Chapter 44: Twelve Weeks

Willa's POV

Ginny threw the baby breakfast on Tuesday.

She did it from the middle of the cannery floor, standing on a chair in her bar apron.

She had a spoon in one hand and a pot of oatmeal on the bar behind her.

Two days earlier I had told forty men I was pregnant in the middle of a vote, and they had been too busy to cheer.

I was there because Ginny said they were going to cheer now.

"Everybody," she said. "Shut up. Willa is twelve weeks today. Doctor says so. Now you may."

For one second nobody moved.

Then the gray-bearded man put his coffee down and said, in a very small voice, "Well, I'll be damned."

And the room went off.

Men yelled and pounded the tables.

They pulled me up off my seat in a series of bear hugs, passed from hand to hand down the length of the room.

"Gently!" Ginny shouted. "She's twelve weeks! She's a carton of eggs!"

"Is it a boy?" somebody yelled.

"It's a person," I said.

"Is it a person with a vest?"

"Not yet."

"I'm making it a tiny vest," said a huge man with a neck tattoo, and burst into tears.

I laughed so hard I had to sit down on the pool table.

Bree came across the floor with her face crumpled and both arms out, and she hugged me for a long time without saying a word.

"I'm going to be an aunt," she said, finally.

"You're going to be the first person I call."

"I'll take every night shift." She sniffed. "I mean it. I've got no life and I can fold things."

"You have a life."

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