And it was perfect. That was the problem. Every ribbon, every hand-stitched gift, every woman who’d shown up to celebrate Violet’s arrival—it was more than Christina had any right to expect. More than she deserved, given the secret sitting heavy in her chest.
Ally appeared at her elbow with a glass of lemonade, ice cubes clinking. “Drink. You look pale.”
“I’m eight and a half months pregnant. I’m just tired all the time. But I’m not pale.” She mock-scowled at her sister. “I have a great tan, thank you very much.”
“You do, you’re glowing, but you still look exhausted.” Ally pressed the glass into her hand. “And your ankles are swelling. Put your feet up when you can.”
Christina took a sip, the tartness cutting through the sweetness lingering on her tongue from the appetizers she’d been sampling. Across the room, Emily was settling into the armchair by the fireplace, baby Grace nestled in the crook of her arm. The baby was almost five months old now, all round cheeks and tiny fists, and every time Christina looked at her, her stomach clenched.
That would be her soon. With a baby in her arms, a whole new life depending on her for everything. A life without a father.
“Present time!” Mary called out, clapping her hands. She’d come straight from Spilled Milk, still wearing her green apron with the goat logo, her red hair up in a bun, and had immediately taken charge of organizing the gift table. “Christina, get over here before the storm hits and we lose power.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The scent of rain had been building all morning, mixing with the sugar-and-butter smell of the cake and the coffee brewing in the kitchen.
Christina lowered herself onto the loveseat that had been designated as her throne for the afternoon, arranging a pillow behind her aching back. The baby shifted inside her, pressing against her bladder with what felt like deliberate timing.
“Hold on, Violet,” she murmured, rubbing the spot where a tiny foot bulged against her side. “Let Mama open some presents first.”
The first gift was from Louise, who owned the yarn shop in town—a hand-knitted blanket in soft lavender, the stitches perfectly even. “My grandmother taught me the pattern,” she explained, her hands folded in her lap. “Every baby in my family has had one just like it.”
Christina ran her fingers over the yarn, soft as clouds, and had to blink hard to keep her composure. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
More gifts followed. A mobile made of painted wooden birds from Francesca. A set of organic cotton onesies from one of the other shop owners downtown. Diapers—so many diapers and bottles—from practical neighbors who knew what new mothers actually needed. Each present came with a story, a piece of advice, a warm hand squeezing hers.
“My mother always said the first six weeks are survival mode,” said Linda from the hardware store. “Don’t try to be perfect. Just keep the baby fed and yourself sane.”
“Sleep when the baby sleeps,” added someone else. “I know everyone says it, but they say it because it’s true.”
“And accept help,” Dora chimed in from her spot by the window, where she’d been watching the approaching storm. Sam’s grandmother had dressed up for the occasion in a flowing purple caftan, silver jewelry catching the dim light. “Mountain women have always raised babies together. It’s how we survived. No mother should have to do it alone.”
Christina’s throat closed up. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Emily caught her eye from across the room and smiled—a knowing, sympathetic smile that said I remember feeling overwhelmed too. Grace fussed, and Emily shifted her to the other arm with practiced ease.
“Here.” Emily crossed to Christina’s loveseat, settling beside her. Up close, Christina could smell baby powder and that faint, sweet scent that seemed to cling to all newborns. “Can I show you something? About holding her when she’s fussy?”
“Please.”
Emily adjusted Grace against her shoulder, demonstrating a gentle bouncing rhythm. “This saved my life at two in the morning. She had colic for the first six weeks—I thought I was going to lose my mind. But this motion right here—it was the only thing that worked.”
Christina watched Emily’s hands, the way she supported Grace’s neck, the ease in her movements. “Does it get easier?”
“Yes, and no.” Emily laughed softly. “You get better at it. The panic fades. But there are always new challenges.” She glanced at Christina’s belly. “Have you thought about what you’ll do when she’s born? For help, I mean. Evan and I could come by whenever you need?—”
“I’ll manage.” The words came out sharper than Christina intended. She softened her voice. “I mean, thank you. I know everyone will help. I just...”
Emily nodded, not pushing. “The offer stands. Any time, day or night. I mean it.”
Ally returned with a large basket wrapped in cellophane and tied with a mint green ribbon. “Okay, this one’s from me.” She set it in Christina’s lap, the weight of it substantial. “Open it.”
Christina untied the ribbon and peeled back the cellophane, revealing an array of jars and bottles nestled in tissue paper. Honey in different varieties—wildflower, clover, something amber and dark labeled “autumn harvest.” Beeswax candles. A tin of honey lip balm. Lotion that smelled faintly of lavender when Christina unscrewed the cap.
“The honey’s good for energy when you’re exhausted,” Ally explained. “And the lotion—it’s my own recipe. Honey and shea butter. Good for stretch marks, dry skin, cracked...” She waved vaguely at her own chest. “Everything that postpartum does to your body.”
“Ally.” Christina looked up at her sister, at the pride and nervousness mingling on her face. “You made all of this?”
“The labels were Sam’s design. But yeah, the products are mine.” Ally shrugged, but she was smiling. “I’ve been testing recipes for months. You’re my first official gift basket.”
