"No. It will be easier if I just go."
"O.K. I'll get some food."
Later, in Shop 'N Save, Oliver marveled at how easy it was to start
living with someone. He made reasonable guesses at what Jennifer might
like to eat. He remembered chamomile tea. I was married once, he
reminded himself. I know how to do this. A baby? That seemed unreal.
Yet he had felt it, secure and growing. Probably, Jennifer shouldn't
drink too much. He bought a bottle of Merlot and a six pack of ale. He
bought organic corn chips made with what he thought was the good kind
of fat. She said that she wanted to make pies. Better leave that stuff
to her, he thought. We can get baking dishes at The Whip and Spoon on
Commercial Street. It would be nice if that programming work came
through. He should follow up with Gifford Sims. Jennifer was still
working. She could help with the bills.
He made two trips up the stairs with armloads of groceries. Porter's
car was parked in front. It had been there often, lately. Oliver
wondered if he had moved in. "The house is filling up, Verdi." He put
away the food, listening to Van Morrison and The Chieftains. His eye
caught the heart that Francesca had drawn--probably not a good idea to
leave it there. He peeled the tape from the wall, folded the heart
carefully, and put it with the Marsh and Cooley account information in
a brown manila envelope. Something told him to keep the account and
Francesca to himself. If he could put Francesca in a separate place,
keep her from Jennifer, he wouldn't have to choose between them. He was
uneasy about this, but he didn't know what else to do. He had a plastic
filing box where he kept his income tax information returns. He slid
the envelope into the folder for the oldest year, closed the box, and
put it in a corner of the closet.
"I'm home, Handsome!" Oliver trotted downstairs and took a load of
clothes from Jennifer.
"I'll put them on the couch for now," he said. "I'll make some shelves
or something. How did it go?"
"Fantastic. Rupert was just leaving when I got there. I told him I was
moving out and he hardly changed expression. I told him I'd have my
stuff out by tomorrow night."
"You don't fool around."
"Only with you." Jennifer hugged him and stepped away. "More in the
car," she said happily. They made several trips. "This is most of it.
The summer clothes are put away; I'll get them tomorrow. And the sheets
and towels I bought--I'm damned if Rupert's going to get those."
"Right," Oliver said. "You should park where the Jeep is, behind the
house. The next time I go out, I'll park on the street when I come
back. There's only one space with the apartment."
"Oh, I'm driving you out."
"No problem. When you get to nine months, you shouldn't be looking
around for parking."
"There's my cross country skis and my bike . . ."
"We can put those in the basement. I have a storage area down there."
"It's so cozy here." Jennifer was glowing.
"I bought some chamomile tea."
"Oliver, you're the perfect man--_my_ perfect man--my PM, my Prime
Minister."
"Does that mean you want some?"
"It would be wonderful."
Oliver made tea, thinking that Jennifer had a lot of stuff. Shelves
were a necessity. There were two bare walls upstairs. He could buy pine
and use the two pieces of walnut for the top shelves. Maybe not. Save
the walnut for something else.
"Oh God, the books!" Jennifer said.
"Huh?"
"I have a lot of books."
"More shelves," Oliver said. "I'll help you with the books."
"We'll need boxes."
"I'll get some tomorrow at the U-Haul place."
"Rupert will be gone after nine."
"I don't care," Oliver said.
"It just makes things smoother," she said.
By late afternoon the next day, they had carried the last load into the
apartment. The living room was full of boxes. They sat at the kitchen
table and made plans. Jennifer was going to work in the morning, the
day before Thanksgiving. Oliver was going to make shelves and then move
his tools down to the basement. They could use his workbench to hold
the additional kitchen stuff. Jennifer had a whole set of dishes she
had bought, refusing to use the ones that had belonged to Rupert's
parents.
Gifford Sims called and asked if Oliver could start the following
Monday. Oliver told Gifford that he'd be there bright and early.
Jennifer bought a bushel of apples and another baking dish. By noon on
Thanksgiving Day, most of the shelves were built and filled. The bed
was remade with tan sheets that were bordered with blooming roses.
Verdi was calming down, and the rain had stopped. The apartment smelled
of pie. Boxes of books were stacked high in one corner of the living
room. Not much space left, Oliver thought, but much more homey.
"So--Deweys later?" he asked.
"The pies are ready," Jennifer said. "I hope it won't be too smoky."
"We don't have to stay long," Oliver said.
Jennifer stood. "Nap time," she said. Oliver watched her hips swing
easily around the corner of the steps. He thought of laying out the
remaining shelves, yawned, and followed her upstairs.
14.
It was cold and crisp, nearly dark. A neon Guinness sign glowed through
a window by the door to Deweys. Oliver shifted the box of pies to one
arm and hugged Jennifer with the other. He had a momentary desire to go
home and keep the news to themselves.
"Here we go," he said, opening the door. Music, warmth and the smell of
ale and cigarettes poured out. Jennifer stepped in ahead of him. They
stood for a moment, adjusting to the light.
"Olive Oil!"
"Hey, George. Jennifer, this is George."
"Hello, George. What should we do with the pies, Oliver?"
"I'll ask Sam."
The bartender pointed at a table pushed against one wall. "The bird is
going over there--any time now." Oliver put three pies on the table and
stashed the empty box underneath. He ordered a pint of Guinness for
himself and a half for Jennifer.
"Prescribed for young mothers," he said, handing it to her and taking
her coat. George stared at Jennifer's stomach.
"Due in April," she said.
"Fatherhood," Oliver said, setting the record straight and sipping his
pint.
"Jesus, Oliver . . . I've been making sculptures; you've been making
the real thing."
"It sort of makes itself," Jennifer said.
"Boy or girl?"
"Good question," Oliver said.
"We could find out, but I don't really want to," Jennifer said. "Mmmm."
She made a face. "This what-do-you-call-it takes a little getting used
to."
"Guinness," Oliver said. "Stout."
"Guinness is a kind of stout," George said. "Some stouts are sweeter;
some are a little lighter."
"One thing about stout," Oliver said, "it's hard to drink too much of
it. You get full first. Looks like most of the regulars are here.
Where's Richard?"
"O'Grady? New York. He goes to his sister's every year." George's eyes
went back to Jennifer. She was wearing a long sleeved turquoise jersey
with a revealing scoop neck. The jersey hugged her breasts and then
curved slightly out and back into dark slacks. "Athletic momma," George
said.
"That's a title," Oliver said. "You just got sculpted or something."
"Painted," George said.
"What do you know about painting?" Mark Barnes had drifted next to them.
"Hey, Mark," Oliver said. He introduced Jennifer.
"I've seen you somewhere," Jennifer said to Mark.
"Climbing out a bedroom window," George said.
"Was that it?" Jennifer smiled.
"Couldn't have been recently," Mark said.
Sandy staggered into the room, carrying a huge turkey in a roasting
pan. She lowered it to the table as the regulars cheered. Sandy had
worked in Deweys for years. She was popular--red-cheeked, oversized,
hard-drinking, and tolerant. Another woman brought paper plates,
plastic utensils, and a carving set. "Go for it," Sandy said.
"_Where's the broccoli? _" someone called. There was a chorus of boos.
Sandy and her helper made another trip to the kitchen, returning with
garlic bread and an oversized bowl of salad. The group took turns
hacking at the turkey. George and Mark argued about Giacometti.
George maintained that Giacometti was better than Picasso. Mark would
have none of it. "All that angst! He never met a color he didn't
like--cuz the color was always black. My God! I mean, for an Italian!"
"He was Swiss," Jennifer said.
"That explains it," Mark said.
"I love you," George said.
"I took Modern Art at Bowdoin," Jennifer said. "I did a paper on
Alberto Giacometti."
"My God," George said, "Bowdoin? They let you out of the
Impressionists?"
"Oh, yes," Jennifer said. "Giacometti was very good. Cute, too."
"I knew it," Mark said. "Cute."
"How about some turkey?" Oliver suggested.
Bringing the pies turned out to be a good idea; they disappeared
quickly. Sam presented Jennifer with a pint on the house. She was
treated like a queen by many of the regulars--misty-eyed about
motherhood as long as they didn't have to deal with it. Two hours
later, she began to yawn. Oliver collected the empty pie dishes, and
they drove home, fortified against the cold, pleased to have been
accepted as a couple for the first time.
"I like your friends," Jennifer said on the way home. She rubbed her
eyes. "It _was_ smoky in there."
"We should have left a little sooner, I guess," Oliver said. "How's
Junior?"
"No complaints."
"That was our coming-out party," Oliver said.
"Yep--we're an item now," Jennifer said, patting him on the knee.
The next day, Jennifer came home with a booklet on how to get a Maine
divorce. "Great news," she said, "two or three months and it's over. I
called Rupert. He was feeling guilty and said he'd sign whatever. It's
pretty simple, really. We don't own much in common."
"That's how it was with Charlotte. We had the house together, but she
got some money from her parents and bought me out. Wasn't all that much
equity, anyway."
"Where was your house?"
"Peaks Island."
"Oooh," Jennifer said, "that must have been nice."
"It wasn't bad . . . I like the ferries, but they get to be a pain."
"I think we should stay right here until the baby is born," Jennifer
said.
"Uh, yeah." Doing anything else had never crossed Oliver's mind.
"But, afterwards, I think we should be looking for a place with more
room--don't you?"
Oliver rubbed his forehead. "I guess," he said. "I hadn't thought that
far ahead."
"April 24th, the big day," Jennifer said.
"Spring," Oliver said.
"I should be able to work until then. I get three months maternity
leave."
"Money," Oliver said. "We'll see how the hospital gig works out. Hard
to tell."
"Oliver, let's not worry about anything. Let's just enjoy it. God, I'm
so glad I'm not at Hilton Head!"
"We've got our own beaches," Oliver said and was immediately sorry as
he imagined Francesca walking toward him.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," he said.
"It _has_ happened fast," she said sympathetically. "Let me fix you
some tea." It wasn't such a bad thing to be fussed over, he thought.
They stayed around the apartment most of the weekend. On Sunday
morning, Oliver woke up before Jennifer. It was snowing lightly. He
thought of getting out of bed quietly and taking coffee to Crescent
Beach. Would Francesca be there? Would she miss him if he didn't go? If
he did go, how could he explain to Jennifer where he'd been? He wanted
to share the new developments with Francesca, but he was afraid of
hurting her. Maybe it was better to let it be for a while. Maybe
Francesca wouldn't be there. Maybe she was already on a warm beach in
Costa Rica, not a snowy one in Cape Elizabeth.
He got up, made coffee, and turned on the radio. The public station was
playing a Bach cantata. Oliver repressed a feeling of disloyalty as he
took the coffee upstairs. "_Love the one you're with, _" he repeated to
himself from The Rolling Stones.
Jennifer hunched herself up on the pillows and accepted a mug with both
hands. "Mmmm," she said, sipping. "Have to do it."
"Do what?"
"Call Mother."
"Ah," Oliver said, "me too."
"She'll be fine once she gets used to it."
"You mean, used to me."
"Yes, Silly. She's already excited about the baby."
"Maybe we should drive down."
"Yes, but I'd better go first. Then we'll go together--maybe at
Christmas."
"O.K.," Oliver said.
"Daddy won't care; he never liked Rupert."
"Good man."
Oliver took a long shower, standing under hot water, hearing snatches
of Jennifer's voice as she talked on the phone. He dried himself with
one of her thick white towels and received a vigorous hug when he
stepped into the kitchen. "She freaked out when I explained, but the
worst is over," Jennifer said. "I'm going to drive down next Saturday,
stay the night, get things back on track." Oliver wondered what "on
track" meant.
"O.K.," he said. "One down. My mother will be excited, actually."
"It is exciting," Jennifer said. "Go on, get it over with." Oliver
called and gave his mother the news, promising to bring Jennifer for a
visit during the holidays. "There," Jennifer said, "that wasn't so bad.
I want to meet your mom."
"You'll like her," Oliver said. "Want to go down to Becky's? Honeymoon
fruit bowl?"
By Monday, they were ready for the working world. Jennifer gave him a
goodbye smooch and drove to The Wetlands Conservancy. Oliver stopped
for a bagel on his way to the hospital and read the paper like a proper
commuter.
Gifford Sims shook his hand and then led him farther down the hall and
into another office. "Suzanne," he said, "this is Oliver Prescott. He
will be working with us on the computer." He nodded at Oliver and left.
A man known far and wide for his small talk, Oliver almost said.
"Gifford is my uncle," Suzanne said neutrally. She was the same tidy
chick who had looked him over on his first visit. She wore no make-up
or jewelry. Her face had a healthy glow, framed by her soft
shoulder-length blonde hair. She smiled quickly, a flash of teeth, an
invitation, gone as soon as he took it in. Her mouth settled to a
patient hurt expression. "What is your social security number?"
She filled out a form. "We still do payables by hand," she said.
"So, I should give _you_ the bill?"
"Yes. Just leave it on my desk if I'm not here. I'm usually here." The
smile again, this time rueful and just as quickly gone. She brushed her
hair back with one hand. Oliver noticed lighter streaks in her
hair--from the sun, probably. Her eyes were intelligent, a deep
chocolate color. "I can mail the check or hold it for you."
"Holding it would be simpler."
"Good," she said. "I'll introduce you to Dan." She rose and moved
around him deferentially. My size, he thought. He was used to looking
up at women; it was relaxing to be taller for a change, if only by an
inch.
"Glad to meet you," Dan said, shaking hands and grinning widely. "We've
got plenty to do." Suzanne excused herself. Oliver's eyes lingered on
her as she went out the door. "As I was saying, plenty to do."
"Right," Oliver said.
"I'm in charge of billing. That's what we use the computer for, mostly.
Let me show you the computer room." He took Oliver into an
air-conditioned room where four women were working at terminals. The
computer was at the far end of the room, next to an enclosed line
printer. "We bought a receivables package years ago, but it has been
modified a lot."
"Sure," Oliver said.
"Gifford has asked us to change the late messages. Here's what he
wants." Dan pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded
it. "Over 30 days, this; 60 days, this; 90 days, here." He circled the
numbers and underlined the messages.
"O.K.," Oliver said. "Where's the documentation?"
"We don't have much," Dan said. "The original stuff is on that shelf
over there."
"Ah," Oliver said. He pulled at one ear lobe. "What language are we
talking?"
"RPG II."
"O.K." Oliver groaned inwardly. He'd have to get a book. RPG was
supposedly the worst language ever devised. First time for everything.
"No problem." That was one thing about being a professional; he knew he
could do it. "Might take a while to get started . . ."
"Good! Good! We want it done right." Dan rubbed his hands together
enthusiastically. He was in his early forties, medium-sized, balding,
energetic. "Let me know if you have any questions. We don't work on
Saturdays. Did Gifford tell you that?"
"Yes."
"Good! I'll get you a door key in case you have to get in here after
hours. We lock the computer room at night."
"Dan, could you come here a moment?"
"Be right there," he called to someone in the corridor. "This is
Oliver, everybody." The women had all been watching them. "Ruth, Edna,
Lillian, Vi." He pointed to each in turn. Oliver smiled four times.
"O.K. gang, let's get to it." Dan walked quickly out of the room,
intent on the next problem. Oliver pulled a yellow pad from his bag and
wrote names on the final page where they wouldn't be seen: Ruth, short
blonde; Edna, happy; Lillian, glasses, bored; Vi, body; Dan; Suzanne.
What a pro, he bragged to himself.
He looked through the manuals and tried to make sense of the system.
The terminals in the computer room were used for data entry--billing
information and payments. Terminals elsewhere in the hospital allowed
people to look up information. Medical records were kept by hand in a
different department.
The operating system was complicated but not too different from one he
had used a few years earlier. There was a job control language that
scheduled daily updates and a weekly billing run. A log kept automatic
track of all programs that were executed. This gave him the names of
the programs. He found Dan at the other end of the hospital and asked
him for a password. Once inside the system, he found the source code
for the billing programs. A lot of small programs were run in sequence
before the bills were actually produced. He took a guess and printed
out the last three to be run; the late messages were probably
hard-coded in there somewhere. The code was incomprehensible. He
couldn't get anywhere without a book. He said goodbye and drove to the
Maine Mall.
There was only one book on RPG II. It was a language from the dawn of
computer history, thirty years old. He took the book to the Food Court
and began trying to interpret the code listings. Two cups of coffee
later, he drove home. He had made some progress, but there was a lot
left to figure out.
There was a statement from Myron in the mail. Francesca was listed as
joint owner at the top. Her name, next to his, gave him a proud
feeling. Together. The feeling of connectedness with Francesca was deep
and comforting, as long as he didn't think of Jennifer and the baby at
the same time.
Myron had invested most of the money in some kind of fund. There were
small amounts of General Electric, Royal Dutch Shell, Pfizer,
Microsoft, and Citibank. A note suggested that he stop in. "Keeping
powder dry," Myron wrote. "These blue chips will grow with the economy.
We'll add to them on dips and as money comes in. Waiting for good entry
points on some growth companies." What was Pfizer? He'd ask Jennifer.
On the other hand, he thought, maybe it would be best to keep quiet
about this account--at least for now. He put the statement in his
pocket and walked down to the Old Port.
"What's Pfizer?" he asked Myron.
"Pharmaceutical company. Solid. The long term outlook for the drug
industry is good." Oliver inquired about the fund that was listed on
the statement. "Right," Myron said. "It's a safe place to park
cash--government securities only, decent return."
"I was wondering," Oliver said, "if you could hold my statements
here--not send them."
"We can do that. Let me make a note. No problem."
"Thanks," Oliver said. "I'll check in from time to time."
"Or call me," Myron said. "I've got my eye on some companies--domestic
natural gas, fiber optics, fuel cell technology."
"I've heard of fuel cells. What are they?"
"They produce electricity directly from a source of hydrogen. You feed
them pure hydrogen or a hydrocarbon fuel; you get electricity, heat,
and water. No pollution. Very reliable. Cars would be the bonanza
market, but there are engineering problems to solve first--to make the
cars cheap enough. There are a lot of other applications. Residential
power. Industrial power."
"Wowzir!"
"It's a ways off," Myron said. "The people who develop a technology
aren't always the ones who make the big money with it. Developing a
business takes a different kind of skill." Myron shook his head. "I've
been burnt," he said. "You put a winning technology together with
winning management--_then_ you've got something."
"It's interesting. Well--do what you think best. I'll start following
these companies."
"No statement?" Myron inquired, making sure.
"Save a tree," Oliver confirmed.
"Right." A twinkle quickly disappeared. "Right."
Oliver walked up Congress Street. He saw a rack of postcards in an art
supplies store window. I ought to send Muni a card, he thought. There
weren't any that he liked, however. Maybe at the Museum. Christmas
decorations were already appearing. It was going to be a busy holiday.
Arlen was collecting his mail when Oliver arrived home.
"Hey, Arlen, how are you?"
"Just fine, Oliver."
"Developments, Arlen!"
"I noticed--with a Volvo."
"Jennifer. We must get together soon. She's great. She's going to have
a baby. We're going to have a baby."
"Congratulations! I'm happy for you, Oliver. Developments downstairs,
as well."
"I wondered," Oliver said.
"Porter," Arlen said simply.
"Excellent! The House of Happy Endings."
"Thank you, Oliver. Let us hope so. When is the baby due?"
"April."
"Oh, my. Definitely we must celebrate. Whoops, there's the phone." He
waved goodbye and let himself into his apartment. Oliver felt something
at his feet.
"Verdi! Were you out? Well, well, time to eat isn't it?" He closed the
front door behind him, and Verdi ran up the stairs. Oliver followed,
seeing a can of coconut milk and a smaller can of Thai curry paste.
Basil, a bit of chicken, green beans, rice . . . He was almost out of
shoyu, but that wouldn't matter with a curry. Tomorrow he would get
shoyu. And more veggies. Jennifer was strong on veggies.
15.
Oliver concentrated on programming. He found and successfully changed
the late messages. Dan gave him a list of projects which he put aside
until he could finish documenting the system. "You have to understand
the data before you can work with it," he explained to Jennifer. "The
data is everything. Most people don't know how to lay out a database;
they make a mess that just keeps getting worse."
"You did a nice job at The Conservancy," she said.
"At some point, you have to start fresh," Oliver said. "The hospital
can get by for awhile--if they don't try to change too much. I don't
think they will. I don't think they want to spend the money. I mean, it
works--the present system. I'll know what I'm doing in a couple of
weeks."
"They're lucky to have you," Jennifer said.
"They're good to work with. You'd think that they would be a little
screwy--First Fundamentalists and all that, but they aren't. They're
cheerful, mostly. Practical. The women can't wear jewelry."
"Keeps them in their place," Jennifer said.
"Wedding rings are about it," Oliver said.
Jennifer cleared her throat loudly.
"Oh, yeah . . ." Oliver said. "We should do something about that--once
you get your divorce."
"Was that a proposal?" She smiled appealingly.
"Sure--you don't mean church and all that?"
"No, Silly."
Oliver was relieved. "City Hall," Jennifer said. "We'll have a nice
dinner afterwards. Do something for us."
"F. Parker Reidy's," Oliver said. "Eat teriyaki and watch shoppers on
the snowy street."
"Wherever you like, Dear. Speaking of snow, we're lucking out--I
shouldn't have any problem getting to Wayland."
"How far is Wayland from Boston?"
"Depends on what time it is--half an hour, usually. I take 495 right
around the city, no problem. Umm . . . Sweetums?"
"Yes?"
"I was wondering if you would do something for me. I know I'm being
awful, but--well--it's that snakeskin. It gives me a chill when I look
at it." She put one hand on her stomach. "It's so--deadly."
Oliver walked over to the steps and pulled out the thumb tacks that
held the snakeskin. "Can't have you getting a chill," he said.
"Oh, thank you. I just can't help it--how I feel," she said.
"Of course you can't." Oliver rolled the skin into a coil and put a
thick rubber band around it. He hefted it in his palm. "I'll take it
down to the basement. He sealed it in a Ziploc bag and stored it in a
toolbox.
The next day, Jennifer left at noon to see her parents. Oliver had a
pint at Deweys with Richard and went to bed early. He lay there, not
used to sleeping alone, and thought about the relationship. It was like
living with Charlotte again, but Jennifer was more fun. She was a
natural mother--not at all bothered by pregnancy. All in all, the
relationship was pretty good, but he avoided comparing Jennifer to
Francesca.
In the morning he got up and took coffee to Crescent Beach as though
his life hadn't changed during the last two weeks. There was an inch of
snow--not enough to keep Francesca away. As he approached the beach he
saw a shiny patch on the driftwood log. A Ziploc bag was taped to the
log where they usually sat. The bag looked as if it had been there
several days.
He bent over and saw a heart drawn on the paper inside. "O+F." He tore
the bag from the log and removed the paper. It was folded. Inside, a
note read: "Missed you yesterday. Leaving Wednesday. Be back in the
spring, I guess. I hope you'll be here."
Oliver folded the note carefully and looked south. "I'll be here," he
said. It was an acknowledgement and a promise. He felt a deep conflict
in his loyalties, but it was bearable. The promise came from a
different place than his attachment to Jennifer and the baby.
He stayed a few minutes savoring the coffee and the cold damp air.
Gulls circled and dove at the other end of the beach. The geese were
long gone. When he left, he took with him all traces of Francesca's
note.
Jennifer arrived home during the early game. "Hi, Sweetheart," she
said. "The roads were fine. Mother is withholding judgment until she
sees you, but Daddy is on board. Don't worry, she'll love you."
"The Patriots don't look too good," Oliver said. "I'll wow her with my
knowledge of RPG II."
"I said we'd come down at Christmas."
"O.K.," Oliver said. "Jesus!"
"What's the matter?"
"He dropped it," Oliver said. "You're back nice and early."
"We had a big breakfast around nine. I left right after. What do you
think of 'Emma' as a name?"
"No!" Jennifer's face fell. "Not another one! Get him out of there!"
"Oliver . . ."
"Yes--Emma," he said. "I like it. Why Emma?"
"My grandmother's name was Emma." Jennifer was smiling again.
"Sure," Oliver said, "I like it. What if it's a boy?"
"I don't know," she said. "My father's name is Gene."
"How about Frisco?"
"Frisco? But that's a place, not a person . . ."
"Nakano. Nakano Prescott, now there's a name."
"I don't know." Jennifer's hands went protectively to her belly. "Nak?
Naky?"
Oliver raised his voice. "Nakano Prescott stretches, _makes_ the grab,
takes a big hit and holds on! The Patriots got something when they
signed this guy." He patted her. "Just trying it out--I'm not real
strong on Gene."
"Well, we have four months," Jennifer said.
In April, early on the morning of the 26th, two months after they were
married in City Hall and had their celebratory dinner at F. Parker
Reidy's, Jennifer felt the first serious contraction. Six hours later,
Emma Dior Prescott wrinkled her nose, squinted, made two
fists--triumphantly, according to Oliver--and went back to sleep,
breathing on her own. Jennifer was thrilled and tired. Oliver felt a
new kind of pang when he saw Emma. She had dark hair and seemed to be
clutching part of his heart with her tiny hands, as though she had
moved from one support system to another.
Deweys was barely open when he got there. "One for me and one more for
my baby," he said to Sam. "Jenn had a little girl."
"No shit! Congratulations. Hey, the Guinness is on the house, man;
you're going to need your strength."
Oliver drank and relaxed. The winter had passed in a blur. Each day had
been filled with work and things to do at home; the months had slipped
past scarcely noticed. Jennifer's growing weight had defined the season
that mattered.
"I have responsibilities," he announced after his second pint. "I must
call the grandparents."
He walked home and talked to his mother and to Jennifer's father. Gene
was particularly pleased. "I had my order in," he said. "Does she look
like Jenny?"
"More like me, actually."