Neva gently blows on the spoonful of hot rice porridge before taking a careful bite.
"Is it good?" Rhett asks, watching her with his cheek resting against his hand.
"Mm-hm," she replies, taking another bite of the porridge, made flavorful with
shredded chicken and green onions.
It's her first meal of the day, and dusk has already settled in, the rose-amber light of the waning sun seeping through the open window, bathing the curtains and window panes in an incandescent glow.
Something about the sweet singing of birds, the breeze stirring through the leaves,
and the golden light puts her heart at such ease, divining the presence of her Father in them, and basking in the warmth of her husband.
"How are you feeling right now?" he asks.
"Better," she murmurs.
Not once had she thrown up during her first trimester, but out of the blue, the night before had been the cruelest yet, drowning her in waves of nausea.
He had even offered to call an ambulance, but she wouldn't have it. She gradually recovered, anyway, and slept peacefully from dawn until late afternoon.
Then she took a long, warm bath while he prepared her a bowl of porridge.
She raises the spoon to her lips again, but frowns. Now that the queasy memories of the previous night have resurfaced, her appetite has faded away.
"What's wrong?" He tucks a strand of her damp hair behind her ear.
"Can't eat anymore?" he asks.
She gives a faint shake of her head. "Now that I've had a taste of that dreadful morning sickness other mothers talk about,"
she says, "I suddenly feel truly pregnant."
A small smile tugs at his lips. "I hope you don't have to go through that again."
"Did anyone come here asking for you?" she asks.
"You're still afraid I'll be arrested?" he teases.
A frown pulls between her brows. "It's not something to joke about."
"They've probably dropped it," he says, "dismissing it as a street brawl. The law enforcement isn't exactly the best here."
"I hope it's true." She reaches for the glass of water. "But the cops being negligent wouldn't come in handy in other situations."
"Don't worry," he assures her, grabbing her half-finished porridge and carrying it toward the bin designated for wet waste. "It's rather peaceful here."
She watches him throw the porridge into the bin before closing the lid again. "Please don't ever do it again," she says quietly.
He places the dish in the sink and turns to glance at her. "I can't promise that."
"So you'd rather go to jail and leave me
and our baby alone than cut down on some violence?" Sarcasm laces her tone.
His gaze softens. "Of course not."
"Seems just about right to me," she says, raising the glass to her lips for a sip of water.
He moves toward her while she pretends to ignore him.
"Angel..." He brushes her hair away from her neck before pressing a kiss to it.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I won't do it again."
Her fingers tighten slightly around the glass.
"If you're feeling better," he says, "would you like to go out for dinner? It's your birthday, after all."
"No," she murmurs, just as the sharp ringing of the doorbell cuts through the silence.
Her muscles tense as sudden anxiety courses through her.
Who could be at the door at this hour? They rarely have visitors, being so private and barely engaging even in the Church.
Have the cops come at last? Are they here to take her husband away?
"I'll get it." He pulls away when she grabs his arm to stop him.
"What's wrong?" He asks with a frown.
"What... what if they're here for you?"
Understanding dawns on him and his expression gentles.
"It's alright. They're not here for me."
A smile curls at his lips as he cups her cheek and presses a kiss to her lips.
"I'll be right back," he says.
"I'll go with you," she replies.
In response, he takes her hand as she stands.
Another chime of the doorbell cuts through her quickening heartbeat as
she realizes she isn't dressed appropriately for whoever is behind the door.
She's wearing only her husband's
soft white shirt, falling to her upper thighs, with shorts that barely cover her.
She steps in front of him and peers through the peephole,
a prayer catching within her heart when she finds a young delivery man standing on the other side of the door instead.
He arches a brow as a smile breaks across her face.
"It's not the cops," she says.
He folds his arms over his chest. "Told you so."
"You can attend to him," she says, stepping back toward the parlour.
She almost heads toward the bedroom when she remembers the dishes still waiting to be done in the sink.
She turns on the faucet, rinsing the residual porridge from the bowl before grabbing the sponge, squeezing on a dollop of
liquid detergent, and starting on the dishes.
As she rests the dishes on the drying rack after rinsing them, she turns to see him returning with two white packages.
"I would have done the dishes," he says, placing the packages on the dining table.
"It's fine," she replies, moving toward him. "What are these?"
He smiles and carefully pulls a clear plastic case of strawberry shortcakes, tied
with a white ribbon, from the package.
A smile curls across her lips at the gorgeous shortcake, ripe strawberries
adorning its surface, while a waterfall of red syrup trails down its frosted layers.
"When did you even order this?" She immediately undoes the ribbon and peels back the lid, the sweet, rich fragrance tickling her senses with anticipation.
"Just this noon." He pulls a packet of slender white candles from the same
package as she folds her hands in prayer.
She silently thanks God for everything and wishes for little blessings of happiness, peace,
and good health for her growing family.
"You don't want me singing the birthday song?" he asks as she reaches for a fork.
"I'm fine without a song." She takes a forkful of the shortcake before gently feeding him first.
"Good?" She tilts her head at him.
He raises a thumb in agreement,
and she pushes the fork through a syrup-coated strawberry before taking a bite.
"Want some more?" She takes another forkful of cake.
He shakes his head, a smile lingering on his lips. "You do love shortcakes, don't you?"
She nods. It's funny how she'd had no appetite before, yet how could she ever say no to her favourite strawberry shortcake?
"You've been craving it more than ever these past few weeks," he murmurs, his
fingers brushing gently over her lower belly.
"Maybe it's because of the baby?"
"Maybe..." He lifts his eyes to meet hers, a soft smile curling across his lips.
"Do you think the baby is a boy... or a girl?"
"About that..." Her heart flutters as the memory dawns back upon her. "I had a dream... just before waking up. And I saw that we had a baby boy."
His smile grows as he reaches up to wipe the corner of her mouth with his thumb.
"It's probably a boy, then," he says, tasting the frosting from his thumb.
She rises onto her tiptoes and slips her arms around his neck. "I love you."
"I love you..." he murmurs, leaning in to kiss her.
"I want to ask you something," he says.
"About what?"
"I found a modest workshop in Idaville, and the owner's willing to sell it. Should I buy it?"
She blinks in quiet surprise.
"You did? But I thought we had enough to last us for some time."
"But we don't know what tomorrow holds, do we?" he says gently.
She remains silent for a moment. "Do you want to? I mean... I know how much you like repairing things..."
"I do," he says. "And I don't feel very good about not working."
"Alright," she says softly. "If that's what you want."
"Don't worry." His thumb gently strokes her waist. "I wouldn't leave you or our baby alone for long hours."
"You better not." Then, after a second, "Do you think we should pay their medical bills... anonymously?"
"We can't be sure it won't lead back to us," he says.
He's right. But still... "What if they recognize you someday at the workshop and sue?"
He chuckles and boops the tip of her nose. "You worry too much."
A sigh slips from her as she rests her head against his chest.
"I can't help it... And I already miss you."
A sudden rush of emotion washes over her as she realizes she won't be
with him twenty-four hours a day as she has been these past two months.
His arms wrap around her as he presses a tender kiss to her hair. "You can always come visit me."
She remains silent, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as night gradually descends, the kitchen otherwise dark, illuminated only by the amber light spilling in from the parlour.
"I'm sorry I couldn't make your birthday more special," he says quietly.
"You've done more than enough," she murmurs. "It's been a wonderful day."
Truly, what more can she ask for?
The first day of March, the beginning of spring, to praise her Father for the blessing of another year, for her loving husband holding her,
and for the little bud growing within her.