A Measure of Happiness Read Online Free Page B

too accommodating, too trusting.
    Years ago, with Barry out of the room, Katherine’s OB/GYN had asked whether she’d previously given birth. And even though the doctor had seen inside her, even though he was bound to keep her secret, she couldn’t coax the truth past her lips.
    To what end? What purpose would her admission serve? She’d gotten pregnant when she’d slept with a stranger. She’d gotten pregnant because back in the day, she used to sleep around. A generous serving of cake, a second glass of wine, a few mind-blowing orgasms? Why deny herself any form of pleasure?
    And so, she’d lied to the doctor about whether she’d previously given birth. As far as Barry was concerned, the vague stretch marks on her stomach were easily explained, weight gained from donuts, not delivery. Sometimes she wanted to throttle Barry with the truth.
    Divorce had been easier.
    â€œNope, no mundel bread. Care for a biscotti?”
    â€œNo thanks, I’m trying to cut down.” Barry smoothed a hand down his bulge-free belly, and Katherine imagined another woman cooling the ridges of his appendix scar with her fingers, warming the curved white line with her tongue. The image hurt, made Katherine’s center cave in, like a cake at high altitude. She forced herself to hold the thought. Hold tight, so she could do the right thing and let him go.

C HAPTER 2
    T hree weeks ago, Zach Fitzgerald’s mother kicked him out of the house, changed the locks, and told her twenty-three-year-old son to stop acting like a teenager. That made sense, since the last time he’d really belonged anywhere he’d been twelve.
    There were signs, of course, that he’d chosen not to notice. His height for one. Nearly five foot seven by the time he’d turned thirteen, he towered over all of the boys in eighth grade, most of the girls, and both of his parents. His younger brothers couldn’t really be counted upon to measure up ahead of him, but their fair hair should’ve provided a clue. Zach’s dark hair stood out in family photographs, as though he were destined to become the proverbial black sheep. As though he’d never had a choice. And then there was the singing. His parents had met in the Arlington, Massachusetts, Unitarian church choir, both of them soloists there to this day. Zach’s brothers didn’t care much for church, but Ryan studied voice at Berklee, and Donovan, now a senior in high school, was the lead singer for a rock band he’d formed freshman year: Prodigal Son. Even Zach had to admit, his brothers’ singing didn’t suck.
    On the other hand, Zach’s singing sucked big-time. He’d rather eat glass than attempt to carry a tune.
    And after having eaten his way across two dozen Casco Bay bakeries, he would’ve rather eaten glass than choke down another once-favorite pastry. Gingersnaps burned his tongue, their bite a battle he waged inside his mouth. Cheesecake, a treat his mother made every Thanksgiving, curdled as soon as it passed through his lips. And he could no longer open his mouth for lemon bars. The slight pucker of sour fruit now bathed and numbed his tongue.
    Yet here he was. Quarter past six, most of the sleepy town’s storefronts were still dark, and Zach was pulling his dependable Volvo, Matilda, into a vacant spot by Lamontagne’s Bakery, in search of an older woman. Weeks of wandering hadn’t sated that hunger.
    According to nonidentifying information, the woman of his dreams was, or had been, a baker. Twenty-four years ago, she must’ve lived in or around Brunswick, Maine. Having completed his canvas of coastal towns from Brunswick to Phippsburg, Zach set his sights on Hidden Harbor’s only bakery.
    The last time Zach had seen this older woman, she’d been younger than he was now. That notion rearranged his insides, like the summer he’d worked as a high-rise window cleaner and his platform outside