A Week at the Lake by Wendy Wax Page A

Zoe asked. “I mean, for my mom?”
    Mackenzie’s hand stole to her stomach as Serena’s gaze swept over her.
    â€œYes.” Serena hesitated. She threw another glance, this one of apology, Mackenzie’s way. “Actually it was a baby shower I threw for your mom and Mackenzie here in New York. I, um, didn’t have
As the World Churns
yet, so it was a bit of a low-budget endeavor.”
    Mackenzie remembered the shower well. How happy she’d been. How thrilled that she and Emma would have children so close in age. Children that could grow up to be best friends, too. And then the accident, the force of the air bagsmashing into her. She’d never managed to carry anywhere close to term after that.
    â€œMy mom told me once that you lost your baby,” Zoe said. “I didn’t understand. For the longest time I was afraid she’d lose me, too.”
    Mackenzie inwardly flinched. Her own loss had been so fresh that the time around Zoe’s birth was still blurred around the edges. It had been the only year she was unable to make herself join them at the lake.
    She watched Zoe’s face light up as she flipped the pages, exclaiming over the hokey decorations and the old-fashioned maternity clothes. If it came to it, she and Adam could bring Zoe home with them. Indiana, and especially Noblesville, was a far more wholesome place to raise a teenager than New York or Hollywood. She’d have a daughter to pal around with, to take shopping. And there was their theater; Zoe would love . . .
    She cut off the line of thought, horrified. Emma was strong. The woman had divorced herself from her parents when she was younger than Zoe. She had a will of iron. If anyone could pull through, it was Em. Emma had always gotten everything she wanted—marriage, a career, a child. The only thing Mackenzie had gotten that Emma hadn’t was true love with Adam. Even if that love wasn’t feeling quite as “true” at the moment.
    â€œHere’s my favorite shot of the four of us.” Serena flipped the page to a shot of the three of them standing on the porch of the lake house, with Zoe, a thatch of red-gold hair and spindly legs, poking above and below the sling she’d been suspended in. Her face was pressed tight against Emma’s chest.
    â€œYour great-grandmother took this shot,” Mackenzie said quietly. “We couldn’t wait for our turns to hold and carry you.”
    â€œWe even fought over who would get to change your poopy diapers,” Serena added. “Not that any of us was particularly skilled at it.”
    â€œWe felt like you belonged to all of us.” Mackenzie’s eyes blurred with tears as Zoe closed the album. Looking far from comforted, Zoe began to cry.
    â€œOh, God.” Serena swiped at her eyes and stood. “We are not going to sit here crying. Emma would totally hate that.” She pulled the bag of popcorn from the gift box. “Go get your pajamas on. I’m going to pop us a great big bowl of this stuff. And then it’s time for a couple of episodes of
I Love Lucy
.

Eight

    T wo days had passed with no apparent change in Emma’s condition when their cab turned onto the street that fronted the hospital that morning. A white stretch limo idled at the curb and an exponentially larger mob of paparazzi littered the sidewalk. When a small gap in the wall of reporters and photographers opened up, Serena could see why. The Michaels family had arrived.
    â€œSlow down, but don’t stop,” Serena directed the driver.
    â€œOh, my God, it’s Rex, Eve, Regan, and Nash,” Mackenzie said. “In the flesh.”
    Emma’s parents and siblings might have been gods descended from Mount Olympus, and the paparazzi there to worship at their feet given the way they had amassed on the steps below them. Necks cricked back and cameras and video recorders aimed upward; they shouted questions and thrust