best not to answer. “I’m sorry for interrupting. Go on,” he said, doing his best to sound sympathetic.

“Boots was my baby,” she said, her voice soft. “He was abandoned, and I found him when he was just a kitten. All through high school, he slept with me in bed. He was so cute-reddish brown fur and white paws-and I knew that God had given him to me to protect him. And I did . . . until I locked him in the dryer.”

She reached for another tissue. “I guess that he crawled into the dryer when I wasn’t paying attention. He’d done that before, so I usually checked, but for whatever reason, I didn’t do it that day. I just loaded the wet clothes from the washer into the dryer, closed the door, and hit the button.” The tears started again as Lexie went on, her words broken. “I was downstairs . . . half an hour later . . . when I heard the . . . the . . . thunking . . . and when I went to check . . . I found him-”

She broke down completely then, leaning against Jeremy. Instinctively, he pulled her closer, murmuring words of support.

“You didn’t kill your cat,” he reassured her. “It was an accident.”

She sobbed even harder. “But . . . don’t you . . . see?”

“See what?”

“That . . . I’ll be a . . . terrible mother. I . . . I . . . locked my poor cat . . . in the dryer. . . .”

“I just held her and she kept on crying,” Jeremy said at lunch the next day. “No matter how much I assured her that she’d be a wonderful mother, she wouldn’t believe me. She cried for hours. There was nothing I could say or do to console her, but she finally nodded off to sleep. And when she woke up, she seemed fine.”

“That’s pregnancy,” Doris said. “It’s like a great big amplifier. Everything gets bigger-your body, your tummy, your arms. Emotions and memories, too. You just go crazy every now and then, and sometimes you do the strangest things. Things you’d never do in other circumstances.”

Doris’s comment conjured up the image of Lexie and Rodney holding hands, and for an instant he wondered whether to mention it. As quickly as the thought came, he tried to dismiss it.

Doris seemed to read his expression. “Jeremy? Are you okay?”

He shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Just a lot on my mind these days.”

“About the baby?”

“About everything,” he said. “The wedding, the house. All of it. There’s so much to do. We’re closing on the house at the end of the month, and the only permit Gherkin could get was for the first weekend in May. There’s just a lot of stress these days.” He looked across the table at her. “Thanks for helping Lexie with the wedding plans, by the way.”

“No need to thank me. After our last conversation, I thought it was the least I could do. And there’s not that much to do, really. I’ll be making the cake and bringing some finger food for the outdoor reception, but other than that, there wasn’t much left once you got the permit. I’ll cover the picnic tables that morning, the florist will put some flowers out, and the photographer is good to go.”

“She told me she finally picked a dress.”

“She did. For Rachel, too, since she’s the maid of honor.”

“Does it hide Lexie’s tummy?”

Doris laughed. “That was her only stipulation. But don’t you worry, she’ll look beautiful-you can barely tell she’s pregnant. But I think people are beginning to suspect anyway.” She nodded toward Rachel, who was clearing another table. “I think she knows.”

“How would she know? Did you say anything?”

“No, of course not. But women can tell when other women are pregnant. And I’ve heard people whispering about it over lunch. Of course, it doesn’t help that Lexie’s been browsing through baby clothes at Gherkin’s store downtown. People notice things like that.”

“Lexie’s not going to be happy about it.”

“She won’t mind. Not in the long run, anyway. And besides, she didn’t really believe she’d even be able to keep it a secret this long.”

“Does that mean I can tell my family now?”

“I think,” Doris said slowly, “you’d better ask Lexie about that. She’s still worried that they won’t like her, especially with the wedding being so small. She feels bad about not being able to invite the whole clan.” She smiled. “That was her word, by the way, not mine.”

“It works,” Jeremy said. “They are a clan. But now it’ll be a manageable clan.”

When Doris reached for her glass, Rachel returned to their table with a pitcher of sweet tea. “Need a refill?”

“Thanks, Rach,” Jeremy said.

She poured. “Are you getting excited about the wedding?”

“Getting there. How’d shopping go with Lexie?”

“It was fun,” she said. “It was nice to get out of town for a while. But I’ll bet you can understand that.”

Sure I can, Jeremy thought. “Oh, by the way, I talked to Alvin and he said to say hello.”

“He did?”

“He said he’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Tell him hey from me, too.” She fiddled with her apron. “Do you two want some pecan pie? I think there’re still a few pieces left.”

“No thanks,” Jeremy said. “I’m stuffed.”

“None for me,” Doris said.

As Rachel headed toward the kitchen, Doris put her napkin on the table, returning her attention to Jeremy. “I walked through the house yesterday. It looks like it’s coming along.”

“Does it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“It’ll be done,” she reassured him, hearing his tone. “People may work at a slower pace down here, but it all gets done eventually.”

“I just hope it’s finished before the baby heads off to college. We just found out that there’s some termite damage.”

“What did you expect? It’s an old house.”

“It’s like the house in the movie The Money Pit. There’s always something else that needs to be fixed.”

“I could have told you that beforehand. Why do you think it had been on the market so long? And come on, no matter how much it costs, it’s still cheaper than anything in Manhattan, isn’t it?”

“It’s certainly more frustrating.”

Doris stared at him. “I take it you’re still not writing.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said, her voice soft. “You aren’t writing. That’s who you are; it’s how you define yourself. And if you can’t do it . . . well, it’s kind of like Lexie’s pregnancy in that it amplifies everything else.”

Doris was right, Jeremy decided. It wasn’t the cost of the new house, plans for the wedding, the baby, or the fact that he was still adjusting to life as a couple. Any stress he felt was due largely to the fact that he couldn’t write.

The day before, he’d sent off his next column, leaving only four prewritten columns left, and his editor at Scientific American had begun to leave messages on Jeremy’s cell phone, asking why Jeremy wasn’t bothering to keep in touch. Even Nate was beginning to get concerned; where he used to leave messages about the possibility of coming up with a story that might appeal to television producers, he now wondered whether Jeremy was working on anything at all.

At first, it had been easy to make excuses; both his editor and Nate understood how much had recently changed in his life. But when he offered the standard litany of excuses, even Jeremy realized they sounded exactly like that: excuses. Even so, he couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Why did his thoughts become jumbled every time he turned on the computer? Why did his fingers turn to mud? And why did it happen only when it came to writing something that might pay the bills?

See, that was the thing. Alvin e-mailed regularly; Jeremy could pound out a long response in only a few minutes. The same thing happened if his mother or father or brothers e-mailed, or if he had to write a letter, or if he wanted to take notes about something he found on the Internet. He could write about the shows on television, he could write about business or politics; he knew, because he’d tried. It was easy, in fact, to write just about anything . . . as long as it had nothing to do with topics he had any expertise in. In those instances, he simply went blank. Or worse, he felt as if he would never be able to do it again.

He suspected his problem was a lack of confidence. It was an odd feeling, one he hadn’t ever experienced before moving to Boone Creek.

He wondered if that was it. The move itself. That’s when the problem started; it wasn’t the house or the wedding plans or anything else. He’d been blocked from the time he’d rolled back into town, as if the choice to move here had come with a hidden cost. That suggested that he would be able to write in New York, however . . . but could he? He considered it, then shook his head. It didn’t matter, did it? He was here. In less than three weeks, on April 28, he’d close on the house and then head off to his bachelor party; a week later, on May 6, he’d be married. For better or worse, this was home now.

He glanced at Doris’s journal. How would he start a story about it? Not that he intended to, but just as an experiment. . . .

Pulling up a blank document, he began to think, his fingers poised on the keyboard. But for the next five minutes, his fingers didn’t move. There was nothing, nothing at all. He couldn’t even think of a way to begin.

He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated, wanting yet another break, wondering what to do. There was no way he was going to the house, he decided, since it would only put him in a worse mood. He decided instead to kill some time on the Internet. He heard the modem dial in, watched the screen load, and scanned the main page. Noting that he had two dozen new messages, he clicked on the mailbox.

Most of it was spam, and he deleted those messages without opening them; Nate had sent a message as well, asking if Jeremy had noticed any of the articles concerning a massive meteor shower in Australia. Jeremy responded that he’d written four columns about meteors in the past, one as recently as last year, but he thanked him for the idea.

He nearly deleted the last message, which lacked a subject heading, but thought better of it and found himself staring at the screen as soon as the message appeared. His mouth went dry, and he couldn’t turn away. Nor, suddenly, could he breathe. It was a simple message, and the blinking cursor seemed to taunt him: HOW DO YOU KNOW THE BABY IS YOURS?