And to the rest of the world, he was the father of her unborn child.
Two younger black men carefully placed a marble cross-shaped headstone into a footer in the ground, the cross bearing simply Spenser Watkins’ name, the year of his birth, and a space for that of his death. The stone had been prepared earlier, waiting for its proper time, yet another example of Mr. Watkins’ attempts to make things easier for her.
She and Sally held on to each other as they turned and went back into the house. Mary-Michael had so much to think about now, so much to do, and so much life to live. She rubbed the barely-there bump below her navel and smiled, once again, thanking God for her beautiful good fortune.
Two hours after dropping anchor in Curtis bay, just off Watkins’ shipyard, Lucky and Ian stood
