wo years later

“WE ARE NOT NAMING OUR SON Abraham Lincoln O’ Shea. Think of something else.” My husband pretended to scowl at me, but his look was somewhat marred by Angus licking his chin. We were lying in bed on a Sunday morning, the sun streaming in through the windows, the smell of coffee mingling with the sweet scent drifting from the small vase of roses on the night table.

“You already rejected Stonewall,” I reminded him, rubbing my enormous stomach. “Stonewall O’ Shea. There certainly wouldn’t be any other little boys in kindergarten with that name.”

“Grace. Your due date was four days ago. Come on. Be serious. This is our child. And if he has to have a Civil War name, it’s got to be Yankee. Okay? We’re both from New England, after all. Angus, get your tongue out of my ear. Yuck.”

I giggled. When we first moved in together, Callahan took Angus to an eight-week-long obedience course. Children need structure, Cal had told me, and ever since, the dog had been insanely devoted to him.

I tried again. “How about Ulysses S. O’ Shea?”

“I’d settle for Grant. Grant O’ Shea. That’s a compromise, Grace.”

“Grant O’ Shea. Nope. Sorry. How about Jeb?”

“That’s it, missy.” He pounced, tickled, and a second later we were making out like a couple of teenagers.

“I love you,” he whispered, his hand on my tummy.

“I love you, too,” I whispered back.

Yep, we got married. I got the boy next door. And for that matter, the house next door, as well. Cal said it didn’t seem right that it belong to anyone but us, and we bought it together, two weeks after Natalie’s nonwedding.

Living next door to my old place didn’t bother me a bit. I was grateful to that house, where my sore and sad heart had slowly mended. It was where I first met my husband, after all.

Speaking of Natalie, she was doing fine. She was single still, working a lot, and seemed happy. She dated a little here and there, but nothing serious yet. Stuart and Margaret had become parents about a year ago—James, a colicky baby who cried the first four months of his life before transforming into a dimpled, chubby little Buddha of smiles and drool, and Margaret loved him beyond reason.

“God, you smell good,” Cal muttered from the region of my neck, which he was nuzzling most pleasantly. “Want to fool around?”

I looked at him, his long, straight lashes and perpetually tousled hair, those soft, dark blue eyes…I hope our son looks just like him, I thought, and my heart ached with such love that I couldn’t answer. Then there was a different ache, and soggy feeling to go with it.

“Honey?” Callahan asked. “You okay?”

“You know what? I think my water just broke.”

Thirty minutes later, Cal was trying to get me out the front door as Angus barked maniacally in the cellar, enraged at the unceremonious way Callahan had dumped him there, but Cal was in no mood for niceties, racing around like the house was on fire. I knew from Margaret’s long and gruesome labor, which she enjoyed discussing in great detail, that the baby would probably take the better part of a day to come. The obstetrician had said the same thing, but Cal was convinced that I was about to squat and push his child out right here and now…or worse, on the side of the road between here and the hospital.

“Do you have my lollipops?” I asked calmly, consulting my list from birthing class.

“Yup. I sure do.” He looked nervous—terrified might have been a better word—and I found it quite adorable. “Come on, honey, let’s go. Baby’s coming, don’t forget.”

I gave him a pointed look. “I’ll try to remember, Callahan. What about my pretty bathrobe? My hair’s going to be bad enough. At least I can look nice from the neck down.” I looked back at the list. “Don’t forget the camera, of course.”

“Got it, Grace. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s not have the baby in the hall here.”

“Cal, I’ve had two contractions. Relax.” He made a noise in the back of his throat, which I kindly ignored. “Did you remember the baby clothes? That little blue sleeper with the dog on it?”

“Yes, honey, please, I checked the list already. Think we can leave for the hospital before the kid turns three?”

“Oh, my focal point! Don’t forget that.” The birthing instructor had said to bring an object to concentrate on during the contractions, something I liked looking at.

“Got it.” He reached up over the front door and took down the focal point—my field hockey stick, which Cal had hung up the day we moved in. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s go meet our boy. Want me to carry you? It’s faster. I’ll do that. Just put your arm around my neck, honey. Come on. Let’s go.”

Nineteen and a half very impressive and memorable hours later, we learned several things. One, I could be very, very loud when the situation demanded it. Two, while Cal was pretty amazing during labor and delivery, he also tended to cry when his wife was in pain. (Just when you think you can’t love a guy any more…) And three, ultrasounds are still wrong once in a while.

Our boy was a girl.

We named her Scarlett.

Scarlett O’ Hara O’ Shea.