But I missed Eric.

I swallowed the ache in my throat. “I’m not alone.” The twins scampered around the kids’ paddock like a pair of baby goats, Daisy stamping through puddles in her glittery pink galoshes. “I have these guys. And Mom gets out of rehab next week.”

Meg closed the hatch and turned. “We should all have dinner before Amy flies back to Paris. The way we used to for Dad when he got home. A dinner for Mom.”

“Beth’s classes start the Tuesday after Martin Luther King Day. Maybe that weekend? Before she goes back to school.”

“I wish she hadn’t gone to Nashville.”

I watched DJ try to climb up the bottom of the toddler slide. “Colt Henderson invited her to record her song in his studio. She can’t turn down an opportunity like that.”

“Or she can’t turn down Colt Henderson. I don’t trust him,” Meg said.

“You’ve never met him.”

“I don’t have to meet him to form an opinion about him.”

“You’ve never met Eric,” I pointed out.

She raised her eyebrows without speaking, a trick she got from Mom. And look where that got you.

I flushed. “I should probably make that doctor’s appointment soon.”

The look dissolved into concern. “You want me to come with you? I can hold your hand.”

She was the world’s best sister.

“I’ve decided to keep it. The baby,” I said.

“Oh, honey.” Meg hugged me tight. “You’ll be a wonderful mom.”

“You think?” I asked, almost shyly.

“I know. Look at you with these two. Auntie Jo.” She pulled back, smiling. “Maybe you’re more like Mom than you thought.”

“Right. Both of us knocked up.”

Her mouth fell open. I snickered. She giggled. And then we were snorting and gasping with laughter, clutching each other for balance, collapsing against the car. The twins stopped their play to watch us.

“I should go,” Meg said, straightening up.

I nodded. “Good luck with your meeting today.”

She flashed another smile. “Thanks.”

“There are a couple restaurants who are interested in our cheese,” I told her. “You think you could meet with them?”

“You should do it. You know what they’re looking for.”

I didn’t see Michael Burdette from Squeal seeking my input, but I nodded anyway. It wasn’t fair to make Meg do all the work.

“Or . . .” Meg hesitated.

“Or?”

“We could do it together,” Meg said.

“Sisters’ Farm,” I said.

“Sisters’ Farm.” Meg smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

“Me, too.” Together sounded even better.

John says you’re keeping the baby,” Trey said when I answered the door that night.

“Hello to you, too,” I joked.

His expression didn’t change in the porch light. “Can I come in?”

“Sure. Want some soup?” The flood of sympathy casseroles had dried up once my father moved out, but I’d left a big pot of minestrone simmering on the stove. The smell of Tuscan beans, thyme, and tomatoes filled the downstairs.