“Come, sit.” Lucia gestured to an oblong table that had been arranged near the fireplace, set with flowers and cloth napkins in deep burgundy. “Eat. You’re eating for two now.”
I took the seat she indicated, between Saffron and an empty chair that Lucia claimed for herself. The other women filled in around us—Addison across from me, Ainsley beside her, Alex at the head of the table, Daphne, Eberly, and Jaicon completing the circle.
The first few minutes were easy enough. Dishes were passed hand to hand around the table. Plates were filled with more food than I could possibly eat. The conversation resembled small talk—how the weather was already turning warmer, how our drive down from the Russian River Valley was, how beautiful the Stonehouse looked with all the winter roses Eberly had coaxed into blooming.
“I can’t take much credit,” Eberly demurred when I complimented the gardens. “The bones were already here. I just gave them some attention.”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Alex said from across the table. “This place was a wreck before she got her hands on it. Slated for demolition.”
“It just needed someone to see what it could be.”
The parallel wasn’t lost on me. A ruined building transformed into something beautiful through patience and care. I wondered if they saw me as a similar project—the Van Orr disaster, salvageable with enough effort.
Ainsley shifted closer, her plate untouched in front of her. “Isabel, can I ask you something?”
My shoulders tensed. “Of course.”
“What trimester were you in when the morning sickness stopped? I’m still fighting it, and I’m desperate for hope.”
The question was so normal, so mundane, that it took me a moment to respond. “Just recently, but it got better gradually.”
She groaned. “I wish mine was.”
“Small meals help,” Alex offered. “I basically grazed for three months straight.” She smiled at Lucia. “Despite Ma’s best effort to get me to eat my weight in food on a daily basis.”
“Crackers before I got out of bed helped,” Addison added. “That was my lifesaver with Reagan.”
The conversation stayed firmly in pregnancy territory—cravings and aversions, nursery plans, the best prenatal vitamins. Ainsley and I became the center of attention, two women at different stages of the same journey.
“Have you thought about names?” Ainsley asked me.
“Not really. It still feels…” I searched for how to best explain. “Unreal, I guess. Like it’s happening to someone else.”
“I feel that way too.” Her hand drifted to her stomach.
“Have you felt the baby move yet?” Lucia asked, her dark eyes bright with interest.
“A little. Flutters, mostly. She is usually most active when I’m trying to sleep.” I half laughed.
“She?” Alex raised a brow.
“We don’t know for sure. I just kind of felt like it is.” I shrugged. “That probably sounds silly.”
Alex shook her head. “Not silly at all. I knew with both of mine. Maddox didn’t believe me the first time around, but when I was adamant our second baby was a boy—the minute I took the test, by the way—he went along with it.”
“Kick’s convinced it’s a girl too. He, um, talks to her.”
“Alfonso was the same way,” Lucia said softly. “He knew. With every single one of my pregnancies, he knew. He was never wrong.”
The table went quiet for several seconds, honoring the memory of the man who had shaped this family. I hadn’t known Alfonso Avila—he’d died years ago when I was a child—but his presence lingered in this room, in the way his wife and children spoke of him.
“Tell me about him,” I heard myself say. “Alfonso. What was he like?”
Lucia’s face transformed. The grief was still there, would probably always be there, but it shared space with something luminous.
“He was stubborn,” she said. “Hardheaded as a mule when he thought he was right. Which was most of the time.” The other women laughed knowingly. “But he loved with his whole heart. His children, his vines, me. He never did anything halfway.”
“Kick is like that,” I said softly, immediately wishing I hadn’t shared so much.
