Not that she could actually see him in his rear-facing infant seat. But every now and again, a spindly arm or leg flailed reassurance. A Mickey Mouse diaper bag perched beside her where once a portfolio full of architectural designs for her playhouses would have rested. The bag looked good there. Cars whipped past on the bridge out to her barrier island bungalow. The hospital had demanded she sign a waiver before releasing her without someone to drive her home. Somehow it had been important to do this herself. Of course Kathleen would be blazing mad when she received the message that Julia had left alone. Any number of people would have driven her. Like a certain tall, dark and studly Lieutenant Colonel Dawson. Julia shoved an image of his broad shoulders right out of her mind and turned down the narrow street into her beach subdivision. Clapboard houses on stilts lined both sides of the streets. Older homes of Charleston natives claimed the waterfront property. Newer homes made to look like the old sprawled into the rest of the housing development where Julia lived.
