He got up from the couch, sat cross-legged on the floor next to the tree, and handed me a large box wrapped with silver paper. "You first," he said.
I sat down beside him and carefully sliced open the paper the way my grandmother always did, as if to save it for future use. Then I opened the white box and the turquoise tissue paper inside to find a beautiful gray cashmere sweater coat from Brora, a store I had passed many times on the King's Road.
"It's not technically a maternity sweater, but it's quite roomy, and the lady at the store said that lots of pregnant women buy them," he explained.
I stood up and tried it on over my sweats. It fit perfectly, with room to grow, and the cashmere was positively luxurious. "I love it, Ethan!"
"See? It's belted," Ethan said earnestly. "So you can just loosen the belt as you get bigger… I thought you could wear it when you bring the boys home from the hospital. It will look really nice in photos."
"I will definitely do that," I said, loving that Ethan cared about photos. He was one of the few guys I knew who bothered to put them in albums. I looked at him and asked if he'd be there to take those photos.
"I wouldn't want to step on Geoffrey's toes… but I'd like to be there. It's your call."
"Geoffrey understands our friendship," I said, not knowing whether that was exactly true, but hoping that it was the case. It was the only way our relationship would work.
Ethan smiled and said, "There's another gift under there." He pointed to a white envelope. On it, he had written, "To Darcy, Baby A and Baby B." Inside was a small square of blue paper. I studied it, puzzled. "What is it?"
"It's a paint swatch," he said. "I want to paint your room that color. For the nursery. I was going to just surprise you and do it, but then I worried that blue was too obvious for you. Would you rather do something more… unexpected?"
"I love this shade of blue," I said, feeling all warm inside and thrilled that Ethan wanted me to stay with him even after the babies arrived. I had been wanting to broach the subject for weeks, and now I had my answer. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.
Ethan went on to tell me that he had measured a crib at Peter Jones and had determined that two would fit along the long wall. And that we could put a pad on top of that bookshelf and use it as a changing table.
I grinned and told him it was an excellent plan. "Now open your gift!" I said, handing him his package.
He opened it with exuberance, tearing off the paper, tossing it aside, and holding up the leather messenger bag I had found to replace his tattered nylon one. My only splurge in weeks. I could tell he loved it, because he immediately went to his room and brought out his old bag, unloading his papers and folders and transferring them to his new one. He swung it over his shoulder, then adjusted the strap slightly. "It's awesome," he said. "I look like a real novelist now."
He had begun to make a lot of comments like this lately. I could tell he felt anxious about the progress—or lack of progress—he was making on his book.
"Still having writer's block?" I asked sympathetically.
"Yeah. I feel like Snoopy stuck on that one line: 'It was a dark and stormy night.'"
I laughed and reassured him that surely all great authors struggled with occasional writer's block, and that I knew he'd make some good headway in the new year.
"Thanks, Darce. I appreciate that," he said sincerely.
Then we curled up under a big blanket on the couch and watched a video of It's a Wonderful Life. Right around the part where the uncle accidentally gives the envelope of money to Mr. Potter, Ethan hit the pause button and asked if he could fast-forward to the end. "I can't stand this part. It's too frustrating."
I agreed. As we watched the grim scenes blur forward, I couldn't help thinking about my own life—specifically the rift with my mother. She had not contacted me once since I had sent her the note from London. I firmly believed that the ball was in her court, but by the end of the movie, as we watched the happy family scene where George Bailey's youngest daughter says, "Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings," I decided to let go of my pride and call home.
Ethan was supportive of the idea, so I nervously dialed up my home in Indy. As the phone rang, I almost hung up, but grabbed Ethan's hand instead. My mom answered after five or six rings.
"Hi, Mom," I said, feeling scared and small.
She said my name icily and then silence floated over the wires. My mother was a champion grudge holder. I thought of my own grudge against Rachel, figuring that you didn't get these things from strangers.
"Did I interrupt dinner?" I asked.
"Not really. We were just finishing. Jeremy and Lauren are here."
"Oh," I said. "How are their wedding plans coming?"
"Just fine."