At last—this is triumph, the fairy-tale ending. Juliana, who has been reluctant to be married to Patrick, who has been hurt, wounded, baffled that Juliana has been reluctant to marry him even as she has insisted that yes, she does love him, careful to keep (secret) the distinction between loving a man and being in love with a man—well, now Juliana will rush at Patrick with the good news, she will embrace him, giddy and careless with joy, not a drunken joy, but (perhaps) a drunken-seeming joy, the lanky-limbed, funny-funky Juliana, whom Patrick adores for her honesty, her frankness, her sunny good spirits that lift his when he is, as Patrick sometimes is, in winter months in particular, inclined toward depression.

But no: not depression.

Juliana insists: melancholy.

For Patrick is, both agree, the more complicated, the more convoluted of the two of them.

Kissing her lover hard on the mouth, she will laugh at his look of utter astonishment—Guess what! Fantastic news!—and Patrick will squint at her uncomprehending—What? What? What are you saying, Juliana?

Maybe then whisper in his ear. Teasing words—Due date guess when?

Already Juliana is carrying herself with dignity, precision. She knows that there are individuals in her family, and among her relatives, who have never predicted happiness for her; and now she will refute them. Her body will refute them.

Luminous, lighted from within, like one of those fleshy apricot-colored candles whose wicks, as they burn, descend inside the waxen candles, exuding a warmly mysterious, beautiful light. Taking care driving home from the clinic, braking at yellow lights she’d have blithely ignored the day before. Stopping at stop signs on residential streets with no traffic, which she’d certainly have ignored.

Never what you’d call a fleshy girl, lanky-limbed, tomboyish, now she imagines that she can feel her body becoming womanly. Small breasts becoming heavier, swollen and tender, and the nipples exquisitely sensitive, she hears herself laugh wildly in embarrassment.

Oh—is this me, Juliana? Not remotely me!

She will overwhelm her lover with love. Unneurotic, forthright, mammalian love, which Patrick has wistfully hoped for from Juliana, which Juliana has not been able to provide, not quite yet.

Pregnant women are the most beautiful women.

I am the happiest man alive.

Almost, Juliana can hear him: exactly Patrick’s manner of speaking.

In his mouth, the most familiar, banal speech is given a new meaning, for Patrick speaks only what he believes.

Unlike (most) other men.

(Most) other men whom Juliana has known.

Oh, she is excited! An excitement shading into anxiety, so keen.

The way, on Front Street, ordinarily a street of no distinction, darkened store windows are reflecting the sun, about to disappear at the horizon in a watercolor wash of exquisite red-orange, as in a painting by Winslow Homer.

And the first headlights! And lights coming on inside buildings, houses. And the sky still glowering bright overhead. L’heure bleu.