Chapter 2
Beth Walker stood at the kitchen window of the old farmhouse, one hand pressed against the small of her back, the other resting on the swell of her belly.
Outside, the March morning hung gray and cold over the orchard, the bare branches of the apple trees reaching toward a sky that couldn't quite decide whether to rain or snow.
Thirty-seven weeks. She was thirty-seven weeks pregnant with twins, and every single one of those weeks had taken up residence somewhere in her body.
Her ankles had disappeared sometime around Christmas.
Her back ached in places she didn't know could ache.
And the babies, her babies, had decided that three in the morning was the perfect time to practice synchronized kickboxing.
“You two are going to be trouble,” she murmured, rubbing a slow circle on her belly. “I can already tell.”
A kick answered her, sharp and definitive, somewhere near her ribs.
“That's what I thought,” she said.
Behind her, the farmhouse kitchen hummed with its usual morning sounds.
The old radiator clanked and hissed. Coffee percolated on the counter, filling the air with a smell that made her both hungry and slightly nauseous.
Charlie, their chocolate lab, lay sprawled across the doorway to the living room, his tail thumping lazily against the floor every time she glanced his way.
The back door opened, bringing a rush of cold air and the sound of boots stomping on the mat.
“You're supposed to be sitting down,” Gabriel said as he came in, pulling off his work gloves. He had sawdust on his shirt and concern written across his face, which was more or less his permanent expression these days.
“I'm standing,” Beth said. “Standing is not the same as doing cartwheels.”
“The doctor said to rest.”
“The doctor said to take it easy. I'm looking out a window. It doesn't get much easier than that.”
Gabriel crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. She felt him exhale, felt the tension in his chest as he looked out at the same gray morning.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Like a submarine that swallowed two smaller submarines.”
He laughed, a soft sound that vibrated against her back. “That's very specific.”
“I've had a lot of time to think about it.”
He kissed her temple. “Dad's got the workshop covered this morning. I thought I'd stay in the house, in case you need anything.”
Beth turned in his arms, which took some maneuvering given the size of her belly. She looked up at his face, at the worry lines that had deepened over the past few months and felt a wave of love so strong it almost hurt.
“Gabriel,” she said gently. “You've been hovering for weeks. You're going to wear a groove in the floor.”
“I'm not hovering. I'm being supportive.”
“You followed me to the bathroom last night.”
“I was getting a glass of water.”
“At three in the morning. And you stood outside the door.”
He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I just wanted to make sure you didn't need help getting back up.”
Beth reached up and touched his cheek. His beard had grown in thicker over the winter, giving him the look of a lumberjack who had accidentally wandered into fatherhood.
“I love you,” she said. “But if you don't go build something in that workshop, I'm going to lose my mind. And then you'll have to deal with me and two newborns and my insanity, and nobody wants that.”
Gabriel studied her for a moment, his dark eyes searching her face. “You promise you'll call if you need anything?”
“I promise.”
“And you'll sit down?”
“I'll sit down.”
“And you won't try to reorganize the nursery again?”
Beth sighed. “That was one time.”
“Beth.” He said her name like a prayer and a warning all at once. “Please. Just rest. For me. For them.” He put his hand on her belly, and as if on cue, one of the babies kicked against his palm.
“The babies agree with me.” Gabriel kissed her forehead. “I'll be in the workshop. Dad’s working on the Harrison order, and James should be in by ten. Willow's coming after school to help with the orchard inventory. She’s been complaining we don’t let her help.”
“I know,” Beth said. “I wrote the schedule.”
“From bed?”
“From the couch.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” she admitted. “From the kitchen table. But I was sitting the whole time.”
Gabriel shook his head, but he was smiling now, the worry softened by affection. “You're impossible.”
“You married me anyway.”
“Best decision I ever made.” He kissed her once more, grabbed a thermos of coffee from the counter, and headed for the door. “Call me. For anything.”
“Go,” Beth said, shooing him with her hands. “Build furniture. Be productive. Stop looking at me like I'm going to explode.”
“You might,” he said. “You're very round.”
“Gabriel Walker, get out of this kitchen.”
He laughed and ducked out the door, the cold air swirling in his wake.
Beth watched him through the window as he crossed the yard toward the workshop, his broad shoulders hunched against the chill.
She could see the lights already glowing inside, could imagine Thomas at his workbench, the smell of sawdust and wood stain, the quiet focus that filled the space when the Walker men were at work.
She loved that workshop. She loved what it represented, what Gabriel and his father and brother had built together.
The furniture business had grown steadily over the past year, custom pieces that people ordered from as far away as New York and Connecticut.
They had even started a website, which Beth had designed herself during the long evenings when sleep wouldn't come.
But today, the workshop would have to go on without her input. Today, she was under strict orders to rest.
She lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table, a process that took significantly longer than it used to. Charlie lifted his head, assessed the situation, and decided to relocate. He padded over and flopped down at her feet, his warm weight a comfort against her swollen ankles.
“At least you don't hover,” she told him. “You just exist. I appreciate that about you.”
Charlie's tail thumped once in acknowledgment.
Beth reached for her phone and scrolled through her messages.
There was a text from Lauren, checking in.
One from Sarah with a photo of Noah's latest marine biology project, a diorama of a coral reef made from painted cardboard and what appeared to be an alarming amount of glitter.
A voice message from her mother, which Beth decided to save for later when she had the energy to hear Maggie's voice without crying.
Pregnancy hormones, she had discovered, turned her into a watering can. Anything could set her off. A commercial with a puppy. A song on the radio. The way Gabriel looked at her sometimes, like she was the most miraculous thing he had ever seen.
She had cried three times yesterday. Twice about nothing in particular, and once because she dropped a spoon and couldn't bend down to pick it up.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. A new text, this one from a number she hadn't seen in a few weeks.
Emily.
Beth smiled and opened the message.
Still alive in there? Or have the tiny humans staged a takeover?
She typed back quickly. Takeover imminent. Send reinforcements.
The response came almost immediately. I could bring snacks. And my complete inability to make small talk, which I've been told is refreshing.
Where are you? Beth asked.
Vermont. Helping a friend pack up her apartment. She's moving to Seattle and apparently owns more books than any human should.
Sounds like you.
Exactly. That's why she needed me. I understand the book situation.
Beth laughed out loud, startling Charlie, who lifted his head and gave her a reproachful look.
Emily Wheeler was her half-sister, the daughter of Beth's father Daniel and a woman named Eve, born from an affair that had rocked the Wheeler family years ago.
For a long time, Beth hadn't known Emily existed.
None of them had. And when the truth came out, it had taken time for the wounds to heal, for Emily to find her place in a family that hadn't known they were missing her.
But Beth had connected with Emily almost immediately.
Maybe it was because Beth understood what it felt like to be the one on the outside, the youngest, the one who sometimes got lost in the shuffle of a big family.
Maybe it was because Emily's Asperger's meant she said exactly what she meant, without the social cushioning that other people used.
Beth found it refreshing. She never had to guess what Emily was thinking.
When do you finish in Vermont? Beth typed.
Tomorrow probably. Then I have no plans. Zero. My calendar is a vast and terrifying emptiness.
What happened to the job interviews?
There was a pause before Emily responded. They happened. I happened. We were not compatible.
Beth frowned at her phone. Emily had graduated from college last spring, a degree in environmental science that she had pursued with the single-minded focus she brought to everything she cared about.
But the job search had been harder. Interviews were difficult for her.
The social performance of selling herself to strangers didn't come naturally, and more than once she had told Beth about walking out of an interview knowing she had said the wrong thing or missed some cue she was supposed to understand.
I'm sorry, Beth wrote. That's really frustrating.
It's fine. I'm recalibrating. That's what my therapist calls it when I have to throw out my entire life plan and start over.
For what it's worth, I think you'd be great at whatever you decide to do.
You're biased. We share DNA.
Only half.
Still counts.
Beth shifted in her chair, trying to find a position that didn't make her feel like her organs were being compressed into a space the size of a shoebox.
Hey, she typed. What if you came here?
To the farm?