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“You know what, Pop,” I start to say, pointing my finger at him. But the door opens and Katie comes out. She rubs her eyes and my breath catches.

“Am I late for dinner?” she asks. She smiles at me and all my ire at Pop floats away on the breeze.

“You’re right on time,” I say. Pop rolls his eyes behind her back. I’m going to kill him. “Where’s my dog?” I suddenly realize I haven’t seen him.

“You mean Sally?” She grins at me.

“Sally?” Is she serious?

“Sally,” she says again. “Trixie named him. The rest of the kids agreed. It’s permanent.”

“Until I change it.”

“You won’t change it.” She stares into my eyes. “You asked my daughter to name him and she did. She’s been through a lot. Let her name the damn dog, Jake.” She marches back up the steps of the porch and slams the door.

Well, that went well.

“You’re not getting lucky tonight,” Pop sings out.

“Shut up, old man,” I grumble as I walk past him. He cackles at me and I flip him the bird. “Put the potatoes on, will you?”

He sets the newspaper down and barks at Gabby. “Let me show you how to cook potatoes, girl,” he says. He lumbers to his feet, rambles in the box until he finds the potatoes, and she walks around the corner with him.

I open the front door of the small cabin and peer around the edge of it. Katie is bent over by the stove and I stop to stare at her. From the back, she doesn’t look pregnant. She looks perfectly wide in the hips and round in the rear end. God, I sound like Sandra Bullock describing a football player in The Blind Side. That’s not the case at all. She’s all woman. Then she stands up straight, turns to the side and stretches her back by pressing her belly forward. She’s all pregnant woman. I have to remind myself of that.

Just as quickly as her pregnant belly hit me, so does the smell of baked goods. “What’s that smell?”

“Apple pie,” she says.

“You made apple pie?” My heart flutters like it used to when she kissed me all those years ago. I’m thirty-four years old. It takes more to make a flutter when you’re older. Food is a good way.

“Well, made is a strong word. I just reheated.” She points toward her daughter, who is on the porch with Pop. “I sent Gabby to the store.”

“Is she old eno

ugh to drive?”

She smiles. “Just barely.” She takes in a deep breath and rubs the flat of her palm over her belly.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods. “I’m fine. Baby boy is moving around.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Do you want to feel?”

I point to the basketball-size hump under her shirt. “Feel your belly?”

She takes two steps toward me, lifts my hand and places it on the swell of her stomach. “Just wait a second,” she whispers.

I feel her breath as she inhales slowly. Then a tiny flutter bops the palm of my hand.

“Did you feel that?”

“That was the baby?” I ask softly.

She rolls her eyes. “No, I just have gas.” She grins. “Of course it was the baby.” She looks into my eyes, holding my palm against her shirt. “You don’t have any kids, do you, Jake?”

I shake my head and avoid her eyes.

“Have you ever been married?”