Beneath a Southern Sky - By Deborah Raney Page 0,20

on top of the quilt on her bed. Her first week at home she had ended up sleeping on the floor beside this bed each night, unable to get used to the height of the four-poster and the softness of the mattress. How Nate would have laughed at that after all her complaining about sleeping on the floor in Timoné. She bit her lip and tried to think of something else. But thoughts of Nate intruded, and finally she allowed them free rein, wallowing in self-pity.

She rolled to her side, punching her pillow in anger and frustration. Before she could raise her fist again, an acute cramp sliced through her back. She took in a sharp breath and instinctively cradled her belly in her hands. She lay on her side, utterly still, listening to the rapid beating of her own heart, waiting for the pain to fade. It passed, but within minutes another spasm swept over her. Fear gripped her, and she temporarily forgot Nathan as she turned toward the clock on her nightstand and watched the second hand creep around the face—once, twice, seven times, and then another contraction began its crescendo.

“Mom!” The cry was scarcely out of her mouth when she felt a strange pop. A warm, damp spot spread on the quilt beneath her.

In spite of how quickly her contractions had progressed, her labor had been long and intense and shadowed by fear because it was several weeks too early. But now that Daria held the reward of her travail in her arms, all the agony quickly faded into nothing.

Natalie Joan Camfield looked up into her mother’s eyes with a gaze that surprised Daria with its intelligence and awareness. The tiny infant had a full head of almost-black hair and navy blue eyes.

Daria couldn’t help but laugh at her daughter’s two grandmothers. As the older women stood by Daria’s hospital bed, cooing over the granddaughter they shared, Margo Haydon declared, “You just watch, Daria. In a few weeks her eyes will lighten up and be as blue as yours.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Vera Camfield argued. “Her eyes are exactly the color Nathan’s were when he was born. You can already see a bit of hazel in them.” Vera’s own eyes brimmed with tears, and Daria tried desperately to think of something to say that would bring her back to the present.

“Vera, do you remember how much Nate weighed when he was born?”

“How could I forget?” she said, smiling sadly. “He was nine pounds, fifteen ounces.”

“Almost ten pounds!” Daria exclaimed. “Ouch! And I thought Natalie was big at six and a half pounds.”

“Be thankful she came early,” Margo said with a grimace. “She might have been ten pounds if you’d gone full term.”

“Both my babies were big,” Vera said with pride. “Betsy was almost as big as Nathan. Of course you’d never know it now.”

The two grandmothers continued to compare stories and imagine family resemblances in their new grandchild until Daria was worn out with their banter.

But in spite of the commotion of the hospital and the constant stream of visitors, Daria felt as though she and her daughter were in a world of their own, held together by a bond that only they shared. In some ways, the baby’s arrival had rekindled her grief for Nate, yet ironically it had provided healing for that grief as well. And though she couldn’t look at Natalie without being reminded of Nate—in her eyes, in the tiny cleft of her chin—it was a comfort to know that in a small way, her husband lived on through his daughter.

She smiled through her tears and thanked God for this six-and-a-half-pound bundle—Nathan’s final Valentine to her.

Daria sat in the well-worn recliner in the Haydon living room, wrestling with a fussy, hungry infant. Her mother hovered like a honeybee over a freshly opened peony.

“Are you sure you don’t want to give her just a little formula? I’ve got it all ready.” She held out a warm bottle filled with the strong-smelling brownish liquid.

“No, Mom,” Daria said evenly, ignoring the proffered bottle and struggling to control her frustration. “Thanks anyway, but she just needs to nurse some more.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like she’s getting enough milk. Some women just don’t produce enough, you know. There’s no shame in supplementing with formula once in a while, honey. After all, you were raised on it.”

“Mom, please!” The words came out more forcefully than she’d intended. She softened her tone. “Could you just leave us alone for a