Though in her heart Brooke knew what was going on—her missed period, her sensitive breasts and sexual appetite gone into the stratosphere, and now this incident at the Brunch—she felt she needed medical proof. She could go to her obstetrician or the Howard family doctor, both on the mainland; but appointments with either would rouse suspicions and raise too many questions, and Brooke was a terrible liar. Home pregnancy tests had recently become available, but the general store didn’t yet carry them. Even if it did, purchase of such a kit would’ve been island news even before the change had settled in her pocket.
She considered soliciting Daphne’s advice and help. Her sister-in-law had produced stellar and totally secret results with the condom request, despite the ultimate failure—in usage, not availability—of the gift. But she decided not to put Daphne in the middle of this development and whatever decisions might arise from it. Daphne was, in the end, a Howard.
And Brooke was a Fulcher. Easter night, with Jodie to bed early after her full day and Onion off supposedly cleaning up the restaurant (closed for the holiday after the Brunch) but who knows what that meant, Brooke sat at the kitchen table and jotted off a note on a lined pad:
Dear Leah,
Please send a pregnancy test in an unmarked box. And hurry! I’ll explain later.
Brooke
Brooke folded the note and slid it into an envelope. But before sealing the flap, she paused and thought about how she’d failed to respond to her sister’s three letters since Christmas—two before Greta’s death (mainly news about classes and college life) and one shortly after the funeral (unburdening Leah’s grief at the loss and trying to get Brooke to open up about hers). She pulled the note out of the envelope, unfolded it, and added the following:
P. S. Sorry I haven’t written. Life has been crazy. I miss you. B.
By then tears flooded her eyes, but she made sure none dropped on the paper. She refolded the note and slid it back in the envelope, then sealed, addressed, and stamped it. She’d post it early the next day to go out on the noon “mailboat” which now consisted of a locked canvas sack delivered to the mainland via the ferry but was still called the mailboat in reference to—some might say reverence for—the bygone supply boat that had served the island, in various incarnations, for centuries until it was replaced a few years back by regular state-run ferry service.