“I did.”
“You should get in the habit of doing that. We’re going to have Oriental rugs in here presently.”
“I was hopin’ for kids.”
Beatrice swatted Jim’s shoulder. “With order, we can have both.”
He looked at the oven and then back at her. “Steak and kidney pie?” His eyes were hopeful.
“Did Joseph tell you?”
“I smelled it out myself. No peas?”
“I put carrots instead. You’re starting to slobber.”
Jim wiped his mouth, nodded his head in appreciation, threw his limbs around Beatrice, and squeezed. The sensation was like being hugged by a house. He released her, sat at the table, buttoned up his shirt, tucked a red napkin into his collar, and picked up his fork, which he held with its tines facing down as if it were an ice pick. There was work to be done with him for certain . . . but
