Free A Mingled Yarn by Melissa F. Miller Page B

Java at her side, purring and butting her hand with his head.
    “Thanks for bringing all that stuff in. I’m beat,” she said.
    He lowered himself to the ground and crouched on his heels, carefully examining her face. “Are you okay?” he asked, his gray eyes clouded with worry. His voice hitched with concern, which made Mocha startle and raise his head, ears back and alert.
    She patted the dog’s head to settle him and reassured her husband. “I’m fine. I’m just tired.” Tired was a bit of an understatement. She was exhausted. She was too uncomfortable to sleep. Coffee gave her heartburn and nausea. And she had a to-do list a mile long to accomplish before the baby came.
    Connelly leaned closer, unconvinced. “You’re sure? Maybe we should call the midwife?”
    She reached out and cupped his cheeks in her hands. “We don’t need to call the midwife. I’m supposed to be tired. I’m making a person over here. Got it?” She stared into his eyes until he nodded, then she smiled. “Good, now help me up, please. What we do need to do is go over the packing list one more time before the movers come in the morning.”
    He groaned but stood up then took her hand and pulled her up to her feet, too. They stood in the middle of the room and looked around the condo. He spoke first. “I think we’re in good shape, babe. Between the color-coded labels and the detailed map you drew, I’m sure they’ll pack everything up and get it into the right room of the new house. They are professionals, after all.”
    “Are you mocking my organizational system?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
    He put both hands on her shoulders. “No, I’m telling you to have faith in your freakishly detailed packing plan.”
    Sheepish laughter bubbled up from her throat. It was possible she’d gone slightly overboard. But the plan had never been to move the week before the baby was due. She and Connelly were supposed to be comfortably ensconced in their new nest by now—the nursery freshly painted and set up, all the miniature outfits lovingly washed in fragrance-free baby detergent and carefully folded and put away. Instead, all the baby gear—along with most of their other belongings—had been stowed in the rows of towering Bankers Boxes that had been lining the living room wall for over a month.
    They’d scheduled closing for late July to give themselves plenty of time to get settled before the baby arrived. The bitterly divorcing sellers of their new nest, however, had apparently had a phenomenal fight the night before closing. And when everyone gathered in the realtor’s office the next morning to sign the papers, the ex-husband-to-be didn’t show up. As it turned out, he was several blocks away, in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania, filing for bankruptcy. That little development had meant Sasha and Connelly’s new home was swept into the bankruptcy estate. And getting the court, the trustee, and the creditors to agree to the sale had taken all of Sasha’s advocacy skills and the better part of a month. But the deal was done. And tomorrow, they’d say goodbye to Sasha’s stylish single girl condo and hello to a solid, single-family, detached home with a little backyard and that most elusive of Shadyside amenities—off-street parking.
    She rested her head on his chest and, almost reflexively, he wrapped his arms around her belly, as if he were hugging both her and the baby. “Thanks for agreeing to oversee the move tomorrow.”
    “No problem. I know you’d rather be there yourself to micromanage; but don’t worry, I’ll follow your list to the letter.”
    She let the gentle teasing slide by without answering. She would rather be there herself. But she had a summary judgment brief to finalize. And a lunch meeting. And … and … she pushed all thoughts of her upcoming appointments out of her mind as her heart rate ticked up. The words of her midwife, Katrina, rang in her ears. “Your