Facing the big window seat, shards of the moon’s brilliant white light slanted though the French doors, where gauzy curtains fluttered in the early June breeze. Holding a baby in her arms again felt good, so good that it inspired a contented sigh. Nadine leaned against the chair’s pillowy backrest and studied the long eyelashes that dusted Rosie’s pink cheeks. She’d have freckles before she was Amy’s age, Nadine thought, picturing Cammi at that age—a tinier, chubbier version of the beautiful young woman she’d become. “I don’t know why Dad doesn’t just carry you off and make you marry him,” Cammi had said. At the time, Nadine hadn’t given it much thought, but now, under the tranquil influence of soft baby breaths and the mellow gleam of the strawberry moon, she smiled. Since the fire, she’d pretty much run his house single-handedly. How much different could it be as his wife? With the child safely settled in her portacrib, Nadine picked up the baby monitor’s receiver and tiptoed into the hall, leaving the door slightly ajar.
