One wall featured black and white photographs of a ballet dancer’s feet in various step formations, and another had a wall unit that was mostly shelves displaying oodles of trophies, awards, and a dozen photographs of Pepper from childhood to recent days in dance costumes.
A pair of ballet slippers hung by their ribbons from a hook next to a dance bag that he knew well by now, and a stack of paperbacks nearly toppled on the nightstand.
She was right about the window. It was large, and the sky was dark out there, but he could tell it faced the opposite direction of the storm, which was coming up over the Gulf from the south.
He set the playpen in the corner while Pepper changed Atlas’s diaper and got a bottle, the sounds of her sweet voice cooing at his son doing all the things to Jonah’s gut.
She came back in with baby and bottle, followed by the dogs. With her skilled and natural touch, she climbed onto the double bed, the only place to sit in the room.
“Come on.” She tapped the space next to her as she leaned back against the headboard and got the baby into position to drink. “We give you permission to not stand there and gawk.”
“How could I not?”
She frowned into a surprised look. “Why?”
Because she was beautiful? Because the moment was domestic and comforting and profoundly meaningful in a way he could never describe?
“You’re just so good with him,” he said instead. “You’re a natural, you know?”
She looked down at Atlas, stroking his cheek with her finger, but didn’t respond.
With a sigh of surrender, Jonah joined them.
They sat on top of the quilt, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the storm in a full roar outside. It didn’t seem quite as ominous in here, with no creaking roof or rattling windows.
Jonah let his eyes shutter kind of like Atlas’s were, comfort pressing down on him.
“Tell me something,” he murmured, leaning ever so slightly into her.
“That’s a big category.”
“Tell me about New York. You danced. You were going to be a ballerina, and then you weren’t, and you came home, and I’ve never heard the story, only the edges of it.”
“The edgesarethe story. I was good, but not good enough for New York. Once I accepted that, I went home.” She sighed, shifting Atlas. “I returned to New Orleans just as Dad was leaving for Florida. I stayed for a while, but…oh. There you go, my precious little man. Let’s get a burp.”
“My eyes are closed. Please tell me you’re not talking to me.”
She laughed. “You’re not little.”
“And I’d never burp.”
“Not in front of me.”
He turned to watch her lift Atlas to her shoulder while she placed the empty bottle on the nightstand next to Mount Romance Novel.
“You know why?” he asked softly.
“Why you’d never burp?”
“Because I respect you. I want to honor you. And, man, I like you.” He took a breath. “The storm brings out honesty, I guess.”
She looked at him over Atlas’s nearly bald head. “I like you, too,” she whispered, almost as if the words terrified her.
“So…we got that out of the way.”
Atlas let a belch rip, making them laugh.
“And he got that out of the way,” she joked, patting the baby’s back. “Well done, sir. Are you sleepy or do you want to lay right here on the bed and listen to Norman yell at us?”
