جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 320

Aiden's POV They left at nine-thirty. Jeffery and Mara had been in the room for two hours, long enough for Rosie to tell them everything Dr. Oswell had said, long enough for the monitor to consistently show that the contractions had stopped, long enough for Mara to change out of her wedding dress in the hospital bathroom and into the clothes Jeffery had arranged to have someone bring over from the hotel. He had taken care of it from the waiting room before he'd even come in, because Jeffery was good at getting things organized under pressure. When they left, Jeffery held Rosie's hand for a moment at the door. He didn't say anything. She didn't say anything. Some things had already been said simply by showing up. Mara hugged me in the hallway. She said, "Call us when she gets out." I told her I would. My stepfather arrived at ten. He'd driven for four hours because he had already been on the road before I'd had a chance to tell him not to come. He sat with Rosie for thirty min

Rosalie's POV They let me go home on Saturday morning. Dr. Oswell came in at eight and went over the overnight readings with the same methodical attention she brought to everything. The readings were exactly what they needed to be, and she told me I could go home with the specific conditions she'd outlined the night before. Modified activity for the rest of the pregnancy. No heavy lifting. No prolonged periods of standing. Weekly monitoring appointments until thirty-two weeks, then twice a week after that. She said those things simply, and I received them simply. Then she said, "The baby is doing well." She said it last, which meant it was the thing she wanted me to take with me when I left the room. I took it with me. Aiden had the car. My father had the kids at the apartment, having arrived sometime in the middle of the night and let himself in with the key we'd given him six months earlier. I found out later that he'd driven all night. I learned it when I called him

Rosalie's POV The apartment was too quiet. Lucy was spending the night at Aiden's. It had been her idea, and I was relieved. I knew I wouldn't sleep, and I didn't want her watching me lie awake. She'd packed her bag with great care the night before, her moon-shaped night-light tucked under one arm. "You'll be just fine," she'd told me at the door, speaking to me the way you'd speak to a patient. Then she'd waved goodbye. I'd waved back. Now it was nine thirty at night, and I was sitting on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets. Twelve paintings wrapped in kraft paper were lined up against the hallway wall. The Return stood on the easel by the window, uncovered because I couldn't bring myself to cover it. My phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. I got up and looked at the screen. Unknown number. It was 9:47 p.m. I almost let it ring. Then I thought, a client, a delivery, the gallery owner calling about some last-minute change. I answered. "Hello?" Nothin

Rosalie's POV They let me go home on Saturday morning. Dr. Oswell came in at eight and went over the overnight readings with the same methodical attention she brought to everything. The readings were exactly what they needed to be, and she told me I could go home with the specific conditions she'd outlined the night before. Modified activity for the rest of the pregnancy. No heavy lifting. No prolonged periods of standing. Weekly monitoring appointments until thirty-two weeks, then twice a week after that. She said those things simply, and I received them simply. Then she said, "The baby is doing well." She said it last, which meant it was the thing she wanted me to take with me when I left the room. I took it with me. Aiden had the car. My father had the kids at the apartment, having arrived sometime in the middle of the night and let himself in with the key we'd given him six months earlier. I found out later that he'd driven all night. I learned it when I called him from

Rosalie's POV She came in on a Tuesday afternoon in July, when the gallery was quiet. I was in the back office, going over the timeline for the commission, back on track after the extended deadline, and Delia was at the front desk, doing the filing she always did on Tuesdays. I heard the door open, Delia's greeting, and the response, a young woman's voice, then I turned back to the calendar. Ten minutes later, Delia appeared in the office doorway. "There's someone asking about the work," she said. "She's been standing in front of The Return for a while. She wants to know if you're available." I was seven months pregnant and had been sitting for two hours, and getting up was its own little project. I got up anyway and went out. She was standing exactly where Delia had said, in front of The Return, with that particular quality of someone who wasn't pretending to look. She was really looking. There was a difference, and I'd learned to see it, the difference between a gallery v