The middle of May. Newborn leaves of the palest green are everywhere. Tulips and daffodils in the front garden. Dozens of birds at our new birdfeeders. Finches and grosbeaks and chickadees. There are others, too, birds whose names I haven’t learned yet. They sing to us, every morning, and it’s the best alarm clock in the world.

   We can’t forget, of course. Every month we look at the calendar and still take note. We still miss her, still think about all the Could Have Beens. And every month it still hurts. But now that it has been almost two and a half years there are other dates to take note of. Like this:

   One week and three days since Brian and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary.

   But some days, even though I’m happy, even though I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life…I’m still not feeling so great.

   Wednesday. 11:52 a.m. Another countdown. One minute forty six seconds.

   I stood in the kitchen, facing the counter, tapping my foot, trying to ignore my aching back. I looked at the wall and it was a good distraction. Cherry Tomato Red. Brand new, just like the rest of the house. I’d chosen all the colors, even though I hadn’t done any of the painting, and it cheered me up to see it. It made me forget that I was aching.

   Brian burst through the door and I turned with a sharp cry of surprise. Because his new truck—the one that wasn’t really new anymore--was too damned quiet.

   He smiled. “Sorry I scared you. How are you feeling?”

   “Sore and tired.”

   He kissed me. “And cranky.”

   “A little. You’re home...uh, early.”

   “Just passing through real quick in between jobs.”

   I nodded and backed up a step, closer to the counter. He fished around in the fridge for a can of soda, cracked it open, and guzzled about half of it. His gaze fell on my open sketchbook, lying on the kitchen table. He smiled when he saw what I'd been working on. A new spring orchard with beautiful, outstretched branches, glowing with pink, starry blossoms that held a secret. He didn’t have to ask what it meant. He knew.

   “I haven't been painting today. Just sketching.”

   He nodded, because he knew that, too. He finished his soda, chucked the can into the sink, then cocked his head. “Something smells good.”

   I shrugged and clasped my hands behind my back. “I don’t smell anything.”

   But the microwave beeped and gave me away.

   “What've you got in there?”

   “Oh...just lunch.”

   He smirked and took a step towards me. “Really? Lunch?”

   “Yep.” Then I backed towards the microwave, slowly, trying for nonchalant but not getting anywhere near it. He nodded, stretched, his turn to try for nonchalant. I didn’t buy it, either. He sidestepped, quickly, tried to go around me, but I had anticipated the move. Blocked him cold. He leaned to the right and when I blocked him again I discovered—too late—that he’d faked me out. He went left instead and charged straight to the microwave.

   “Wait…”

   It was too late. He exploded with laughter. “You’re eating Chef Boy Ardee?”

   I folded my arms as best I could. “It’s not my fault.”

   “Yeah, I know.”

   He poked my big fat belly and was rewarded with a kick. Then he kissed me again, softly, and his eyes were glowing. Van Dyke brown. Because there was another date circled on our calendar. Another countdown:

   One week, two days. That’s when our daughter is due.

   Her name is Spring.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Note from the author, R.J. Keller:

Thank you for reading my novel, Waiting For Spring.

Support independent authors! If you enjoyed it, please tell a friend. Tell a bunch of 'em.

Become part of the WFS community. Visit my blog at http://rjkeller.wordpress.com/. 

Chapter 42

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© 2007 R.J. Keller - All rights in this book are reserved by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.