ow could he describe the next six weeks? How would he remember them when reflecting back on his past? Would he remember spending his weekends with Lexie as they browsed garage sales and antique shops, finding just the right pieces to finish decorating their house? That Lexie turned out not only to have exquisite taste, but an ability to see how everything would fit into their decorating scheme? That her instincts as a bargain shopper enabled them to spend far less than he’d imagined they would? That by the end even Jed’s gift looked as if it belonged in the house?

Or would he remember finally making the call to his parents about the pregnancy-a call in which he ended up crying uncontrollably, as if he’d bottled up his fears for far too long and only now had a chance to let his emotions flow freely, without worrying Lexie?

Or perhaps he would remember the endless nights he’d spent at the computer, trying and failing to write, alternately despairing and angry, as he felt the clock ticking toward the end of his career.

No, he thought, in the end he would remember it as a period of anxious transition-one divided into two-week increments between ultrasounds.

Though their fears remained the same, the initial shock had begun to wear off, and their worries no longer dominated their thoughts day and night. It was as if some survival mechanism kicked in to counter the unsustainable weight and turmoil of their emotions. It was a gradual, almost imperceptible process, and it wasn’t until several days after the last ultrasound had passed that he realized he’d spent most of an afternoon without his worries paralyzing him. The same gradual change had come over Lexie as well. During that six-week period, they had more than one romantic dinner, laughed through a couple of comedies at the cinema, and lost themselves in the books they read before bedtime. Though the worries still arose unexpectedly and without warning-when seeing another baby at church, for example, or when a particularly painful Braxton-Hicks contraction occurred-it was as if they both accepted the fact that there was nothing they could do.

There were times, moreover, when Jeremy wondered whether he should even worry. Where once he had imagined only the worst possible outcomes, now he sometimes imagined that they might think back on the pregnancy with a sigh of relief. He could picture them telling the stories, emphasizing how awful the period had been, and voicing simple gratitude that everything turned out well.

Still, as the date for another ultrasound approached, both would find themselves growing quieter; in the ride to the doctor’s office, they might not say anything. Instead, Lexie would hold his hand in silence as she stared out the passenger window.

The next ultrasound, on September 8, showed no change in the amniotic band. Six weeks to go.

They celebrated that night with chilled apple juice. As they sat on the couch, Jeremy surprised Lexie with a small wrapped gift. Inside was lotion. As she eyed it curiously, he instructed her to lean back on the couch and get comfortable. After taking the lotion from her hand, he slipped off her socks and began to rub her feet. He’d noticed that her feet had begun to swell again, but when she said as much, he denied noticing.

“I just thought you’d enjoy it,” he claimed.

She grinned at him skeptically. “You can’t tell they’re swollen?”

“Not at all,” he said, rubbing between her toes.

“How about my tummy? Can you tell that’s bigger?”

“Now that you mention it. But trust me, you look a lot better than a lot of pregnant women.”

“I’m huge. I look like I’m trying to smuggle a basketball.”

He laughed. “You look great. From behind, you can’t even tell you’re pregnant. It’s only when you turn to the side that I’m afraid you’ll accidentally knock over the lamp.”

She laughed. “Watch it,” she teased. “I’m a pregnant woman on the edge.”

“That’s why I’m rubbing your feet. I know I’m getting off easy. It’s not like I’m the one carrying Claire.”

She leaned her head back and reached over to dim the lamp. “There, that’s better,” she said, getting comfortable again. “More relaxing.”

He rubbed her feet in silence, listening as she murmured in pleasure every now and then. Jeremy could feel her feet warming as he ran his hands over them.

“Do we have any chocolate-covered cherries?” she whispered.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Did you buy any yesterday?”

“No, but I was just wondering if you did.”

“Why would I buy those?”

“No reason,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve kind of got a craving for them. Don’t they sound good?”

He stopped rubbing. “Do you want me to run to the store to get some for you?”

“No, of course not,” she said. “It’s been a long day. And besides, we’re celebrating. You shouldn’t have to run out to the store just because I’ve got a silly craving.”

“Okay,” he said. He reached for the bottle of lotion and continued the massage.

“But don’t you think those sound good right now?”

He laughed. “Okay, okay. I’ll go get some.”

She looked up at him. “You sure? I’d hate to put you out.”

“It’s no problem, sweetheart.”

“Will you still rub my feet when you get back?”

“I’ll rub them as long as you want me to.”

She smiled. “Have I told you how glad I am that we’re married? And how lucky I am to have you in my life?”

He kissed her softly on the forehead. “Every day.”

For her birthday, Jeremy surprised Lexie with an elegant black maternity dress and tickets to the theater in Raleigh. He’d rented a limousine, and they shared a romantic dinner beforehand; for later, he’d arranged for a stay at a luxury hotel.

He decided it was exactly what she needed: a chance to get out of town, space to escape from her worries, time to spend as a couple. But as the evening wore on, he realized that it was what he needed as well. During the performance, he watched Lexie, relishing the play of emotions across her face, her utter absorption in the moment. More than once, she leaned toward him; at other times, they turned toward each other simultaneously, as if by unspoken agreement. On the way out, he caught others staring as well. Despite her obvious pregnancy, she was beautiful, and more than one man turned his head when she passed. That she didn’t seem to notice how others saw her filled him with pride; despite their marriage, it still felt like a dream, and he almost shivered when she slipped her arm through his as they exited the theater. When the driver opened the door, he wore a look that let Jeremy know he thought Jeremy was a lucky man.

It’s been said that romance in the latter stages of pregnancy is impossible, but Jeremy learned how wrong that was. Though Lexie had reached the point in her pregnancy where making love was uncomfortable, they lay close together in bed, sharing memories of their respective childhoods. They talked for hours, laughing at some of the things they did and wincing at others, and when at last they turned out the lights, Jeremy found himself wishing the night would never end. In the darkness, he wrapped his arms around her, still amazed at the thought that he could do this forever; and just when he was beginning to doze off, he felt her gently move his hands to her belly. In the stillness, the baby was awake, moving and kicking, each sensation making him believe that all was right and would turn out well. When they finally fell asleep, he wanted nothing more than to spend another ten thousand evenings like the one they’d just shared.

The next morning, they ate breakfast in bed, feeding each other fruit and feeling like a honeymooning couple again. He must have kissed her a dozen times that morning. But on the drive home, they grew quiet, the spell of the past hours broken, both of them dreading whatever lay ahead.

The following week, knowing another seven days wouldn’t help, Jeremy called his editor again; again, his editor said there was no problem and that he understood the pressures Jeremy was facing. But an almost imperceptible edge of impatience in his voice reminded Jeremy that he couldn’t postpone the inevitable forever. That knowledge increased the pressure-and kept him awake for two nights-but it seemed inconsequential compared with the anxiety he and Lexie felt as they waited for their next ultrasound.

The room was the same, the machine was the same, the technician was the same, but somehow everything felt different. They weren’t here to learn how the baby was doing, they were here to learn if she was going to be deformed or die.

The gel was smoothed over Lexie’s tummy, and the hand piece was placed upon it. Both of them immediately heard the heartbeat: strong, fast, and steady. Lexie and Jeremy exhaled at the same time.

They’d learned by now what to look for, and Jeremy found his eyes drawn to the amniotic band and its proximity to the baby. He watched to see whether it had attached, could anticipate where the technician would move the hand piece next, knew exactly what the technician was thinking. He saw the shadows, forcing himself to keep quiet when he wanted to tell her to move the hand piece and then zeroing in when she did exactly that. He watched as the technician watched, knew what she was seeing, knew what she knew.

The baby was getting larger, the technician noted as if speaking to no one in particular, and she said the baby’s size made it difficult to read accurately. She continued to take her time, bringing up one image after the other. Jeremy knew what she would say, knew she would tell them the baby was okay, but the words she spoke were unexpected. The technician explained that the physician had asked her to go ahead and tell them if things were going well and that she felt comfortable in saying that the band hadn’t attached. Still, she wanted to get the doctor to make sure. She rose and went to get the physician. Jeremy and Lexie waited in the room for what seemed like forever. The doctor finally appeared, looking tense and tired; perhaps he’d delivered a baby the night before. But he was patient and methodical. After watching the technician, he ran his examination before agreeing with the technician’s conclusion.

“The baby is fine,” he said. “She’s doing well, better than I expected. But I’m pretty sure the band is getting slightly larger. It seems to be growing along with the baby, but I can’t be sure.”

“What about a C-section?” Jeremy asked.

The doctor nodded, as if he’d anticipated the question. “We could, but C-sections come with their own risks. It’s major surgery, and even though the baby is viable, she would be at risk for other problems. Considering that the band hasn’t attached and the baby’s doing fine, I think that would actually entail more risk for both Lexie and the baby. But we’ll keep that possibility open, okay? Let’s just keep going like we are for the time being.”

Jeremy nodded, unable to speak. Four weeks to go.

Jeremy held Lexie’s hand on the way back to the car; once inside, he saw the same concern on her face that he felt himself. They heard the baby was fine, but the news was a whisper compared with the deafening announcement that a C-section was out for the time being and that the band seemed to be growing. Even if the doctor wasn’t sure.

Lexie turned toward him, her lips pressed together, looking suddenly tired. “Let’s go home,” she said. Her hands rested instinctively on her belly, and her face was flushed.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” she said.

He was just about to start the engine when he saw her lower her head into her hands. “I hate this! I hate that just when you allow yourself to believe that everything’s going to be okay, even for an instant, you find out that we were just being set up for something worse. I’m just so sick of this!”

I am, too, Jeremy wanted to say. “I know you are,” he said soothingly. There was nothing else he could say; what he wanted was to somehow make the situation better, to fix it. What she wanted, he recognized, was for someone simply to listen.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this is just as hard on you as it’s been on me. And I know you’re just as worried. It’s just that you seem so much better able to handle it than I am.”

Despite it all, he laughed. “I doubt it. My stomach started doing flip-flops the instant the doctor walked in the room. I’m developing an aversion to doctors. They give me the heebie-jeebies. Whatever happens, Claire can’t become a doctor. I’m going to have to put my foot down there.”

“How can you joke at a time like this?”

“It’s how I deal with stress.”

She smiled. “You could throw a temper tantrum.”

“I don’t think so. That’s more your style.”

“I’ve been doing that enough for the both of us. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. And besides, it was kind of good news. So far, so good. That’s what we were hoping for.”

She reached for his hand. “You ready to go home?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And let me tell you, I’m really looking forward to an apple juice on the rocks to steady the nerves.”

“No, you have a beer. I’ll have the apple juice and look on enviously.”

“Hey,” Lexie said the following week.

They’d just finished dinner, and Jeremy had gone into his office. He was sitting at the desk, staring at the computer screen. When he heard Lexie’s voice, he turned to see her standing in the doorway, thinking again that despite the bulging belly, she was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. But I just thought I’d check to see how it’s coming.”

Since their marriage, he’d been telling her exactly what had been happening with his writing, but only when she asked. There was no use volunteering his own daily struggles when she got home from work. How many times could a person hear that her spouse is failing before she finally began to believe that he was a failure? Instead, he’d taken to retreating into his office, as if hoping for divine intervention and attempting to make the impossible possible.

“The same,” he said, simultaneously evasive and descriptive. With his answer, he thought she might nod and turn to leave; that had been her response in the last couple of months, once she learned he’d already postponed his last two columns. Instead, she stepped into the room.

“Would you like some company?”

“I always love company,” he said. “Especially when nothing seems to be working.”

“Tough day?”

“Like I said, the same as always.”

She entered his office, but instead of moving toward the chair in the corner, she walked toward him and put her hand on the armrest. Jeremy took the hint: He slid back the chair and she took a seat on his lap. She put her arm around his shoulder, ignoring his surprise.

“Sorry for squishing you,” she said. “I know I’m getting heavy.”

“It’s no problem. Anytime you want to sit on my lap, feel free to do so.”

She stared at him before finally letting out a long sigh. “I haven’t been fair with you,” she confessed.

“What are you talking about?”

“All of it,” she said, tracing an invisible pattern on his shoulder. “I haven’t been fair since the beginning.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” he responded, ignoring her touch.

“All of it,” she said again. “I’ve been thinking about all you’ve done in the last nine months, and I want you to know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter where that life brings us.” She paused. “I know I’m not making any sense, so let me get to the point. I married a writer,” she continued. “And that’s what I want you to do.”

“I’m trying,” he said. “That’s all I’ve been doing since I’ve been down here. . . .”

“That’s my point,” she said. “Do you know why I love you? I love you because of the way you’ve been ever since we found out about Claire. Because you always sound like you’re sure everything’s going to be okay, because every time I get down, you seem to know what to say or what to do. But most of all, I love you for who you are, and I want you to know I’d do anything to help you.”

She clasped her arms around his neck. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about what you’ve been going through. I don’t know . . . maybe it was just too much. Look at all the changes you’ve made since January. Marriage, the house, the pregnancy . . . and on top of all that, you moved down here. Your job is different from mine. For the most part, I know what I’m going to do every day. Granted, there are times when it’s tedious or frustrating, but it’s not as if I think the library will close if I don’t do my job. But your job . . . it’s creative. I couldn’t do what you do. I couldn’t come up with columns every month or write articles like you do. They’re amazing.”

Jeremy didn’t bother to hide his surprise as she ran a finger through his hair.

“That’s what I’ve been doing at the library when I have a few extra minutes. I think I’ve read everything you’ve written, and, I don’t know, I guess I just don’t want you to stop. And if living here is what’s stopping you, I can’t ask you to make that sacrifice.”

“It’s not a sacrifice,” he protested. “I wanted to come down here. You didn’t force me.”

“No, but you knew where I stood. You knew I never wanted to leave. And I don’t, but I will.” She met his gaze. “You’re my husband, and I’ll follow you, even if that means moving to New York if you think that will help.”

He didn’t know what to say. “You’d leave Boone Creek?”

“If that’s what you think you need to write.”

“What about Doris?”

“I’m not saying I won’t visit. But Doris would understand. We’ve already discussed it.”

She smiled, waiting for his response, and for an instant Jeremy considered it. He imagined the energy of the city, the lights of Times Square, the illuminated outline of the Manhattan skyline at night. He thought of his daily runs in Central Park and his favorite diner, the endless possibilities of new restaurants, plays, stores, and people . . .

But only for an instant. As he glanced through the window and saw the whitewashed bark of cypress trees standing on the banks of Boone Creek, with the water so still that it reflected the sky, he knew he wouldn’t leave. Nor, he realized with an intensity that surprised him, did he want to.

“I’m happy here,” he said. “And I don’t think moving to New York is what I need to write.”

“Just like that?” she said. “Don’t you want some time to think about it?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”

After she left, he started straightening up his desk and was just about to shut off the computer when he noticed Doris’s journal near the mail. It had been on the desk since he’d moved in, and he realized he should return it. He opened it and saw the names on the pages. How many still lived in the area, he wondered, and what had become of the children? Did they go to college? Were they married? Did they know their mothers had gone to Doris before their births?

He wondered how many people would believe Doris if she appeared on television with her journal and told her story. He guessed half the audience, maybe even more. But why? Why would a person believe something so ridiculous?

Pulling up to the computer, he pondered the question, suggesting answers as they came to him. He made notes about how theory influences observation, how anecdotes differ from evidence, how bold statements are often perceived intuitively as truth, that rumors seldom have any basis in reality, that most people rarely require a burden of proof. He came up with fifteen observations and began citing examples to make his case. As he typed, he couldn’t shake the feeling of giddiness, of amazement, that the words were flowing. He was afraid to stop, afraid to turn on the lamp, afraid to get a cup of coffee, lest the muse desert him. At first, he was afraid to delete anything, even when it was wrong, for the same reason; then instinct took over and he pressed his luck, and still the words came. An hour later, he found himself staring in satisfaction at what he knew would be his next column: “Why People Believe Anything.”

He printed it and found himself reading the column once more. It wasn’t done yet. It was rough, and he knew he needed to edit it. But the bones were there, and more ideas were coming, and he knew with sudden certainty that his block was over. Still, he jotted down several ideas on the page in front of him, just in case.

He left his office and found Lexie reading in the living room.

“Hey,” she said, “I thought you were going to join me.”

“I did, too,” he said.

“What have you been doing?”

He held out the pages, not bothering to hide his grin. “Would you like to read my next column?”

It took a moment for her to process the words before she rose from the couch. Wearing an expression of disbelief-and joy-she took the pages. She scanned them quickly, then looked up at him with a smile. “You just wrote this?”

He nodded.

“That’s wonderful!” she said. “Of course I’ll read it. I can’t wait to read it!”

She moved back to the couch, and for the next few minutes, Jeremy watched as she perused the column. Lost in concentration, she was twirling a strand of hair with her finger. It was while staring at her that he gleaned an inkling of what had been causing his writer’s block. Perhaps it wasn’t that he lived in Boone Creek; rather, it was that-subconsciously, at least-he felt he could never leave.

It was a ridiculous notion, one that he would have dismissed had anyone else suggested it, but he knew he was right, and he couldn’t stop smiling. He wanted to celebrate by taking Lexie in his arms and holding her forever. He was looking forward to raising his daughter in a place where they could catch fireflies in the summer and watch the storms roll in from the shelter of their porch. This was home now, their home, and the realization led him to believe that the baby was going to be okay. They’d been through so much already that she had to be okay-and when they got the next ultrasound on October 6, the last they would have before delivery, Jeremy learned that he’d been right. So far, Claire was doing just fine.

So far.