Maya smiled. “That’s a very thoughtful wedding-day answer.”
“I had a shallower one.”
“Which was?”
“That if anyone here says one word about you that sounds remotely stupid, I’ll still ruin them.”
She laughed against his shoulder. “There he is.”
Five years later, on a cold November morning, Taylor stood in the nursery doorway holding a baby girl who had just discovered his tie and considered it prey.
The room was painted a soft cream with one wall covered in watercolor stars. Light from the East River side of the apartment—their new apartment, smaller than the old penthouse by choice and infinitely warmer—fell across the rocking chair where Maya had left a burp cloth and a half-finished parenting book that both of them privately distrusted. Their daughter, Grace, named without discussion after Dr. Lee, had Taylor’s dark hair, Maya’s eyes, and a talent for turning every adult in the room into a fool.
