Verdi was curled by a window. The stove had cost a
bundle, but it was worth it, Oliver thought. They charged it on one of
Jennifer's credit cards.
"Da Da."
"Yes, Emma." He lifted her and held her in the crook of his arm. She
looked up at him steadily as he walked back and forth across the living
room. Muffled snapping sounds came from the stove. He heard the wind
outside and saw bare branches moving in the trees across the lawn. The
sky was gray and darkening. "Here comes the storm, Emma," he said.
"Here it comes." He put her down in the playpen, turned off the TV, and
played _La Traviata. _
Pavarotti's voice swelled through the house. "Listen to that, Emma!" He
stroked Verdi and watched the lowering clouds.
Jennifer came home full of enthusiasm and plans. "Eric is having a
party!"
"Hot diggety."
"It will be fun! And lots of Conservancy people will be there. I really
_have_ to go. And I think it's good for Emma."
"Well, it's that time of year," Oliver said, giving in.
"We won't stay long."
"We'll stay as long as you want," he said.
They went to bed early that night. When Jennifer reached for Oliver, he
followed her lead, waited for her, and tried to stay close.
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