Caleb drove away for vacation and returned to find his key did not fit

The heavy gold watch on Caleb’s wrist clicked against the granite countertop as he reached for the coffee pot, a sharp metal sound that seemed too loud for seven in the morning. A tiny smear of orange grease from his chorizo scramble sat near the crown of the watch, but he did not seem to notice.

“You need to eat more than that, babe,” he said, pointing his fork toward my half-empty plate. “You’re eating for two now, remember?”

I smoothed my hand down my maternity top and rubbed my silver wedding band, the metal cool against my skin, wondering why he had suddenly stopped looking me in the eye. The central air conditioner hummed in the background, a steady vibration through the floor of our six-bedroom brick house, a house my grandmother had spent forty years maintaining before she left it to me.

“I’m just tired, Caleb,” I said, setting the spatula in the sink. “The doctor said the pressure in my ankles is normal for thirty-six weeks, but I would feel much better if you stayed close.”

Caleb did not look up from his phone screen, his fingers moving rapidly as he typed. He gave his heavy gold watch another winding turn, a habit he kept up three or four times a day, always right before he had to justify his schedule.

“We talked about this,” he said, his voice rising with that booming confidence he used when he was closing a deal for Oak Creek Contracting. “My mother has had a brutal year, and Brooke needs a break from the city. They need this beach trip, and I’m the only one who can drive the big SUV all the way to North Carolina.”

“But the baby is due in early September,” I said. “That is barely three weeks away.”

He finally looked at me, his smile wide and bright, the same look he gave clients when he was asking for a larger down payment on a job he had not started.

“It is only a week, Claire, so do not make a scene,” he said.

I kept my fingers wrapped around my wedding band, watching his hand slide over his leather wallet on the counter.

“I am not making a scene,” I said. “I am asking my husband to stay home.”

He stood up, his tall frame blocking the bright morning light from the kitchen window, and shoved the wallet deep into his pocket.

“The house will be quiet, and you can get some real rest without us underfoot,” he said, but he did not look at my swollen feet.

I set the clean breakfast plates into the drying rack, the porcelain clinking together in the silence.

“I have two estimates to finish for the Oak Creek library bid by Friday,” I said, hoping the mention of our joint contracting business would make him focus.

“Leave the library bid to me, babe,” he said, snatching his keys off the hook by the pantry. “I will handle the paperwork from the beach house.”

“You’re taking the business tablet?” I asked.

“No, I’m leaving the blue leather one on the counter for you,” he said, heading toward the hall. “But don’t go messing with the company files while I’m gone.”

He did not wait for me to answer, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor as he walked out to the garage.

By noon, the summer heat was baking the Ohio brick outside, and the living room felt heavy with the scent of the lemon beeswax polish I had used on the dining room table. Diane stood in the center of the room, her stiff, hairsprayed curls perfectly in place, holding a list she had written on a notepad.

“The baseboards in the hallway are looking a bit grey, Claire,” Diane said, patting her curls as she turned to inspect the corner. “With the baby coming, you really don’t want all that dust blowing through the vents.”

“The doctor told me to stay off my feet as much as possible this week, Diane,” I said, leaning against the doorframe to take the weight off my lower back.

“A little light bending is good for labor,” she said, her voice carrying that sharp, critical instruction she always tried to pass off as helpful advice. “My mother scrubbed her own kitchen floors the morning I was born, and she was sixty-two before she ever had a knee problem.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but a tight, hard squeeze bloomed across my lower stomach, catching my breath. My fingers tightened against the wooden frame of the door, my knuckles turning white.

“Are you listening to me, Claire?” Diane asked, her eyes narrowing as she patted her hair again.

The contraction peaked and then slowly drifted away, leaving a dull ache in my lower back that made me want to sit down immediately.

“I hear you,” I said, keeping my voice quiet and deliberate.

“Good,” she said, turning her back to adjust a porcelain figurine on the mantel. “And the heavy silver tea set in the dining room needs a good polish before we get back on Sunday.”