AN: Yes, it is what you think it is. It's another chapter. I have said it before, and I hope that this is the last time I have to say it, but I think I have worked out my problems here. (I hope? Please…LOL). Many thanks to those who are there to help me iron out my negative feelings with fics. She who helps me clean up my messes knows exactly who she is and, hopefully, always knows how much she and her infinite patience are appreciated!

Please remember that this is a period fic and, therefore, there are practices and beliefs that are not common to our current time. Thanks!

I hope you enjoy the chapter and, hopefully, the ones to come soon. Please don't forget to let me know what you think!

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Carol's hands shook. They shook almost violently. She put down what she was holding and lifted her glass. She sipped the contents. She wasn't accustomed to experiencing the taste of brown liquor very often, and she shivered—rejecting to herself the suggestion of her doctor that such a thing settled the nerves of expectant mothers and could promote a relaxation that helped with gestation. She was only somewhat freshly home from her appointment, and Josephine Greene would bring the children soon.

The baby was healthy, and Carol was, too. She'd told her doctor some of her feelings, though, and he'd said that she was likely feeling tension and stress—both common for a mother of any sort and, certainly, for an expectant mother. She was to try to relax when possible, and to settle her nerves however she could.

The brown liquor didn't settle her nerves like he'd suggested. Just the sip of it made her stomach feel queasy, and she put the glass down on the porch railing. She lit one of the cigarettes that she kept for occasional smoking and settling her nerves. Her pack was nearly stale for all that she'd taken out of it lately. She took one long draw from the freshly lit cigarette, but the moment that she did, her stomach protested that as much as the liquor. She snubbed the cigarette out and touched her stomach.

Her doctor said her weight looked good. He said she looked like everything was moving along as it should be.

Her tummy, now, pressed uncomfortably against the fabric of any of her clothing, and she'd bid farewell to the waistline that she'd worked to keep—and that most of the women she knew would declare she absolutely had to have to be considered attractive and worthy of her husband. She knew it probably wasn't true, but she could almost swear that, since this morning, her tummy had grown and was more pronounced. Even now, she could barely breathe in the most forgiving of her dresses.

Her doctor had asked her about the movements of her baby—did she feel anything? She felt fluttering almost constantly in her tummy, but she was nervous to say that it was anything more than nerves, excitement, or digestive troubles. Andrea, of course, had told her that all babies felt like that at first—like fluttering nervousness, according to Andrea.

The thought that her baby was real, though, and capable of making her waistline disappear, of making her tummy grow enough to press against the waistline of her dresses, and of making her feel like she had a nervous fluttering inside of her that was like a handful of loose crickets nearly made Carol tremble with a type of excited anxiety that made her knees feel like they might fail her.

That explanation, of course, had led to her doctor's suggestion that she seek some relief for her nerves.

"I don't believe you like the relief our doctor suggested," Carol said quietly—imagining she might be able to talk to the baby that, maybe, was making her feel the way she felt. "I believe you liked your Daddy's warm milk and honey better. Maybe we'll have some of that in a bit to settle you down."

She imagined that her baby approved of the idea, though it was impossible to tell. For the moment, the fluttery feeling—whether real or imagined—didn't cease.

Carol picked up the paper envelope she'd been holding and looked at it again. She rubbed her fingers over it. Her vision of the images blurred slightly and she felt silly as she blinked a few warm tears out of her eyes. They rolled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away with her fingertips.

She had ordered these sometime before, and they'd finally come. The other thick enveloped was waiting in the house. She'd only brought one with her to enjoy the fresh air of the porch for a moment and try to settle her nerves after her doctor's prescription that she do so as often as possible—relaxation being good for the baby, and all.

The patterns in her hand were patterns for maternity clothing. She had altered a few things, here or there, for women that she'd worked for. She'd improvised, and she'd made do, and she'd even developed a few patterns of her own using Andrea's expanding tummy as a model during her last two pregnancies. Carol had worked with maternity clothes before when women around her needed them, but she hadn't ever brought herself to order the newest patterns available for every possible maternity need from bathing wear, to dresses, to night clothes.

Carol hardly needed a whole wardrobe for her pregnancy, but she wanted one—and she felt as though Daryl wouldn't deny her this wholly self-indulgent happiness.

She had already bought quite a bit of cloth, and her whole body buzzed with the thought that, with her skills, she could very soon be wearing one of these dresses and feeling absolutely like a mommy-to-be in a way that she hadn't quite yet allowed herself to feel.

Carol Dixon was going to have need of the newest fashion in maternity dresses because she was expecting a growing little one that was demanding more room than what her old clothing was allowing.

Carol hugged the envelope to her chest and closed her eyes. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and, for a moment, she didn't try to staunch the flow of the warm tears that trailed down her cheeks.

Josephine would still be a bit before she arrived with the children.

Carol got up from the swing. It was a beautiful day, and she would open the window to her sewing room to let in the fresh air—also good for growing babies. She gathered up the glass and ashtray, tucking her envelope under her arm.

"Come on, my baby," she said. "Let's go have some warm milk and make a dress that will make you more comfortable—I have the sweetest blue cloth that your daddy is going to love. We've got plenty of time to get started."

111

"OK—come back," Carol said. "June—are you helping Mama with the potatoes?"

June came quickly back into the kitchen, and Carol pushed the little stool up in front of the counter with her foot. June hopped up on it, and Carol helped her with the peeler. It took longer than simply peeling the potatoes quickly over the kitchen sink, herself, but it kept her from worrying about tiny fingers getting knicks and cuts, and it let June help to make meals for the family.

"Jack Jack's OK," June offered.

"Good," Carol said. She knew her baby boy was fine. He was in his playpen and, though she couldn't see him from here, she could hear the clacking of his blocks as he banged them together. He wasn't fussing right now, but he had called out—singing a little, to himself, from Carol's perspective—and so his sister had felt compelled to go and check on him. "Is he playing?"

"Yeah," June informed her, allowing Carol to guide her hands when it was necessary to help a little with the potatoes. Carol would have to clean most of the counter, but it was worth it to let June have the excitement of telling her daddy that she made the potatoes for dinner. "He's got his blocks. He dropped one."

"Over the side?" Carol asked.

"Yeah—a green one," June said. "I just—put it back for him."

Carol smiled. She leaned enough to kiss the top of her daughter's head as she stood behind her.

"You're a good big sister," Carol said.

"I am," June agreed. "I'm—I kind of am."

"You absolutely are," Carol assured her. "Are you excited about the baby? Are you going to be a good big sister for the baby?"

June sighed somewhat dramatically. She'd learned it from one of the little girls that she went to school with. The girl was quite dramatic, and June picked up some of her antics. Still, June didn't have the same level of actual drama behind the occasional act of theatrics, so it was amusing rather than bothersome.

"I'm just gonna have to, Mama," June said.

Carol bit the inside of her mouth.

"You don't have to," Carol said.

"I do too!" June protested.

"Not if you don't want to," Carol said. "I can take care of the baby myself."

"It's my baby!" June protested. A genuine whine slipped into her voice.

Since hearing about the baby's existence, June had developed an intense interest in babies. She'd had Jack to fuss over, but she wanted a baby of her own. Of course, Carol and Daryl soon realized that a doll would suffice to give her the tending practice that she wanted—and Carol knew that Daryl had ordered her one that was meant to arrive soon. It was a bit extravagant—given that it was neither a birthday or a Christmas gift—but they had decided that they wanted her to have it. It was supposed to be quite a realistic rubber baby that she could tend to and even bathe.

June had also developed a bit of an imaginative interest in her own new sibling to come. She would tend to it, just as she believed she tended to Jack. She was older now than she had been when Jack had come, so she had more ideas about what it would be like to be a big sister.

If everything that June said was true, Carol would never have to lift a finger to care for the baby from the moment that it came into the world.

"It's your baby brother or sister," Carol assured her. "And I certainly hope that I can count on your help. You know how hard it would be for me to handle the baby on my own, but…if you don't want to help me tend the baby, I would understand."

"Mama," June said. She didn't have to finish. The whined-out word was enough to let Carol know that she was done with Carol's teasing. Carol leaned and kissed her head again.

"Don't fuss," she warned. "It's fine. You can help tend the baby whenever you want, and it was very responsible of you to give Jack his block back. Now—what are we going to do to these potatoes?"

"Jack Jack likes mashed potatoes," June said confidently.

Carol didn't point out that Jack liked just about anything they offered him to eat.

"Mashed potatoes, it is," Carol said. "I'll cut them so you don't hurt your fingers. Can you get the big pot out for me?"

June hopped off of her stool, slipped under Carol's arm, and went about her job. In the living room, Jack called out from his playpen in the sing-songy little way that he did when he was really fine but wanted a bit more attention than he currently had.

"Daddy will be home soon, Jack!" Carol called out. "And your sister's making you mashed potatoes."

Before Carol could even finish her statement, Daryl had opened the front door and let himself inside.

"Did I hear potatoes?" He asked.

"Daddy!" June declared loudly, running wildly toward him to fling herself at him. Carol smiled to herself and worked to get the potatoes in the pot while June described the menu to Daryl—potatoes, chicken, Brussel sprouts, and lemon poundcake. She heard Daryl talking to Jack, and she listened to June telling him about her day, and how she had rescued Jack's block, and saved her brother from the greatest sadness of his short life.

Carol prepared the potatoes and got them on to cook to softness. She turned around from putting them on the stove to find Daryl just behind her with Jack on his hip and June clinging to his leg.

He smiled at her and kissed her. She kissed him back, making sure that she left him craving enough of her kiss to want more later.

"You got anything to tell me about today?" He asked.

"Plenty. Over supper," Carol said. He nodded. "Can I make you drink?"

"I just wanna sit a few minutes," Daryl said.

"June—help your daddy off with his shoes," Carol said.

June wrapped her hand around Daryl's and tugged him back toward the living room.

"Come on, Daddy," she said. "Come on…"

"Don't'cha need help gettin' the table set?" Daryl asked.

"June will help," Carol said. "Just—send her back as soon as you're settled."

"What can I do to help you?" Daryl asked. He stopped walking and didn't seem bothered by June tugging at his hand until he was ready to move forward.

"Just relax," Carol said. "And—play with Jack. That'll be the biggest help to me. I think he's cutting more teeth. He's been fussing all afternoon if he goes too long without some attention."

"I got it," Daryl said with a laugh. "I got a package, too. Picked it up at the post office."

"Is it?" Carol asked. She flicked her eyes toward June. Daryl nodded. "Where is it?"

"In the car," Daryl said. "I'd like to bring it in, but I weren't sure."

"Wrapped?" Carol asked.

"Oh—all wrapped up," Daryl said.

"Bring it in and put it in the sewing room," Carol said. "With—all my other sewing things." She offered Daryl an easy explanation for the package—it was something for Mama's work. "We'll look at it after supper."

"Gonna be a happy night in this house," Daryl teased. He winked at her.

Carol smiled.

"It always is," she said. "Go on—get the package and get yourself settled. I'll have your supper ready before long."

111

AN: For those who have read this on other stories lately, feel free to ignore.

I'll be putting this on my works for a while to make sure everyone sees it, so please ignore if you read multiple stories. I just wanted to let everyone know that it was somewhat brought to my attention that one reason people may not review, or may not review works often or past the first chapter, is that they feel unappreciated by not having their reviews responded to for each chapter and, therefore, don't really feel motivated to continue to read and/or review. I certainly don't want you to feel that way.

Admittedly, I come from the era of fic where we used to sort of consider (perhaps wrongfully) reviews as an acknowledgement that people were reading and wanted more of the story, since I have no other reliable way of knowing who is reading and cares about the story. I have always simply gone on to work on the next chapter. I have only responded to reviews that were personal and, of course, to personal messages. I, of course, read and appreciate every single review, but I have always simply put my time and energy into trying to write more for people to read and, hopefully, enjoy. I never meant to be dismissive of everyone.

I know that it feels bad to feel that what you do is unappreciated or unnoticed. Fic writers often feel that way with a lack of reviews. I wouldn't want other people to feel unappreciated. I absolutely appreciate when people review. It lets me know that people are reading and enjoying the story. It's a sign that I'm not wasting my time, and it gives me motivation to keep going. However, I don't want people to feel unappreciated either. So, I'm going to start doing my best to respond to your reviews. Please note that, the more you say to me, the more I'll obviously have to say in my response. (If you're one of those people who may find this awkward, please let me know, and I won't respond to you. My goal is not to make anyone uncomfortable.) Also, I appreciate your patience, as this will be something that does take time and, as such, it may take me a while to respond to them out of the time that I do have outside of work and adult life, since my free time and the energy that life leaves me is quite limited. I thank you for your patience and understanding.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please don't forget to let me know what you think.