amniotic fluid that continued to leak, and went down the hall to the baby’s room. She had barely turned on the light when he called.
‘Dee?’
‘In here!’
Buttoning jeans, he appeared at the door. His dark hair was mussed, his eyes concerned. ‘If those pains are less than ten minutes apart, we’re supposed to head to the hospital. Are you okay?’
She nodded. ‘Just want a last look.’
‘It’s perfect, honey,’ he said as he stretched into an old navy tee shirt. ‘All set?’
‘I don’t think they’re less than ten minutes apart.’
‘They will be by the time we’re halfway there.’
‘This is our first,’ she argued. ‘First babies take longer.’
‘That may be the norm, but every norm has exceptions. Indulge me on this, please?’
Taking his hand, she kissed his palm and pressed it to her neck. She needed another minute.
She felt safe here, sheltered, happy. Of all the nurseries she had decorated for clients, this was her best – four walls of a panoramic meadow, laced with flowers, tall grasses, sun-tipped trees. Everything was white, soft orange, and green, myriad shades of each highlighted with a splotch of blue in a flower or the sky. The feeling was one of a perfect world, gentle, harmonious, and safe.
Self-sufficient she might be, but she had dreamed of a world like this from the moment she had dared to dream again.
Hugh had grown up in a world like this. His childhood had been sheltered, his adolescence rich. His family had come to America on the Mayflower and been prominent players ever since. Four centuries of success had bred stability. Hugh might downplay the connection, but he was a direct beneficiary of it.
‘Your parents expected pastel balloons on the wall,’ she remarked, releasing his hand. ‘I’m afraid I’ve disappointed them.’
‘Not you,’ he answered, ‘we, but it’s a moot point. This isn’t my parents’ baby.’ He made for the door. ‘I need shoes.’
Moving aside knitting needles that held the top half of a moss green sleepsack, Dana carefully lowered herself into the Boston rocker. She had dragged it down from the attic, where Hugh hid most of his heirloom pieces, and while she had rescued others, now dispersed through the house, this was her favorite. Purchased in the 1840s by his great-great-grandfather, the eventual Civil War general, it had a spindle back and three-section rolled seat that was strikingly comfortable for something so old. Months ago, even before they had put the meadow on the walls, Dana had sanded the rocker’s chipped paint and restored it to gleaming perfection. And Hugh had let her. He knew that she valued family history all the more for having lived without it.
That said, everything else was new, a family history that began here. The crib and its matching dresser were imported, but the rest, from the changing pad on top, to the hand-painted fabric framing the windows, to the mural, were custom done by her roster of artists. That roster, which included top-notch painters, carpenters, carpet and window people, also included her grandmother and herself. There was a throw over one end of the crib, made by her grandmother and mirroring the meadow mural; a cashmere rabbit that Dana had knitted in every shade of orange; a bunting, two sweaters, numerous hats, and a stack of carriage blankets – and that didn’t count the winter wool bunting in progress, which was mounded in a wicker basket at the foot of her chair, or the sleepsack she held in her hand. They had definitely gone overboard.
Rocking slowly, she smiled as she remembered what had been here eight months before. Her pregnancy had just been confirmed, when she had come home from work to find the room blanketed with tulips. Purple, yellow, white – all were fresh enough to last for days. Hugh had planned this surprise with sheer pleasure, and Dana believed it had set the tone.
There was magic in this room. There was warmth and love. There was security. Their baby would be happy here, she knew it would.
Opening a hand on her stomach, she caressed the mound that was absurdly large in proportion to the rest of her. She couldn’t feel the baby move – the poor little thing didn’t have room to do much more than wiggle a finger or toe – but Dana felt the tightening of muscles that would push her child into the world.
Breathe slowly … Hugh’s soothing baritone came back from their Lamaze classes. She was still breathing deeply well after the end of what was definitely another contraction when the slap of flip-flops announced his return.
She grinned. ‘I’m picturing the baby in this room.’
But he was observant to a fault. ‘That was another contraction, wasn’t it? Are you timing them?’
‘Not yet. They’re too far apart. I’m trying to distract myself by thinking happy thoughts. Remember the first time I saw your house?’
It was the right question. Smiling, he leaned against the door jamb. ‘Sure do. You were wearing neon green.’
‘It wasn’t neon, it was lime, and you didn’t know what the piece was.’
‘I knew what it was. I just didn’t know what it was called.’
‘It was called a sweater.’
His eyes held hers. ‘Laugh if you want – you do every time – but that sweater was more angular and asymmetrical than anything I’d ever seen.’
‘Modular.’
‘Modular,’ he repeated, pushing off from the jamb. ‘Knit in cashmere and silk – all of which comes easily to me now, but back then, what did I know?’ He put both hands on the arms of the rocker and bent down. ‘I interviewed three designers. The others were out of the running the minute you walked in my door. I didn’t know about yarn, didn’t know about color, didn’t know about whether you were any kind of decorator, except that David loved what you did for his house. But we’re playing with fire, dear heart. David will kill me if I don’t get you to the hospital in time. I’m sure he’s seen the lights.’
David Johnson lived next door. He was an orthopedic surgeon and divorced. Dana was always trying to set him up, but he always complained, saying that none of the women were her.
‘David won’t see the lights,’ she insisted now. ‘He’ll be asleep.’
Placing her knitting on the basket, Hugh hoisted her – gently – to her feet. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Excited. You?’
‘Antsy.’ He slid an arm around her waist, or thereabouts, but when he saw from her face that another contraction had begun, he said, ‘Definitely less than ten minutes. What, barely five?’
She didn’t argue, just concentrated on slowly exhaling until the pain passed. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Okay – boy or girl – last chance to guess.’
‘Either one is great, but we can’t just hang out here, Dee,’ he warned. ‘We have to get to the hospital.’ He tried to steer her toward the hall.
‘I’m not ready.’
‘After
