What's her story?"
"Poor Marguerite, she's had--unfortunate affairs. I really don't know
what men see in her. She's awfully skinny."
"Well," Oliver said, "she's sympathetic."
"Too sympathetic," Jennifer said. "She ought to pick some nice guy and
get on with it." Get it on, Oliver started to say, but didn't. "It was
so nice to see all the children playing," Jennifer continued. "Wouldn't
it be wonderful for Emma to have a little brother to play with?" She
reached over and rubbed his leg.
"Get on with it, you mean?"
"Oh Sweetums! Of course not! Not like that. But it _would_ be nice,
wouldn't it?" She kept her hand on his leg.
"Yes," Oliver said. "Seems like yesterday that Emma was born."
"It does," Jennifer said enthusiastically.
Oliver took one hand from the steering wheel and rested it on top of
Jennifer's. "Merry Christmas," he said. "Merry Christmas, Emma." He
looked over his shoulder at Emma, buckled into her car seat, serene,
half asleep. "I love Emma."
"And me?"
"And you," he said. It was true, but why did his heart sink after he
said it? There were loves and there were loves. He patted her hand and
corrected a small skid.
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