Occasionally Grammy did some wacky things, just as various other members of the Hartwell clan had been known to do. This obviously was one of them.
Next she thumbed through the book on dream analysis. What on earth would analyzing your dreams have to do with getting married?
The corner of a small children’s book peeked out. The Ugly Duckling. Rebecca traced her finger over the picture of the little yellow duck on the front, then the beautiful white swan, thinking she had always been the duck, Suzanne the swan. But she smiled as she flipped the pages, memories of Grammy’s voice reading the story to her night after night echoing in her mind. She had so loved the awkward little duck and had cheered the lonely creature on as he battled his way through the story. Hugging the book to her chest, she imagined reading it to her own child one day. Was that the reason Grammy had put it in the chest—did she foresee a baby in Rebecca’s future?
A little boy or girl with dark-black hair and green eyes. A little boy who had an amazing similarity to Thomas Emerson.
What in heaven’s name was she thinking?
Feeling foolish, she propped the book on the floor beside her and searched the hope chest, unearthing an antique comb, brush and mirror set. Grammy Rose’s. She’d seen it on the antique dresser in the guest bedroom where Rebecca had slept as a child when she’d stayed overnight.
Sentiment squeezed at her chest as she slid the brush through her hair, remembering the times she’d done so at her grandmother’s. She’d stood in front of the mirror for hours, brushing her hair, pretending she was Rapunzel with long, flowing, silky hair.
Pretending she was beautiful. That a handsome prince would rescue her from being imprisoned in the tower.
She raised the silver mirror and stared at her reflection.
No beauty there.
Oh, she wasn’t bad to look at, she admitted. Even with wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes were a nice shade of blue, and her skin smooth and creamy. Her mouth wasn’t bad, although her nose was a little too long, and the tiny freckles on her nose made her look about twelve years old. No, she definitely wasn’t ugly. Besides, looks were more about what lay on the inside than the outside. She cared about others and had a good heart. But she just wasn’t the beauty queen type. Or the type to attract and hold on to a man like Thomas.
She wasn’t imprisoned in a lonely tower, either. She had a decent apartment, a good job, and her cousins lived close by. And Uncle Wiley.
Refusing to batter her self-esteem any longer, she placed the mirror and brush set back in the chest, her eyes narrowing when she found another book inside. Not a children’s book, but a book of poetry.
She traced a finger over the worn leather binding, surprised at the title. “Passions.” Blushing, she opened the book, her mouth dropping open when she noticed the pages filled with drawings of erotic love poses. A poem had been written beside each nude sketch.
Oh, my goodness. She flipped back to the title page and gasped at the sight of her grandmother’s name printed inside.
Not only did the book belong to Grammy, but she had been one of the contributing artists and poets!
THOMAS PLACED BABY GIRL McGee in her mother’s arms, his heart finally steadying after the harrowing delivery. When Nora had arrived, she was already fully dilated, but the baby hadn’t dropped. It was also breech, and he’d tried to turn it, but the fetus had gone into distress, and he’d finally resorted to a C-section. A wise move, since she had had the cord wound around her neck at birth and hadn’t been breathing.
Terrence had passed out and nearly fallen into Thomas as he’d given the baby oxygen.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Nora said, tears seeping into her eyes. “She’s beautiful.”
Terrence shoved a hand through sweat-soaked hair, looking worse than his wife as she nestled the baby to nurse her.
Terrence curved an arm around his wife. “She looks like you, Norrie.”
Thomas’s throat closed. It never ceased to touch him when parents held their child for the first time. And it was nice to see the baby with two loving parents.
Miracles did exist.
Only, there hadn’t been one for his family.
The day he’d lost a brother, his entire family had fallen apart. His mother had sunk into a deep postpartum depression and told his father she didn’t want him around anymore. She didn’t need him. His father had abandoned them both.
Later, when he was sixteen, his mother had died in an accident.
He pushed the painful thoughts aside. Thankfully, today, the technology at Sugar Hill had been sufficient. “Congratulations, you two.” Thomas patted Nora’s shoulder. “You did great, Mom.”
She squeezed his hand. “It may be our third, but she’s just as special.”
Thomas chuckled and left to offer them some privacy, his mood lifted by the closeness of the family. A closeness he’d missed out on when his father left. Although he admired single women who raised their kids alone, he intended to be there every minute, if or when he had a child.
SHOCK SURGED THROUGH Rebecca. Her seventy-four-year-old grandmother had written erotic poetry and drawn nude sketches of lovers intertwined? She almost shoved the book back inside the hope chest, but curiosity won out, and she scanned the first few pages. Grammy had always been a lively and modern character, but the seductive tone of the poems and the details of the drawings were more risqué than she could have imagined.
Oh, my, my, my…
She read the third poem, the erotic words conjuring visions of her and Thomas Emerson….
Before and after they’d strolled down the aisle.
A shiver rippled up her spine. There was no way she could try some of the poses. Could she?
Rattled, she shook off the images and hastily re-packed the items in the hope chest, hoping to pack away the fantasies as well. No sense getting all starry-eyed just because her grandmother had sent her a few odd gifts.
Still, she carried visions to bed with her and in her dreams, they resurfaced.
Images of her and Thomas, their naked bodies tangled together, giving each other delight. Images of the two of them making love all through the night.
Images of the two of them having a child.
WHEN REBECCA WOKE the next morning, a soul-deep ache stirred within her. Moving slowly, she sat upright, wincing at the sharp pain in her chest and the stiffness in her muscles. She adjusted the pillow to prop herself up, then she lay back and considered her options.
She wanted a baby so badly. She had even before Mimi had gotten pregnant, but watching Mimi go through the pregnancy had raised all kinds of fantasies in Rebecca’s mind. And seeing Mimi’s little girl, Maggie Rose, had only deepened the desire for a child of her own. But she needed a man to get pregnant, and she didn’t have a boyfriend or even a possibility of one in sight.
Unfortunately, the only man in the world she wanted to have a baby with was Thomas Emerson.
But he would never see her as anything but a klutz who’d demolished his Porsche and nearly killed him on the way home. Plus, he certainly didn’t owe her a favor; she owed him.
Still, her biological clock was ticking away like a time bomb. And she had to face the fact that Sugar Hill wasn’t exactly crawling with single, eligible bachelors.
Take time to nurture your own talents and dreams, Grammy had written.
Her dream was to have a family.
The book on dream analysis beckoned her from the hope chest. She jumped out of bed, brought it back and snuggled under the covers, skimming page after page, fascinated by the information.
Hmm,