Sam reads the flags waving from the streetlight posts. “Hall of Fame weekend.” He looks at her. “Please god, tell me I’m A-Rod coming to get inducted, and you’re JLo.”
Annie finds a spot among the Buicks and minivans. “Come on,” she says, ignoring him and turning off the car. He meets her at the trunk. She opens it, removes a baseball bat, and reaches for his hand, leading him through the crowd. A young man in a museum uniform hands her a map, which she consults before pulling Sam through the building and into a courtyard, past hundreds of people snaked in different lines. Finally she stops in front of a tent in the back. “Here you go,” she says, handing Sam the bat. It’s brand-new. “Go get it signed.”
Sam sees him then. The man sitting at the table under the tent. The one everyone’s waiting to meet. Cal Ripken Jr. Ol’ Iron Man himself. Sam looks at Annie for a long moment, and then touches her belly before getting in line.
When it’s his turn to be called, he steps forward. “Will you sign it to Quinn?” he asks nervously.
“That you?” Cal Ripken asks, taking the bat.
“No,” Sam says. “My kid, due in two months.”
Cal Ripken scrawls his name and hands the bat back with a wink. “Good luck. Hope he’s a ballplayer.”
“Thanks, but it’s a she,” Sam says. “And she’ll be whatever she wants.”
*
It’s not until they’ve left the parking lot that he’s able to speak. “We’re going to be okay?” he asks, his eyes out the window.
“Yes, we are,” she says.
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s how all good stories work out,” she says, reaching for his hand. “With a happy ending.”
Acknowledgments
This book has been a process. A few weeks before turning in a final draft on a similar but very different version, I had an idea to throw the draft away and start over with an entirely different approach. I feared that a call to my agent suggesting this new idea might very well be the end of our relationship—and rightly so, given how much Elisabeth Weed, Literally the World’s Best Agent, had invested in the book already. Instead, she heard me out, read a quick outline, and got right on the phone with Jennifer Barth, my brilliant and angelically patient editor at Harper. Jennifer didn’t hesitate in giving me her full support and, as is her way, went on to make this book a far better version of anything I could write on my own. I’m eternally grateful to both of these women, two of the very best in the business.
I also want to thank Jonathan Burnham, for his faith and encouragement these past few years, and everyone at Harper—Sarah Ried, Doug Jones, Leah Wasielewski, Katie O'Callaghan, Leslie Cohen, Virginia Stanley, Lydia Weaver, and Suzanne Mitchell; as well as Jenny Meyer, foreign agent extraordinaire, Hallie Schaeffer, and Heidi Gall. Extra special gratitude to Michelle Weiner at CAA.
Thanks also to Jillian Medoff, Liz Kay, Julie Clark, Colleen Oakley, Pam Cope, Madison Duckworth, Stephanie Addikis, Ben Sneed, Carly Beal, Hayley Downs, Kate Lemery, Lisa Selin Davis, Patrick McNulty, Alex Moggridge, Anne Rosow, Jen Ziegler, Susie Greenebaum, Tara Goodrich, Nancy Rawlinson, Julie Cooper, Whitney Brown, and Sam Miller. And, of course, to Chief of Police L. Edward Moore in Hudson, NY for helping me plot a disappearance.
Thanks to my family—Moira, Mark, Bob, Megan, Patrick, Ryan, Kevin, Abby, Brigid, Mary, Caite, and Madeleine—especially my mother, who allowed me to read her this book over the phone more times than I can say and my father, the reason I am both a writer and a reader. And, most of all, to Noelle, Shea and Mark （and Wish and Millie）。 There’s nobody else with whom I’d rather spend a pandemic.
About the Author
AIMEE MOLLOY is the author of the New York Times bestseller The Perfect Mother, her debut novel. She is also the author of However Long the Night: Molly Melching’s Journey to Help Millions of African Women and Girls Triumph and the coauthor of several books of nonfiction. She lives in Western Massachusetts with her family.
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