I blocked the chair’s wheels with my feet to keep it from moving and held one of her hands while she put the other flat on her desk as she lowered herself down.

“Easier to keep standing,” she muttered, “but then my feet swell. I am so ready to have . . . to be unpregnant you wouldn’t believe it.”

Though I was pretty sure “unpregnant” wasn’t a word, I also wasn’t about to argue with a woman eight months and three weeks into pregnancy. “So what were you thinking about?” I went around the desk and sat in the guest chair.

“That this might be our last Sunday dessert for a long time.”

Since I’d already come to that same conclusion, I nodded. “It’ll be different, after the baby,” I said, stating the obvious. “And maybe we won’t do Sunday desserts ever again. But we’ll do something else.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

Kristen admitting to fatigue? Truly, wonders never ceased. “It’ll be okay,” I said softly.

“Hope so.” She sighed and shook her head. “All these hormones. Driving me crazy. Harvey will be in with dessert in a minute; can you distract me until then?”

I didn’t want to trouble her with the Ryan-Pug-Conti issues, so I went in another direction. “Did I tell you about Ash and Chelsea? I finally figured out what was behind their breakup.”

Kristen leaned forward and put her chin on her hands as I talked. Her eyes started drooping before I got even halfway through the explanation, and when they shut completely, I stopped talking, pulled out my phone, and texted Scruffy. “You’re going home,” I said.

“Wait, what?” Her eyes flew open. “No, no, I was just resting and—” She sighed. “You’re right. I’m exhausted. It’s hard for me to get enough sleep. Lots of kicking going on down there, you know?”

I did not, but the fatigue she was now letting me see, on the face of one who had the stamina of ten, told the story. By the time I got her up and headed down the hall, Scruffy was there to take over the ushering duties. I helped with the seat belt and waved good-bye as they drove off, but it looked like she was already asleep.

“Hope she’s okay,” I said. Misty, who’d come out with me, patted my shoulder.

“She’s fine. Scruffy will make sure of it.”

My concern eased a bit, because she was right. The ultracompetent Scruffy would indeed do everything humanly possible, and then some, to make sure his wife and child were happy and healthy.