After kissing him, I was determined to avoid George at all possible costs. I was convinced that I had ruined our friendship with my behavior and that there was no way George would ever want to see me again. I hid my room or on campus as much as possible and did everything in my power to avoid speaking to him. He tried to talk to me, but I would only give one or two word answers. I knew he was getting frustrated with me, and after about three days of this, I was expecting him to confront me about my behavior.
But on the morning of the fourth day after my rash kiss, I stepped on the bathroom scale after my shower to discover that I weight 171 pounds, thirty-one pounds more than I had weighed in February. And I started to cry. I sat down on the floor and sobbed.
It wasn’t seven in the morning yet, since I had to be on campus before eight o’clock. George didn’t have to be up at any particular time since he didn’t work on Tuesdays, but I was not so lucky.
And I was even more unlucky when George came into the bathroom wearing only a pair of low-riding pajama bottoms. “Emma, it is six-forty in the morning. What on earth could have gone wrong this early in the morning?”
I glared at him. “That thing says I weigh one hundred-seventy pounds.”
“And you’re six months pregnant,” he replied, slowly lowering himself to the floor. “What’s wrong with weighing one hundred-seventy pounds when you’re six months pregnant?”
I sighed dramatically. “I’m fat, George. I’m a big, fat whale. I’m only six months pregnant and I still have three more months until the baby comes. If I’ve already gained thirty pounds, how much more weight am I going to gain? Am I going to become obese?”
He tentatively put a hand on my arm. “Emma, we keep coming back to this. You think you’re fat, and I think you’re lovely. I think you’re attractive, and I don’t understand why you’re hiding from me.”
“Because I kissed you and I’m an ugly, fat whale,” I blubbered back.
George moved his hand from my arm and put it around my shoulder. “Why is it a problem that you kissed me?”
“Because I’m an ugly, fat whale,” I repeated.
“That’s a load of crap,” he replied. “You are stunning. I mean, right now, your face is a little tear-stained, and your eyes are a little red from crying, but that’s no big deal. I think you are lovely.”
I put my hands on my belly. “Even with this?”
“Good gravy, Emma,” he sighed and put his free hand on my belly. “I don’t mind this one bit.”
“But I kissed you.”
“Again, I don’t see why that’s a problem. We’re already planning on raising this baby together and probably getting married next summer. What’s wrong with a kiss?”
“Because you’re not in love with me and I don’t know if I’m in love with you or if that was just the result of pregnancy hormones.”
He smiled. “I’m not saying we need to define our relationship right now, but there was nothing wrong with that kiss. I have no objections to kissing you every now and then as the urge hits or sleeping in your bed sometimes if that makes you more comfortable.”
I smiled and leaned my head against his chest. “You’re perfect; you do know that, don’t you?”
“I snore,” he replied.
“As long as I have earplugs, I’ll survive.”
“Oh good,” he said with a smile. “Now, will you and Baby be able to make it through the day without me to hold your hand all day?”
I nodded. “Please just keep reminding me that you think I’m beautiful.”
“No problem, sweetie,” he replied. “I have no problems reminding you of the truth. But maybe we should hide the scale from now on?”
“But how will I know how much I weigh?” I asked.
George laughed. “Emma, I don’t want you to know how much you weigh if you’re going to keep having meltdowns over your weight. You’re pregnant; enjoy it.”
“George told me to enjoy being pregnant and not worry about my weight,” I told Betsy Williamson over lunch the next day.
“That’s good advice,” she replied.
“But I’m getting fat,” I protested.
“You’re pregnant. It happens.”
I sighed. “Betsy, I’ve gained thirty pounds already, and if I gain another thirty in the next three months, I’ll weigh two hundred pounds.”
“Full disclosure, Emma,” Betsy said. “I gained almost seventy pounds when I was pregnant with Natalie, and eight months later, I still haven’t lost all of it. Nursing helps. Exercising helps. But losing seventy pounds is hard.”
“I know,” I sighed morosely.
She smiled. “But Mark doesn’t seem to mind a little extra padding around my midsection or thighs. And from what you’re saying, I don’t think George is minding that on your body either.”
I put my hands on my belly. “I just don’t want to end up being Hattie or Hannah’s fat friend.”
She laughed. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Hannah will end up gaining just as much weight as you or me when she gets pregnant. She talks a good game, but she’s used to eating whatever she wants, and someday that may backfire for her.”
I smiled. “I kind of hope you’re right.”
Betsy smiled. “George is right. Enjoy being pregnant. Don’t overdo it, but don’t deny yourself all pleasures just because you’re afraid of the scale. It’s just a number. And you can lose the weight after you give birth.”
“George, we need to start talking about baby names,” I announced on Friday in late August.
“Georgia,” he replied without blinking.
“Be serious.”
“I am being serious,” he said. “And if you don’t like Georgia, there is always Georgiana.”
I sighed. “George, we’re not naming the baby after you.”
He pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“Do you have any serious suggestions?”
“Alice,” he replied.
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m not a big fan of Alice.”
“What about Nora?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Add it to the list.”
“What names do you like?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I like Madeline.”
“That’s a possibility,” he replied as he pulling out his phone.
“And I like Beatrice.”
George grinned. “I love Beatrice. It’s an awesome name.”
“Or there’s also Audrey,” I said.
“Slow down,” he said. “I’m making a list in my phone. So far I have Nora, Madeline, Beatrice, and Audrey.”
“I think we like old-fashioned names,” I commented.
“I think we do. What do you think of Jane or Frances?”
I shook my head. “They’re too bland.”
“What about Amelia?”
“Amelia Pond,” I said.
He laughed. “So are we keeping it?”
“Naturally,” I replied with a smile.
“Do you have any other ideas?”
“Ruth?”
“Never,” he replied.
“But that was my grandma’s name.”
He shook his head. “I hate that name. It sounds like a grandma name and not a baby name.”
“What about Evelyn?” I asked.
George smiled. “I like Evelyn. That was my grandma’s name.”
“There’s always Felicity.”
“Uh, no,” he replied. “We’re not naming our daughter after a WB show.”
I laughed. “How do you feel about Charlotte?”
“It’s a maybe.”
“Or Caroline?”
“Another maybe,” George replied. “How do you feel about Abigail?”
“That’s Paul’s mom’s name.”
“Well, strike that from the record. We’re definitely not naming any of our kids after anything even remotely connected to Paul Churchill.”
“Aren’t Baby and I at least remotely connected to Paul?” I asked.
He sighed. “I suppose. Why don’t we rephrase to we’re not naming any of our kids after any members of Paul’s family or anyone else to whom he is particularly close?”
I smiled. “I’ll agree to that. Hannah might not like it, but I’ll agree to it.”
“Who cares what Hannah thinks?” George replied. “She married West. And while West is a perfectly nice guy and I like him, he’s still Paul’s brother and that makes me not like him so very much.”
I shook my head. George had never been a big fan of West, Hannah, or Paul. “We’ll stick with the list, and we won’t ask Hannah for any input on Baby’s name. Can you live with that?”
He shrugged. “I suppose so.”
The Friday before Labor Day, George and I had to attend the English department’s semester opening party. The party was held at the department chair’s home, and under our current department chair, Chris White, it was a lovely affair. I was looking forward to the delightful company of colleagues such as Art Johnson and Mark Williamson. (In case you haven’t picked up on this before, I love working with Mark Williamson. I’ve heard it said that there are two kinds of geniuses-those who make you feel like you can never be enough and those who help you to become better at whatever it is that you do. And Mark is decidedly of the second kind; working with him makes me want to be a better instructor and a better researcher. He’s also a great friend.)
While I was looking forward to the event itself, I was not looking forward to buying a dress to wear to the party. It was a casual event, held as a strolling supper in the Whites’ backyard. But it was expected that men would wear shirts and ties while women ought to wear dresses or nice slacks with a dressy top. I opted for a dress-even though I didn’t own any maternity dresses.
So, I plucked up my courage and called in Hattie Smith to go shopping with me. I figured that Hattie was a sweet soul and she would have fun shopping with me.
In retrospect, this was a poor choice. Hattie did enjoy the outing-immensely, in fact. I, however, did not enjoy it one bit. Yes, I found a dress. But I didn’t enjoy spending two and a half hours at the mall listening to Hattie prattle about her potential future with Rob Martin. She enumerated on each of his good points. He had no flaws; of that she was certain. He was far superior to Blake Elton in every way imaginable. In fact, every major world religion was probably at that very moment considering elevating Rob to sainthood-or perhaps even declaring him a god. She had even decided that they would have three children together-two sons and a daughter. They would name their sons Jacob Robert Martin and Mason Edward Martin. And their daughter would be named Bella Anastasia Martin. When I pointed out that Bella Anastasia’s initials would spell BAM, Emeril Lagasse’s signature phrase, she told me I was being too practical and not having enough of an appreciation for romance and true love. No, they had to name their children Jacob, Mason, and Bella. It was fate. “We’re destined to be together,” she insisted. “This is like Edward and Bella, West and Hannah, you and George…it’s fate. He is my soulmate.”
And this was all after going on two dates with him. Hopefully, it’s needless to say that she drove me nuts. I don’t believe in fate or destiny. I just believe in the power of perseverance and endurance. And all I really wanted was to find a beautiful navy blue dress that would look classy with black ballet flats and my most comfortable black sweater.
I did find the dress. It was simple and elegant, and it didn’t scream, “Behold, I am almost seven months pregnant and I wear 170 pounds.” George told me that I looked “ravishing” in it. “In fact,” he told me while I was getting ready for the party. “The dress is giving me ideas. It’s got just the right amount of cleavage. It’s telling the world that you’ve got curves. And it’s got some good old-fashioned Emma Woodhouse flair.”
I smiled. “Hattie made me try on so many dresses. She said I was being too conservative and apparently being discreet with your pregnancy is passé. Nowadays, you’re supposed to flaunt your baby bump to the world.”
“I hate the term baby bump,” George sighed.
“I know. You’ve told me before,” I said, resting a hand on my large belly. “And besides, this is way more than just a bump. This is more like a hill than a mountain.”
He smiled and put his hands on my belly. “It’s our baby, and I love her.”
I put my arms around his shoulders and pressed my face against his neck. “You’re amazing, George. You are an amazing man, and I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”
He kissed my forehead. “Are you ready to go to the party?”
The party was fine. You could have even described it as lovely. Sure, it was a little awkward how almost every single woman felt the need to touch my belly and offer me a few words of advice about pregnancy, childbirth, and parenting. I had been confidently assured by five different women, four of whom have never had children, that I had to go with a midwife and a water birth. “It’s just more natural that way,” Dr. Joan Wright told me. Dr. Wright was known for being a devout feminist who had never married or had children. “It allows you to have a more intimate connection with your child and your partner starting at the moment of birth.”
“But is it safe?” George asked.
“Of course it is,” the older woman replied with a reassuring smile.
“Thank you for the advice,” I said. “But George and I are going to make this decision on our own based on our research and the input of medical professionals we know and trust.”
“Wow,” George said as we walked away. “That might be the most diplomatic thing I’ve ever heard you say, Emma. I’m impressed.”
“It’s all Baby. Apparently, she’s very diplomatic, and so she expects her mother to be diplomatic too.”
He snorted. “You’re ridiculous, Emma Clare.”
“And yet you still love me.”
“More than you could ever understand,” he replied.
I smiled and leaned my head against his shoulder. “I do appreciate you, George.”
“And I appreciate your appreciation.”
Before he could say anything more, Art and Ellie Johnson came up to us. Art and Ellie are Betsy Williamson’s godparents. They’re in their mid-seventies, and Art is probably the oldest professor in the English department. He only teaches two classes anymore, but his two sections of Shakespeare’s Tetralogy: Fact vs. Fiction are always the first classes to fill up and have waiting lists as long as George’s leg.
“You two really are darling,” Ellie told us, greeting each of us with a kiss on the cheek and not touching my belly. “It’s always delightful to see you together.”
“We do try to be delightful,” I replied. “And we’re always glad to see you.”
“Then you ought to come for dinner some evening next week,” Art said. “We love company. Perhaps we could invite Mark and Betsy the same evening. I love young and lively company.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “We’d love to come. And we’re always glad to see Mark and Betsy.”
“And Natalie,” George added. “We love seeing Natalie. We think she’s the most delightful little girl on earth.”
“But you won’t be holding that view much longer from what I hear,” Ellie said. “Someone has been buying up a great deal of pink yarn lately.”
“And purple yarn too,” I said. “I like pink and purple best on little girls.”
“And if this little one looks anything like her mother, pink and purple will be utterly charming on her,” George said.
Ellie’s eyes glanced over my honey-brown hair and George’s dark blond hair, never knowing that the baby could inherit Paul’s dark brown hair. “I’m sure that whatever the baby wears she will look utterly charming.”
“Well, given who her mother is, she’ll have no choice in the matter,” George said. “She will be born to be delightful.”
“You shouldn’t say such things,” I scolded. “I’m not nearly as delightful as you think I am.”
“Oh Emma Clare,” George sighed. “What will I do with you?”
But on the morning of the fourth day after my rash kiss, I stepped on the bathroom scale after my shower to discover that I weight 171 pounds, thirty-one pounds more than I had weighed in February. And I started to cry. I sat down on the floor and sobbed.
It wasn’t seven in the morning yet, since I had to be on campus before eight o’clock. George didn’t have to be up at any particular time since he didn’t work on Tuesdays, but I was not so lucky.
And I was even more unlucky when George came into the bathroom wearing only a pair of low-riding pajama bottoms. “Emma, it is six-forty in the morning. What on earth could have gone wrong this early in the morning?”
I glared at him. “That thing says I weigh one hundred-seventy pounds.”
“And you’re six months pregnant,” he replied, slowly lowering himself to the floor. “What’s wrong with weighing one hundred-seventy pounds when you’re six months pregnant?”
I sighed dramatically. “I’m fat, George. I’m a big, fat whale. I’m only six months pregnant and I still have three more months until the baby comes. If I’ve already gained thirty pounds, how much more weight am I going to gain? Am I going to become obese?”
He tentatively put a hand on my arm. “Emma, we keep coming back to this. You think you’re fat, and I think you’re lovely. I think you’re attractive, and I don’t understand why you’re hiding from me.”
“Because I kissed you and I’m an ugly, fat whale,” I blubbered back.
George moved his hand from my arm and put it around my shoulder. “Why is it a problem that you kissed me?”
“Because I’m an ugly, fat whale,” I repeated.
“That’s a load of crap,” he replied. “You are stunning. I mean, right now, your face is a little tear-stained, and your eyes are a little red from crying, but that’s no big deal. I think you are lovely.”
I put my hands on my belly. “Even with this?”
“Good gravy, Emma,” he sighed and put his free hand on my belly. “I don’t mind this one bit.”
“But I kissed you.”
“Again, I don’t see why that’s a problem. We’re already planning on raising this baby together and probably getting married next summer. What’s wrong with a kiss?”
“Because you’re not in love with me and I don’t know if I’m in love with you or if that was just the result of pregnancy hormones.”
He smiled. “I’m not saying we need to define our relationship right now, but there was nothing wrong with that kiss. I have no objections to kissing you every now and then as the urge hits or sleeping in your bed sometimes if that makes you more comfortable.”
I smiled and leaned my head against his chest. “You’re perfect; you do know that, don’t you?”
“I snore,” he replied.
“As long as I have earplugs, I’ll survive.”
“Oh good,” he said with a smile. “Now, will you and Baby be able to make it through the day without me to hold your hand all day?”
I nodded. “Please just keep reminding me that you think I’m beautiful.”
“No problem, sweetie,” he replied. “I have no problems reminding you of the truth. But maybe we should hide the scale from now on?”
“But how will I know how much I weigh?” I asked.
George laughed. “Emma, I don’t want you to know how much you weigh if you’re going to keep having meltdowns over your weight. You’re pregnant; enjoy it.”
“George told me to enjoy being pregnant and not worry about my weight,” I told Betsy Williamson over lunch the next day.
“That’s good advice,” she replied.
“But I’m getting fat,” I protested.
“You’re pregnant. It happens.”
I sighed. “Betsy, I’ve gained thirty pounds already, and if I gain another thirty in the next three months, I’ll weigh two hundred pounds.”
“Full disclosure, Emma,” Betsy said. “I gained almost seventy pounds when I was pregnant with Natalie, and eight months later, I still haven’t lost all of it. Nursing helps. Exercising helps. But losing seventy pounds is hard.”
“I know,” I sighed morosely.
She smiled. “But Mark doesn’t seem to mind a little extra padding around my midsection or thighs. And from what you’re saying, I don’t think George is minding that on your body either.”
I put my hands on my belly. “I just don’t want to end up being Hattie or Hannah’s fat friend.”
She laughed. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Hannah will end up gaining just as much weight as you or me when she gets pregnant. She talks a good game, but she’s used to eating whatever she wants, and someday that may backfire for her.”
I smiled. “I kind of hope you’re right.”
Betsy smiled. “George is right. Enjoy being pregnant. Don’t overdo it, but don’t deny yourself all pleasures just because you’re afraid of the scale. It’s just a number. And you can lose the weight after you give birth.”
“George, we need to start talking about baby names,” I announced on Friday in late August.
“Georgia,” he replied without blinking.
“Be serious.”
“I am being serious,” he said. “And if you don’t like Georgia, there is always Georgiana.”
I sighed. “George, we’re not naming the baby after you.”
He pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“Do you have any serious suggestions?”
“Alice,” he replied.
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m not a big fan of Alice.”
“What about Nora?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Add it to the list.”
“What names do you like?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I like Madeline.”
“That’s a possibility,” he replied as he pulling out his phone.
“And I like Beatrice.”
George grinned. “I love Beatrice. It’s an awesome name.”
“Or there’s also Audrey,” I said.
“Slow down,” he said. “I’m making a list in my phone. So far I have Nora, Madeline, Beatrice, and Audrey.”
“I think we like old-fashioned names,” I commented.
“I think we do. What do you think of Jane or Frances?”
I shook my head. “They’re too bland.”
“What about Amelia?”
“Amelia Pond,” I said.
He laughed. “So are we keeping it?”
“Naturally,” I replied with a smile.
“Do you have any other ideas?”
“Ruth?”
“Never,” he replied.
“But that was my grandma’s name.”
He shook his head. “I hate that name. It sounds like a grandma name and not a baby name.”
“What about Evelyn?” I asked.
George smiled. “I like Evelyn. That was my grandma’s name.”
“There’s always Felicity.”
“Uh, no,” he replied. “We’re not naming our daughter after a WB show.”
I laughed. “How do you feel about Charlotte?”
“It’s a maybe.”
“Or Caroline?”
“Another maybe,” George replied. “How do you feel about Abigail?”
“That’s Paul’s mom’s name.”
“Well, strike that from the record. We’re definitely not naming any of our kids after anything even remotely connected to Paul Churchill.”
“Aren’t Baby and I at least remotely connected to Paul?” I asked.
He sighed. “I suppose. Why don’t we rephrase to we’re not naming any of our kids after any members of Paul’s family or anyone else to whom he is particularly close?”
I smiled. “I’ll agree to that. Hannah might not like it, but I’ll agree to it.”
“Who cares what Hannah thinks?” George replied. “She married West. And while West is a perfectly nice guy and I like him, he’s still Paul’s brother and that makes me not like him so very much.”
I shook my head. George had never been a big fan of West, Hannah, or Paul. “We’ll stick with the list, and we won’t ask Hannah for any input on Baby’s name. Can you live with that?”
He shrugged. “I suppose so.”
The Friday before Labor Day, George and I had to attend the English department’s semester opening party. The party was held at the department chair’s home, and under our current department chair, Chris White, it was a lovely affair. I was looking forward to the delightful company of colleagues such as Art Johnson and Mark Williamson. (In case you haven’t picked up on this before, I love working with Mark Williamson. I’ve heard it said that there are two kinds of geniuses-those who make you feel like you can never be enough and those who help you to become better at whatever it is that you do. And Mark is decidedly of the second kind; working with him makes me want to be a better instructor and a better researcher. He’s also a great friend.)
While I was looking forward to the event itself, I was not looking forward to buying a dress to wear to the party. It was a casual event, held as a strolling supper in the Whites’ backyard. But it was expected that men would wear shirts and ties while women ought to wear dresses or nice slacks with a dressy top. I opted for a dress-even though I didn’t own any maternity dresses.
So, I plucked up my courage and called in Hattie Smith to go shopping with me. I figured that Hattie was a sweet soul and she would have fun shopping with me.
In retrospect, this was a poor choice. Hattie did enjoy the outing-immensely, in fact. I, however, did not enjoy it one bit. Yes, I found a dress. But I didn’t enjoy spending two and a half hours at the mall listening to Hattie prattle about her potential future with Rob Martin. She enumerated on each of his good points. He had no flaws; of that she was certain. He was far superior to Blake Elton in every way imaginable. In fact, every major world religion was probably at that very moment considering elevating Rob to sainthood-or perhaps even declaring him a god. She had even decided that they would have three children together-two sons and a daughter. They would name their sons Jacob Robert Martin and Mason Edward Martin. And their daughter would be named Bella Anastasia Martin. When I pointed out that Bella Anastasia’s initials would spell BAM, Emeril Lagasse’s signature phrase, she told me I was being too practical and not having enough of an appreciation for romance and true love. No, they had to name their children Jacob, Mason, and Bella. It was fate. “We’re destined to be together,” she insisted. “This is like Edward and Bella, West and Hannah, you and George…it’s fate. He is my soulmate.”
And this was all after going on two dates with him. Hopefully, it’s needless to say that she drove me nuts. I don’t believe in fate or destiny. I just believe in the power of perseverance and endurance. And all I really wanted was to find a beautiful navy blue dress that would look classy with black ballet flats and my most comfortable black sweater.
I did find the dress. It was simple and elegant, and it didn’t scream, “Behold, I am almost seven months pregnant and I wear 170 pounds.” George told me that I looked “ravishing” in it. “In fact,” he told me while I was getting ready for the party. “The dress is giving me ideas. It’s got just the right amount of cleavage. It’s telling the world that you’ve got curves. And it’s got some good old-fashioned Emma Woodhouse flair.”
I smiled. “Hattie made me try on so many dresses. She said I was being too conservative and apparently being discreet with your pregnancy is passé. Nowadays, you’re supposed to flaunt your baby bump to the world.”
“I hate the term baby bump,” George sighed.
“I know. You’ve told me before,” I said, resting a hand on my large belly. “And besides, this is way more than just a bump. This is more like a hill than a mountain.”
He smiled and put his hands on my belly. “It’s our baby, and I love her.”
I put my arms around his shoulders and pressed my face against his neck. “You’re amazing, George. You are an amazing man, and I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”
He kissed my forehead. “Are you ready to go to the party?”
The party was fine. You could have even described it as lovely. Sure, it was a little awkward how almost every single woman felt the need to touch my belly and offer me a few words of advice about pregnancy, childbirth, and parenting. I had been confidently assured by five different women, four of whom have never had children, that I had to go with a midwife and a water birth. “It’s just more natural that way,” Dr. Joan Wright told me. Dr. Wright was known for being a devout feminist who had never married or had children. “It allows you to have a more intimate connection with your child and your partner starting at the moment of birth.”
“But is it safe?” George asked.
“Of course it is,” the older woman replied with a reassuring smile.
“Thank you for the advice,” I said. “But George and I are going to make this decision on our own based on our research and the input of medical professionals we know and trust.”
“Wow,” George said as we walked away. “That might be the most diplomatic thing I’ve ever heard you say, Emma. I’m impressed.”
“It’s all Baby. Apparently, she’s very diplomatic, and so she expects her mother to be diplomatic too.”
He snorted. “You’re ridiculous, Emma Clare.”
“And yet you still love me.”
“More than you could ever understand,” he replied.
I smiled and leaned my head against his shoulder. “I do appreciate you, George.”
“And I appreciate your appreciation.”
Before he could say anything more, Art and Ellie Johnson came up to us. Art and Ellie are Betsy Williamson’s godparents. They’re in their mid-seventies, and Art is probably the oldest professor in the English department. He only teaches two classes anymore, but his two sections of Shakespeare’s Tetralogy: Fact vs. Fiction are always the first classes to fill up and have waiting lists as long as George’s leg.
“You two really are darling,” Ellie told us, greeting each of us with a kiss on the cheek and not touching my belly. “It’s always delightful to see you together.”
“We do try to be delightful,” I replied. “And we’re always glad to see you.”
“Then you ought to come for dinner some evening next week,” Art said. “We love company. Perhaps we could invite Mark and Betsy the same evening. I love young and lively company.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “We’d love to come. And we’re always glad to see Mark and Betsy.”
“And Natalie,” George added. “We love seeing Natalie. We think she’s the most delightful little girl on earth.”
“But you won’t be holding that view much longer from what I hear,” Ellie said. “Someone has been buying up a great deal of pink yarn lately.”
“And purple yarn too,” I said. “I like pink and purple best on little girls.”
“And if this little one looks anything like her mother, pink and purple will be utterly charming on her,” George said.
Ellie’s eyes glanced over my honey-brown hair and George’s dark blond hair, never knowing that the baby could inherit Paul’s dark brown hair. “I’m sure that whatever the baby wears she will look utterly charming.”
“Well, given who her mother is, she’ll have no choice in the matter,” George said. “She will be born to be delightful.”
“You shouldn’t say such things,” I scolded. “I’m not nearly as delightful as you think I am.”
“Oh Emma Clare,” George sighed. “What will I do with you?”