A/N: Okay, guys, I've had this fic up my sleeve for months and held off on posting because it contains major spoilers for "Saving Grace." Now that that one is finished, I'm eager to share this one. It's on the short side (for me), aka just over 13,600 words, but I wrote it in two parts so I'm posting it that way too. It's not really a Valentine's Day story, but I like sharing fic on holidays, so. A few things: I'm introducing a couple of new original characters in this story; how much they'll be included in future fics I can't say for sure—depends on their reception and whether I can fit them in. In any case, please be gentle, the plot and the characters are deeply personal to me, and I wrote it needing some catharsis. Also, Amanda isn't as involved in this one as much as in my other fics, but she is there. Just... a bit preoccupied, as you'll see. (Hint: This takes place around the same time as chapter 7 of "Saving Grace.") TW for child sexual abuse.
Part 1
. . .
The puking had finally given way to snoring, and Olivia chuckled to herself as she gently eased the door shut behind her. For such a small person, her wife could certainly regurgitate meals and saw logs with the best of them. The bearlike noises coming from the bedroom and the bucketful of upchucked tomato soup were irrefutable proof—Amanda Rollins-Benson never did anything halfway, including pregnancy.
It was perfectly normal "morning" sickness, according to the OBGYN. "Perfectly normal my ass," Amanda had grumbled after the appointment, slouching miserably in the passenger seat of Olivia's Ford Explorer. Her belly barely even distended the seat belt yet (her breasts were another story), the baby within about the size of an avocado.
They had a running joke that they would name the kid after whichever fruit, vegetable, or legume the doctor compared her to that month. So far, Poppy (seed) was Olivia's favorite; Amanda preferred Bean.
"I was never this sick with Jess. Why do you hate me, Avi?" The last part had been addressed to Amanda's abdomen, the detective's long hair draped over her ample bosom as she pouted at the unborn child below. "I'm giving you a warm, comfy place to grow. At least let me eat. It's all for you, kid."
Negotiations had failed. Little Avocado—or Baby Guac, short for guacamole, as Amanda sometimes referred to her—was not interested in cutting her mama any slack. Or her mommy, for that matter. Olivia had been relegated to nursemaid and actual maid over the past several weeks. She didn't mind it; in fact, she reveled in pampering her pregnant wife, who seldom let her get away with such treatment otherwise. Why, just a few moments ago, she'd been seated at the end of the bed, rubbing Amanda's poor aching feet. It was a service Olivia herself received on the regular, but rarely got to provide.
The vomit was less appealing. And the lack of sex (that's how she knew Amanda felt truly horrendous, her disinterest in most bedroom activities other than sleep and being spooned to sleep). But the reward they had to look forward to in five more months was well worth the effort they put forth now.
She reminded herself of that as, cringing, she dumped the mop bucket filled with garish red vomit into the toilet, flushed it down, and rinsed the plastic container under the bathtub faucet. Making a mental note that the wastebasket with the plastic bag inside, which she'd left next to the bed for her wife, was an easier clean-up and far less graphic option, she washed her hands with a dollop of Dove and nearly leapt from her skin at the sound of a piping voice in her ear.
"Mommy, can Jillian and me take a bath with you?"
"Geez—" Olivia swiveled around on the edge of the tub, swallowing the remainder of the oath when her eyes landed on Jesse and Jillian, the first-grader's new best friend from school.
The little girls had finagled their first sleepover out of their unsuspecting mothers at 3:30 pick-up that afternoon, while Olivia was still at work and Amanda was too exhausted and suffering from self-diagnosed pregnancy brain to say no. Jillian's mother, a young divorcée with only one child, had been more than happy to send her daughter home with "the cop moms"—Jesse, it seemed, liked to brag about Mommy and Mama to her classmates—despite tomorrow being Olivia's day off and despite the three (almost four) children, two dogs, and one very grouchy pregnant lady already in attendance.
Olivia couldn't complain too much, though. Jillian was a sweet, well-mannered child, and so quiet she almost went unnoticed in the lively household. She and Jesse were an oddly matched friendship, considering Jesse's boisterous manner, high energy, and tendency to talk a blue streak; Olivia often had to remind her middle daughter not to boss around her siblings—or any other children, for that matter. A little beastie was Jesse Eileen. But, miracle of miracles, Jillian's shy, soft-spoken personality had a calming effect on the blonde beastie, who in turn patiently tried to draw out her timid friend's confidence and moxie.
The little beastie also had a giant heart to go along with that giant personality.
Even now, she was in the lead, standing directly behind Olivia and holding tight to Jillian's hand while the smaller girl lagged back near the sink, twisting her long ponytail around a spindly index finger. Though two months shy of her sixth birthday, Jesse was already taller than Jillian, who had turned six a month ago and still could have passed for a young five. A will-o'-the-wisp come to play in the beastie's woods.
"I'm gonna have to put a bell around your neck, little girl," Olivia said, cutting off the faucet and poking playfully at Jesse's tummy, until both girls giggled. Jillian stepped forward then, displaying a cute gummy grin, no front teeth to speak of. That was good; she was probably just naturally tiny, but developing healthily nevertheless. Olivia had watched for signs of malnutrition at dinner, finding none. "You scared the daylights out of Mommy."
"Me too?" Jillian asked, hopefully.
"Yep, you too." Olivia obliged with a poke at the scant little belly Jillian angled expectantly towards her, a hand on her knee. "Never been so scared in all my life."
"Did you poop your pants?" Jesse asked, a sly grin showing off the dimple that was identical to her mama's. Same cheek and everything. "Is that why you're taking a bath? 'Cause you're all poopy and stinky 'cause we scared you?"
Olivia rolled her eyes at the gales of high-pitched giggling that followed the inquiry. Sometimes raising a six-year-old was like being back in junior high. She chuckled in spite of herself, shaking her head at the little girls' antics. Now they were poking her, probably in hopes of causing an actual demonstration of incontinence. "No, mouth," she said, catching their tiny hands in hers and stamping kisses to the backs. "I'm not the stinker in this room. That would be you and you. Jess and Jilly."
"My mommy calls me that, too!"
Feigning surprise at Jillian's excited declaration, Olivia dropped the girls' hands into her lap, eyes widened, hands on hips. "I never would have guessed it."
She was surprised again, this time in earnest, when Jillian reached up to pat the front of her blouse, palm resting on the swell of one breast. It might have been a fluke—kids were constantly grabbing at the strangest of places; Noah had once bitten her on the big toe while he was still crawling—or a holdover from breastfeeding. Matilda hadn't nursed since she was two months old, but at the age of three, she still found comfort in sleeping on a warm bosom (usually Olivia's), hand curled inside of the nearby shirt collar like a small, burrowing creature. Jillian was a little old to have just been weaned, but it wasn't unheard of; last year, one of Jesse's friends had "lunch with Mommy" every day.
That had raised a few eyebrows with the other moms, including Olivia, although she had never breastfed a child at all, so who was she to comment? She'd kept her opinion to herself, only to burst out laughing when Amanda said she was shocked by how advanced the kindergarten class was—they were already reading Breakfast at Tiffany's Tits.
Not wanting to embarrass or shame the little girl for what was most likely an innocent mistake, Olivia gathered Jillian's hand into hers again, gave it a soft pat, and placed it at the child's side. She was relieved when it remained there, loose and delicate against the pajama bottoms that were on loan from Jesse. They pooled comically around Jillian's heels and needed to be hitched up every few seconds.
"If you're not gonna take a bath, can me and Jillian?" Jesse asked. She pronounced her friend's name like an infinitely large number—a jillion dollars.
Frowning, Olivia pretended to check Jesse's brow for signs of fever. "Are you feeling all right, little love? I've never heard you request a bath before. I usually have to drag you in kicking and screaming."
Now it was Jesse's turn to roll her eyes, though Olivia hadn't been exaggerating that much. Maybe no kicking and screaming was involved, but there were definite high stakes negotiations taking place whenever the child's bath time came around. It was easier coaxing Frannie Mae's furry rump into the tub. "Jillian wants to teach me the boobies game like the lady teached her."
Taught, Olivia's brain corrected automatically, before her ears even registered the most alarming part of the sentence. After twenty-three years in SVU, she knew how to remain calm and receptive, almost passive, while speaking with children about uncomfortable—and often vile—subjects. You couldn't freak out or get angry; they needed to feel safe and free to share. All the same, Olivia's pulse quickened at what she'd heard.
It might just be another fluke. Jesse thought boobies were hilarious and brought them up at every given opportunity, no matter how inappropriate. Her most frequent topics of choice were, in no particular order: boobies, peepees (Olivia was trying to make the transition to anatomically correct language, but Amanda claimed that hearing a five- and three-year-old saying the words penis and vagina made her teeth hurt), poop, boogers, and farts. She had probably just misquoted Jillian. Olivia hoped.
"The boobies game? What's that?" She widened her eyes a little at the girls, her tone inquisitive but not overly upbeat. Kids picked up on that phony stuff a lot quicker than most people thought. Especially the precocious ones, like Jesse.
"I dunno." Jesse shrugged her shoulders and glanced to Jillian for her input, without waiting for it to be given. "She just said the lady teached it to her. But I said we have to ask my mommy 'cause it's a no clothes game. She wants you to play too, Mommy. Grownups play it with little kids. So, can we?"
Olivia's heart sank the longer she listened to her daughter's explanation. Another thing about working SVU for so many years—not to mention all the years spent with her mother—she picked up on abuse as if she had a sixth sense for it. She'd been studying Jillian's behavior since arriving home from work and meeting the child. Now she knew why.
But she still needed to hear it from Jillian herself. The little girl was chewing on the overlong cuff of her borrowed pajama top, watching Olivia intently with big hazel eyes trimmed in fairytale princess lashes. A canopy of light brown bangs fell in a perfectly even line across her forehead. She was a good girl who held still for haircuts and didn't experiment with scissors herself. Probably obedient when given instructions by an adult.
"You know what, Jess?" Olivia leaned forward and nudged her daughter's forehead with her own. She would have to give the girl a refresher course in body safety when Jillian went home tomorrow, but it was a good sign that Jesse had asked permission before agreeing to "the game." Her wild child was listening. "Mommy wants to have a talk with Jillian about something very important. Can you be a big girl for me and play the iPad in your room for a little bit? On quiet, so you don't wake Tilly."
The iPad was usually off limits and therefore an enticing offer that the kids could seldom resist when Olivia or Amanda dangled it in front of them. But Jesse wasn't born yesterday—she had five years and nine whole months of life experience to go on. "Is Jillian in trouble?" she asked, regarding her friend and Olivia with suspicion. She even narrowed her eyes slightly, a newly acquired habit that Amanda swore the child had picked up from Mommy.
"No, no," Olivia said hurriedly, trying to reassure Jillian, who looked to be in mortal terror at the prospect of getting scolded. The smaller girl edged towards Jesse, hugging her friend's skinny arm to her own skinny chest.
Fear of punishment. Not good. Predators singled out those traits, like lions stalking the weaker members of a herd, and pounced on them, devouring. Easy pickings, the small and timid girls who wanted desperately to please.
"Jillian didn't do anything wrong. She's the best little guest we've had in a long time. She doesn't try to drink from the dog bowls like that silly boy Noah invited over, does she?"
The girls laughed at that, Jillian joining in once Jesse made a dramatic show of disgust and cried, "Ew, no! That boy was weird."
"I only drink from cups," Jillian agreed with absolute sincerity, though it was hard not to smile at the lisping pronunciation cupths. "And sometimes juice boxes."
"We don't have those. Just Kool-Aid." Jesse wriggled loose from Jillian's grasp then, trudging for the hallway. "I'm gonna go play iPad. Come get me when y'all are done, okay?"
And with that announcement, Jesse was gone, leaving her mother and best friend to their very important talk. Jillian gazed after the younger girl the way Frannie watched her masters through the Petco viewing window on grooming day. When she turned back, as tiny and fragile as a baby bird fallen from the nest, Olivia was glad to be seated, rather than looming over the little girl in the big empty bathroom. Bathrooms were scary places when you'd been assaulted in one.
"Should I shut the door?" Jillian asked, as if she were requesting nothing more unusual than a second helping at the dinner table. "Rachel says we're s'posed to play with the door shut. It's funner that way."
"No, honey. Let's leave the door open. Actually . . . " Olivia stood slowly and moved away from the tub, extending a hand to Jillian. She felt a deep pang of sadness when the little girl easily accepted, without any explanation of where they were going, or why. Like a lamb to the slaughter, Chaucer had said. The perfect simile for an overly trusting child. "Let's go on out to the living room and sit, okay? Is that all right with you?"
"Uh-huh."
When they were seated on the couch, Gigi wedged between them, providing a friendly distance and the comfort of a warm, furry protector to pet and snuggle, Olivia took a moment to breathe. It never got any easier listening to victims disclose, especially the children. Since those two pink lines first appeared on Amanda's at-home test stick, Olivia had found herself overwhelmed by emotion, almost as if she were the one experiencing the surge of hormones that accompanied pregnancy. She'd even pawned off a few of the grimmer abuse cases on Fin and Kat recently, not trusting her tears—or her anger—to remain in check, and not wanting her wife and unborn child anywhere near such atrocities.
But this one had walked right through her front door, holding her oldest daughter's hand and grinning a toothless grin. Olivia couldn't (and wouldn't) leave it up to anyone else to intervene.
"So, Jillian," she began, smoothing Gigi's silky ear against one palm with the flat of the other. The golden retriever was used to frequent stroking and random displays of affection; she might be Olivia's service dog, but she had also become a family counselor, of sorts, always willing to lend an ear—for scratching or listening—and never making light of even the smallest troubles. "Can you tell me about Rachel? Is that who taught you the game Jesse asked to play?"
"Uh-huh. She babysitted me and we played. She said we can again next time, and she'll teach me more big girl games." On the opposite side, Jillian lifted Gigi's ear and imitated the same repetitive strokes administered by Olivia.
Upon her arrival at the apartment, the child had been intimidated by Frannie and Gigi's size, not to mention Frannie's exuberance, but now she was an old hand at doggie cuddles. And Gigi had a new little charge to adore and watch over.
"Ah. So, Rachel is your babysitter?" Olivia asked, ignoring the hard little knot in the pit of her stomach. She had been so selective and thorough when she hired Lucy as a nanny, she'd scared almost every other applicant away. It was a simple stroke of luck that she found the perfect girl at the perfect time—and still managed to keep her on, seven years and counting. Few families were that fortunate.
"No, she's my daddy's sister. She lived in Flor— Flordira, but now she lives with my grandma and grandpa." Jillian brightened, flapping Gigi's ear lightly by the tip like a traveler waving bon voyage with a handkerchief. "Flordira's where Disney World is. Rachel says she knows Elsa and if I'm good and play the games, she'll take me to see her and Anna and Olaf!"
I just bet she will, Olivia thought, grimly. And, in a distant corner of her mind: Bitch.
A relative, then. Somehow that made it all the worse. When it happened outside of the family, at least you could sever ties with the abuser, make a swift, clean cut. When the same blood as a predator's ran through your veins, you spent the rest of your life fearing you might turn out just like him. Or her.
Was that the life that awaited this innocent little girl, decided for her before her permanent teeth had even grown in, while she still believed in giant, talking snowmen and happy endings?
Not if Olivia could help it.
"Wow. What about your mommy? Does she get to go along, too?"
"No, she can't come. She doesn't know the game, and Rachel says she probably has to work." Jillian frowned and released Gigi's ear, her hand resting atop the dog's head. Her tiny fingernails were no bigger than the pearl pendant on Olivia's feather necklace, each one dotted with Crayola-pink polish just beginning to chip into geometric shapes. "She works a lot."
That one hurt. Olivia's own children often voiced the same complaint, in the same melancholy tone. Amanda's sick leave after the shooting last year and her lighter workload in recent weeks had gotten the children used to having a parent at home, and they asked with increasing frequency why Olivia couldn't spend as much time with them as Mama did. Even her little lark Matilda had begun to cry whenever Mommy clipped on her badge and her "bang bang" (the child's term for gun). "No, Mommy, no work. Please."
Olivia had never wanted her children to know what a meaningless, ineffectual word that was—please. And now she wondered what other awful truths they might learn in her absence. The same ones she had learned when her mother was working or drunk (usually the latter), leaving her alone with strange men? The same ones Jillian had learned from Auntie Rachel?
"That must make you sad," Olivia said, instinctively reaching out to stroke the little girl's hair. She thought better of it at the last minute, and pressed the back of Jillian's hand once, briefly, instead. "How does your aunt's game make you feel?"
After a thoughtful silence—much too pensive for a six-year-old, in Olivia's opinion—Jillian gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "It's funny, I guess. Aunt Rachel says it feels good, but it makes me . . . it makes me— Olivia, my tummy hurts."
"I know, sweetheart," Olivia said sympathetically, patting the child's hand again, urging it to resume a soothing rhythm through Gigi's dense, white-blonde fur. Sometimes that was the only way Olivia could calm herself in the wake of a night terror or flashback. Most days she was fine, which made it twice as bad on the days she wasn't. "I know it's really hard to talk about, but you're so brave. Can I ask you just a few more questions?"
"Okay." Jillian gazed up warily, resembling Frannie when she got wound up and accidentally piddled on the carpet.
Offering a light, appreciative smile, Olivia proceeded with care, her voice pitched the same as when she read the kids one of their more bittersweet bedtime tales, like Love You Forever or The Velveteen Rabbit. "Does it hurt you other places when Rachel plays the game?"
Lifting the hand she wasn't petting Gigi with, Jillian gnawed at her cuff again, back teeth desperately chewing. Poor kid would probably have to sleep with a night guard when she got older, if she didn't already. "Hm-mm. I got scared because Rachel was . . . " Here, the girl cast an anxious look towards the hallway and whispered the conclusion. "—nakey. But it's okay since we're girls. And I didn't have to be nakey. It was just a bath for big girls with boobies. Mine don't tickle yet, so we tickled hers."
Now Olivia had a stomach ache. She'd known where this was going from the start, but she always held out hope that she would be wrong, eternal optimist that she was. "Can you show me how with this?" she asked, scooping up one of Matilda's generic baby dolls from a pile beside the couch. She intentionally skipped over the Elsa plushie that was within closer reach.
Jillian accepted the doll eagerly, smiling at its winking eyelids and the plastic curl in the middle of its bulbous forehead. She switched the doll back and forth a few times like the pendulum on a metronome, watching its eyes blink, then lifted its frilly pink dress and caressed the formless chest underneath. "Hers are like mine, though. Rachel's are like yours. We bounced 'em, and it was so funny! They're like Jell-O, and there's a— a thing, I forget what it's called. I touched them, and they got big. They feel like my pencil erasers at school. Do your boobies do that?"
Gently overlooking the question, Olivia pointed back to the doll. "Did you or Rachel touch each other anywhere else? Can you show me?"
Head tilted at a shy angle, Jillian regarded the plastic baby as if she might clam up again. She poked idly at the dolls rounded lips with both thumbs before moving gradually lower and peeling down its lacey pink panties. "Here," she said, tapping a finger to the sexless hump between the doll's legs.
Innocuous as a chin or a kneecap, that smooth curve, but for Olivia, it brought to mind the medical exam results she heard on a regular basis: torn hymen, injuries of the posterior fourchette, genital warts, labial adhesions. I bet yours is real pretty. Better than red velvet.
("Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.")
"I don't like that part of the game, though," Jillian said, quietly.
"Why not, honey?"
"It's scratchy like my daddy's beard. I told Aunt Rachel I don't want to do that anymore, but she said I have to. It's how you win the game." With a weary sigh, Jillian righted the doll's underwear and cradled it as though it were a real infant. A Real infant. "I'm not scratchy down there. Aunt Rachel wants it to be my turn next, but I . . . oh. Uh-oh."
All at once, Jillian looked up with a distraught expression, hazel eyes brimming in tears and her bottom lip quivering as if she'd caught a chill.
"What is it, honey, what's wrong?" Olivia asked, alarmed by the sudden change.
"I forgot I'm not s'posed to talk about the game. I can't go see Elsa and Anna if I talk about it. You won't tell my aunt will you? Please don't tell her, I wanna go to Flordira and ride the teacups." The child's last bit of resolve crumbled at the prospect of being cast out from Alice's mad tea party, and she wept as openly as the heroine of that tale crying the sea of tears that carried her into Wonderland. "Please don't tell, 'Livia."
"Shh, shh. I won't tell your aunt, sweetheart." This time Olivia stroked the little girl's lopsided ponytail as she huddled forward and sobbed into Gigi's fur. It was all Olivia could do not to gather the child into a soothing embrace and rock her, the way she would have with her own children. But this was not one of her daughters—no matter how strong the pull—and physically comforting a sexually abused child in private was just asking for trouble. She settled for gentle pats on the back and more murmured assurances that she wouldn't tell (not Auntie Rachel, at least).
When the tears subsided, an occasional sniffle or juddering breath all that remained, Olivia daubed at Jillian's damp cheeks with a Kleenex from the box on the coffee table. "You didn't do anything wrong, sweetie," she said, swiping under Jillian's button nose with exaggerated care. "None of what your aunt did is your fault, you remember that no matter what happens, okay? And you're such a big brave girl for telling me about it. You remember that, too."
"I am?" Jillian looked down wonderingly at her hands, as if they had just been endowed with some strange new power—superhuman strength or airbending, perhaps. "Brave like Merida?"
"Yep, just like Merida." Olivia nodded resolutely and booped the tip of Jillian's nose with the pad of her index finger. Wish granted. "They'll probably call you Princess Jillian of DunBroch now," she added, making the little girl giggle with her hammy rendition of a Scottish accent. It always got a good laugh out of Amanda and the kids whenever she dusted it off after their latest viewing of Brave, a favorite of Jesse's (and Matilda's, although Merida's springy ginger curls—so like her own—were the main draw).
"Don't ever let them put you undercover as a Scotswoman, darlin'," was Amanda's usual snickering response. She always pulled a face like someone had scraped their fingernails across a chalkboard. "You'd get made the second you opened your mouth."
To which Olivia would reply, in an even thicker brogue and, later, when they were alone, with a hand on the bum in question, "Ah, yer bum's oot the windae, lassie."
"Can Jesse and me watch Brave?" Jillian asked, already showing a bit more assertiveness to go with her new title. She'd been too tentative to request milk with dinner, instead conveying the message through Jesse, who was more than happy to be her mouthpiece. (Jesse Eileen was more than happy to be most people's mouthpiece.) "I want to see how Merida is, so I can be like her. Please, please, please."
Well, Olivia had stuck her foot in that one. She glanced at her watch and was about to suggest something shorter—a bedtime story that she could skim over once the girls were dozing, a nifty little trick she'd picked up from her wife—when Jesse charged into the living room, cast the iPad aside on the armchair, and joined Jillian in her supplication. Both girls stood in front of Olivia, bouncing up and down like a couple of jumping beans, hands clasped under their chins as they begged "please, please, please."
"Jesse, you don't even know what you're asking for," she said, trying not to laugh at her daughter's instant enthusiasm, and failing miserably, as she waved the girls off.
"I don't care." Jesse continued leaping, long blonde hair flouncing around her shoulders and spilling into her eyes. She swiped it away with mild annoyance—her teacher had politely suggested barrettes to hold back the child's hair and eliminate distraction, at which Olivia and Amanda had laughed the entire drive home from the parent-teacher conference (Jesse? Barrettes? Preposterous!)—only to bounce it loose again. "I want it. Please, Mommy. Pretty please, with whipped cream and a cherry on top?"
"And hot fudge and sprinkles," Jillian added, sounding as if she were riding a pogo stick. Her ponytail swished behind her, not quite as wildly as Jesse's carefree locks, especially with those impossibly even bangs, but the light brown ringlet at the end had almost as much spring as Tigger's tail itself.
How could Olivia possibly say no to that? It was actually better this way. Everyone else was asleep—Amanda had barfed herself into exhaustion, poor thing; Matilda had conked out at seven-thirty on the nose, just like every other night; and Noah wanted to be well-rested for tomorrow's dance class, thus tucking himself in at eight o'clock (the boy was more health conscious than both of his mothers combined). That just left Olivia and the two little munchkins bobbing up and down in front of her, wearing themselves out by the minute.
She wasn't too concerned about the girls sleeping together in Jesse and Matilda's bedroom, but she would rest easier if they camped out in the living room, where she could keep an eye on them. Until she had a talk with Jillian's mother and knew the little girl was getting the help she would undoubtedly need, it was best to exercise caution. The girl's aunt had taken a child's natural, harmless curiosity and twisted it into something profane and stigmatizing. Olivia hated that she was playing into it by not trusting Jillian, but she had to protect her children, too.
"All right, all right." Finally, she managed to quiet both girls, only for them to run off squealing when she instructed Jesse: "Go get the sleeping bags from your—"
"Good Lord," she sighed, watching after them with bemusement. And soon there would be the pitter-patter of two more tiny feet joining in with all the rest. Oh, Captain Benson, have you got your work cut out for you.
She couldn't wait, to be honest. And half an hour later, when Jesse and Jillian were sound asleep on the floor, cocooned in Bart Simpson ("Don't have a cow, man," Amanda had replied scratchily, hugging her childhood keepsake while Olivia expressed disapproval of the smart-aleck cartoon character on its nylon shell) and Moana bedrolls respectively, Olivia dozed on the couch, a faint smile on her lips and three bear cubs tumbling across the television screen.
. . .