Part 1 (2/2)

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 cla.s.ses. 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 doorjamb. ”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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed. ”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 nine months?”

Fearful, she put her hand on his chest. ”What if something goes wrong?”

He grinned and covered her hand. ”Nothing will go wrong. This is my lucky tee s.h.i.+rt. I've worn it through every Super Bowl the Patriots have won and through the World Series with the Red Sox.”

”I'm serious.”

”So am I,” he said, all confidence. ”We've had tests. The baby's healthy. You're healthy. The baby's the perfect birth size. It's in the right position. We have the best obstetrician and the best hospital-”

”I mean later. What if there's a problem, like when the baby is three? Or seven? Or when it's a teenager, you know, like the problems the Millers have with their son?”

”We aren't the Millers.”

”But it's the big picture, Hugh.” She was thinking of the dream she'd had prior to waking up. No mystery, that dream. It was about her fear of being found lacking. ”What if we aren't as good at parenting as we think we'll be?”

”Now, there's a moot point. A little late to be thinking of it.”

”Do you realize what we're getting into?”

”Of course not,” he said. ”But we want this baby. Come on, sweetie. We have to leave.”

Dana insisted on returning to the master bath, where she quickly washed her face, rinsed her mouth, and brushed her hair. Turning sideways for a last look, she studied her body's profile. Yes, she preferred being slim-yes, she was tired of hauling around thirty extra pounds-yes, she was dying to wear jeans and a tee s.h.i.+rt again. But being pregnant was special.

”Dana,” Hugh said impatiently. ”Please.”

She let him guide her down the hall, past the nursery again and toward the stairs. In architectural circles, the house was considered a Newport cottage, though ”cottage” downplayed its grandness. Built in a U that faced the sea, with multiple pairs of French doors opening to a canopied patio, a large swath of soft gra.s.s, and a border of beach roses that overlooked the surf, it was a vision of corbels, columns, white trim and s.h.i.+ngles gently grayed by the salt air. One wing held the living room, dining room, and library; the other, the kitchen and family room. The master bedroom and nursery were in one wing of the second floor, with two additional bedrooms in the other. The dormered attic housed an office, complete with a balcony. Every room in the house, with the sole exception of the first-floor powder room, had a window facing the sea.

It was Dana's dream house. She had fallen in love with it on sight. More than once, she had told Hugh that even if he had turned into a frog with their first kiss, she would have married him for the house.

Now, approaching the nearer of two staircases that descended symmetrically to the front hall, she asked, ”What if it's a girl?”

”I'll love a girl.”

”But you want a boy deep down, I know you do, Hugh. It's that family name. You want a little Hugh Ames Clarke.”

”I'd be just as happy with Elizabeth Ames Clarke, as long as I don't have to deliver her myself. Careful here,” he said as they started down the stairs, but Dana had to stop at the first turn. The contraction was stronger this time.

She was prepared for pain, but the fact of it was something else. ”Can I do this?” she asked, shaking noticeably as she clung to his arm.

He held her more tightly. ”You? In a minute.”

Hugh had trusted her right from the start. It was one of the things she loved. He hadn't hesitated when she suggested barnboard for the floor of his otherwise modern kitchen or, later, when she insisted that he hang his family portraits-large, dark oil paintings of Clarkes with broad brows, square jaws, and straight lips-in the living room, though he would have gladly left them packed away in the attic.

He took his heritage for granted. No, it was more than that. He rebelled against his father's obsession with heritage, said that it embarra.s.sed him.

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