Three Wishes (37 page)

 

Something about the evening made an impression on Tom, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Neither he nor Nancy mentioned their earlier talk. She was entirely pleasant, apparently reassured after seeing Julia's life for herself. Julia seemed happy, even relieved, that her daughter had come. Bree was delighted to be doing something special for Julia, who had come to mean so much to her.

Three women, all smiling, talking comfortably, enjoying the night.

Naturally, Tom pulled out his camera. Nancy wasn't staying in Panama for long. Pictures of her visit would be special.

 

It wasn't until a full week later that he finished up the roll of film by shooting Bree at her heaviest and most lovely. He dropped off the film to be developed, but by the time he picked it up, he was so preoccupied between Christmas preparations and wondering when Bree's labor would begin, how they would get to the hospital in case of snow, and whether Bree would be all right, that he set the pictures aside without a glance.

16

S
now came on the twenty-first of December. The flakes were large and nearly as thick as they had been on that fateful day fourteen months before. This time, though, the town was prepared. Roads were plowed and sanded throughout the day, particularly the ones near West Elm. Everyone knew Bree was about to deliver. No one wanted her stuck when her time finally came.

Tom wasn't looking forward to driving in the snow, but Bree had her last scheduled appointment with Paul Sealy that afternoon, and he wasn't having her miss it. Well before they reached the medical center, he decided that if Paul said Bree was anywhere near delivery, they were staying.

Paul said she hadn't begun to dilate.

That made Tom nervous. He had read an Internet piece about women dying from obstructed labor and figured that a failure to dilate could cause that. Granted, those women lived in third world countries. Still.

“Is it a problem?” he asked Paul, calmly so that he wouldn't worry Bree, though she looked far calmer than he felt.

“No problem at all,” Paul said. “Sometimes we know the exact date when a woman conceived and still miss the delivery date. Every woman is different. Every pregnancy is different. She may not deliver for another ten days.”

It occurred to Tom that Paul could do the cesarean now and avoid the uncertainty of weather. But he didn't ask, because of that other uncertainty. It sat like lead in the back of his mind. He wasn't ready for the baby to be born. He wanted more time alone with Bree.

Slowly, carefully, he drove her home through the snow. They passed the town hall, where, despite the weather, the Winter Solstice Dance was about to begin, but neither of them wanted to party, not with others at least. Tom built a fire in the family room, stir-fried a healthy dinner, popped popcorn, played music. They swayed more than danced, rubbed against each other, laughed. Then they lay in each other's arms on the sofa, watching the flames.

“We have diapers,” Bree said, running through the list for the
third
last time. “We have a baby bathtub and towels. We have baby powder and baby lotion. We have baby books. We have baby clothes and a baby seat. We have a snowsuit. We have formula just in case—”

Tom didn't like those words. “Shhh,” he whispered, and held her more tightly.

“In case I don't have enough milk,” she specified.

“You will.” How could she not? She was woman personified, with her warm smell and the richness of a body ripe with child. Her breasts had grown full, her stomach round and firm. During the last few weeks, when intercourse would have been awkward, they had pleasured each other in different ways. Tom's orgasms had been intense. From the sounds Bree made, hers had, too. She was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted, the sexiest thing he had ever held.

His camera couldn't capture her spirit, though Lord knew, he had tried. But two-dimensional images were finite. They couldn't convey the heart of her, and her soul. She brought depth to his life, brought optimism and innocence and goodness.

Yet again he wondered if he should have insisted that she deliver in New York. But she was happy here. She had faith in Paul. Having come to know him well, so did Tom.

“I love you,” she whispered against his mouth.

He hugged her but didn't speak. His throat was too thick to allow it.

 

On the twenty-second, Bree helped Tom decorate—“helped” being a relative term, since he wouldn't let her do much. She would have argued, had there been even a remote chance of her winning. But Tom had assured her there wasn't, so she settled for directing the goings-on.

Bree didn't miss out on the fun in the woods. She was all bundled up with Tom and Ben Little, picking the tree she wanted, cheering while they chopped it down, guiding them back to the house, and, once inside, steering them around corners until the tree was in place in the family room. She decorated the lower limbs, Tom the upper ones, with more tinsel, bigger bows, brighter decorations, than the year before. Come time for the star, he sat her right up on his shoulder and held her tight while she did the honors. It was a charmed time. Mistletoe hung in every doorway, big fat candles scented every room, and through it all, carols played, soft, sweet, and poignant.

Friends dropped by for eggnog and hot cider, starting the holiday early, a dream come true for Bree. She loved the sights, sounds, and smells of Christmas—all real now, as they hadn't been that October night fourteen months before when she had stood in the snow across from the diner and dreamed. Her life was rich and brimming. There was nothing she wanted that she didn't have. She felt blessed—and that was even before she saw Tom's gift to her. It arrived shortly before dusk, with a giant red bow on its shiny red roof—her very own brand-new luxury four-wheel-drive vehicle.

“With baby seat,” Tom said, and there it was, belted into the back.

Bree was speechless. They never had gotten around to shopping together for her car. It simply hadn't been high priority, what with Tom's truck being right there and their going most everywhere together anyway. She hadn't dreamed he would do this on his own. For the longest time, she just stood there, looking at her gift, stunned.

“Do you like it?”

“I
love
it.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him as tightly as she could, given the baby between them. Seconds later, she pulled back to lumber in behind the wheel, opening a palm. “Give me the keys. I'm going for a ride.”

Tom shook his head.

“Tom,” she protested. “Come on, Tom.”

“After the baby's born.”

“I won't hurt the baby. I'll go slow.”

“You can't even reach the wheel.”

“I can,” she said, demonstrating. Her elbows were nearly straight, but no matter. “Just to the end of the driveway and back.”

She finally wore him down. He actually allowed her to drive to the end of the street and back. She was in heaven.

 

On the morning of the twenty-third, Tom woke up in a cold sweat. He had dreamed that Bree's side of the bed was icy, and he put a fast hand there. She was warm and awake. He pulled her close.

“You're shaking,” she whispered.

She's here,
he told himself.
She'll always be here,
he told himself. “How long have you been up?”

“A while. I was watching you sleep.”

He curved a hand to her belly. “How's baby?”

“All snug and settled in.”

“Smart kid knows a good thing.”

“What did you dream?”

“Nothing much.” It hadn't taken much to cause the sweat. One thought. Just one. He could avoid it most of the time by obsessing over Christmas preparations, but he had less control over night thoughts.

Bree touched his face. “Things will be fine.”

“I know.”

Her eyes lit. “This time next week we'll be parents.”

He brought her hand to his mouth, kissed it, held it there.

“We've done everything right,” she reasoned. “For baby
and
me. We had all their tests—heart, lungs, blood—and they couldn't come up with a thing, not the
tiniest thing
that's wrong. We'll make it through this delivery just fine, all of us. I know it. I know it right here.” She touched her heart.

What could Tom say to that? He couldn't tell her about the ominous feeling he had. It was the exact opposite of his utter conviction, in the waiting room with Flash on the night of the accident, that she would be fine. Okay, so he had more at stake now. But why such a strong premonition? And what could he say to Bree?

Not a damn thing, except “Wyatt for a boy, Chloe for a girl?”

She grinned and nodded. “I want a big christening, with everyone there and Julia as godmother.”

“Not Jane?”

“Jane's going to art school. Dotty doesn't know it yet, but she is. She'll be a great visiting aunt, but Julia's
here.
She has the time and the love. It would mean a lot to her. . . . And I've been thinking: the land on South Forest? Let's sell it.”

“Are you sure? We can wait longer. It's not going anywhere.”

“I'm positive. You're good with money. Invest it for the baby. And call Alice as soon as the baby's born. She'll tell your father. He'll call us, I know he will.”

“You sent them nice gifts.”

She smiled. “It was easy.”

“All with personal notes.”

“What else did I have to do with my time? You won't let me do anything.” She moved her lips over his, teasing, smiling. “I love the truck, Tom. Thank you. I can't wait till you see your gift.”

“What is it?”

“I'm not telling. It's coming tomorrow morning.”

“Give me a hint.”

“If I do that, you'll guess.”

“I won't. I promise.”

She laughed. Her thumb found his chin, moved up his cheek to the scar on the bone, then over his temple, across his brow, and into his hair. She did that often—looked at him like he was the best thing to ever come down the road—and it never failed to both humble him and fill him with pride. If there had been a life before Vermont, he couldn't remember it. He had never felt so content, so satisfied, so fulfilled, so loved.

 

It was the morning of the twenty-fourth when his gift arrived, the large riding mower that he had sworn to buy in the fall, then forgotten in the excitement of everything else.

“I have this image,” Bree said, “of you mowing the grass with the baby on your lap. Promise you'll do it?”

Tom promised. He had no choice. He shared the image and loved the gift. What he didn't like was the feeling he had—in this, in talk of godparents and christenings, in stocking the house with supplies enough to keep them for months—that she was making provisions for when she was gone.

“Don't do this,” he whispered, pushing his hands into her hair and holding her face to his.

She didn't pretend not to know what he meant but clung to his wrists, her eyes bright with tears. “I just love you so much.”

Words, tears, touch—all went straight to his heart. Fiercely, determinedly, he said, “That's why we'll be fine. You said it yourself. We've taken every precaution. The baby will be fine.
you
'll be fine.” He pressed her face to his chest.

“I'm tired of waiting,” she said, in a moment's rare complaint. “I want it over, Tom.”

“Soon, angel, soon.”

 

The day alternately sped and dragged. Bree was calm one minute and shaky the next. She unpacked and repacked the baby's little bag, and unpacked and repacked her own. She washed the few clothes that she and Tom had worn since she had done the wash the day before, dusted tables that hadn't had time to gather dust, ran the dishwasher, made the bed. She checked the freezer for the tenth time to make sure it was packed with food. She called Flash. She called Julia. She called Jane. She called Alice.