Page 29 of By the Letter

With my newfound freedom, I’d spent two days in loungewear, snuggling Mary until she got tired of me, and catching up on TV I hadn’t been able to pay attention to with all the moving parts going on in my life.

A strong sense of peacefulness had been uncovered when the rug was ripped out from under me, and I was taking my time to bask in it. I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn't felt like a guillotine was hanging over me, waiting for the rope to snap. Maybe in my early days with Frank, when he’d been well…but I’d been too wrapped in the grief of losing my mother to really notice.

Mary trotted over, a stuffed mouse clutched in her teeth, and dropped it in front of me. Her green eyes flicked from me to the mouse, making certain I saw what she’d brought me.

“Look at that mouse,” I cooed. “It never stood a chance in the face of my big, brave warrior princess, Mary.”

“Rrrroowwww.” She pounced on the stuffed mouse, batting it between her little paws, both delicate and fierce, as she attempted to eviscerate it.

“Is this what you do all day when I’m gone, darling? Kill your toys?” I’d often returned from the office to Mary presenting me with a pile of her toys. Now, I understood she’d been showing off her hunting skills. “You’re the best girl, Mary. I’m going to take some lessons from you on how to be tough. You do it with style.”

She nosed the fully dead stuffed mouse toward me, sat on her fluffy bottom, and waited for praise. “Rrreoww.”

I rubbed her head and back while her tail swished. “Good girl, Mary. You really killed that mouse dead. I don’t think any other cat has ever killed a mouse so thoroughly.”

Raising her paw, she placed it on my wrist and tilted her head. “Rrreooowwww.” She butted her head into my palm one more time, then trotted away, probably off to find a spot of sun to nap in after all that hunting.

Alone in my barren living room, I took in the depressingly stark walls and state of my furnishings. The house had been Frank’s before I moved in with him. He’d bought it after his divorce from his first wife, and Francesca had already been awayat college by then. Why he’d decided he needed five thousand square feet all on his own was beyond me. I was drowning in this empty space.

I’d been thinking about moving for a while but hadn’t been able to bring myself to add one more thing to my plate. Now that my plate had been scraped clean…

I cupped my belly. “No time like the present, is there, Beanie?”

It just so happened Bea had mentioned the house next to hers was for sale. This morning, I’d looked at the listing pictures with her and had fallen hard. I just needed to summon the energy to see it in person and put this place on the market.

Maybe I’d start on that…after a little nap.

Two things woke me at once: Mary nuzzling my face and my doorbell ringing insistently.

“If that’s Bea not using her key, I’m going to be grumpy,” I mumbled, moving Mary off me so I could get up.

But it wasn’t Bea standing on my porch. Not Bea at all.

I opened my door to Roman holding a big box with several bags scattered around his feet. All it took was one look at him for me to remember I was only wearing a camisole and cashmere lounge pants that had a habit of hanginglowon my hips.

My body was fine. Even good by some standards—breasts too big for my small frame, narrow waist, round hips and butt. The thing was, I was incurably allergic to attention—especially of the male variety. Roman had seen everything once, but that was when he’d been Wim and I’d been Goldie. Now that we were us, the last thing I wanted to be was exposed in front of him, but here I was.

Maybe he’d leave quickly.

“Hi.”

“You have a cat,” he stated.

“I do.” Frowning, I glanced at the box. “Why do you have a robot litter box?”

“The last thirty-six hours, I’ve done nothing but read about pregnancy.” That was…unexpected. I would have even thought it was nice had he not sounded so angry. At least he didn’t seem to be paying any attention to my nipples poking through the thin fabric of my cami.

“Okay…” I whispered, unsure where this was going.

“Do you know what I discovered, Shira? Pregnant women aren’t allowed to clean litter boxes. Have you been cleaning Mary’s?”

Blood rushed to my cheeks. “Bea helped when she was here, but Mary’s my responsibility, and I used gloves—”

“That means yes.” He moved me aside—gently—and put the box down in my foyer. Then he went back to the porch for the bags and carried them into my living room. “I figured that would be your answer, so I bought this automatic litter cleaner. I’ve never owned a cat, but the man at the store said this one is the top of the line. When it needs to be manually emptied, I’ll do that, but the robot will clean it on a daily basis.”

“You’ll do that?” I echoed.

He looked at me directly, not quite angry anymore, but stern for sure. “You’re not to have anything to do with the litter. This is about keeping the baby safe, and that concerns me too. You don’t want our baby to be exposed to something that could be harmful, do you?”

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