Eaton sighed. "No, Dorothy," he explained with the patience of one accustomed to dealing with ill-informed students, "he represents people who are accused of being criminals. Jack Hoffmeister is the president of a bank. He was accused of fraud by one of his vice-presidents, after he fired the man for incompetence, but the accusation was entirely false, as Hugh proved. He earned a good fee and several referrals from that one, and whose contact was Jack? Yours. You met him through the Friends Committee at the hospital. Hugh's wife should be involved with groups like that. I've told him that dozens of times, but he doesn't seem to hear."

"What has happened now is different. You need to talk with him."

But Eaton wasn't groveling. "If he wants me to talk to him, an apology is in order. I have my pride."

"I know that, dear. It explains his."

Eaton was unsettled. "Are you taking his side?"

"There are no sides. This is our son."

He pointed a finger at her. "You'll stand behind me in this, Dorothy. You'll stand behind me in this."

Chapter 7.

Hugh headed home to shower and change, but his cell phone kept ringing as he drove, friends calling to congratulate him, promising to be over soon to visit, and if it wasn't the phone, it was his BlackBerry.

Can't wait to see the baby!

Looking forward to seeing the baby.

When can we see the baby?

Everyone wanted to see her, and that should have been a tribute to Dana and him, proof that their friends cared. Hugh should have been ecstatic.

He didn't know why he wasn't-why there was a rock in his gut when he thought about the baby. He kept hearing Dana's disappointment in his reaction, and he didn't know what to do. Their love had come so easily. They had married within eight months of first meeting, and had never looked back. And he wasn't doing it now. It sounded, though, like she was.

Is there a racial limit to your love?

There was not, and he resented her asking. He had no prejudice. She had only to look at his work for proof of that.

Is there a racial limit to your love?

The question came again, louder now and sounding like a dare. Had he been playing devil's advocate, he might have said she was creating a diversion or, worse, a cover-up.

Hugh didn't want to believe that. He didn't believe she had been unfaithful. She loved him too much to cause him that kind of pain-and it would be excruciatingly painful, if it were true.

But there was the baby, with her beautiful brown skin, and no explanation for its source. Didn't he have a right to ask questions? Didn't it make perfectly good sense to choose one of a dozen other birth announcements that didn't have a picture on the front?

He walked in the kitchen door and picked up the phone. The pulsing tone told him that there were messages, but he didn't access them. Rather, he called the office.

His secretary was not happy to hear from him. "You aren't supposed to be working," she scolded. "You're supposed to be with Dana and the baby. I've been given orders not to talk shop."

Hugh humored her. "Then just a yes or a no, please. Did Alex get in touch with Henderson Walker?"

"Yes."

"Is he going over to the jail?"

"No."

"The situation is defused?"

"Yes."

"Did we get a continuance on the Paquette case?"

"Yes."

"Did I get a call from someone calling herself 'the garden mom'?"

"No."

"Okay. That's it. And, Sheila, if the latter does call, I want the message ASAP. Don't give it to anyone else. There's a personal connection here."

He hung up the phone feeling marginally better, but picked it up again seconds later and punched in another number.

"Hammond Security," came a familiar voice, deep and mildly accented.

"Hey, Yunus. It's Hugh. How are you?"

"I'm fine, my friend. We haven't talked in a very long time."

"My fault. Life is too busy. But I think about you often. How is the job going?"

Yunus El-Sabwi, born and raised in Iraq, had fled his homeland in his early twenties, taking his young wife and two daughters to America to ensure them a better life. After becoming an American citizen, he enrolled in the police academy, graduated at the head of his cla.s.s, and, at a time when community policing encouraged the hiring of minorities, won a spot in the Boston Police Department. In the course of eight years, he was cited numerous times for his work. Then came September 11, and everything changed. He was marginalized within the department, widely distrusted for the links he kept to relatives in Iraq. One rumor held that the money he sent monthly to his parents was earmarked for terrorists, another that he was transmitting sensitive security information in code. When the federal government refused to bring charges, deciding that it feared the ACLU more than it feared Yunus, the local authorities charged him with drug possession.

Hugh defended him on that charge, agreeing with Yunus's contention that he had been framed. A jury agreed with it, too, and so the case ended. No one was ever charged for planting drugs in Yunus's locker, and though Yunus was reinstated to the force, his life was made so unpleasant that he finally resigned. He now worked in the private security force of a company owned by Hugh's family.

"It's going well," Yunus replied. "I got a fine one-year review."

"And a raise, I hope."

"And a raise. They knew if I didn't they would have to answer to you. Thank you, my friend."

"Don't thank me. You're the one who's doing the work. How are Azhar and the girls?"

"Hamdel lah, they are well. Siba will be a senior this year. And she has decided to be a doctor. She wants to go to Harvard."

"That's a fine choice, Yunus."

"Well, she has to get in. But she was given an interview, and her grades are good."

And her connections, Hugh thought, making a mental note to call the head of admissions, a Clarke family friend.

"And tell me," said Yunus, "how is your wife? Did she have her baby?"

"She did. A little girl."

"Hamdel lah ala al salama! Such good news! Azhar will be happy to hear it. Perhaps we can visit them soon?"

"I'd like that."

Hugh was smiling when he hung up the phone. He had been appointed by the court to represent Yunus after three separate lawyers opted out, and in taking the case he had had to buck the will of the police department, the local district attorney, and the FBI. He hadn't received money other than reimburs.e.m.e.nt for court costs, but the emotional reward had been huge. Yunus El-Sabwi was hardworking and focused. Not only would he give his life for his family, but his loyalty to friends was absolute. Hugh had become a beneficiary of that.

Feeling better, Hugh went upstairs to shower and shave. Revived, he pulled on clean jeans and a fresh tee shirt, put the dirty sheets in the washer and fresh sheets on the bed, then set off for the hospital again. Along the way, he stopped at the flower shop for a balloon bouquet, at a local boutique for an absurdly expensive tie-dyed pink onesie, and at Rosie's, Dana's favorite cafe, for a grilled chicken salad.

Dana was feeding the baby when he arrived. Still buoyed, he smiled, admired the flowers sent by friends, asked how she was feeling, whether the doctor had been in, when she could go home. He traded her the salad for the baby, and managed to change his first diaper.

He didn't mention the birth announcement, didn't mention Dana's father, didn't mention ancestry. His mood deflated some when his uncle called and hara.s.sed him about Lizzie's coloring. But Hugh was firm. It wasn't an issue, he said, and proceeded to talk about the miracle of the birth.

Dana appreciated his enthusiasm. She smiled. She answered his questions. But her focus was on the baby, even while she ate her salad. He sensed she was holding back where he was concerned.

And later, as he drove home, that was what he obsessed about-not Lizzie's color, his uncle's rudeness, or the fact that neither of his parents had called. All he could think about was that if Dana was holding back, it was because she had something to hide.

Late the next morning, Dana was discharged. She dressed the baby in the pink tie-dyed onesie, which took some doing. Four adult hands-make that four inexperienced adult hands-kept getting in each other's way. But they managed, and when Hugh brought the car around, they had no trouble securing her in the car seat.

Hugh had waited for this, had imagined it so many times-driving his wife and child home-and it was good at first, the same euphoria he had felt earlier. Dana was beside him in the front, looking back at the baby every few minutes, clearly excited.

Then the baby started to fuss. Hugh pulled over; Dana got into the back; he resumed driving. Lizzie continued to cry.

"What's wrong?" he asked, glancing worriedly in the rearview mirror. He couldn't see much; the baby was directly behind him and facing toward the rear of the car.

"I don't know," Dana said. She took a pacifier from her bag. That did the trick, but only for several more miles. Then Lizzie began crying again.

"Is she wet?" he asked.

"If she is, there can't be much. I changed her right before we left."

"Then, hungry?"

"I think she's just fussy. I wish I could take her out and hold her, but that'd be totally dangerous."

"Not to mention illegal," Hugh said. "Want me to pull over?"

"No. Let's just try to get home."

He drove to the sound of sporadic crying. When they were five minutes from the house, Lizzie finally fell asleep.

Ellie Jo and Gillian Kline were at the house when they pulled up, and Hugh was as relieved to see them as Dana was delighted. These two experienced mothers knew why babies cried. Moreover, with Hugh's parents nowhere in sight on what should have been a special family day, their presence was particularly welcome.

They changed the baby, gave her to Dana to feed, murmured soft words of encouragement when it took a while to get her to nurse. Totally normal, they said more than once, then She'll catch on, and There she goes, look, that's good. Hugh watched from the door, drawing comfort from their calm. When Lizzie was asleep and he suggested taking her up to her crib, Dana opted instead for the family room.

They settled the baby in a ba.s.sinet there, settled Dana on the sofa nearby, then produced a bag from the local deli and made lunch, something Hugh hadn't thought of but welcomed. When they finished eating, the guard changed. Ellie Jo and Gillian were replaced by Tara and Juliette, and a while later by two of Ellie Jo's friends, and a while after that by two neighbors from down the street. All brought willing hands, intimate knowledge of babies, and foil-covered pans containing dinners enough for a week.

Hugh found himself leaning against the doorjamb while others took care of the baby. He was a third wheel, relegated to the status of observer, so much so that he was tempted to go to the office, where he would feel useful at least. If he had done that, though, he wouldn't have heard the talk.

Everyone thought Lizzie was a beauty and that she had a sweet temperament. A few tried to see resemblances-Hugh, I think she has your mouth, or, That is definitely Dana's nose-none of which Hugh saw. They remarked on her skin and her hair, praising both features-Her coloring is elegant, or, What I would give for curls like these. And, of course, there were questions about their source, with more than one teasing glance at Hugh. So, Hugh, where did you say you were nine months ago?

Hugh laughed the first time and smiled the second, but when the question came a third time, he said a blunt "Philadelphia," which brought laughter from the questioner and a quick explanation from Dana. The next time he said the same thing, she shot him an annoyed look. But he felt no remorse. He had warned her that there would be questions, and he was tired of being the sole b.u.t.t of the joke.

By five in the afternoon, it was Hugh's friends who began appearing. There were several from his office bearing flowers and gifts, and their remarks about Lizzie were enthusiastic and kind; but then came Hugh's family friends, young men with whom he had grown up. Clearly, they had been told about Lizzie and wanted to see her for themselves. There was an intensity to their curiosity. They said nothing aloud about the baby's parentage, not so much as an acknowledgment of her color, which was a statement in and of itself.

His basketball buddies weren't as restrained. They appeared shortly after six, four big guys en route to their weekly game. They carried roses for Dana and a Celtics onesie for Lizzie, and the silence when they saw her was comical.

Hugh, my man, who is this?

Dana, you little minx. Working with a client, you say? We've heard that one before.

So, I guess we're all cleared, except for Denny. Where is Denny, anyway?

Denny, the only African American in the group, was singing that night-as he did with a group from his church once a month. David was another matter. Just as the basketball group was getting ready to leave, the man strode through the front door. Granted, the door was wide open. Granted, David strode everywhere. Granted, he was a physical guy who had never been stingy with hugs. Hugh watched him swoop down to kiss Dana, then lean over the ba.s.sinet to stare at a baby who looked so much like his own that it would have taken a saint not to think twice.

Out on the front walk minutes later, Hugh's basketball buddy Tom said, "What's the story with that guy?"

"Story?"

"His relationship with Dana. Is it on the up-and-up?"

"Totally," Hugh said, but he was suddenly angry-angry at Tom, at his parents, at David. David was such a good friend that Hugh had never before considered his skin color. Now, all that was changed.

And then, with the basketball foursome pulling away from the curb, Hugh turned back to the house only to hear his name called. Looking down the street, he saw his neighbor jogging toward him. Monica French was one of the women who had visited earlier. In her midforties, she was married to a man who was rarely seen, but she had two teenagers and three dogs who made up for it. The dogs were with her now, three big Akitas, all crowding around her so eagerly that as she attempted to stop she almost fell.

"Hugh," she said then. "There's something I have to say, and I know it may not be appropriate, but it really is a matter of conscience. Is David a friend?"

"The best," Hugh replied, because he knew where this was headed. Monica was a busybody who walked her dogs three times a day and had no problem stopping along the way to point out, for the benefit of the ignorant homeowner, a dead shrub in the garden, a blown bulb above the garage door, or the swarm of bees by a shutter.

"If that's true," she said, "then you have nothing to worry about, because a best friend wouldn't do what I'm suggesting. But I looked at that little baby earlier and kept asking myself where her color was from, and I have to tell you, David is around a lot."

"So?" Hugh asked.

"So, he's black."

"I think I noticed that."

"I've seen him inside with Dana when you're not home."

"Yes. She tells me-not that you saw her, but that David stops by."

"He's sometimes there for an hour."

"Sixty minutes? Not forty-five or ninety?"