Page 54 of Christmas With A Stranger

She gets in sideways, one hand on the roof, one on the dash. It takes her two tries.

"You did this to me in December, too. Do they see you coming and save you the smallest car on the lot?"

"It's what was in the budget."

"It's a clown car."

She twists for the buckle and can't reach it around herself. I take the belt out of her hand and fasten it.

Fastening it puts my hands low across the hard curve of her stomach and my face inches from her neck. She smells like coconut sunscreen and the lemon bars Lis carried in. Her skin is flushed from the heat, and a damp curl is stuck to the side of her throat right where I remember she likes to be kissed.

I've spent every day since February reminding myself that we made a deal. Nobody warned me that she'd be carrying my children and I'd want her more than I did on Christmas Eve. I'm not proud of how long it takes me to straighten up and go around to my side.

The air blows warm for the first couple of blocks. I put my hand over the vent.

"There's no air in this car," she says.

"It's got air. Give it a minute."

She works on the water bottle while I drive.

We've talked every two weeks for seven months, but that hasn't made this part any clearer. I know when her appointments are, but I still don't know when helping her crosses into something she doesn't want.

I leave it alone unless she makes it obvious.

Up the road, the Sand Dollar Grill sign comes into view. I pull in, park under the one live oak at the edge of the lot, and cut the engine.

The booth is by the window. I let Mackie in first. She slides across the vinyl and stops halfway. Her stomach meets the table's edge before the rest of her does.

She doesn't fight it. She catches the waitress passing with menus.

"Any chance we could grab a table instead? I've stopped fitting in booths."

"Course, hon. Take the four-top by the fan."

We move. I carry both water glasses, and she settles into a chair with arms, which suits her better. I take the one across.

"What can I get you, folks?"

She orders a grouper sandwich and lemonade. I look at the board over the register and read the first line.

"Fish and chips."

The food comes fast. I start eating immediately, grateful for real food. I've been living on gas-station coffee and whatever nonperishables were still in Hildie's pantry from Christmas since we got here yesterday.

Mackie watches me for a second. Then she asks one question.

"When did you move her up? All I ever got out of you was that she was settling in."

"April thirtieth."

She waits, and doesn't add anything to it, so I keep going.

"First ten days weren't bad. Then she stopped sleeping. She started getting up at night looking for a way out. For about a month she called me by my dad's name."

I turn my hand palm-down on the table and show her the three faded lines across the back of it.

"Lately it's been sir."