feel happy about it.” She patted her stomach. A little kick patted her in return. “I just feel sorry that I can’t remember learning that I was pregnant, that I can’t remember telling you, that I can’t remember being excited and shopping for things and…”
“You told me,” he said with a laugh, “by putting booties in my shoes.” When she looked puzzled, he explained. “I came out of the shower one morning, got dressed and sat on the edge of the bed to put on my shoes and found an obstruction in one of them. It was a yellow bootie trimmed with yellow ribbon. I’m a little thick,” he said with a self-deprecating roll of his eyes. “It wasn’t until I discovered another bootie in my second shoe that I realized what you were telling me.”
“What did we do then?” she whispered, desperately wishing she had that memory.
“We held each other and laughed and cried and I picked you up at school that night and took you out to dinner. We bought a baby names book on the way.”
“Have we chosen names?” She struggled to sit up, the weariness falling away.
He helped her and propped a few pillows behind her. “Ah, no. I think you jotted down a few names in the book, but we couldn’t come up with anything brilliant and you thought inspiration might strike when you got closer to delivery. But, nothing so far. You’re sure you’re all right?”
She nodded, then yawned. “I should get up and dry my hair.”
“Stay there, and I’ll brush it dry for you.” He stood to leave and she caught his wrist.
She felt his energy surge through her fingers. “It’ll take forever,” she said, both touched and alarmed that he’d offer to do that for her. How could she not remember a man who was so devoted to her, whose touch made her feel as though she swung from high-voltage wires?
Or was she right about this unsettling suspicion that all wasn’t right between them, and this was intended to convince her that everything was fine, either to speed her recovery or for purposes of his own?
Their gazes locked for an instant. She saw only attentive kindness in his—then the sudden awareness there that she was uncertain about him. She caught a glimpse of his disappointment before he went into her bedroom and returned with a brush.
“I’ve watched you do this a hundred times,” he said. “It’s a brush designed to be easy on wet hair. Close your eyes and think about baby names, and I’ll brush.”
HE WAS SURPRISED when she complied. He knew she didn’t entirely believe him, and he didn’t know how to reassure her convincingly. Maybe it was the hormonal riot caused by the pregnancy.
He ran the brush from her scalp, through the fiery length of hair that fell past her shoulder blades when she was standing. It shimmered in the firelight like the darkest part of the flame.
“What about Bailey for a girl?” she asked, her voice quiet.
He made a negative sound. “I hate those last-name first-names.”
“Something more ordinary? Like Margaret or Alice?”
“I like Margaret.” He remembered a caseworker from some point in his childhood whose name had been Margaret. She’d been middle-aged and a little frumpy, and very kind. “You had talked about using your sisters’ names. But you were afraid it might cause too much confusion in the family to have two people with the same name—particularly if a girl turned out looking just like the three of you.”
“Alexis and Athena,” she thought aloud.
“If we combined them, what would that give us?” she speculated while he brushed. “Athexis?” She laughed.
Her amusement made him smile. She’d had so little to be amused about. “Alena?” he asked. “Lexena?”
“Alena,” she repeated thoughtfully. “That’s not bad, is it?”
“No, I kind of like that. What if we have a boy?”
She sighed. “A boy. Well, we’d have to name him after you, wouldn’t we? Bram…” She stopped, then asked, “What’s your middle name?”
“Bramston is my middle name.” He combed his fingers through her hair to test if he was making progress. Her hair was drying but still damp. “First name, John.”
“John Bramston Bishop Jr., if it’s a boy?”
“No, I think that causes confusion, too. I think he should have a name that’s all his own.”
“Okay. Is there anyone you admire that you’d like to name him after?”
“I have a couple of friends who are very important to me. David Hartford and Trevyn McGinty.”
“Your CIA friends?”
“Yes.”
“David Trevyn Bishop,” she said. “Trevyn David Bishop. Sounds pretty good either way. Do you like it?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Then, let’s nail that one down if it’s a boy. Maybe with the Trevyn first.”
“Works for me. And Alena for a girl? What about a middle name?”
“Alena Marie? Alena Elizabeth? Alena Theresa?” She tried several more combinations that failed to inspire her until she said, “Alena Leanne. Alena…Leanne. Leanne.”
“I take it you like that one?” he asked, drawing the brush along the underside of her hair. It was drying now and growing lighter, the copper highlights against the dark red magnificent.
“Bram!” she exclaimed, snapping him out of his sensual study. She reached a hand back to him. “Help me sit up!”
He moved around her to support her to a sitting position. “Dizzy again?” he asked anxiously. “Pain?”
“No.” She held on to his arm and pulled him down beside her, her eyes focused on something he couldn’t see. “Leanne.”
“What about Leanne?” She was making him nervous. He rubbed her back gently.
“I think…I know one. In my classroom.” She turned to him suddenly, her eyes brightening, a wide smile forming. “I have one in my classroom!”
Oh God. She was remembering. He tried not to panic. “Leanne who?”
She closed her eyes tightly, the smile becoming a frown. “I don’t know. I can’t get that part. I can just see…ooh!”
“What do you see?”
“Just…” She fluttered her fingers around herself. “Lots of blond hair. But no face. She always has her hand up. Leanne. Bram! I remembered something!”
She threw her arms around him, laughing and crying simultaneously. “I remembered something!”
“That’s wonderful.” From somewhere he found
