Given the fact that they’d had a gap in their correspondence, Paul didn’t feel comfortable interrogating her about the timing of her pregnancy. He certainly didn’t want to upset her, not only because he treasured their friendship but because he didn’t want Gabriel to withdraw his approval of his completed dissertation. Consequently, Paul simply sent her a congratulatory message and promised that he would send the baby a gift from Vermont.
Having successfully completed and defended his dissertation, and having survived graduation from the University of Toronto in June, Paul moved into his new office on the campus of St. Michael’s College at the end of August.
He was happy. He was going to live at home while he saved for a down payment on a house. He would help out on the farm when he could, but his father’s hired hands seemed to have everything running smoothly. And his father’s health had improved significantly.
As he unpacked his books in his new office, he found his Dante and Beatrice action figures. Alas, the company that produced them had ignored his repeated requests for a Virgil action figure.
(Once again, their official position was that Virgil was not worthy of action.)
He was just positioning Dante and Beatrice on top of his desk when he heard a knock.
“Come in,” he called over his shoulder, not turning around. “The door’s open.”
“Hi.”
Paul turned from Dante and Beatrice to see Allison standing in the doorway.
In that instant, although he’d seen her a thousand times, although he’d known her for years, Paul was struck by how pretty she was—her hair, her face, her eyes. She was beautiful.
“I thought you might be here. I wondered if you might need some help.”
“There isn’t much to do. I’m just arranging my books.” He placed the empty box on the floor.
Her face fell.
“Oh. Well, I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll let you get back to work.”
She turned to go, and Paul’s heart plummeted into his shoes.
“Wait.”
He stood up and walked over to her, catching her hand in his.
“It’s good to see you.”
She smiled up at him. “It’s good to be seen.”
“You were gone for two weeks.”
“My sister needed help with her kids. I only planned to be gone for a week, but you know how it is.” She reached up and pushed some of his hair back from his forehead. “I missed you. I’ve been counting the days.”
“I missed you, too. A lot.”
They stared at one another for what seemed like an age before Paul found his words.
“I was going to take a break anyway. How about I take you to American Flatbread for pizza?”
“I’d like that.”
She moved to exit his office, but he tugged on her hand.
She looked up at him questioningly.
“Roses,” he whispered, stroking his work-roughened fingers over her knuckles.
“What?”
“Our first time together. Your skin smelled of roses.”
Two patches of pink appeared on her face.
“I didn’t think you’d remember.”
He looked down at her intensely.
“How could I forget? To this day, every time I smell roses I think of you.”
“I don’t wear roses anymore. I thought I grew out of them.”
He reached up to cup her face in his hand.
She leaned into it and closed her eyes.
“Would you wear roses again? For me?”
She opened her eyes, searching his.
“Only if you’re serious.”
“I am.” He tried to show her with his expression that he was telling the truth.
“Then yes.”
Allison moved into the gap between them and lightly pressed their lips together.
With a gentle push, Paul closed the door to his office and pulled her into his arms.
Chapter Eighty-two
September 9, 2012
Cambridge, Massachusetts
A strangled moan emanated from the bathroom.
Gabriel’s eyes snapped open. He was confused. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.
When he heard the moan again, he stumbled sleepily through the darkened bedroom.
“Darling? Are you all right?”
When he entered the bathroom, he found Julia almost doubled over, clutching the marble-topped vanity with white-knuckled hands. She was breathing deeply.
“Do you want me to wake Rebecca?” Gabriel turned to go, readying himself to sprint down the hall.
“No, call the hospital.”
“What should I tell them?”
“Tell them I think I’m in labor.”
Immediately, he flew into a panic, hurriedly asking her questions, fumbling back into the bedroom to find his glasses and his cell phone, and hastily dialing the maternity ward of Mount Auburn Hospital.
“Has your water broken?” he asked, after he successfully reached a nurse.
“No. Your hardwood floors are safe.”
“Very funny, Julianne. Are you in active labor?”
“I think so. The contractions are painful and regular.” Julia tried to keep her breathing deep and relaxed, a technique she had practiced over and over again with her prenatal yoga teacher, who had promised success.
(Julia was contemplating asking for her money back.)
“How far apart are your contractions?”
“Six minutes.”
She focused every ounce of her attention on her breathing and shut out the sound of his voice.
(She loved him, it was true, but he wasn’t exactly helping.)