He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I just wanted to make sure you didn't need help getting back up.”
Beth reached up and touched his cheek. His beard had grown in thicker over the winter, giving him the look of a lumberjack who had accidentally wandered into fatherhood.
“I love you,” she said. “But if you don't go build something in that workshop, I'm going to lose my mind. And then you'll have to deal with me and two newborns and my insanity, and nobody wants that.”
Gabriel studied her for a moment, his dark eyes searching her face. “You promise you'll call if you need anything?”
“I promise.”
“And you'll sit down?”
“I'll sit down.”
“And you won't try to reorganize the nursery again?”
Beth sighed. “That was one time.”
“Beth.” He said her name like a prayer and a warning all at once. “Please. Just rest. For me. For them.” He put his hand on her belly, and as if on cue, one of the babies kicked against his palm.
“The babies agree with me.” Gabriel kissed her forehead. “I'll be in the workshop. Dad’s working on the Harrison order, and James should be in by ten. Willow's coming after school to help with the orchard inventory. She’s been complaining we don’t let her help.”
“I know,” Beth said. “I wrote the schedule.”
“From bed?”
“From the couch.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” she admitted. “From the kitchen table. But I was sitting the whole time.”
Gabriel shook his head, but he was smiling now, the worry softened by affection. “You're impossible.”
“You married me anyway.”
“Best decision I ever made.” He kissed her once more, grabbed a thermos of coffee from the counter, and headed for the door. “Call me. For anything.”
“Go,” Beth said, shooing him with her hands. “Build furniture. Be productive. Stop looking at me like I'm going to explode.”
“You might,” he said. “You're very round.”
“Gabriel Walker, get out of this kitchen.”
He laughed and ducked out the door, the cold air swirling in his wake. Beth watched him through the window as he crossed the yard toward the workshop, his broad shoulders hunched against the chill. She could see the lights already glowing inside, could imagine Thomas at his workbench, the smell of sawdust and wood stain, the quiet focus that filled the space when the Walker men were at work.
She loved that workshop. She loved what it represented, what Gabriel and his father and brother had built together. The furniture business had grown steadily over the past year, custom pieces that people ordered from as far away as New York and Connecticut. They had even started a website, which Beth had designed herself during the long evenings when sleep wouldn't come.
But today, the workshop would have to go on without her input. Today, she was under strict orders to rest.
She lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table, a process that took significantly longer than it used to. Charlie lifted his head, assessed the situation, and decided to relocate. He padded over and flopped down at her feet, his warm weight a comfort against her swollen ankles.
“At least you don't hover,” she told him. “You just exist. I appreciate that about you.”
Charlie's tail thumped once in acknowledgment.
Beth reached for her phone and scrolled through her messages. There was a text from Lauren, checking in. One from Sarah with a photo of Noah's latest marine biology project, a diorama of a coral reef made from painted cardboard and what appeared to be an alarming amount of glitter. A voice message from her mother, which Beth decided to save for later when she had the energy to hear Maggie's voice without crying.
Pregnancy hormones, she had discovered, turned her into a watering can. Anything could set her off. A commercial with a puppy. A song on the radio. The way Gabriel looked at her sometimes, like she was the most miraculous thing he had ever seen.
