“That’s just your birth certificate. You must go through this process for a dozen more papers, from health check-ups for both you and Wade, to home visits by social workers to investigate your living conditions and lifestyle, and ending with police criminal records—or the lack thereof.”

This was worse than her battling for custody of Jenna from social services years ago. Even then, with a shrewd attorney, she had failed.

“I must get Lulu out of China a week from Tuesday,” she said.

Daniel did not reply. She was learning to read these silences of his. Dignified. Not withholding information, but rather providing her time to reflect. Any decision was up to her.

“Ashford must circumvent the bureaucratic process, then,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Call any time, any hour,” came his soft reply.

Her hand remained on the receiver for a moment longer. Daniel's treatment of her was not the adulation of an admirer privileged to get close enough, as with many men. He seemed to never have noticed a barrier between them.

Nola looked in the mirror above the dresser. Her breasts under the camisole were rounded and full, and the nipples erect against the silk. An image of Daniel doing Tai Chi flickered in her mind, sending erotic sensations to the bottom of her stomach. Beyond the lean-muscled strength of an athlete, there was the way he moved with effortless grace, the energy coiled into his back and shoulders flowing like water through the tips of his fingers. She could almost sense his touch on her skin.

The soft steps of the maid startled her. Nola hadn’t locked the door to the wardrobe room after selecting her clothes. The woman shuffled to the low table in the sitting area and picked an orange out of a fruit bowl. With a silver knife, she began to peel it.

“I can peel my own orange, thank you,” Nola said, louder than was necessary, as though the woman could understand. “But I need you to help with the baby. Later.” She tapped on her watch and lifted two fingers.

The maid covered her mouth and giggled. Nola still found it hard to get used to the giggle that never seemed appropriate to the mood or circumstances.

“What’s your name?” Nola pointed to herself. “I’m Nola. No-la.”

The maid looked at the tips of her felt shoes.

“Would you teach me a Chinese song?” Nola asked, and went on to demonstrate, “La-la-la-lalalala-la. For babies?”

Bowing her head, the maid shuffled backward and left the room. Nola sighed and locked the door.