The door swung shut behind her, and a lady customer, two men conversing in the corner, and the young cashier all turned their eyes toward her.

“Mrs. Mickelson,” the cashier said. “You’re here to see Mr. Mickelson? He’s in a meeting with Mr. Mickelson, or, his father, I mean, but I can see if—”

“Oh, no!” Wilma said. “Please don’t disturb him.” She suspected they could see straight to the bottom of her heart.

But instead of her heart, they were looking right at her stomach. Through the folds of her cape, they could see the shape of her body. “I was just out for a walk, some air,” she said, gathering her cape around her, turning to push the door open again. “Please don’t disturb him.”

Immediate relief: the fresh air cooled her cheeks. But then Gust was there, at the bottom of the steps. When he saw her, he smiled. She would have turned to go back into the bank had that not seemed an even more fearful choice than facing him. Oh, that he should see her in this condition—heavy with his brother’s child and yet utterly foolish over him! What had she been thinking?

But she smiled, started down the steps toward him. Steady, steady.

“Wilma!” he said. “I wondered if you might not be too long.”

“I—yes, John was meeting with your father.”

“Yah,” he said, with a rueful smile. “I was in that meeting until a moment ago.”

She laughed. Perhaps he didn’t know her feelings, and she could skate around them, even make them disappear. “So I had supposed,” she said.

“In any case,” he said, “seeing you reminded me of a matter I need to discuss with you.”

“A matter?”

“Yah,” he said. He touched her elbow and guided her down the stairs. “May I walk you home?” he said. “We can discuss it on the way, then.”

“Yes,” Wilma said. After all, she really didn’t need to go shopping.

He put out his arm for her to take, and led her back across First Street. It seemed she could feel the heat of his skin through his shirt and coat, her gloves.

Her shoes were clicking on the boardwalk again when he said, “It’s about the baby, Wilma.” His tone was grave, and set her to worrying immediately.

“What about the baby?”

“My brother tells me he’s certain it will be a boy, and that he’s planning to name him Junior.”

“Yes, John James Mickelson, Junior.” John had insisted on it.

“All due respect, Wilma, you can’t saddle a baby with the name Junior,” Gust said. “Poor child won’t have a chance, then. God forbid he wants to do anything other than follow in his father’s footsteps.”