When she went home after school, she had longed for a bit of adult conversation, just someone to be there. But there was none because a few weeks before Ari’s funeral, her roommate, Carla, had accepted a job in Florida and moved out.
After Carla had moved, Sophy hadn’t looked for another roommate right away. She was nesting and she’d liked having the space to herself. Her cousin Natalie in California, the only relative she was very close to, had suggested Sophy come out there when she’d learned Sophy was expecting.
With her parents dead and no siblings, Sophy was on her own. But while she appreciated Natalie’s suggestion, she wasn’t ready to take it.
“No. My doctor’s here. I’m taking prenatal classes here. My job is here. I want to finish out the school year.”
But her West Village apartment was expensive, and while she might have liked to live there alone, she wasn’t going to be able to keep it if she didn’t make an effort to find a new roommate soon.
So she put an ad up in the faculty room at the preschool and at the gym where she went to her prenatal classes. She got calls. Several of them. Most were not at all what she had in mind. But one seemed possible. A second-grade teacher named Melinda, with a four-year-old boy and a parrot, was looking for a place to live.
Sophy wasn’t sure about the four-year-old or the parrot, but she imagined Melinda wasn’t sure about a newborn, either, so one afternoon in early May she invited Melinda over to talk and see the apartment.
She’d just put the last of the dishes away and was sweeping the floor, hoping to impress Melinda with her housekeeping skills, when the doorbell rang.
A glance at her watch told Sophy that Melinda was half an hour early. But better early and eager than late or not at all. Besides, if the place wasn’t pristine, there was no point in pretending to be something she was not. So she stuck the broom in the closet, pasted on her best welcoming smile and opened the door.
It wasn’t Melinda.
It was George.
George? Sophy felt suddenly breathless. Her knees wobbled. She stared at him, words failing her.
George didn’t speak at once, either. He just stood there, lean and rugged and as gorgeous as ever, looking down at her with those smoky green eyes of his. They held her gaze for a moment, then slowly, inexorably slid southward so that she could almost feel them touching her full breasts and her now very noticeably pregnant belly. It wasn’t winter any longer, and she wasn’t wearing a coat—only a loose smock that did nothing to conceal her shape. Sophy gripped the doorknob so tightly her hand hurt. She didn’t move.
She didn’t see shock in his gaze so much as curiosity and then something like confirmation. Confirmation?
George’s jaw tightened briefly as his gaze lingered on her belly. But then it eased as his gaze traveled back up to meet hers.
“You are pregnant.” It even sounded like a confirmation.
Sophy ran her tongue over dry lips. She nodded. “Yes.” She was strangling the doorknob now. But she met his gaze steadily. She had nothing to hide. And it was far too late for George to say what Ari had already said: “What are you going to do about it?”
It had to be apparent to him what she intended to “do about it”—she intended to have it, welcome it. In fact the baby’s cradle was clearly visible in the living room behind her.
But he didn’t question that. He simply asked, “Are you all right?” His eyes were searching hers.
“Yes, of course. I’m fine.” Or as fine as a seven-month-pregnant woman with an active kicking person inside her abdomen, a back ache and varicose veins could possibly be.
What did he want? She hesitated, wondering if she should invite him in because at any moment Melinda and her four-year-old and her parrot might be showing up. But she couldn’t just say, “Go away.” She didn’t want him to go away.
“Come in,” she said and opened the door wider.
George came in. He didn’t sit down. He paced around her small living room even though she gestured toward the couch.
“Won’t you sit down? Would you like something to drink?”
He cracked his knuckles and shook his head. “Why didn’t you say something?” he demanded, his gaze on her belly again.
Instinctively Sophy put her hands on her abdomen, as if they were a shield. She shrugged. “Say what? ‘Oh, by the way, before he died, Ari knocked me up?’ Why? What point was there?”
“He’s responsible.”
“Yes, well, perhaps he was. Now he’s not. And he didn’t want to be, anyway.” She turned her back and fiddled with the blinds, but she heard something that sounded like George’s teeth coming together.
“How do you know?” he demanded.
“I talked to him about it. I told him. He said, ‘Oh, too bad. What’re you going to do about it?’”
George muttered something and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck.
Sophy, watching him, tilted her head. “How did you find out?” she wanted to know.
“Your letter.”
“Letter?”
“You wrote him. Told him. It was in his backpack. We found it when they finally shipped his stuff home.”
“Oh. That letter.” The one she’d sent when she’d first found out. The letter that Ari claimed he’d never got. “It was in his backpack? I see.”
So Ari had already known about the baby before she’d tracked him down in person to tell him the news. When she’d never heard from him, she’d been afraid he hadn’t received her letter. Obviously he had. He’d simply chosen to ignore the fact.
Somehow Sophy supposed she wasn’t surprised. Not anymore. Not about Ari. Hiding his head in the sand and pretending it didn’t exist was typical of Ari. Not surprising at all.
But finding George on her doorstep was surprising. What did he want?
Her back was hurting, so Sophy sat down.
George didn’t. He was still prowling around her small living room, stopping only to stare down at the cradle and the stacks of tiny newborn clothes inside it that several of her coworkers had recently handed down to her. “When’s the baby due?” he asked.
“Early October.”
He turned his gaze on her. “And how are you going to cope when it comes?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who’s going to take care of it? Do you have benefits? Can you afford to stay home with it?”
Sophy pressed her lips together, wondering what business it was of his. “I can manage,” she said.
His hooded gaze bored into her. “Can you?”
His eyes were intense, magnetic. She couldn’t look away. And at the same time she couldn’t lie. “I hope so,” she said more truthfully.
He came to stand directly in front of her so that she had to tip her head up to look at him. “We can help. We will help.”
Sophy stared up at him. “We? Who’s we?”
“The family.” He paused. “Not just the family. Me.”
“You?” She shook her head. “Financially, you mean? That’s very kind. Thank you, but—” She should stand, should face him head-on.
“Financially, yes, of course,” George cut in. “Your child will be taken care of.” He said that almost impatiently. “Not just your child.” He held out his hands to her.
Instinctively, Sophy put hers in them and despite her bulk and imbalance, in George’s hands she felt herself pulled easily to her feet.
He didn’t step back, so that now they were standing mere inches apart, close enough that Sophy could see that he’d recently shaved, that he had the tiniest chip out of one front tooth, that there were gold flecks in his intense green eyes.
“What then?” she asked.
“Marry me.”
Her obstetrician had said, “Don’t get up too fast. It can make you dizzy and unbalanced.” He’d never said it would affect her hearing. Sophy stared, disbelieving.
“Marry me.” George said it again. Urgently. His eyes mesmerized her.
Sophy swallowe
d hard. There was blood pounding in her ears. “I—I need to sit down,” she said faintly—and sank into the chair before she tumbled into it.
“Are you all right?” George demanded. Then, “You’re not all right.” He crouched down in front of her so she was staring again into his beautiful eyes.
“I’m f-fine. Just—” Dazed? Confused? But he’d said it twice. She couldn’t have misheard. Still, even sitting down, she couldn’t make sense of it. Her mind reeled. “You don’t mean that,” she said finally.
“I’m not in the habit of proposing marriage if I don’t mean it,” George said stiffly.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I meant—why?” It was almost a wail. She couldn’t help it.
“Why? Because it makes sense. You’re alone. You’re having a child—my cousin’s child. He can’t marry you now—”
“He didn’t want to marry me anyway.”
George gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I do. I can.” So saying, he dropped into a crouch next to her chair and took her hand again, looking at her earnestly, intently. “I can, Sophy,” he repeated in a low tone that spoke more to her than all his words combined.
Sophy could see in his eyes that he was serious. She studied his gaze, trying to make sense of what he was suggesting. It was outrageous, ridiculous. And terribly, terribly tempting.
She didn’t know George. He didn’t love her. He barely even knew her, so he couldn’t possibly love her. And she didn’t love him.
But she could, a tiny voice inside her spoke up. She could love him.
And heaven help her, she listened.
Maybe it was that her hormones had gone crazy during her pregnancy. Maybe it was how lonely she had been feeling lately. Maybe it was not wanting to raise her baby alone. Maybe it was how intently George was looking at her, how warm and strong his fingers felt as they wrapped around hers.
There were countless reasons. All sane and sensible and logical—reasons that, as he crouched beside her, George spelled out for her.
But Sophy knew that the tipping point had already happened. It had been his tone of voice when he’d said, “I can, Sophy.”
His tone made her believe not just that he could, but that he wanted to.
Call her weak, call her foolish, call her naive. Call her hopelessly hopeful. All of the above.
“I don’t know,” she faltered.
His fingers squeezed hers. “You do know, Sophy,” he said in that same tone. “Say yes.”
She said yes. Holding hard to George’s strong hard hand, she took a chance—on love. She leapt with eyes closed and heart wide open.
Yes. Take me. Take us. Love us. And let us love you in return.
They had married two weeks later. The ceremony was in the judge’s chambers. Obviously not a big wedding. There was a small reception after at his parents’ house. Mostly family. Mostly his.
Of hers only Natalie’s mother, Laura, had been able to come. It hadn’t mattered to Sophy. She was happy to have George’s family become her family.
When she said her vows, she meant them. And when she looked up into George’s grave handsome face and thought of spending her life with him, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt right.
Almost like a dream come true.
Of course it wasn’t. And Sophy knew better than to expect that.
But she could try to make it come true. She was going to make him so happy, be the perfect wife. And then maybe…Well, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?
After the wedding George had moved into her place because it was near her work. He never said how far it was from his, but the distance didn’t seem to bother him. George really never said much about his work at all. And whenever Sophy had asked about it, his replies were vague.
She took the hint and never pressed, not even when, at his parents’ late summer party, his father happened to mention the job George would have at the University of Uppsala.
“Uppsala?” Sophy had echoed. She hadn’t wanted to say, “Where’s that?” So she looked it up when she got home. It turned out Uppsala was in Sweden.
Sweden. Yet he’d never mentioned it to her.
But then they’d only been married a month by that time. And theirs had hardly been a normal courtship and marriage. So if he hadn’t mentioned it, maybe he’d just been too busy. And she’d been consumed with the last weeks of her pregnancy. Maybe he was saving it for after the baby was born when they could make plans.
It didn’t matter. She didn’t mind where they went. She’d always wanted to visit Sweden.
They did talk about a lot of other things—baseball, art, astronomy, food, music, movies, books—and the baby.
Because to her astonishment, in George Sophy finally found someone besides herself who cared about her baby.
At first she didn’t talk about her pregnancy or the baby. She didn’t think he’d want to know. Besides, she was terribly self-conscious about the way she looked as her body changed and her belly got bigger every day. A major turnoff, she’d have thought.
It wasn’t as if he’d ever seen her naked before the baby. They had never been lovers. And the advanced stage of her pregnancy had precluded that happening any time soon.
Still she caught George’s gaze studying her frequently, and he didn’t seem put off by what he saw. Once when he was looking, the baby had visibly kicked and George’s eyes had widened.
“Is the baby kicking?” he asked. “Does it hurt?”
And impulsively, Sophy had taken his hand and placed it on her belly to let him feel the baby’s kicks. And watched his eyes widen even further, as if he felt something miraculous.
After that he began to ask questions. Then he began to read all her books on pregnancy and childbirth and asked even more questions—so many that she finally suggested, “Why don’t you just come to my appointment with me?”
She’d been kidding, but he’d nodded. “Thanks, I will.”
He’d attended the last few in the series of prenatal classes that she’d been attending. Sophy had been doubtful at first about his interest. But he’d never missed a class. He’d helped her with her exercises and practiced breathing with her. He even massaged her back when it ached and her feet when she’d stood on them too long.
And when she finally went into labor, he was right there with her, holding her hand, letting her strangle his, and when the nurse had put Lily in his arms, there had been a look on his face that had allowed Sophy to believe he loved Lily as much as she did, that everything would be all right.
Too good to be true?
In retrospect it felt like that.
Not at first, though. At first it had felt wonderful—or as wonderful as it could feel while Lily was colicky and fretful, Sophy was despairing of ever being able to cope and George, though working long hours, was there when she needed him, made her laugh, gave her the support she needed.
One night she was so exhausted, had no milk left, and Lily didn’t want to nurse anyway. Sophy was at her wit’s end when George said, “Let me take her. You get some sleep.”
She hadn’t wanted to be a bother to him, hadn’t wanted to make his life difficult, but bursting into tears, which was the other alternative, wouldn’t improve matters. She handed colicky Lily to George.
He snugged her against his bare chest, bent his head and kissed the top of hers lightly. “Come on, Lil, ol’ girl. Let’s go for a walk.”
“Oh, but—” Sophy began.
“Just around the apartment,” George assured her. “I’m hardly dressed to take her out.” He was wearing pajama bottoms, nothing else.
Sophy knew he wasn’t going anywhere. She just felt so helpless, and so perilously close to tears as Lily wailed on.
“Go to sleep,” George said. “She’ll be fine. I’ll give her a bottle if I have to.”
“But—”
“You’ve expressed milk. I know how to warm a bottle. Sleep, Soph. Sleep.”
He carried Lily out of the room, crooning to her. Sophy watched them g
o, felt a stray tear slip down her cheek, felt like a failure. Knew she would not sleep.
She listened to Lily’s wails disappearing as George carried her out of the room, then sank back into the pillows, miserable. Turning onto her side, she drew George’s pillow against her and buried her face into it to breathe deeply of the scent of him that lingered. And against all odds, she slept.
When she woke up it was to silence. No baby crying. No sound of George’s light breathing from the other side of the bed. No George at all.
Lily wasn’t in her cradle, either. A glance at the clock told Sophy that she’d slept two hours—a lifetime in the night of a fretful baby. She threw back the light cover and went to look for them.
They hadn’t gone far. She found them in the living room. George was sprawled in the recliner, his hair tousled, his lips slightly parted, sound asleep. And Lily, fretful no longer, was lying on his bare chest with both of George’s arms wrapped securely around her, fast asleep as well.
Sophy just stood there and stared, awed and in love—deeply in love—with both of them.
They might not have started out the way most families did, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have a happy ending. She loved him, after all. And she began to think George loved her, too. But until the night before Lily’s baptism, she hadn’t really dared to believe it was true.
That night, shortly after Lily’s two-month birthday—only a day after the doctor told her they could “resume marital relations”—George and she made love.
She had felt hot and cold and a little panicky at the doctor’s assurance that making love would be fine. Physically, of course, she was sure it would be. Emotionally she hadn’t been nearly as sanguine. What George thought, she didn’t know. He never said. He would talk at length about planets, stars and the immutable laws of nature as well as about baseball and art and Lily, but he didn’t talk about feelings at all.
There was no talk, only actions. It started simply enough—with concern and gentleness. A soothing back rub like many he had given her that soon became neither soothing nor confined to her back. His hands ventured further that night. They played in her hair at the nape of her neck. They traced the curve of her ear. They ran down her sides and over the swell of her buttocks.
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