Chapter 46: The Yellow Room

By February the cottage had a crib.

The club had built it.

Half a dozen men had argued for three weekends in the garage about whether a crib needed a kickstand.

The final version stood in the corner of our bedroom, painted anchor-blue, with a small vest hung over the rail.

It said Black Harbor Riders across the back in white thread, and under it, in Ginny's neat hand, Edie.

I was six months along, and I could not see my boots.

I sat on the quilt on a Saturday afternoon in a thick sweater and looked at the sea.

My hands rested on the round of my stomach and the dog's head lay on my foot.

Cade came in from the porch with a mug of ginger tea and put it in my hand.

"You hate this stuff," I said.

"I'm drinking it in solidarity."

"You haven't had a sip," I said.

"I'm supporting you from a distance."

I laughed, and he sat down on the bed and took off his boots and lay back with his head in my lap.

The room was gold with low sun.

On the wall by the window hung the napkin from Reno, framed.

It said Forget this. It was a dare. W.

Under it, in my slanted blue pen, it said I remember it now. I'd do it again. W.

Ginny had done the frame.

She had also done the curtains, the rug and the quilt on the crib.

She had embroidered a pillow that said NOBODY PUTS A HAND OVER THE PAGE.

"Come here," I said.

"I am here."

"Closer."

He rolled up on one elbow and looked at me.

His eyes moved to my face, and then lower, and he smiled slowly.

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