"That's my precious," Jennifer said, lifting her out of the playpen. "Oh, you need changing, oh my precious!" She looked at Oliver accusingly.
"Whoops," he said. He unloaded the car while she changed Emma. "Great stuff, this cider," he said, knocking down a glass.
The afternoons were short in October, but Oliver had the windows in place by four o'clock. Jennifer had cooked a ham and baked two pies. The house smelled good. Emma was asleep. Oliver opened a bottle of Rioja, and they ate, listening to Prairie Home Companion on the public radio station. He would rather have talked about something—Garrison Keillor was too smug for Oliver's taste—but Jennifer loved him. He was funny, sometimes, Oliver admitted. And the music was good.
Later, in bed, Jennifer sighed contentedly. "I love it here," she said. Oliver snuggled closer. "I've been thinking about two weeks from today," she went on.
"Two weeks?" he mumbled.
"For the housewarming."
"Housewarming." He put a hand on her breast.
"Mmmm," she said. "I want to invite everybody! "
"O.K." Oliver moved one leg farther up on hers. He put his mouth against her neck. "Everybody," he murmured. A small shiver went through her. She was wifely now in bed, accommodating, easily satisfied. Oliver did his part; she did hers. They fell asleep peacefully and properly. Oliver did not hear her get up to attend to Emma.
In the morning they decided that "everybody" meant everybody but their parents. The holidays were coming; they would see them soon. Besides, the party might be loud and last into the night, not a parents' kind of party. "The telephone man is coming tomorrow," Jennifer said. "I'll call my friends; you call yours."