It wasn't even a month in Bend and already I felt as if my new life would be a good thing for me. My belly was growing large and there was no fear in letting it show; or in doing the necessary and silly things a woman does when she is going to have a baby. Mary and I were obsessed with making little clothes. I told her my strong sense that it was going to be a boy. She completely believed it too, so we spent our free time designing and making tiny outfits, sewing blankets, and diapers. We planned out the baby's wardrobe for his first six months. We took to calling him Little Charlie. We also made maternity dresses for me. I felt so happy. I'd never expected to find a place where I would be as welcome as any respectable woman. Of course, Mary and Frank didn't know the truth. I didn't think I could ever tell Mary that Charlie was illegitimate, the product of an affair with a married man. In fact, I stopped letting myself believe it too. Instead, I took to the fiction. I just switched the timeframe. My husband had died in the war. That part was true as was his cause of death, an infection from a wound. He had died in 1943, but I started to convince myself it was two years later, in 1945. Mary introduced me to everyone in town and when her friends would come over to drink lemonade and gossip, I'd sit with them on her brocade couch. I'd watch her eyes as she listened to this or that about one of the ladies in town whom this group didn't particularly like. Most of the out of favor were wealthy wives of men in the timber industry, women who had recently moved to Bend and not grown up there. It wasn't as if Mary had been raised in Bend. Frank had, but Mary was so much a part of everything that it didn't matter. Besides, she was a farmer's wife, which gave her legitimacy with the other women who resided in the area. They all knew my baby was a soldier's baby and they'd shower me with attention. They would take my wedding band and hang it over my belly tied to a piece of fishing line. They'd all stand around me as if I were a thanksgiving turkey they were dressing. Then they'd watch as the ring spun in this direction or that. One would announce their prediction about the baby's sex. "A boy. Definitely."

"No, Lenore, you have it backwards, if it spins right it's a girl."

Then Mary would interrupt them both. "Eve and I both know it's a boy. It's settled. That baby in there is little Charlie."

"Oh you can't know that." Susan said waving her hand in the air.

"It'd better be. We've made him an entire layette. Besides just look at her hair, so glossy and healthy. It's a boy."

"That's an old wives tale." Then we'd all start laughing because everyone's predictions were based on wives tales.

I had all but forgotten Jeff Lambert. He didn't matter any more. Everything that had happened had led me to my new life. A part of me feared it would end; everything else I'd loved had been taken from me and with each loss more of me died. But, then with a baby growing inside of me --a baby that was mine-- I felt renewed. My own child couldn't be taken from me. Perhaps the larger imperative in my life had caused the memories of Jeff to fade. Of course, I still sometimes thought of the strongest impressions: desiring him, falling under his seduction. I remembered his power over me, his affection then sudden coldness. In leaving I had taken my life back, hadn't I? I'd stopped giving in to him. I'd left with dignity. I belonged in Bend.

Mary and I had grown so close. I had wanted so many times to confide in Mary, to tell her the truth. I tried.

One time we were alone together in the kitchen. "What is it, Eve? What are you thinking?" She had a softness in her voice that I grew to love. Pie dough and flower all over the farm table. Mary was an impeccable housekeeper but a terribly messy cook. I wiped my hands on my apron and sat down on the wooden chair. I mustered the courage. She took a seat on the chair next to me.

"You can tell me anything."

"I want to, but I'm afraid to."

She took my hand in hers. Her skin was soft and warm. I took in a breath and started. "I feel as if I'm a terrible person."

"How on earth can you say that?"

"I feel as if I've done something wrong."

"Why? Because you don't have a husband? Eve it's an honor to have your beloved's baby. Don't you know that? People think you are...I don't know the words. You are strong and brave and you're going to be such a loving mother. This way, a part of Nick will always be with you."

I wanted to interrupt her or respond with the truth but I couldn't. I didn't want to lose that status. With her. With everyone. She would tell me how much people liked me, how much she loved me; but it didn't matter. What I'd done was so wrong and shameful.

One day I was in my room, folding the baby's clothes and arranging his dresser when there was a soft knock on the door.

"May I come in Eve?" It was Mary.

"Of course," I walked to the door and opened it.

"The mail just came. There's something from Carmen. And, you have another letter too. Its from a man, addressed from the art museum in Portland."

She waited, not judging me, but curious. I felt as if I'd been caught. That would have been the moment to confess the truth to her. Instead, the lies fell out of my mouth.

"Oh yes. This man. He was thinking of buying the house. He's an artist, new in town. He knew my place in Sellwood was a boarding house temporarily. He'd asked me several times before I left. I just couldn't bear to let it go just yet."

"Of course not. You grew up there. What's the rush anyway? Perhaps you'll want to move back sometime. There's no hurry to sell."

I grew flush as she spoke. All of it seemed like such an obvious deception in that moment. Hearing her say that it was my house, that I'd grown up there. If the story I'd told her about my husband's early death was true, why then wouldn't I have just stayed in my little town? Why wouldn't I have let Carmen and Harry take care of the baby and me?

"Are you all right darling?"

I wanted so desperately in that moment to tell her. Honestly I did. And, I should have.

"I'm just sad thinking about it."

"Here," she said handing me Carmen's letter and retaining Jeff's. "Let's just give Mr. Lambert's letter to Frank and he can handle this business for you."

"No!" I blurted. I had no idea what the letter said, but I knew it would be intimate. I was afraid of what he wanted from me. I felt myself grow queasy. Frank was a strong and virtuous man. He was kind, but I knew he wouldn't accept what I had done. I knew he would not want me to stay if he knew the real story. He wasn't like Mary—or at least I didn't think he was.

Mary looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry. That wasn't my place." She held out the letter. Finally, it was in my hand.

"No. You're probably right. I will let Frank help me. I'm not going to sell the house right now. I'll hold on to this. Mr. Lambert knows how I feel. I'll be down shortly. I just want to finish up putting little Charlie's things away."

"Good. Come down. The girls are coming over for bridge. They will insist on spending time with you and torturing you with their baby games. Lenore says she and the girls made something for you and little Charlie."

When Mary left, I closed the door. The room grew still. I looked out the window at the orchards; a misty fog had descended. It was a common occurrence, but to me the darkness was a shadow on my life. It wasn't going to go away. I placed the letter on the pillow and sat down. Instead of acknowledging it was there in front of me, I let my eyes trace the lines and patterns in the quilt. Once I caught sight of it again, it sent a shock through me. Even the curves of his script. I knew his signature so well. He had signed all of his paintings of me and my garden. The impressionistic sketches of the flowers. After we'd made love the first time, he returned the next day with a small painting of a single red rose. At the bottom of the canvas, in his masculine and neat script he'd written, J. Lambert, 1944.

I picked the letter up and it was a trap, a grenade that would go off in this new life. I tried to calm myself. I said it was probably nothing. I was having his baby. Perhaps, he wanted to apologize for being so cruel. Perhaps he wanted to continue his sketches in my garden and needed permission to visit in my absence. No. That wouldn't have been it. Carmen had sent me a copy of the Bee. I had seen pictures of his recent show at the museum. I'd read the article. He was on to something else altogether. Trains, train houses, tracks, shadows of people standing on the platforms. Waiting. Impressionistic paintings, detailed sketches. His fascination with my garden, with me, was over.

I carefully opened the envelope and removed the letter. It was folded neatly and even on the reverse side of the paper, where the ink had bled through in places, I recognized his familiar penmanship. My heart sank deeper and deeper.

Darling Eve,

I could not anticipate how much I'd miss you. In just a month I find I can't sleep at night, and on the rare occasion I do, I dream of you. I wake remembering you skin, I remember making love to you, Mostly, I remember your beautiful face. Here we are now, in this difficult predicament, but it's our predicament isn't it? This is between with us. With regard to you, I've never been able to reign myself in—I find I do things I wouldn't ordinarily do. It's as if I'm intoxicated, I have no inhibition when it comes to my feelings for you. Eve, I've considered coming to see you many times. I have once or twice even gotten into the car, started driving. Of course as soon as I get near the courage, I realize your circumstances. The implications for you. But, Eve, if I were to come to you, would you forgive me?

I need the opportunity to speak with you alone. Please agree to meet me. There's a place between us. Eugene. It's beautiful. There's a university and homes that would be well suited to us, to you and the baby. There's a charming main road with a theater and a hotel. I'd like to see you soon. Meet me in Eugene. You could stay the night. That's my desire Eve. Please write me and tell me when you'll see me. If not Eugene, I'll meet you there in Bend whenever you ask.

Yours,

Jeff

A second page was included. A sketch on coarser paper. I'd never seen it before but it was a drawing of me, dated Fall 1945. In the picture I am lying in bed, the sheet just over my breasts. I could make out the outline of my nude body. My hair was falling over my shoulders. The pencil lines were intricate and detailed. I touched the page, ran my finger over his signature at the bottom, J. Lambert. His sketches were usually hurried; preparation for later prints or paintings. But, this one was so beautiful, he must have spent hours on it. I noticed he'd captured the small floral print of the wallpaper in my bedroom, the tiny roses in vertical rows. Seeing the likeness of my prior home --even more than seeing the drawing of myself as I was then, so in love with Jeff—caused me to mourn for what I'd left behind. It caused a tearing inside of me. Instinctively I placed my hand on my stomach and Charlie was kicking. I worried he could feel my anguish. All of the past rising to the surface. Suddenly there was fear where none had been. After a moment I allowed myself to examine the drawing again. I was beautiful when I was with Jeff. He had made me beautiful. I hardly recognized that girl. I didn't remember posing for that drawing but I did remember other times lying completely still as he sketched me. Sometimes in the morning after we'd made love or in the dim candle light after I'd fixed him dinner. He would simply decide that he had to draw me that very moment. Just how I was. It was the same when he wanted to make love to me. There had been nothing I wanted more than his attention. The drawing he'd enclosed in the letter reminded me of the feeling I'd had, remaining motionless while his eyes examined me, while he crafted the woman he wanted. He'd come near me and adjust the sheet or my hair, almost touching me but instead fanning my desire. Looking at the picture I recalled not only that terrible yearning for him but also my restraint, waiting all those hours while he watched and sketched. Sometimes he'd stop deep in contemplation, just looking at me but saying nothing. One time I'd fallen asleep and I woke to him above me, his lips on my neck. He was whispering against my skin "You're mine. Eve, you're mine."

I stood and walked over to the armoire. I placed the letter in the pocket of a heavy wool coat. No one would bother with the coat, I wouldn't be needing it for months. There was also no danger of the letter getting mixed up with my other things. No one would know it was there. I folded it and tucked it inside so it was completely hidden in the deep wool pocket. I was about to close the cabinet when I noticed myself in the mirror on the inside of the mahogany door. My face looked older. I was different. I turned to the side and my stomach was large. Susan and the other girls had recently declared I was going to have twins. "What then, Mary? You would be doubly wrong." At that moment, seeing my reflection, I wanted to keep what happened with Jeff to myself all the more. I didn't want him. I didn't care what he'd written or the feelings those words stirred inside of me. I knew it was a sweet poison. The letter was so full of his seduction. His way of pulling me under, keeping me there until just before I drowned. I felt it. And, the drawing? It was his way of saying I was with him, in his thoughts, that he'd sketched it since we've been apart. It was not one of the pictures I'd posed for. It was his Eve, the one who said she belonged to him; it wasn't me.

As I caught the reflection of my own eyes in the mirror a chill ran through me. I wondered about all of those drawings of me, the ones just after we'd made love. There were so many. What would it mean if he ever showed them to anyone? Would it reveal what happened? Of course it would. A nausea overtook me. I held back the sickness and sat on the bed for a moment. When I felt all right again, I returned to the mirror. I pinched my cheeks until they were rosy. I straightened my hair and my dress. I would try to join the ladies before their bridge game. I closed the armoire and glanced out the window. The sun had broken through the clouds and a dramatic light shined over the orchards and the vineyard beyond. It felt glorious. I watched for a moment, trying to decipher a meaning for my future. I wasn't meant to spend my life with Jeff Lambert. Certainly, he would understand. After all, he was married. He had a baby of his own. Charlie was mine.