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  Her hair was tangled, her eyes were rimmed with red, her shoulders were sunburned. She was beautiful beyond belief, she was in our bed, and she was mine.

  "Welcome home," I said, my lips on her neck and my heart in her hands.

  Chapter Seven

  Matthew

  Lauren's teaching staff was still small enough that they could convene meetings over French toast and huevos rancheros. She'd hired teachers who formed deep friendships and eagerly spent time together outside of work.

  Audrey ran a baking blog in her spare time, and I'd already packed on five pounds from the treats that regularly came home with Lauren. Emme had a bone dry wit that somehow worked on second graders, and she knew her way around beer. I admired both of those traits. Drew and Tara were runners, and were trying their hands—feet?—at qualifying for the Boston Marathon this year. Shay was the kindest, happiest person I'd ever met, and I figured she needed that to teach kindergarten. Grace was serious and intense but she swore like a sailor after a few cocktails.

  It was great, all of it. With the singular exception of my wife's sky-high red heels.

  "Is that what you're wearing?" I asked. I shook my head in disbelief because no, she couldn't be leaving the house in shoes that belonged in only two locations: the bedroom and the strip club.

  Lauren glanced down at her dress, tights, shoes. "I was thinking I'd wear this in the car and then pull a costume change right when we arrived at the restaurant. And then, on the way home, I'd change back into this cute Christmas-y outfit. The one I selected specifically for today's events. Would that work for you?"

  I glared at the shoes again. Those things shouldn't be legal. Where did she even find them? "As long as there's a pair of reasonable shoes involved, yeah, that sounds great."

  "Oh my god, Matthew," she yelled. "I love them and they're so cute. They were also on sale and that makes them ever cuter. What is your problem?"

  "What's my problem? What's my problem?" I asked. "I hate to break it to you, Sweetness, but you can barely walk in those things. You're going to fall down stairs or trip over a crack in the sidewalk or just fall the fuck over because they're not normal shoes."

  "Not this again," Lauren murmured. She studied her footwear and propped her hands on her hips. "You're going to have to reel in the caveman mania. If I want to wear heels, I'm going to wear heels. Marital compromise doesn't extend to shoes and accessories."

  "I'm drawing the line at heels like those," I said, resolute.

  "Oh, really?" she asked, her eyebrows arched. "You're instituting a ban on heels?"

  "When they're that high, yes." I held my hands out to her. "The weather is horrendous. There's ice everywhere, and we're getting accumulating snow today and tomorrow. If you really want to wear them at the restaurant, I'll allow it but you are not wearing them on the street. I won't debate this."

  "You want me to be that girl who wears Ugg boots or tennis shoes on her walk to work, and then changes into cute shoes at the office." I nodded. That was as close to accurate as we were going to get this morning. "It's like I don't even know you anymore," she said with a sigh.

  "Yes, you do, Sweetness," I said, opening my arms to her. She didn't budge. "Change out of those neck-breakers and put on something that doesn't make me want to stuff your thong with cash."

  Her hand settled on her belly. "I don't own any thongs, you crazy man. You really have lost your mind," she murmured. "You sound like Will sometimes."

  I shook my head but she was right. Somewhat. "You might not agree with my positions," I said, nodding toward her shoes, "but I'm sure you understand my reasoning. Just take a minute to dig past your righteous indignation that I'd tell you what to do, past your dyed in the wool feminism, past your stubborn streak. When you get there, you'll find that I'm not asking for anything outrageous. I can't even breathe with how much I worry about you these days."

  "Is this what you need?" She kicked off her shoes, her stocking covered feet flat on the floor. "Will this help?"

  "Yes," I said at length. "Nothing matters to me but you. When are you going to believe that?"

  "I do believe it, Matthew. I'll switch to flats. I'll look like a member of the Lollipop Guild but I'll do it," she said. "What else do you need?"

  "I want to show you a few properties after brunch." I glanced at my watch. "You don't want to be late."

  "Matthew." She spoke my name like a mild warning. "It's Christmas Eve. This isn't the day for house hunting. I have a pie to make and gifts to wrap. Additionally, we wouldn't be running late if not for this State of the Shoe address." I started to protest but she stopped me with a sharp stare. "I know you've been driving yourself to distraction over this but I promise it can wait a couple of days."

  I shook my head, not deterred by her responses. "Lauren, my love, you can get off with only a banana for breakfast. You can cause me physical pain with your choices of footwear. You can even force me to keep quiet about our baby until after Shannon's kid is born," I said. "But you cannot fight me on this. Five years ago, I promised you I'd build us a house. We've waited and waited, and now it's time. I need to do this for us. For our family."

  A reluctant smile pulled at the corner of her lips. "I'll get a pair of boots."

  Lauren returned to the bedroom, where I heard her talking to herself in the closet. Probably going on about the ways in which my Neanderthal tendencies were driving her mad.

  "They're not going to get any better," I muttered to myself.

  We waited a long time to start a family. We wanted to be married for a few years and focus only on getting good at our relationship. It was a decision we arrived at together, just as we arrived at the decision to try for a baby together.

  But there was one profound difference between those discussions. I knew how to be married to Lauren. I knew it the minute I met her. I didn't know how to be the father our child deserved. That left me flipping out over shoes and breathing into a paper bag every time I remembered we didn't have a proper house for our child. A home with trees to climb and pantry doors to mark my child's height every few months.

  "I heard that," she said as she emerged from the bedroom, a pair of knee-high rubber rain boots on her feet.

  "Was that so difficult?" I asked.

  "You love it when I argue with you," she replied. "Don't pretend otherwise."

  I used to think I wanted her to acquiesce to me, but I was wrong. I wanted her to meet me, inch for inch, and I wanted her to push me. I pulled, she pushed, and we found each other in the middle. It wasn't always equal, and it didn't have to be that way. Sometimes I did more of the pulling and sometimes it was mostly Lauren pushing. But the exertion made us stronger. We always came back together, and that was all I needed.

  * * *

  "I don't see it," Lauren murmured, turning in a slow circle. She stared at the plywood boards over the floor, the bare studs, the crumbling fireplace. She shrugged, her lips turned down in a frown. "I want to see it. The neighborhood is nice and the yard is a good size, but…I don't see it."

  It hit me then, that we'd done this before. As I thought about that day, I realized everything had changed. My entire world was different now. My father was gone, and not even his home was part of our lives anymore. My siblings were married or halfway there. I had a niece and nephew, and another on the way. And Lauren…she wasn't the same fast-talking woman who tripped down those stairs at Saint Cosmas. She was my wife. The mother of my child. My best friend. She was so much more than the sexy schoolteacher I'd met all those years ago.

  "I know you see it," she continued, oblivious to the memories streaking through my mind. "You have the sight." She glanced at me, her hands burrowed deep in her coat pockets. This cold snap was fierce. "You like this one, don't you? It's your favorite of the three."

  The house was a wreck but it had good, salvageable bones. An investor—probably one of those people who watched home renovation shows and thought they could pull off the same trick with fifty dollars and a weekend—had
torn everything out of this 1920s farmhouse. Tore it straight down to the studs. They had enough sense to preserve the hardwood floors and some of the period details, but left a shell of a house when they ran out of money. Or know-how.

  I smiled at her, nodding. "Solid foundation," I started, stepping closer, "newer roof, good systems."

  Lauren waved at the empty dining room. "But no walls," she argued. "I'm fairly certain I want walls. I don't know where they'd go, but I know I want them." She turned around, sighing as she moved. "I don't know. This is just…it's a lot, Matthew."

  "It is a lot but I promise you'll have walls, Sweetness," I said, laughing. "And I'll make sure they're in the right spots."

  "How long will it take?" She glanced toward the living room and kitchen, both spaces dark and empty. "This looks time-intensive."

  I made a not even close face as I shook my head. "Have I ever steered you wrong with building projects?"

  "You've only steered me on one building project, Matthew," she replied. "That's not a representative sample."

  "But that one came in on time and at budget," I said.

  "And I'm forever grateful," she said. I pulled her close, or as close as layers of winter clothing would allow, and kissed her forehead. "If you think this is the one—"

  "I do."

  Lauren nodded. "I understand that you need a project right now. Some place to deposit all this expectant father energy that you're currently using on supervising my showers and agonizing over the bananas at the farmers' market."

  "Some bananas are better than others," I replied. "If that's all you're going to eat for breakfast, I want to get the best banana out there."

  She nodded again, as if she was taking my responses and filing them in the Totally Ridiculous But We Won't Mention That Right Now bin. "And that's why you need a project. This"—she waved her hand at the space and then pressed it to her abdomen—"feels right. For once in my life, I have no desire to plan everything or consider each possibility. If it's possible, I feel like I know what to do without thinking about it, and I want to hold onto that feeling."

  "That's good because it feels right to me, too," I said.

  Lauren laughed and dropped her head to my chest. "Let's do it," she said. "But you have to promise me one thing: you won't ask me to decide on every little thing for this house."

  "But it's going to be our home and I want you to love it," I sputtered.

  "But you restore houses every day and they're amazing. They sell for tens of millions of dollars. You know what the hell you're doing and I can't imagine where the walls go." She shot a side-eyed glance at the studs again. "Bring me in when it's time to choose paint colors and countertops, and pretty things."

  She wasn't the same woman who tripped down the stairs at Saint Cosmas, and I wasn't the same man who caught her.

  I pressed my forehead to hers. "This is it?" I whispered. "You're sure?"

  "You think it's the one. That's all I need to know." She nodded, brushing her lips over mine. "Just think. This time next year," she started, "our tiny person will be experiencing his or her first holidays."

  That timeline hit me square in the chest. "Holy fuck, I need to get to work."

  Chapter Eight

  Will

  It was Christmas Eve and my house looked like an active war zone.

  My wife was making crazy demands fitting of a warlord. She wanted the Christmas tree stripped of its ornaments, moved to a different room, and cut six inches shorter. That was on top of rearranging the nursery this morning, cleaning out the pantry, and calling all over town to see if she could get in for a "bang trim" today. Whatever the fuck that was.

  My daughter was—still—cutting teeth and chewing on anything she could get into her mouth, including chair legs and one very tolerant dog's tail. She was "helping" Shannon with her tree relocation project by yanking ornaments from the branches and tossing them to the dogs. The dogs, of course, interpreted this as a game of fetch.

  My mother was simultaneously washing a million pieces of newborn clothing and linens, baking eighty-four pies, and singing off-key holiday tunes. The washing was Shannon's request, and I was damn thankful my mother was here to pick up that task but she'd turned the kitchen upside down in the process.

  My father was rearranging the exterior holiday lights because I'd done it wrong. I pointed him in the direction of the ladders and staple gun without argument because last night was blessedly free from headboard banging and I knew how to pick my battles.

  The military didn't prepare me for this.

  "You are a precious little banshee, aren't you?" I asked, scooping my daughter up and prying a dog-slobbered ornament from her hands.

  She laughed and shrieked while I lifted her like a barbell, then snuggled her into the crook of my neck. She cooed a long string of "da-da-da" and clapped her hands on my face, and I knew in my bones that the real terrorists were little baby girls with chubby cheeks and ringlets. No man alive was safe from their charms.

  "Judy," I called over my shoulder. "We need you in here."

  My mother bustled in from the kitchen, a flour-dusted apron tied around her waist and a swaddling blanket in her hands. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Where's Shannon? Last I saw, she was heading down to the basement. She needs to rest, Will. I haven't seen her sit down once today."

  "Nothing is wrong," I said carefully. "But I need you to wrangle this cherub for a bit while I work on Shannon." I lifted Abby over my head, inciting another round of giggles. "Can you give Abby some lunch and try to get her down for a nap?"

  "I'd love to," my mother said, holding out her hands for Abby. "Can you help me make pies, Miss Abigael? I'm sure you can roll some dough."

  "You could also sing a little less loudly," I suggested. "Or, not at all."

  "It's the holidays, Will," she said. "A few carols never hurt anyone."

  I rubbed my temples and blew out a breath. I wasn't going to argue over this point. "Is Dad still outside?" I asked, glancing to the window. He'd be thrilled to handle this bullshit with the tree.

  My mother huffed as she ran her fingers through Abby's white-blonde curls. "He is," she said, those two words loaded with aggravation. "I told him that if he fell off the roof and cracked his fool head open, he was driving himself to the hospital."

  "That works for me." I propped my hands on my hips, nodding. "I have a few chores for him."

  "Keep him off the ladders," she said, turning back toward the kitchen.

  "That shouldn't be a problem," I replied.

  "And keep him away from the grocery stores," she yelled from the hallway. "He always gets distracted and comes home with things we don't need."

  "Roger that."

  "We have ten boxes of rice pilaf in the RV," she continued, yelling from the kitchen. "Who is going to eat all that? Do y'all need any rice? We just don't have the room."

  "Good on rice, Judy. Thanks."

  Shaking my head, I looked down at the soggy pile of ornaments on the floor. Knowing that our child found it necessary to touch, grab, and throw everything at her level, Shannon had ordered fabric decorations for this year's tree. It saved us from cleaning up broken glass and rushing to the hospital for stitches, but now I had an armful of expensive hand-sewn chew toys.

  "What the devil happened here?" my father asked.

  I glared at him. Actually glared at him. He was wearing a Navy ball cap with jeans and a flannel shirt, both without a wrinkle in sight. He looked well-rested, and I didn't have any patience for that right now. Not while Shannon was probably reorganizing the entire basement or digging up that boulder she kept complaining about.

  "Abby got a head start on your next project," I said.

  "I'll get right on that as soon as I finish with these lights," he said.

  "I'm relieving you of Christmas light duty," I said. "Shannon wants this tree moved to the family room. Make that happen. Saw a few inches off the tree, move furniture, roll up rugs, put an addition on the house. I don't care if yo
u scrap this tree altogether and buy a new one. Do whatever you have to do, but stay off the ladders and out of the grocery stores. Understood?"

  "Sir, yes sir," he replied.

  I pointed to the ornaments. "Salvage as much as you can and dispose of anything you can't, but do it carefully. Leave no trace."

  "I've cleaned up my share of situations," he said. "I know the standard operating procedure."

  "I'm sure you do," I murmured. "I have to go find Shannon. Handle this."

  My father knelt down at the base of the tree and folded the ruffly skirt. "She needs to sit down, Will," he said. "She's doing too much."

  I laced my hands around the back of my neck and gazed up at the ceiling. "Yep," I said. "I'm aware of that."

  He set the tree skirt—who knew that was even a thing?—on the sofa and reached up to grab the angel. "Your mother wouldn't get off her feet when she was pregnant with Wesley. She kept running around after you and wallpapering bathrooms and baking bread, and she wouldn't listen to anyone."

  "Sounds familiar," I murmured.

  "Doesn't mean you should stand around with your thumb up your ass," he snapped. He was all commanding officer now, the kindly grandfather nowhere to be seen. "What the hell is wrong with you? Take care of your wife. Lay down the law if you have to."

  "Thanks for the advice," I said, heading for the hall.

  "I've thrown your mother over my shoulder, carried her to the bedroom and tanned her hide a time or two," he called.

  "Didn't need to know that. Didn't need any of that information," I replied. "Some things are better left unsaid."

  I didn't wait for his response, or another round of my mother's painfully bad singing, instead barreling down the basement stairs. Our home's underground space was one big, dark room when we moved in, like a creepy bowling alley. Now, it was segmented into his and hers storage rooms. Hers kept family heirlooms, old clothes and shoes (so many shoes), and decorations for every holiday on the calendar. Mine kept a small arsenal and a single-lane shooting range. Priorities.