Oliver raised his voice. "Nakano Prescott stretches, makes the grab, takes a big hit and holds on! The Patriots got something when they signed this guy." He patted her. "Just trying it out—I'm not real strong on Gene."
"Well, we have four months," Jennifer said.
In April, early on the morning of the 26th, two months after they were married in City Hall and had their celebratory dinner at F. Parker Reidy's, Jennifer felt the first serious contraction. Six hours later, Emma Dior Prescott wrinkled her nose, squinted, made two fists—triumphantly, according to Oliver—and went back to sleep, breathing on her own. Jennifer was thrilled and tired. Oliver felt a new kind of pang when he saw Emma. She had dark hair and seemed to be clutching part of his heart with her tiny hands, as though she had moved from one support system to another.
Deweys was barely open when he got there. "One for me and one more for my baby," he said to Sam. "Jenn had a little girl."
"No shit! Congratulations. Hey, the Guinness is on the house, man; you're going to need your strength."
Oliver drank and relaxed. The winter had passed in a blur. Each day had been filled with work and things to do at home; the months had slipped past scarcely noticed. Jennifer's growing weight had defined the season that mattered.
"I have responsibilities," he announced after his second pint. "I must call the grandparents."
He walked home and talked to his mother and to Jennifer's father. Gene was particularly pleased. "I had my order in," he said. "Does she look like Jenny?"
"More like me, actually."
Gene was quick. "Sweet thing! You're a lucky man, Oliver."