Jordan screams with laughter. “Yes, please!”

Smiling, Beck puts the pad aside and hands over a coloring book and crayons to keep him busy while she cooks.

At the stove, she drops a few pats of butter onto the hot griddle.

Watching it ooze to liquid, she thinks about Keith.

The thought of ending their marriage—and the inevitable mess that will entail—is overwhelming right now.

Maybe they can keep going through the motions for another couple of months—or even just weeks—until she finds the strength to do what has to be done.

She pours pancake batter onto the griddle and carefully dots each pool with chocolate chips to create eyes, a nose, a smiling mouth.

There. Just like Mom used to do.

So many happy memories . . .

So many difficult moments over the past two weeks, and many more ahead.

For all she knows, Keith is going to hit her with separation papers when she walks in the door. Well, at least she won’t be doing that today.

She still hasn’t figured out how she’s supposed to leave her father here alone.

Both her brothers have offered to take turns staying here with him in the weeks ahead. But they both have kids at home, and Neal has to work, and Teddy has to look for work . . .

She also has a job to get back to. She told her boss she’d be back Monday morning. But she could ostensibly commute to Lexington for a while. Or . . . forever.

Sooner or later her father is going to have to learn to live alone.

So, for that matter, is she.

“I’ll be fine. Go home to your husband,” Dad told her last night, picking the carrots out of the stew she’d made him. She’d forgotten that Mom always left them out; Dad can’t stand cooked carrots.

Does Louise know that?

The errant thought popped into Beck’s head out of nowhere. She hated herself for it. All week, she’d been trying to banish the idea that her father might have had an affair, an affair that might have led him to—

It’s preposterous.

But . . .

I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to Mom. I don’t want her to worry. You know how she is.

At the time, it hadn’t even occurred to Beck that there might have been reasons other than the one he gave.

Even now, knowing that Mom was sick again, that her cancer had spread . . .

It makes even more sense that Dad would be trying to protect Mom from any kind of stress.

And it would be right in character for him to meet with a financial advisor without her knowledge.

Their marriage was always kind of old-fashioned in that way. Dad handled money matters, driving, lawn care, household repairs. Mom covered the cooking and laundry and decorating, the kids and school  . . .

“Aunt Beck?”

“Hmm?” She looks up to see Jordan watching her.

“I miss Grammy.”

Sodden grief crashes in, barely allowing her to push out the words, “Me too.”

“I wish she didn’t get sick and die.”

That’s what Teddy and Sue opted to tell him, wanting to shield their innocent child from the terrible truth.

Keith disapproved of the lie, but who is he to judge? He’s not Jordan’s parent. Not a parent at all.

To think that she had assumed he’d be the father of her children one day . . .

Mom had assumed the same thing, having told her, on Mother’s Day, as Keith gave a long, scientific answer to some question Jordan had asked, “He’s going to be a good daddy someday.”

No, he isn’t, Beck wanted to say. All Jordan needed to hear was a simple yes or a no, not this complicated lecture.

Now, as her nephew watches her with big, sad eyes, she blinks back tears, hoping he doesn’t start asking her questions that can’t be answered with a simple yes or no.

“Aunt Beck?”

“Hmm?”

“I think the bugs are burning.”

“What?”

He points at the skillet behind her, and she turns to see it smoking.

With a silent curse, she scrapes the charred pancakes into the garbage and starts over as Jordan goes back to his coloring book.

This time she watches the griddle carefully, keeping thoughts of Keith and her mother and her father—and Louise—from distracting her.

A few minutes later she’s delivering a plate of perfectly cooked smiley-faced pancakes, doused in maple syrup, to the table. “Your bugs, sir, with a side of more bugs and bug sauce on the top.”

“Aunt Beck! That’s not how it goes! You’re s’posed to call it the stinkerdoodle special!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says with a grin. “Enjoy your . . .”

Stinkerdoodle.

That’s it!

“Aunt Beck! Where are you going?” he protests as she sets the plate in front of him and bolts from the room.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie. I just have to grab my laptop.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re expecting a few bumps on the ascent and there’s some stormy weather along the panhandle, but we’ll do our best to find as smooth a ride as possible. We’re next for takeoff. Flight attendants, please be seated.”

As the plane hurtles down the runway, Kay grips the arms of her seat and squeezes her eyes closed.

She should have driven. Highway driving—once she got used to it again during all those hours on the road last weekend—had turned out to be soothing.

Flying is the opposite.

Her heart is pounding; her head is pounding, too. Her entire body aches, further evidence that stress—sheer terror—can take a drastic physical toll on a person.

The plane lifts into the air, and she holds her breath.

A bell dings in the cabin.

Kay’s eyes fly open.

Does it mean they’re going down?

No one else seems to be agitated—except Elena, who is jumping to her feet a few rows ahead. The man in the outer seat doesn’t look pleased as he rises to let her out into the aisle, but Elena doesn’t seem to care. She hurries back toward Key, gesturing for her, too, to stand up.

Kay glances up at the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign, still lit on the panel above the seats.

“It’s okay,” Elena tells her.

The woman seated to Kay’s left, blocking her access to the aisle, stays put, shaking her head in disapproval.

“She has to go to the bathroom,” Elena tells the woman.

“How would you know?”

Elena rolls her eyes impatiently. “Would you mind letting her up, please?”

“It’s okay,” Kay tries to tell her. “I don’t need to—”

“Yes, you do. Come on, Kay.”

A flight attendant steps out of the galley behind them just as Kay’s seatmate stands to let her out. “Ladies,” he says, “the seat belt light is still on. It’s not safe for you to move around the cabin right now. Please be seated.”

Kay expects Elena to argue, but to her credit, she doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Kay tells the woman beside her as they settle back into their seats.

No reply.

Jaw set, Kay leans back stiffly to endure the flight, hands clenched in her lap in an effort to stop the trembling.

The woman in the window seat to her right—young, wearing an engagement ring and reading a bridal magazine, a whole rosy future ahead of her—glances at her. “Nervous flier?” she asks sympathetically.

Kay nods. “Afraid so.”

“Me too.”

“You don’t seem nervous.”

“I took a Xanax. You want one?”

“Oh . . . no, thanks.”

“I’m going to visit my fiancé. He’s in the Coast Guard down there, and as much as I hate flying, I’d do anything for him. How about you?”

“I’m going to spend the weekend with friends, and actually . . . I’d do anything for them, too.”

They smile at each other. Then the bride-to-be goes back to her magazine, and Kay breathes a little easier. Just a little.

Cory picks up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“Where do you think?”

“Airport, I hope.”

“Yes. Where else would I be?” Jaycee keeps her voice low and her back turned to the other passengers milling around near the Starbucks. As soon as she finishes this call, she’s going to get a strong cup of coffee. Between her sleepless night, the flight, and what lies ahead, she’s going to need it.