We walk outside after showing her the bedrooms. We live in a white two-story Spanish-style house in Kensington, one of the older parts of San Diego, and in the bright sunlight our well-maintained neighborhood sparkles. Our yard is small, but it has two orange trees, a lemon tree, and a small swing set—another premature gift from Aidan’s parents. Exploring our little yard, Patti says the word awesome at least five times. Aidan and I smile at each other. This is going to happen, I think. We are going to be approved as potential adoptive parents. Some birth parents will select us to raise their child. The thought both excites and terrifies me.
Patti waves as she gets into her car in the driveway. Aidan puts his arm around me and we smile as we watch her drive away. “I think we passed with flying colors,” Aidan says. He squeezes my shoulder and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“I think we did,” I agree. I pull a big gulp of oxygen into my lungs and feel as though I’ve been holding my breath all afternoon. I turn to him and circle my arms around his neck. “Let’s work on our portfolio this weekend, okay?” I ask. We’ve been afraid to take that step, afraid to pull together the necessary photographs and information about ourselves in case we somehow failed the home study.
“Let’s.” He kisses me on the lips and one of our neighbors honks his horn as he drives by. We laugh, and Aidan kisses me again.
I remember how I’d wondered if our daughter would have his brown eyes or my blue. His brawny athletic build or my long, slender arms and legs. His easygoing nature or my occasional moodiness. Now our child will have none of those things—at least not from us—and I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Aidan and I have too much love for just two people. Sometimes I feel as though we’re bursting with it. At the same time, I pray I’ll be able to extend that love to a baby I didn’t carry. Didn’t give birth to. What is wrong with me that I have so many doubts?
* * *
That night, Aidan falls asleep first and I lie next to him, thinking about the interview with Patti. There was nothing there to come back to haunt me, I assure myself. Patti’s not going to search for my mother’s obituary. We are safe.
The lies I told Aidan when we were first dating—my dead mother and her breast cancer, my cold relatives—had been accepted without question and set aside. He knew I meant it when I said I’d laid the past to rest the day I left North Carolina at eighteen. We never revisited those lies. There’d been no need to, until today. I hope the interview with Patti will be the end of it. I want to move on. We need to create our own healthy, happy, sane, and loving family.
I think about our “open communication” Aidan had described to Patti. Our honest relationship. At times I feel guilty for keeping so much about my past from him, but I’m honestly not sure he would want to know. I try to imagine telling him: My mother murdered my father. I’d said those words once and they had cost me. I will never say them out loud again.
About the Author
Photograph courtesy of John Pagliuca
DIANE CHAMBERLAIN is the international bestselling author of twenty-two novels. She lives in North Carolina with her partner, photographer John Pagliuca, and her shelties, Keeper and Cole. Visit her online at www.dianechamberlain.com. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin reading
Excerpt from Pretending to Dance
About the Author
Books by Diane Chamberlain
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DANCE BEGINS. Copyright © 2015 by Diane Chamberlain. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photograph by Angela Waye / Shutterstock
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ISBN 978-1-4668-9002-2 (e-book)
First Edition: August 2015
Diane Chamberlain, The Dance Begins
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