"Yeah," Frank said. He blew sawdust off the wood. "Good for her."
* * *
By one-thirty the yard was ready. The lanterns hung in their loose loop from the fence to the lemon tree and back to the patio cover, pale yellow and white. There were two folding tables with yellow cloths, a table for gifts, a galvanized tub of ice with sparkling water and beer and a few bottles of the white wine her mother liked. Diane had made a sign on a little chalkboard easel: LEMONADE STAND — SQUEEZE THE DAY. Nora had rolled her eyes at it, and then loved it.
Aunt Teresa arrived first, as always, with a tray of empanadas and a gift bag so large it had its own handles. Then Grant's mother, Linda, down from Redding with a quilt she'd made herself, all yellows and greens, the stitches so tiny they looked printed. Then Nora's friends from the elementary school where she taught second grade, a noisy pack of women who descended on the gift table and immediately began guessing which box was the car seat. Then Priya Raman, her college roommate, who had driven in from Oakland in a blazer because she'd come straight from a deposition, who hugged Nora and put a hand on her belly and said, "She's enormous. You're enormous. I mean that as the highest compliment."
"Thank you, counselor."
"Where's the bar?"
"There's lemonade."
Priya looked at her with great sorrow. "There's wine in the tub," Nora said, and Priya kissed her cheek and went.
Frank came last, at two-fifteen, in his good blue shirt with a box under his arm wrapped in the comics section of the Bee. He'd driven separately. "Had to finish a coat of varnish," he said, "or it'd skin over," and he gave Nora a long hug, one of his real ones, chin on her shoulder, and then held out the box. "Open it later. It's not much."
"Dad."
"It's not much. Go on, go be the guest of honor."
From the patio her mother called, "Frank, can you get more ice from the garage freezer?" and her father said, "Sure," and went, without looking toward his wife at all.
* * *