The rain patters against the window, providing the perfect background music as I curl up in my chair, my feet up on an ottoman. There’s a warm, soft blanket over my legs and a cup of tea beside me. In my hands is a big, thick book from my library.

I’m in heaven, in other words.

I glance out the window, at the dark storm clouds coming in. I couldn’t be happier about it. There’s no place I’d rather be than in my chair by the window, in the little space I claimed as my sitting room when we bought this house around a year ago.

It’s been a wild, beautiful ride since then. I’ve never owned a house before, not one like this, anyway. Not a house where I didn’t have a cook and a maid and a series of landscapers and a bunch of other luxuries. We do have help, a housekeeper comes in twice a week, but that’s a far cry from having twenty-four/seven service. We do have landscapers come out to do the big jobs, like cutting back tree branches, since the house is surrounded by big, beautiful trees. An experienced old gardener came around a few weeks once to help me with the more arduous jobs. But I’m the one who does the weeding and watering and seeding. I’m the one who gets my hands dirty. I love every minute of it.

I love every minute of my life.

I lean my head back against the soft, plush chair and smile when I think about what a culture shock those first few months were for me. I wasn’t used to loading the dishwasher, doing the laundry, cooking the meals, or doing the grocery shopping. Yes, I did all those things when I was a teenager, but it’s funny how quickly a girl can fall out of the habit when she’s used to having everything done for her. There I was, for all those years, thinking I was down-to-earth and normal.

Cole didn’t want me playing housewife, but I insisted on doing as much on my own as I could. No more personal assistants for me. I have to say he tried hard to make me change my mind, but I stuck to my guns. I was determined, and in the end I got the hang of domestic life. Cole stuck around through it all, which makes him the most patient man in the world. He even managed to choke down my first few attempts at cooking dinner.

“I’m sorry!” I said the first night, as I chucked most of a meal down the garbage disposal. “The most I ever cooked was a boxed mac and cheese.”

“That would be an improvement right now,” he made the mistake of commenting.

I know he was trying to make light of the situation, but that turned out to be a very … well … let’s just call it, interesting night. It took me a very short time to make him admit that he was no great shakes at cooking, either. The next morning, I went out to get a couple of cookbooks and walked myself through the finer points of cooking. Now, it’s one of my favorite things to do. It relaxes me the way gardening and reading does.

Which reminds me that I have to get dinner started. It’s a special night. I hate to leave the comfort of my reading nook, but Cole’s favorite dinner is my spinach and goat cheese stuffed chicken breasts with pasta alfredo and artichoke heart salad. Yes, I’ve come a long way in a short time.

I walk down the stairs and pass through the airy, spacious living room with its fireplace and pocket doors, original to the house. God, I love this house. A big, rambling farmhouse built in the late 1800s, still with so much of its original charm. The kitchen ceiling is overlaid in pressed tin and the hardwood floors are original. In almost every room there are fireplaces with intricately carved mantles I could stare at for hours. I did too, when we first moved in.

I turn on the sound system in the den, which is only separated from the kitchen by an island. What I love most about this place are the renovations the previous owners put in. They’re all respectful of the house’s original architecture, but serve to completely open it up. I turn on my favorite piece of music and start cooking, singing along as I do. Maybe I should incorporate a few jazzy tunes into my next show …

I’m hard at work, rolling pounded chicken breasts around the garlicky goat cheese filling when I hear the front door open. “Oh, shoot! I didn’t know you were getting home early tonight, or I would’ve started this sooner.”

“Oh, it’s okay.” I hear Cole’s footsteps as he walks down the hall and into the kitchen, which sits at the opposite end of the house. “Wow, you’re really cooking tonight! I didn’t expect all this!”

“Well, it’s a special night, you know.”

“It is?” I’m glad I have my back to him so he can’t see the way I roll my eyes.

“Yes!” I plop the last breast into the baking pan and turn to wash my hands. “I thought we could use a special dinner.”

“Would these look good on the table?” He steps up behind me and slides an arm around me, revealing a bouquet of blood-red roses.

“You remembered!” I’m laughing as I turn around to give him a hug. I should’ve known he wouldn’t forget.

“Of course. It’s been two years since that night at my old house. One of the best nights of my life.”

“Me, too.” I hold his face in my hands as I kiss him, then giggle when I leave wet handprints there. “Sorry,” I murmur as I wipe his cheeks with my apron. I take the flowers and pull a vase from the cupboard.

“Hey, I was talking with Artie today.” He sits on one of the stools on the opposite side of the island, facing me. “He wanted to know if you’re free in two weeks for a gig.”

“Two weeks? Yeesh. I don’t know. Did you look at the schedule?”

“Yeah. You have two more that week, and three the next.”

“You know that’s my cut-off.” I shoot him a look.

“I know, I know. I told him you’d get back to him.”

“Why does he call you and not me?” I ask, popping a piece of artichoke heart into my mouth.

“Because he knows I’m a soft touch … and you’re a soft touch for me.” He opens his mouth, and I expertly toss a piece of artichoke in there.

“Yeah, yeah. He’s right. I’ll do it on one condition.”

“What’s that?” The way he arches one eyebrow tells me he knows just what I’m about to say.

“I want you up there with me.”

“No.”

“Then, no. See? Wasn’t that easy?” I slide the chicken into the oven and go back to making the sauce for the pasta.

“Oh, that’s not fair,” he whines.

“That’s life, baby. Show business. Take it or leave it.” I leave it. For the most part, anyway. I still perform up to three times a week in small bars and clubs around the area, but I sing my songs, my way. My manager thought I was insane, obviously, the way he thought I was insane when I sold the house and let the staff go and told my band it was the end of the road. My guitarist and keyboard player appear with me from time to time, when they’re in the area, but the rest went on to other jobs. They’re all good enough to play with just about anybody.

By the time the food’s ready, Cole has the table set and I place the crystal vase of roses in the center. “They’re just gorgeous. Thank you, sweetie.”

“Of course.” He slides his arms around my waist and pulls me in for a deep, lingering kiss that just about curls my toes. I let myself melt into him for a moment, winding my arms around his neck, pressing my body to his. It’s almost enough to make me forget about dinner.

Then, I remember why this dinner is so special. “I’d better bring the food out before we sweep everything off the table and use it for something else,” I murmur, which makes him laugh. He helps me bring the food over and pulls out my chair with a flourish. I flutter my eyelashes and sit down, while he picks up a bottle of white wine and holds it over my glass.

“No wine for me, thanks.” I hold my hand over the top of the glass. He shrugs and pours it for himself.

“No wine? With pasta? Since when?” He sits down across from me and pulls in his chair, then spreads a napkin across his lap. It isn’t until he picks up his knife and fork that my meaning dawns on him. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here, waiting for him to get the hint. He’s adorably dense sometimes.

His jaw drops. “I don’t want to go jumping to conclusions, but are you …”

I nod, biting my lip. I hope he wants this baby. I’ve been aching to tell him about it all day. “I’m pregnant. I went to the doctor this morning to confirm.”

There go the knife and fork, clattering to the floor. For a second, I’m pretty sure he’s going to join them. “Are you okay?” I whisper, suddenly terrified.

Slowly, so slowly, a smile spreads across his face. It’s like watching the sun rise in speeded up video, all of a sudden, everything’s bright. “Okay? Are you kidding?” He’s out of his chair in the blink of an eye and kneeling beside me. “Everything’s all right with you, right?”

“Yes. Everything’s fine. I’m in great shape.”

He takes my hands. “A baby. Our baby.”

“You’re happy?”

“Do I look happy?” He laughs and a tear spills down his cheek. I reach up to wipe it away.

“I’m so glad. I’m happy, too, by the way.”

We’re both laughing and crying and I’ve never been so overjoyed, ever. It’s like the last piece of my life is falling into place. A family.

“Catherine called earlier. I felt bad not telling her, I didn’t want her to know before you.”

“We call her together after dinner, okay?”

I smile. “Yes. I owe so much to her.”

He looks down at my still-flat stomach. “Hey, in there. I love you, little baby.”

“He or she is about the size of a blueberry right now,” I tell him, stroking his hair.

He grins up at me. “Blueberry. That’s a nice name.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“What? Don’t all celebrity musicians name their kids all kinds of off-the-wall names?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a celebrity anymore. I’m just me.” Mommy, I whisper to myself. I’d rather be Mommy than the world-famous Taylor any day of the week.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks, jumping to his feet as he suddenly becomes Mr. Concerned Dad.

“You can do one thing,” I suggest.

“What?”

I wink. “You can let me eat this dinner. I’m eating for two now, you know.”