Then slowly set down his cup.
For several seconds, he seemed to struggle with something.
Finally, he asked quietly, "May I?"
Clara's eyes filled.
She nodded.
"Of course."
Gabriel moved carefully from his chair.
His injured knee made the movement awkward, so Clara leaned toward him.
He hesitated.
Then gently placed one broad, weathered hand against the curve of her stomach.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Gabriel looked uncertain.
Clara smiled softly.
"Wait."
He nodded.
His hand remained still.
Then a small, unmistakable movement pressed against his palm.
Gabriel froze.
His eyes widened.
He looked toward Clara.
She was smiling through tears.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
Then the baby moved again.
Gabriel's mouth parted.
A strange expression crossed his face.
Wonder.
Grief.
And something he had spent years believing would never belong to him.
He looked down at his hand.
Then whispered, "Hello there."
Clara covered her mouth.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Gabriel didn't seem to notice.
He was staring at the place where the child had moved.
For a moment, he looked like a man witnessing something sacred.
Then he withdrew his hand.
Not abruptly.
Gently.
He sat back.
His eyes were wet.
Clara looked toward him.
"Gabriel?"
He took a slow breath.
Then smiled through tears.
"Strong little thing."
She laughed softly.
"Very."
He looked toward the fire.
For several seconds, he remained quiet.
Then he whispered something Clara barely heard.
"I thought I'd never know what that felt like."
Her heart broke.
She reached toward him.
This time, Gabriel took her hand immediately.
He held it.
And for the first time, there was no hesitation in the gesture.
Only tenderness.
The following morning, Gabriel woke with a badly swollen knee and an even more difficult realization.
He was falling in love with his wife.
Not the woman he'd imagined from the letters.
Not the perfect stranger who would arrive without complications.
Clara.
The real Clara.
A woman who had made a painful mistake.
Who carried another man's child.
Who feared powerful people from her past.
Who could balance accounts faster than he could.
Who laughed at his terrible biscuits.
Who read poetry aloud.
Who stood beside the window waiting for him to come home.
And who had spent the previous night carefully tending his injured knee while worrying about the baby beneath her heart.
Gabriel lay awake listening to the house.
Clara was downstairs.
He could hear her moving around the kitchen.
The stove door opened.
A kettle rattled.