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“Jingle Bells” chimed on the radio, but I wasn’t feeling very festive.

The kid rested heavy and low in my belly, and Rachel and I had at least a couple more hours of packaging frozen cookie dough and pie orders that had come in from our website last night.

The frozen dough had become more popular than we’d ever expected.

The pies were a sensation. A good problem to have, as my mother said over and over.

And yes, it was a good problem. The bakery had been running in the black for two months straight, and we’d set up a rainy-day fund. All good.

And it would be perfect if the kid would get off my bladder. She’d been doing somersaults on it for the last hour, and I spent half my days now in the bathroom. My back also acted as if a herd of mules had kicked it.

“Daisy,” Rachel called out as she loaded another mail package in the bin that Dad would take to the post office in thirty minutes. “You need to get off your feet. That kid is practically waving at me.”

I pressed my fist into my back. “If we can finish this load, we’ll be done for the holidays.

” Years ago, Dad had closed the bakery between Christmas and New Year’s, using the time to regroup with the family and for him to clean the bakery from top to bottom.

If I could hold on to another hour, I’d have reached the finish line, and I could deliver this kid in peace.

The front doorbells jingled, and I glanced over my shoulder. “We’re closed. I locked the door,” I grumbled.

“It’s Gordon,” Rachel said.

I glared at Rachel as I placed a USB sticker on a frozen dough order and loaded it into a box. “You called him.”

On cue, Gordon pushed through the swinging saloon door. “I told her to call me if you stayed on your feet.”

Before I could grumble, he kissed me on the lips.

“We’re almost done,” I said. He smelled of soap and bike oil, and being close to him soothed my seething blood pressure.

“No, you’re now done.” He blocked me from reaching for the next bag of dough and roll of stickers.

Gordon and I had married in mid-October on a sunny afternoon under a tree by the Potomac River.

My sisters had been there, and Mom and Dad and the girls.

Gordon’s parents had also been present, as well as his brother, Scott.

I’d worn a simple white dress with an empire waist and carried a bouquet of red roses.

Rachel had made a stunning wedding cake we’d cut back at the bakery and enjoyed with a toast of ginger ale. I’d moved into the small apartment above Gordon’s bike shop, trading an attic apartment for a second-floor loft.

As I’d cut back in the last week, Rachel had really stepped up.

She’d done preliminary site visits to several locations where we’d considered moving our dough-making operation.

We’d had several good offers to rent, but she’d insisted we hold out for better prices. She’d turned into one tough negotiator.

As I opened my mouth to argue, my stomach cramped, and water trickled down my legs.

My first thought wasn’t for the kid but for the health department.

Spilling amniotic fluid had to be a code violation.

Gordon froze and blinked. Like most men, he realized he had tripped into the dark and scary world of the feminine and the unknown.

Rachel, however, knew exactly what to do. “Gordon, where’s your car?”

He hesitated for a moment as we looked at each other, stunned and unsure. “In the alley, right where you told me to keep it.”

“Good. Daisy, where’s your bag?” She tugged off her apron and reached for the cell clipped to her waistband.

My gaze darted to the puddle at my feet and back up to Gordon’s face. Damn. “Oh, my God.”

“Daisy!” Rachel snapped as she opened the phone. “Bag.”

“In the car,” I muttered.

Rachel snapped her fingers and pointed to the back door. “Gordon, put Daisy in the car. Go to the hospital.”

She treated us like errant puppies. Go. Stop. Sit. But we were grateful for the direction. In this area, Rachel was the expert.

“Mom,” Rachel said into the phone. “Baby’s coming. Is Margaret headed back to town? Good. Tell her to go straight to the hospital.”

Gordon and I remained rooted in our spots when Rachel glared at us. “Go. Now.”

And so Gordon and I stumbled out of the back door of the bakery kitchen and into his waiting truck.

I didn’t remember the drive to the hospital.

I did remember the back labor, which grew in intensity with each passing moment.

I remembered how the car bumped on the city’s ancient cobblestone roads.

We arrived at the emergency room in the late afternoon, and I was put in a room where I changed out of my apron, jeans, and T-shirt and into a gown.

The nurse gave Gordon green scrubs that read Dad on the back.

When I read the letters, tears welled in my eyes. Gordon had already officially adopted the baby, and as far as I was concerned, we were a family. We would one day explain to our child about genetics and bloodlines and what makes a parent.

Terry had sent me an email two weeks ago. It had been brief and to the point.

Thinking of you and your baby.

I’d taken them as gushing words of love from Terry, who was offering what she could. She was trying. And that was enough.

As my parents, nieces, and sisters gathered in the lobby, a nurse did a quick exam and determined that the baby was breech. Stuck. Ass first. My kid.

A C-section was ordered, and within an hour, I lay on a table, my belly curtained off, with Gordon sitting by my head. He stroked my hair as he clutched the video camera, ready to stand and film the birth.

“You don’t like blood,” I said.

He smiled and turned on his camera. “It shouldn’t be too bad.”

I was about to launch into a description of a YouTube video I’d seen on C-sections, when the doctor entered the room and moved to the table, gowned, gloved, and masked.

“I hear baby Singleton is being difficult.”

“Just like her mother,” I said.

Walter Gordon Singleton arrived twenty-one minutes later, wailing and highly insulted that we’d disturbed his routine. He was perfect.