Part 22 (1/2)

”I don't know,” I said. ”There's been so much going on. I guess we just never asked.”

”Ask,” Taylor said.

”You ask,” I said. ”It won't sound so dumb coming from a kid.”

Manda was standing in the doorway. ”What won't sound so dumb?”

”That we don't know your baby's name,” Taylor said.

Manda grinned. ”Her name is Grace. After we'd bored everybody to death asking for advice and bought every book, we named her after Craig's mother.”

I looked at the baby. Her hair was dark and silky, and her mouth was as delicate as a rosette on a Victorian Valentine. ”Grace suits her,” I said.

Lunch was fun. When Craig came home, he set up a table in the family room, so we could watch the birds at the bird-feeder while we ate. Manda had warmed up a ca.s.serole of tofu lasagna, so I was glad Taylor was distracted. When we'd had our fill of tofu, Craig and I cleared the dishes, and Taylor played with the cats while Manda fed Grace. Then we all drank camomile tea from thick blue mugs and talked about babies.

”If Grace had been a boy, what were you going to call him?” Taylor asked.

”Craig, Jr.,” Manda said, s.h.i.+fting the baby on her hip. ”We'll save it for the next one if that's okay with you.”

”That's okay with me,” Taylor said. ”It's not a good name for a cat.”

”Did I miss something here?” Craig asked.

”Taylor still hasn't named her kitten,” I said.

Manda shrugged. ”I've got a stack of baby name books over there, Taylor. If you like, you can take them with you when you go. We've already got a name for Kid Number Two, and when Number Three comes along, I'll get the books back.”

Craig turned to Taylor. ”You're welcome to the books,” he said, ”but I think I know a name that might work. It's the name of the man who's the patron saint of artists: 'Benet.' ”

”Benet,” Taylor repeated the name thoughtfully. ”What do you think, Jo?”

”I like it,” I said.

”So do I,” Taylor said. ”Because if my cat's name is Benet, I can call him Benny for short, and I really like the name Benny.”