"How do you know?" he finally asked, feeling breathless and electric as he reached to cup her face.
Beaming back at him, she answered, "Haven't you noticed, I've never . . ." Her cheeks colored. "I've never had a period since we've been married."
No, it hadn't actually occurred to him. He'd just lived in the bliss of having her whenever he wanted her and hadn't questioned his good fortune. He counted back quickly in his head, raising his eyes to hers.
"Seven weeks?"
She nodded. "About that."
"Christmas Eve," he said softly.
She shrugged. "I don't know for sure, but the test only works after six weeks, so . . ."
"The test?" He hated the way his anxiety about money rose up again. "You've seen a doctor?"
"No, not yet. I took at test at work today."
"But you need to see a doctor. You're going to need . . ." He blinked his eyes against the burn of happy tears. ". . . vitamins or diapers or, God, sunshine, I don't know. Stuff. Babies need lots of stuff, don't they?"
She giggled. "Doctor? Soon. Diapers? Not until September."
"Hey! I'll have health insurance by then."
She placed her palms on her tummy, smiling down at them. "Good timing, little one."
And suddenly it struck him again: there was a baby inside her. A tiny person whom he and Eleanora had made together. "Can I . . .?"
"Tom," she whispered. "Of course you can."
But instead of covering her hands with his, he dropped to his knees before her and leaned forward, pushing up her turtleneck and pressing his lips to the warm skin of her stomach. He closed his eyes, breathing in the clean scent of his wife, knowing a gratitude he'd never felt before-not ever in his entire life.
Her hands landed gently in his hair. "You're happy about it, Tom?"
He nodded, kissing her soft skin again, whispering in a hushed, almost reverent tone, "I'm happy."
After they celebrated with their fancy dinner and festive cupcakes, they went to bed, lying side by side, staring at each other in the darkness. Eleanora reminded him of what he'd told her in Las Vegas-that he was a little jealous of the Swiss Family Robinson, with all those brothers, and how he'd said that he wanted a "gaggle of kids" of his own someday.
"The gaggle has officially started," she said, covering his hands, which were resting against the bare skin of her belly.
"I was on the fence before," he said, his voice determined, "but I'm not anymore. We need the money, baby. I have to take the job."
"I know," she said sadly. "But I'll miss you."
"I'll be home for dinner every evening before I go back for the night." He sighed, kissing her neck. "Aw, I hate it, too. But you've got to see a doctor, and I don't want you working anymore."
"Tom-"
"I mean it. What if you slipped on the ice and fell? No, Eleanora. I mean it."
"I'm not a china doll."
"You're mine, and I need to keep you safe."
"I'll stop working when a doctor tells me to stop," she said firmly but gently. "I promise."
He huffed softly, then touched his forehead to hers. "It feels like a miracle."
"Or a dream?" she asked.
"If it's a dream, I never want to wake up," said Tom, kissing her nose.
"My life began the day my cousin followed me to the kitchen and asked for the name of my favorite poet." She nestled closer to him. "If it's a girl, I want to name her Elizabeth, and if it's a boy, I want to name him Barrett."
"Beth or Barrett? Are those the names you've chosen, sunshine?"
"Uh-huh," she said. "As long as their daddy agrees."
Daddy.
He gasped softly, letting the newness of the word settle around him. He was going to be a father, someone's daddy. And suddenly, it was the most beautiful word he'd ever heard in his entire life. He'd had a very formal grandfather and an unhappy, distant father, never a daddy-never the playful, familiar nickname for someone who was supposed to love you from the very day he found out you were coming.
His voice was gravelly and thick in his ears when he answered, "He agrees."
Then he pulled his wife into his arms and buried his face in her hair, letting the deep well of emotions inside his heart have their way with him.
They fell asleep like that, tangled together, a mix of hopes and dreams, miracles and worries, gratitude and wonder, and love.
***
Eleanora woke up early, and, careful not to wake up Tom, she shrugged into her bathrobe and slippers and tiptoed from their room, heading downstairs to make coffee. But downstairs, she realized as she turned on the coffeemaker, was freezing, and she turned up the thermostat before taking Tom's cashmere coat from the front closet and putting it on over her bathrobe. It smelled like him, like warm man and spicy aftershave, and she closed her eyes for a moment, memorizing the smell as one of the best in the world.
Somehow they'd survived last night-their first mini fight in the car and her earth-shattering news-and instead of pulling them apart, it had knitted them back together.
Slipping her hands into the pockets of his coat, she found a folded letter, which she withdrew as she walked back into the kitchen to wait for the coffee. She unfolded it, smoothing it on the kitchen table. It was addressed to Tom, and the return address was Haverford Park, Haverford, PA.
A letter from Tom's grandfather.
She sucked in a breath and turned it over. The seal hadn't been broken.
The coffeemaker hissed, and she jumped up, leaving the letter on the table and pouring herself a cup of hot coffee, then leaning back against the counter. She eyed the letter as if it were a snake and took a scalding-hot sip of coffee.
Why was Tom carrying around an unopened letter from his grandfather?
And why did Eleanora have the most overwhelming desire to open it up and read it?
And if she opened and read it, would she somehow be violating Tom's trust?
Chewing her lip, she sat back down at the table, placing her palm over the letter and sliding it closer. She turned it over, looking at the strong, bold cursive that addressed it.
Picking it up, she rapped it against the tabletop for a second, then put it back down.
It was none of her business. Whatever the letter said, Tom had decided not to open it, and she needed to respect that.
Except, she thought, flicking a quick glance down at her stomach, hidden under her nightgown and bathrobe, the baby she carried was an English. A very, very tiny English, of course, but an English nonetheless.
Eleanora had bid farewell to her family the day she left Romero. She hadn't heard from them since, and they hadn't heard from her, and though she hoped that they'd have fruitful and happy lives, she wouldn't be reaching out to them anytime soon. Evie had been her only family, and Evie was gone, far away in Hong Kong, where she was building her own life.
On the other hand, Tom's family-a controlling, crotchety grandfather, a weak-willed father, and a half brother Tom barely knew-such as they were, were in Philadelphia. Not so far away. Close enough to be, well, family . . . if they could all learn to get along.
And didn't she owe it to her baby to try to get along, to try to make peace, with her husband's family?
She sighed as the thought-Your husband's family is very rich-fluttered through her head, and she checked her motives. You're not doing this for money, are you?
Biting the inside of her cheek before taking another sip of coffee, she swiftly came to the conclusion that no, she wasn't. Unlike Tom, who'd grown up in luxury, Eleanora had grown up with nothing. She'd started working at fourteen years old. She'd eaten SpaghettiOs for Christmas dinner. She'd made do with hand-me-downs until they were threadbare. Eleanora wasn't frightened of poverty, and she certainly didn't know what she was missing by not having Tom's inheritance.
Tom, on the other hand, was suffering. Yes, he was doing his best, and yes, she knew that he would do anything in order to keep her and Beth or Barrett safe and happy. But if they could make amends with the Englishes, not only would their child know his or her family as a by-product of reconciliation, but Tom could stop worrying so desperately about making ends meet. He wouldn't have to take the second job at Kinsey. He wouldn't snap at her when she picked him up, with the stress of money weighing him down. He wouldn't doubt himself and beat himself up when he couldn't afford snow tires. He could resume the life he was meant to live before he'd married her.
Sighing deeply, her lips twitched as she slipped her fingernail into the seam of the envelope and ripped it open.