PART 1 — SUMMER WHEAT

The yellow paint on the nursery door was still tacky when Eleanor scraped her thumbnail across it.

A thin curl of latex lifted from the pine.

“It is very bright,” she said.

“Summer wheat.”

I was eight months pregnant and too tired to explain color theory to my mother-in-law.

She stood in our narrow hallway wearing a linen coat that probably cost more than our refrigerator.

Her eyes moved from the nursery door to my stomach.

Then back again.

“Almost aggressive for a newborn.”

“The baby will survive.”

She ignored that.

Reached into her handbag.

Placed a small silver-wrapped box on our kitchen table.

“A little early.”

“We’re waiting until after the delivery for gifts.”

“Of course.”

Her fingers moved to the second button of her coat.

A nervous habit I had noticed years earlier.