"Yes," Oliver said. "Seems like yesterday that Emma was born."
"It does," Jennifer said enthusiastically.
Oliver took one hand from the steering wheel and rested it on top of Jennifer's. "Merry Christmas," he said. "Merry Christmas, Emma." He looked over his shoulder at Emma, buckled into her car seat, serene, half asleep. "I love Emma."
"And me?"
"And you," he said. It was true, but why did his heart sink after he said it? There were loves and there were loves. He patted her hand and corrected a small skid.
21.
Oliver enjoyed Christmas in the new house. He talked to his mother and his sister on the phone, took pictures of Emma in front of the tree, and made another bookshelf for the living room. Jennifer eased up on the little brother plan, accepting his suggestion that she might not want to be heavily pregnant in July. "A little pregnant would be fine," she said. Oliver agreed—a three or four month delay. He tried not to think of Suzanne. He decided to skip the coming Friday visit.
Tuesday, at work, he handed Dan a picture of Emma. "Pride of the
Prescott's," he said.
"Chip off the old block. Does she program yet? A cutie! She'll keep you busy."
"She will. How was your holiday?"