she was dying to wear jeans and a tee shirt 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 grass, and a border of beach roses that overlooked the surf, it was a vision of corbels, columns, white trim and shingles 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 embarrassed him.
Dana must have convinced him that he was a successful figure in his own right, because he had let her hang the oils. They gave the room visual height and historical depth. She had splashed the large leather furniture with wildly textured pillows, and Hugh liked that, too. He had said he wanted comfort, not stuffiness. Butter-soft leather and a riot of nubby silk and chenille offered that. He had also said he did not like the settee that had belonged to his great-grandfather because it was stern, but he gave her wiggle room there, too. She had the oak of that settee restored, the seat recaned, and cushions and a throw designed to soften the look.
Not that she saw any of it now. She focused on one step after the other, thinking that if these contractions were just the beginning, labor might be pretty bad, and if there were any other way to get this baby out, she would opt for it now.
They were barely at the bottom when she gasped. ‘I forgot my pillow.’
‘They have pillows at the hospital.’
‘I need my own. Please, Hugh?’
Settling her on the bottom step, he ran up the stairs and was back with the pillow under his arm in less than a minute.
‘And water,’ she reminded him.
He disappeared again, this time into the kitchen, and returned seconds later with a pair of bottles. ‘What else?’
‘Cell phone? BlackBerry? Omigod, Hugh, I was supposed to have a preliminary meeting with the Cunninghams today.’
‘Looks like you’ll miss it.’
‘It’s a huge job.’
‘Think maternity leave.’
‘This was supposed to bridge it. I promised them that I’d make schematic drawings right after the baby was born.’
‘The Cunninghams will understand. I’ll call them from the hospital.’ He patted his pockets. ‘Cell phone, BlackBerry, what else?’
‘Call list. Camera.’
‘In your case.’ He scooped the bag from the closet, staring in dismay at the yarn that spilled from the half-zippered top. ‘Dana, you promised.’
‘It isn’t much,’ she said quickly, ‘just something small to work on, you know, if things are slow.’
‘Small?’ he asked as he tucked in the yarn. ‘What are there, eight balls here?’
‘Six, but it’s heavy worsted, which means not much yardage, and I didn’t want to risk running out. Don’t be impatient, Hugh. Knitting comforts me.’
He shot a do-tell look at the closet. There were bags of yarn on the shelf above, the floor below. Most closets in the house were the same.
‘My stash is not as big as some,’ she reasoned. ‘Besides, what harm is there in making the most of my time at the hospital? Gram wants this pattern for the fall season, and what if there’s down time after the baby’s born? Some women bring books or magazines. This is my thing.’
‘How long did they say you would be in the hospital?’ he asked. They both knew that, barring complications, she would be home the next day.
‘You’re not a knitter. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘No argument there.’ Squeezing the water bottles into the bag, he zipped it, put the strap on his shoulder, and helped her out the front door. They crossed the porch to the cobblestone drive where Hugh’s car was parked.
Rather than think about how she was trembling or, worse, when the next pain would hit, Dana thought about the little cotton onesies in that bag. They were store-bought, but everything else was homemade. Hugh thought she had packed too much, but how to choose between those tiny knitted caps and booties, all cotton for August and exquisitely done? They took up no space. Her baby deserved choices.
Of course, her in-laws hadn’t been any wilder about these items than they had about the nursery décor. They had provided a layette from Neiman Marcus, and didn’t understand why the baby wouldn’t be wearing those things home.
Dana let it pass. To explain would have offended them. Hand-knit to her meant memories of her mother, the love of her grandmother, and the caring of a surrogate family of yarn-store friends. Hand-knit was personal in ways her husband’s family couldn’t understand. The Clarkes knew their place in society, and much as Dana loved being Hugh’s wife, much as she admired the Clarke confidence and envied their past, she couldn’t forget who she was.
‘Doin’ okay?’ Hugh asked as he eased her into the car.
‘Doin’ okay,’ she managed.
She adjusted the seat belt so that the baby wouldn’t be hurt if they stopped short, though there was little chance of that. For an antsy man, Hugh drove with care, so much so that as time passed and the contractions grew more intense, she wished he would go faster.
But he knew what he was doing. Hugh always knew what he was doing. Moreover, there were few other cars on the road, and they had green lights all the way.
Having pre-registered at the hospital, he had barely given their name when they were admitted. In no time flat, Dana was in a hospital gown, with a fetal monitor strapped around her middle and the resident-on-call examining her. The contractions were coming every three minutes, then every two minutes, literally taking her breath.
The next few hours passed in a blur, though more than once, when the progress slowed, she wondered