splashing his hands into the water with a shriek.
“Hey, cutie,” Kelly said, trickling water over Julian’s belly. “I think he likes it.” After a few minutes in the water and some work with the washcloth, she spread a towel across her chest, lifted the baby out of the water, and bundled him like a burrito before handing him back to his mother. “Thanks,” Ayinde said. “Both of you, thank you so much.”
Kelly made it back to her apartment just as her own phone started ringing for the monthly all-girl conference call. “Hey, sis,” said Doreen. “How goes the pregnancy?”
“Just great!” said Kelly. She set down her grocery bags in the empty hallway and carried the box from Pottery Barn Kids through the empty living room and dining room and into the nursery, which, other than their bedroom, was the only room in the apartment that had furniture. Kelly didn’t want to buy cheap stuff they’d just have to replace, so she decided to wait until they could afford exactly the things she wanted: the perfectly curved celadon-green upholstered couch, the window treatments of Robert Allen farmhouse-print toile, the mahogany console tables and credenzas, the Mitchell Gold loveseat in mushroom-colored suede, all of them bookmarked and catalogued in the Favorites file on Kelly’s computer. Still cutting out pictures? her mother had asked the last time Kelly saw her (her mother had been in the hospital then, the exact yellow of a ripe banana). I don’t have to anymore, Kelly said. She remembered the first time she’d seen this apartment—and, more to the point, its rent. Steve, we shouldn’t, she told her husband, and he’d taken her hand and said, We deserve it. You deserve it, and signed the lease on the spot.
“So what can we get you?” asked Mary. “What do you need?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Kelly said hastily, not even wanting to think about what constituted an appropriate baby gift in her sister’s mind. “The nursery’s actually been done for a while.”
Her sisters laughed. “That’s our Kelly,” Maureen said.
Kelly frowned as she sat down on the rocker with its custom-ordered red-and-white slipcovered seat cushion. Lemon, the golden retriever they’d bought from a breeder last year, curled happily at her feet. “I just didn’t want to take any chances. Even if you register, people get things wrong. Like, for example, say you register for the red-checked gingham crib sheet on page thirty-two of the Pottery Barn Kids catalog…”
“For instance,” said Mary. Her rumbling laugh turned into a coughing fit. She’d been trying to quit smoking again, but from the sound of things, she hadn’t succeeded.
“You register for that,” Kelly continued doggedly, “but someone could decide to get you a red gingham sheet from somewhere else or even just a red sheet that they bought on clearance…”
“Oh, God forbid,” said Doreen.
“Well, then you can’t return it!” Kelly said. “And then you’re stuck!”
“The horror,” said Mary, rumbling her laugh again. Kelly closed her eyes, cursing herself for telling her sisters anything. Mary and her husband and their three kids lived in the old house in Ocean City, where everything was dingy and falling apart and smelled like cigarettes. Mary wouldn’t care what color a sheet was, as long as it was clean. And maybe she wouldn’t even care about that.
“Never mind,” said Maureen. “If the nursery’s done, what do you need? Some toys or a diaper bag or something?”
“I’ve got hand-me-downs,” Mary offered. Kelly made a face and changed the subject to Doreen’s boyfriend, Anthony the police officer, and what Doreen should bring when she went to meet his parents. “Flowers are always nice,” Kelly said.
“Not wine?”
“Well, you don’t know if they drink, and you don’t want them to think that you do.”
“But I do drink!”
“Yes,” Kelly said patiently, “but they don’t need to know that right away. Get
“Hey, cutie,” Kelly said, trickling water over Julian’s belly. “I think he likes it.” After a few minutes in the water and some work with the washcloth, she spread a towel across her chest, lifted the baby out of the water, and bundled him like a burrito before handing him back to his mother. “Thanks,” Ayinde said. “Both of you, thank you so much.”
Kelly made it back to her apartment just as her own phone started ringing for the monthly all-girl conference call. “Hey, sis,” said Doreen. “How goes the pregnancy?”
“Just great!” said Kelly. She set down her grocery bags in the empty hallway and carried the box from Pottery Barn Kids through the empty living room and dining room and into the nursery, which, other than their bedroom, was the only room in the apartment that had furniture. Kelly didn’t want to buy cheap stuff they’d just have to replace, so she decided to wait until they could afford exactly the things she wanted: the perfectly curved celadon-green upholstered couch, the window treatments of Robert Allen farmhouse-print toile, the mahogany console tables and credenzas, the Mitchell Gold loveseat in mushroom-colored suede, all of them bookmarked and catalogued in the Favorites file on Kelly’s computer. Still cutting out pictures? her mother had asked the last time Kelly saw her (her mother had been in the hospital then, the exact yellow of a ripe banana). I don’t have to anymore, Kelly said. She remembered the first time she’d seen this apartment—and, more to the point, its rent. Steve, we shouldn’t, she told her husband, and he’d taken her hand and said, We deserve it. You deserve it, and signed the lease on the spot.
“So what can we get you?” asked Mary. “What do you need?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Kelly said hastily, not even wanting to think about what constituted an appropriate baby gift in her sister’s mind. “The nursery’s actually been done for a while.”
Her sisters laughed. “That’s our Kelly,” Maureen said.
Kelly frowned as she sat down on the rocker with its custom-ordered red-and-white slipcovered seat cushion. Lemon, the golden retriever they’d bought from a breeder last year, curled happily at her feet. “I just didn’t want to take any chances. Even if you register, people get things wrong. Like, for example, say you register for the red-checked gingham crib sheet on page thirty-two of the Pottery Barn Kids catalog…”
“For instance,” said Mary. Her rumbling laugh turned into a coughing fit. She’d been trying to quit smoking again, but from the sound of things, she hadn’t succeeded.
“You register for that,” Kelly continued doggedly, “but someone could decide to get you a red gingham sheet from somewhere else or even just a red sheet that they bought on clearance…”
“Oh, God forbid,” said Doreen.
“Well, then you can’t return it!” Kelly said. “And then you’re stuck!”
“The horror,” said Mary, rumbling her laugh again. Kelly closed her eyes, cursing herself for telling her sisters anything. Mary and her husband and their three kids lived in the old house in Ocean City, where everything was dingy and falling apart and smelled like cigarettes. Mary wouldn’t care what color a sheet was, as long as it was clean. And maybe she wouldn’t even care about that.
“Never mind,” said Maureen. “If the nursery’s done, what do you need? Some toys or a diaper bag or something?”
“I’ve got hand-me-downs,” Mary offered. Kelly made a face and changed the subject to Doreen’s boyfriend, Anthony the police officer, and what Doreen should bring when she went to meet his parents. “Flowers are always nice,” Kelly said.
“Not wine?”
“Well, you don’t know if they drink, and you don’t want them to think that you do.”
“But I do drink!”
“Yes,” Kelly said patiently, “but they don’t need to know that right away. Get
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