ed with blooming roses.
Verdi was calming down, and the rain had stopped. The apartment smelled
of pie. Boxes of books were stacked high in one corner of the living
room. Not much space left, Oliver thought, but much more homey.

"So--Deweys later?" he asked.

"The pies are ready," Jennifer said. "I hope it won't be too smoky."

"We don't have to stay long," Oliver said.

Jennifer stood. "Nap time," she said. Oliver watched her hips swing
easily around the corner of the steps. He thought of laying out the
remaining shelves, yawned, and followed her upstairs.

14.

It was cold and crisp, nearly dark. A neon Guinness sign glowed through
a window by the door to Deweys. Oliver shifted the box of pies to one
arm and hugged Jennifer with the other. He had a momentary desire to go
home and keep the news to themselves.

"Here we go," he said, opening the door. Music, warmth and the smell of
ale and cigarettes poured out. Jennifer stepped in ahead of him. They
stood for a moment, adjusting to the light.

"Olive Oil!"

"Hey, George. Jennifer, this is George."

"Hello, George. What should we do with the pies, Oliver?"

"I'll ask Sam."

The bartender pointed at a table pushed against one wall. "The bird is
going over there--any time now." Oliver put three pies on the table and
stashed the empty box underneath. He ordered a pint of Guinness for
himself and a half for Jennifer.

"Prescribed for young mothers," he said, handing it to her and taking
her coat. George stared at Jennifer's stomach.

"Due in April," she said.

"Fatherhood," Oliver said, setting the record straight and sipping his
pint.

"Jesus, Oliver . . . I've been making sculptures; you've been making
the real thing."

"It sort of makes itself," Jennifer said.

"Boy or girl?"

"Good question," Oliver said.

"We could find out, but I don't really want to," Jennifer said. "Mmmm."
She made a face. "This what-do-you-call-it takes a little getting used
to."

"Guinness," Oliver said. "Stout."

"Guinness is a kind of stout," George said. "Some stouts are sweeter;
some are a little lighter."

"One thing about stout," Oliver said, "it's hard to drink too much of
it. You get full first. Looks like most of the regulars are here.
Where's Richard?"

"O'Grady? New York. He goes to his sister's every year." George's eyes
went back to Jennifer. She was wearing a long sleeved turquoise jersey
with a revealing scoop neck. The jersey hugged her