“Because I was wondering if it was your boss, checking to see if you were still planning on coming in today. Before your maternity leave, you were always there by seven on Mondays.”
My eyes flew wide-open, his words the equivalent of ice-cold water thrown on my head. I jerked up in bed, receiving an unhappy groan from General Lee, and picked up my phone again. Five after seven. I looked across the room, where I’d set three different alarm clocks, all the old-fashioned wind-up kind, just in case the electricity went out in the middle of the night and my phone battery died.
I stared at them for a long moment before Jack sighed. “You really should keep your glasses nearby. I’ve seen you wearing them often enough that it wouldn’t be a shock.” He sat up so he could see better. “That’s odd. It looks like they’re all stopped at ten minutes past four.”
I leaped from the bed, not really registering what he’d just said. It was my first day back after nearly a year away on extended maternity leave. It was supposed to have been only until the babies were three months old, but our inability to find a nanny who would stay longer than two weeks had proven not only baffling but problematic.
I ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower, then retreated to my closet, where I had laid out my outfit—complete with shoes and accessories—the night before. I threw off my nightgown, a slinky silk thing Jack had bought for me that didn’t resemble the old high-necked flannel gowns of my single days, folded it neatly on my dressing table bench, and jumped in the shower.
Five minutes later I was brushing my teeth while simultaneously buttoning a blouse that didn’t want to be buttoned and zipping up a skirt with an equally reluctant zipper. I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror, too horrified by what I saw to allow my gaze to linger very long. I could hope that everybody in the office had gone blind and wouldn’t notice my unfastened blouse and skirt, or I’d have to find something else to wear.
I carefully rinsed off my toothbrush head and handle and replaced it on the holder—only two tries to get it standing up perfectly straight—before marching back into the closet. “Damn dry cleaners,” I muttered as I tried on outfit after outfit. I had no idea to whom Mrs. Houlihan was taking my clothes to be cleaned, but it needed to stop immediately or I’d be reduced to wearing my maternity clothes. The ones with elastic seams and stretchy fabrics.
When I finally emerged into the bedroom, I wore an A-line dress my mother had purchased for me around the fifth month of my pregnancy. The way it hugged my chest and nothing else and its pretty green hue that turned the color of my hazel eyes to something more exotic, like jungle leaves, were its only assets. I hobbled in my five-inch Manolo stilettos, my toes folding in on themselves, and wondered how my shoes had managed to shrink along with my clothes. Maybe there was something in the air in the newly renovated closet, something my best friend, Dr. Sophie Wallen-Arasi, professor of historic preservation at the College of Charleston, might know about. She was the one who had supervised its historically conscious construction, along with the never-ending number of renovations and preservation projects in my house on Tradd Street.
Like the recent roof replacement, which still had me dreaming of renting a bulldozer and being done with all of it. I had never liked old houses, mostly because of the restless dead who hated to leave them. And now that I owned one, and could even grudgingly admit that I occasionally experienced fond feelings toward it, I often found myself torn between thoughts of hugging that rare slab of Adams mantel and of accidentally throwing a flaming torch through a downstairs window.
I paused by the bed, where General Lee was now spooning with Jack. Jack opened his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that both twins had inherited along with his black hair and dimples—I’d apparently been just an incubator—and I felt my knees soften. I wondered how long we had to be married before that would stop.
I picked up my phone and checked the time—eight o’clock. On the monitor, I watched as Sarah began to fret, right on time, in her pink canopy–draped crib. She was more reliable than the bells of St. Michael’s for telling time, especially when it came to her feeding schedule. Her brother, JJ—for Jack Junior—continued to sleep peacefully in his own crib, flat on his back, with all four limbs spread out like a little starfish. No matter what position we placed him in to sleep, he always ended up like that. Just like his father.
“I got this,” Jack said, reaching up to kiss me, his lips lingering on mine and making me regret my decision to get out of bed.
“I know. It’s just . . . well, I’ve been with them since they were born.”