His all-encompassing love surrounded both of us. Coming from a man who insisted he never understood what love was, it was a rare gift.
I ran my hand over my stomach in secret delight, knowing the news I could share with him today would be greeted with nothing but elation.
The need to feel him close filled me, and I hurried to get ready and make my way downstairs to my boys. The aroma of coffee filled the kitchen, and wrinkling my nose, I hurried past it. The same as when I was pregnant with Matthew, coffee was my nemesis. My first clue I was pregnant again was when the scent had made me nauseous the other day. Zachary hadn’t yet noticed my aversion to coffee—but I didn’t drink anywhere near as much of it as he did.
I stepped outside, inhaling the crisp air. Dixie spotted me right away, barking and racing toward the steps to greet me. In a synchronized move, two dark heads snapped my way, Matthew’s little hands waving frantically as if afraid I could miss spotting him. Zachary stood up, ruffling his hair, leaning down and speaking to him as he handed Matthew something from his pocket. Little legs pumped fast and I dropped to my knees to scoop up his warm little body. I peppered tiny kisses all over his sweet face and he giggled and squirmed trying to escape. “Look, Mommy!”
Grinning, I held out my hand for the small rounded stone, admiring it before giving it back for his collection. “Is this a keeper?”
He nodded with enthusiasm. “It has stwipes!”
“Ah.” Stripes or multi-colored ones ranked high.
He pushed off me, heading for the water. “Me get mo’e!”
I laughed as he passed his father, exchanging a rather glancing high-five. The air caught in my throat as Zachary came closer, dropping beside me on the sand and covering my mouth with his.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he breathed against my lips. “You look pretty this morning. Well-rested.”
“You let me sleep.”
“Hmmm. You were so tired last night, you didn’t even move when I came to bed.”
“You should have woken me up.”
“I tried,” he growled as his warm lips ghosted over my cheek, dropping soft kisses on my skin. “Am I losing my touch, woman?”
I chuckled. “Your touch is as effective as ever.” I grinned up at him, placing his hand on my stomach. “Highly effective, I’d say.”
For a second he frowned in confusion, then his eyes widened, his excited gaze flying to mine. Both hands spread across my stomach, his long fingers fisting the fabric. “Really?” he murmured. “Another baby?”
“Well, I hope it’s a baby. Not an alien or anything. ‘Cause that would be hard to explain.”
In an instant, I was in his arms, held tight to his chest. He buried his face into my neck and held me for a long moment, not saying anything. I felt his tears on my skin, warm and fast, as his emotions welled. I held him close, running my fingers along the back of his neck, giving him the time he needed to calm himself. I watched our son play with the dogs, smiling as I thought about this new little life joining him in a couple years.
Zachary drew back, eyes damp, but filled with light. “I won’t miss any of it this time.”
“No.”
“Another child.”
“Yes.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Aside from the fact coffee makes my stomach turn and feeling tired, yep.”
“You went to the doctor?”
“Yesterday.”
He chuckled. “That was your errand?”
“I wanted to make sure.”
He ran his hands over my tummy, his voice anxious. “Everything is all right?”
“Everything is perfect. You can come for the first ultrasound next time.”
He kissed me again. “I like ultrasounds.”
“I know.”
“I guess we’d better pull back on the writing.”
I chuckled as he settled behind me, drawing me into his arms. “I’m still capable of writing, Zachary. We’re almost done.”
When Matthew was about a year old, Zachary told me he wanted to write his story. I was surprised, but pleased when he asked me if I’d help him. A few days later, I left a pile of heavy, black, leather-covered journals on the shelf in his studio and didn’t say another word. He would let me know when he was ready.
Slowly, Zachary wrote his story. I never tried to push him, letting him set the pace. Sometimes weeks would pass until he picked up a pen. Other times, he wrote daily. His dark, bold script covered the pages of the journals. Some days he wrote on his own, bent over the kitchen table, his pen embedding the words so deeply onto the page you could feel the indents from the nib. Other days, his memories were lighter and the pages turned faster as the words poured out. The worst days were the ones he would sit, pulling me onto his lap as he spoke in low measured tones, while I recorded the pain and turmoil he allowed to escape. When it became too much, I would lay the book aside and wrap him in my arms, healing him the only way I knew how: with my love. That happened more as of late. He still found talking about what happened with Jared and our separation difficult. I knew, without a doubt, once he got past that part, he would be able to finish it himself. He wrote joy well.