Page 34 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

“What’s up?” I answered as I made my way out of the jewelry store. My pocket was heavy. With the ring box. And all the things that came with it.

“Know you’ve been looking, so just wanted to tell you that I got wind of a townhouse going up for sale. It’s not a brownstone. It was completely redone by some finance bro a few years back. I think Blair will love it.

“And from a Family standpoint, it’s only a few blocks from Lorenzo. Oh, and it’s got a decent little yard for Goya, so you don’t have to take him for a walk just to pee.”

“This is really good timing,” I said, thinking of how queasy Blair had been for the past four days. At first, we both blamed the takeout we’d gotten, even though I hadn’t gotten sick. But after four days, I could see the hope building in her eyes, could feel the same sensation in my chest.

That was why I was moving forward with the engagement, even though I had originally planned it for two months in the future.

I wanted her to have proof of my commitment, even if we couldn’t get to a wedding before she had a baby.

But what we did need was a damn house. One of them. No more bopping between our two places.

“Send me the information. I’ll see if I can get Barb on it.”

“Already sent,” he said just as my phone dinged.

“Thanks, man.”

“Hey, is it good timing for a specific reason?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve got a ring in my pocket,” I said, since I wasn’t going to tell anyone about the possible pregnancy yet. News like that spread like wildfire through my family. I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up until we knew for sure.

“Good for you, man. Really fucking happy for you.”

“Thanks, Leo.”

I walked down the street, my gaze scanning the crowd outside The Met until I found her. She was sitting on the steps, looking a little grayer than usual, her one hand resting on her stomach, the other reaching for one of the ginger candies I’d brought her that morning.

She thought we were at the museum to get some content for her blog.

I had other things in mind.

Which was why I nodded at the photographer I’d hired for the moment before making my way toward Blair.

“Any better?” I asked, offering her my hand to pull her to her feet.

“Eh,” she said, taking a deep breath. “The candies help but don’t take it completely away.”

My hand slid to her lower back, leading her up the steps and into the building.

We walked around for a while, me snapping pictures, all the while slowly leading her toward where the photographer was discreetly waiting.

I’d spent days roaming The Met myself, trying to find the right piece of art that would be a good backdrop for this very moment.

While Blair’s favorite romantic works weren’t on display in New York, I went with one I felt she would approve of.

It was The Storm by Pierre-Auguste Cot.

It had a couple clinging to each other as they ran through a storm.

I felt it was poetic, in a way. The storm represented what we’d been through, but the closeness of their bodies and the way they held up fabric to shield themselves showed resilience and determination to weather anything that came at them.

Blair shot me a quizzical look as we moved in front of the painting.

“I’ve always loved this one,” she said, her smile going soft.

When she turned back, I was already on my knees to a chorus of a few gasps from other visitors.

“Blair,” I started, watching her eyes go soft and watery. “I’ve loved you in every version of your life—in your passion, your grief, your healing, in your renaissance. And I want to keep loving you through whatever comes next. Will you marry me?”

The photographer moved around, snapping hundreds of pictures from all angles as Blair nodded her head and offered her hand.

Tears were still swimming as I got to my feet.

“It’s perfect,” she said, looking at the pear-shaped diamond. “I love it. And you,” she added as the first tear slid down her cheek.

I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers to the sound of applause all around us.

Afterward, I pressed my forehead to hers.

“Also, I think I may have just found us a house.”

Blair - 1 year

It wasn’t a stomach bug.

Honestly, I’d known that since the first morning I woke up too sick to move.

Because it wasn’t just the nausea. It was the tenderness, the exhaustion, and the fact that when Nico cooked eggs, it smelled so foul to me that I had to go outside and gulp in breaths of non-eggy air.

I’d just been so scared to get my hopes up after so many attempts and no results in the past.

Even though I knew that it was different, that he was different, that we both desperately wanted a family, I didn’t know if my heart could take it if I got both our hopes up only to get my cycle in a week or two.

But when the week passed with no signs of my period, I bought half a dozen tests and took them over the course of a few days.

When every one of them came up positive, I finally brought the stick out to Nico and shared the happy news.

Did we do things in the order I once said I wanted? No. But Nico had been right about that. The timing didn’t matter. All that mattered was what made us happy.

We were over the moon about a baby.

And we had a giant family who refused to let me lift a finger when it came to packing up our current homes and moving to the townhouse Leo had found for us.

“I’m coming,” I called, voice sing-song, as I drifted from the primary bedroom and into the nursery.

There was no need for the light. The sun streamed through every window in this home.

“I know,” I cooed as our son shrieked, his tiny face twisted up in rage that I was two minutes late to feed him after rushing through a quick shower.

“How dare I try to wash all that throw-up off me?”

I undid his wrap, then pulled him out and walked over to the oversized rocker in the corner near the window that overlooked the backyard.

I pulled down my robe and helped him latch before glancing out the window, looking at the tall stone walls that encased our back garden, then looked down to see Goya in the lush grass we’d planted and painstakingly maintained for him.

He was whipping a giant stick around, nearly knocking himself out with it.

He’d been a trooper about the baby since the first day he’d noticed my belly moving as the baby kicked inside.

When we brought our son home, he followed him around anywhere he went. If we put him down in his crib instead of the bassinet near our bed, Goya chose to sleep in the nursery, keeping guard.

When the baby cried, he cried too.

Though he did have a habit of trying to steal the plushies that had been gifted to us at the giant, lavish, lovely baby shower.

I slipped my finger into my son’s tiny hand, watching it curl tight, and feeling my heart swell near to bursting.

I’d known my whole life that I wanted to be a mom.

And it was everything that I hoped it would be and more.

Especially with a partner like Nico at my side.

Someone who was often quicker to move than I was, rushing to change a diaper, rock him back to sleep, or feed him some of the breast milk I pumped and kept in the fridge.

Anytime I caught him with our son, I realized how important it was to choose the right person. Someone calm and steady and dependable. Someone who wanted to carry their half of the load. Or more, sometimes, when I needed a break.

As I lifted our son to my shoulder, the twinkling sound of our doorbell chimed and I could hear Nico making his way down the front hall to answer it.

We were forever having drop-ins since we moved in. They’d only increased after we had the baby.

I couldn’t be happier about it.

It wasn’t even just Nico’s siblings, either. It was the whole Costa crew. They came with meals to throw in the freezer, with coffee, with snacks, with offers to watch the baby so we could nap or shower or just step outside of the house for an hour or two, or even to take Goya for a walk.

It never ceased to amaze me how I’d gotten exactly what I wanted.

The man of my dreams.

Motherhood.

And the giant, crazy, supportive, beautiful family I’d always craved.

“That was quick,” I said when Nico came upstairs to lean in the doorway, watching us with a tender look in his eyes.

“It was just Ezmeray dropping off a lasagna. She had four dogs with her on the way to the groomer.”

“Lasagna sounds good,” I decided. Our freezer was packed with every kind of dish you could imagine. We wouldn’t need to cook for weeks. And by then, more food would replace it. Because when the Costas did community, they did it hard.

This was my first foray into being on the receiving end of it. But while I’d been pregnant, another of the wives had given birth, allowing me to be part of the preparing and delivery of meals to make her life easier during such a precious time.

“I love your family,” I told him for what had to be the millionth time.

“Our family,” he corrected, coming over to lift our now-sleeping son, cradling him in the crook of his arm for a moment before placing him down to reach for me. His arms slid around my lower back, pulling me close.

“Our family,” I agreed, leaning up to press my lips to his.

Nico - 6 years

“It might help if we don’t trample the bushes while we try to get flowers for Mommy,” I suggested to our son who didn’t have a delicate bone in his body. He’d been a bulldozer from the second he learned to crawl.

He was five and all energy, stained clothes, and an almost alarmingly large appetite.

Even as I thought that, he reached into his pocket and produced half a cheese stick of dubious freshness and popped it into his mouth.

Our daughter, on the other hand, was all careful softness. She was three going on thirty with her soulful dark blue eyes and quiet consideration of the world around her.