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She waves me off. “Go on. And tell Hattie I want to see that baby the day it’s born. I want to see if I’m right.”
“About what?”
She just smiles and picks her chisel back up.
* * *
I carve the cradle in the yard.
It takes me a week. I don’t rush it. I make the sides smooth and rounded so nothing can scrape, and I make the rockers long and low so it can’t tip, and I carve little bees all along the edges, and rowan blossoms on the headboard, and a honeycomb pattern on the bottom where the baby will lie.
Hattie watches me from the back step every evening. She doesn’t ask what wood it is.
I think she knows.
When I’m done with the cradle, I make a rocking chair out of the scraps. Big enough for both of us. Strong enough for both of us, plus a lot more. I sit in it for a whole hour, rocking, testing it, while she laughs at me from the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure it holds.”
“For what?”
I look at her. She’s wearing one of my old shirts as a nightgown, because her dresses are starting to get tight across the chest. It hangs almost to her knees. Her braids are tied up in a scarf. And under the shirt, if you know where to look, there’s a soft little curve to her belly that wasn’t there a month ago.
I know exactly where to look.
“Come here,” I say. “And I’ll show you.”
* * *
She walks over slowly.
She’s been a little slower these days. Softer. Her hips sway more when she walks. Her breasts are fuller, heavier, and so sensitive she cusses me out if I even look at them too long. Her scent has changed, too. Still honey. Still her. But richer now. Sweeter. Heavier.
It drives me out of my fucking mind.
She stops in front of the chair and looks down at me. I reach up and slide my hands under the shirt, up the backs of her thighs, and she shivers.
“Rowan,” she says. “Is this chair about to break?”
“No.”
“You said that about the last bed.”
“I made the last bed for you.” I pull her closer, until she’s standing between my knees. “I made this chair for three.”
She goes soft all over. I can see it happen. Her whole face melts, and she puts her hands on my shoulders.
Then she climbs into my lap.
The chair rocks back under us, slow and smooth, and she gasps and grabs on to me. Then it rocks forward again, and she laughs.
“Oh, I like this,” she says.
“I know.”
I push the shirt up, all the way up and over her head, and drop it on the floor. Then I just look at her.
