36
Theo
Some may have called us crazy, trying to sell a house while my wife was on bedrest and our family was expanding in a few short weeks, but Imogen and I knew what we wanted.
And apparently, so did the buyers who took one look at our Chatham house and offered cash on the spot. Oh, and a one week closing.
Imogen had freaked a little at first, understandably, but after an hour or two, she came around. We’d listed the house two weeks prior to her being diagnosed with preeclampsia, because the place held memories we’d rather not bring a baby into.
This house stood for money and the wealth of the Westons. Its location had been one that we’d never chosen, but instead had been dictated by Immy’s father as a status move for outsiders to admire. While we’d tried our best, honestly, neither of us had ever felt like this was a home.
And we’d just come through a trial separation while living in separate bedrooms, so the juju in the place was all off. It was time to go.
“Do you want to put the couches in storage?” I asked my wife, who laid propped up on a bunch of comfy pillow in our bed.
In my hand was a notebook full of checklists. Each room’s furniture and knickknacks were written down, clearly I had a lot of time off now that I was unemployed. And since Imogen couldn’t walk around and tell me what to put in storage, what to toss, and what to include in the new homeowners’ purchase, I’d bring the lists to her.
“Hmm, yeah I actually like that fabric. So those go in storage, along with the coffee table. And the candlesticks, the books on the righthand bookshelf, and my grandmother’s sewing table. You know, the one in the corner?”
I scribble some notes. “Got it. Okay, so that room is done. Now we just have to do the basement and we should be finished.”
Immy heaves a sigh and looks up at the ceiling. “Why did we think this was the smart move?”
Since she’d been on bedrest, her entire attitude about the diagnosis had seemed to calm down. So at least there was that. She’d had a freak out here or there, but nothing as bad as the breakdown she had in the doctor’s office. I tried to reassure her every day, and to tell her what I believed. That we’d successfully made it to the end of this pregnancy, and the universe wasn’t going to take us down now.
It was true. We’d had so much misfortune, especially when it came to infertility, that there was no way anything bad could come upon us now. I had to believe that, or the weight of the situation would crush both of us.
I rub her feet, settling in so that I can give her instep a good massage. “Stop worrying about this. We want to bring our girl home to a house that has love. And we agreed that this place isn’t it. Who cares if we forget something here? It’s all going in storage anyway, and we have everything all set up at the cottage.”
“Except for the nursery.” My wife’s voice is whiny, but Flapjack comes to nuzzle in at her side and this seems to cheer her up marginally.
That’s where she was wrong. She’d been on bedrest for almost three weeks now, and I’d been running around like a chicken with my head cut off to sell our house and get the baby’s room ready on Nantucket.
Ever since she’d left the company, Imogen’s family had been radio silent. No congratulations on the baby, no shower had been thrown. Yes, Nicole and some of her closer acquaintances had sent beautiful gifts, but we really had none of the essentials. Imogen had been an Amazon Prime machine from her bed prison the last couple of weeks, but in the midst of a move, we were going to have some trouble getting everything ready.
Or so my wife thought. While Imogen thought that we’d be ordering a bunch of stuff in the weeks after the baby was home and having her sleep in a pack and play we bought off Amazon, I’d actually been painting and decorating the second bedroom of the cottage. With a little help from my old construction buddies, of course. A guy couldn’t exactly run back and forth to Nantucket with a very pregnant wife on the mainland.
With the room painted, the prints I’d ordered hung on the wall, and bookshelf stacked with every possible baby book you could find, my wife was going to lose it when we finally brought Dorian home to the cottage. Well, plus the furniture I’d built so many years ago.
The lumber yard had the exact type of wood I’d wanted, and my buddy gave me a deal on it since I confessed what I needed it for.
“Take it, and congratulations.” He’d slapped me on the back.
As I hauled it to my truck, I was sketching the design of the baby’s crib in my mind.
Ever since we’d started trying to have a child, I’d known that I wanted to build the crib myself. Sure, it would be easier to pick it out of a catalog or drive to a store and get one, but I was a builder. I worked with my hands, and I knew how to assemble houses. Furniture would be a piece of cake.
Imogen had no idea that I was doing this, and I wanted to keep it that way until I revealed the nursery to her in a couple of months. I had told her from the start that she was in no way allowed to step foot in the paint-smelling construction zone of that room, but that I’d do her proud. Her cute type A butt had raised an eyebrow, but she hadn’t protested.
Once I arrived back home, I took the wood out to my shed, which doubled as my workspace these days. I’d built Imogen a set of bookshelves last spring and tinkered with some odds and ends to relieve the tension that working for Nathan Toxell caused.
Imogen was at work for the next ten hours, and I’d taken the day to construct this crib. The one that would hold our sleeping newborn. I wanted all of my love for our future baby to soak into the wood, as corny as that sounded.
They always talked about how hormonal a pregnant mother was, but expectant dads were just as emotional, too.
The pencil flew over the sketch paper I kept in the shed, drawing and erasing, adding and creating. I wanted the crib to have a vintage feel, to go with Imogen’s tastes, but to also be sturdy and a touch masculine. I’d blend both of our styles.
Once the sketch was complete, I began working with the wood. Cutting and sanding. Adjusting, creating notches and grooves to connect the pieces.
The sun was long gone when I finally emerged from the shed, where I’d covered the original piece with a tarp so that my wife wouldn’t see it.
I couldn’t wait to see her expression when I finally revealed it to her.
After we’d lost the baby, I’d put the crib in storage. I’d debated throwing it out, or destroying it in a fit of rage, but maybe part of me had known that someday, we would put it to good use.
I couldn’t wait for Imogen to see what was waiting for our daughter in her Nantucket nursery.
“And make sure you remember to take our wedding photo off the wall in the foyer. I want that with us in the Nantucket house.” Imogen pointed at me, trying to will the thought to my memory.
I smiled, reaching over to rub her stomach “I’d never forget that. In our new house, I want to hang it in the same spot, but have a picture of Dorian right next to it.”
Those green eyes melt at my sweet idea. “I love that. By the way, any news on that plot we put a bid on?”
Shaking my head, I do my best to keep a straight face. “Nothing yet, but I have a feeling we didn’t get it. And you wouldn’t let me drop the Weston name. We surely would have snagged it if you had.”
A little white lie never hurt anyone, and what my wife didn’t know was that we’d won the bidding war on the land in Nantucket that we’d put an offer on. And I didn’t even have to drop her maiden name.
Imogen and I planned on taking the baby home to the cottage after she was born, but we couldn’t stay there forever. So, we’d been scouting pieces of land on the island to buy, because I was going to build us our dream home from the ground up. It would be my first solo project, and I’d exercise all of the creative energy that I’d restrained while working for my former employer. Our house would have vaulted ceilings and built-ins, a kitchen specifically designed for Imogen, with a playroom, and a fire pit out back.
The best part? The piece of land that I’d purchased behind my wife’s back was located along the same strip of beach as our cottage … so we’d be able to walk every day past the spot I proposed to her at. Twice.
“I’m not a Weston. I’m a Walsh.” She gives me a sly smirk.
As gently as I can, I pounce on top of her for a kiss. “You got that right, babe.”