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and so tiny. Aww, there was a little pink one that said, Princesse de la Joie . She probably couldn’t get her children anything that said princess on it. People would hate them enough already just because they were hers.
    But still…she stroked the word joie . Joy.
    Tears welled up in her eyes out of the blue, a sneak attack of weakness that just hit her from all the sides where no one stood to share this moment with her, from the back that no one protected, from the side where no one’s shoulder brushed warm and strong against hers. From up a little, at an angle, where she couldn’t glance to share this fragile, scared, she’ll-be-that-little joy.
    She left the store quickly, striding down yellow, angled streets of old Nice to the Promenade des Anglais. She walked along it end to end, blue sea to the left, old, elegant hotels to the right, topless bathers trying to sun on the gray pebble beach, casual tourists and elegant Niçois brushing past her on the walk. When she was incognito, she loved women’s jogging outfits in Nice: the long free hair, perfectly brushed, sliding sexily along shoulders with every little jog, the make-up, the earrings, the elegant shoes that could not possibly be good jogging wear, but hey, they looked classy. When she was recognizable, she knew she was expected to dress like that, too.
    But she had on sunglasses and a baseball cap on her head from a small Midwest college, and among all the tourists in Nice, she should be fine. Plus, she’d been out of tabloid circulation for four years, and even though she’d made a splashy comeback, with all those public disputes with Luc when she first showed up again, surely photos of her looking drugged or ridiculous or upset weren’t worth anything like what they used to be. So she tried to relax, playing guessing games as to which of the joggers were French and which tourists or students abroad from America.
    Probably she shouldn’t be shopping for things for the baby yet anyway. The thought fought its way under the guard of that too-easy guessing game. Probably she was all alone because she was the only one who believed in this baby yet. Luc can’t prioritize a baby who might not even make it the first trimester over his restaurant. The restaurant is his life.
    She covered her belly with her hand, and then descended from the walk onto the ankle-turning pebbles, sitting on a bank of them to stare out at the Mediterranean.
    God, she missed her southern sea. Her volcanic sand beaches. Her mango tree behind her house and the tiare bush by the corner, the jasmine growing up her concrete wall. Her people.
    People.
    Any people at all.
    She picked up one of the rounded galets , the big gray pebbles, and rubbed it between her fingers, then tossed it into the calm sea. She’d lived on a lagoon, so the flatness of the sea wasn’t that different. And the salt smell was more or less the same, if you could filter out the exhaust fumes. You could kind of pretend.
    You could pretend all kinds of things, really.
    That you didn’t need anybody and were just fine on your own. That everything was going to be all right. That you were a strong person. That you could be a good mommy.
    She’d always been really good at pretending herself right into the moments when none of it came true.
    She sighed and leaned her head back, staring at the sky. Oh, shut up, Summer. Buck up and handle the choice you made and above all take care of this baby.
    Her mouth softened, and her hand snuck back over her belly, caressing it, as a little light filled her, this strange light that was so soft and yet so powerful it seemed to reach to the bright blue sky above where the gulls flew. My baby. Mine.
    I’m going to get this right, kid. I promise.
    She sure missed having someone to talk to, though. She wondered how much trouble her tummy would have with a trip to the island.
     
     

Chapter 9
    Every time Luc glanced at Summer, she was sucking so eagerly on the mango ice pop Luc had