Having Nathan's Baby by Fran Louise

dusk.
    I made a detour through the park since it was still not quite dark. Coming out at the other side, I found myself standing a few blocks down from my apartment, facing a row of terraced brownstone townhouses. It sparked a reminder in my head. Rummaging in my bag for a moment, I found the keychain Rosalind had given my earlier in the day. I looked at the address handwritten on it: West 71st St . I looked up at the street sign ahead of me, my lips parting to allow a small gasp: W 72nd Street. I faltered only for a second before heading south.
    West Seventy-First Street was a tree-lined road with terraced townhouses running as far as the eye could see. I crossed over to the left side of the street, my eyes pouring over the rich detail as I passed. Each townhouse had four stories, not including the basement, with three windows per floor facing the street. I came to Nathan’s house quickly; it was the only painted brownstone on the street, gleaming white against the rest of the dark houses. An elaborate stone staircase led to the double front doors. Unable to bridle my curiosity, I jogged up the stairs and fitted the key in the door. At the click of the lock I felt a burst of excitement.
    Inside, I groped around for a light switch. I prayed that the electricity would still be connected. It was, and when the light flicked on I was rewarded with an amazing view. Wooden flooring gleamed from the foyer to a set of stairs that seemed to continue upwards towards the heavens. I stepped forward, peering into a sizable family room. Out at the back I could see a decked garden area in the remaining light from the dusk. I walked towards the French doors, my eyes widening when I saw plump snowflakes pouring from the sky. No wonder it had seemed so light outside! The grin that gripped me was childish and gleeful.
    Turning my attention back to the house, I was surprised to find myself standing in the large kitchen area. It was fully fitted but bare of appliances. A leisurely tour of the house uncovered a first floor with a study and two large rooms. The bedrooms were on the third and fourth floors, each with an impressive en suite bathroom. The house was a dream, with amazing views of the park and the surrounding city. It had so much potential! I wondered if Nathan was going to decorate it from a distance, the way he had with his Vermont house. The idea prompted a rush of anguish. It would be a crime not to renovate and decorate this house with all the respect the architecture deserved. It should be lovingly worked on. I awed and fretted in equal measures as I eyed the cornices, which I was sure were original. If it were my house, I’d do it bit by bit, starting with a clean base and then adding to it with pieces discovered here and there. This, in my humble opinion, was how a house became a home.
    I wandered back down the stairs, my fingers trailing down the smooth wooden balcony. Also an original, I suspected, as I studied the ornate wrought-iron guard. On the first floor, I stopped to stare out at the back garden again, enjoying the sight of the rushing snow coating the decking. I thought for a second I could see my apartment building, but a noise stopped my investigation.
    Alarm slid across me like ice when I heard the front door rattling. The house was lit, but apart from me, completely empty. Feeling a rush of blood to my head, I tiptoed over to the balcony again to peer down at the front door. A figure was behind the glass, tall and wide enough to be a man. He seemed to be alone. My heartbeat hammered. He was rummaging through his pockets. My eyes zeroed in on him desperately, looking for something reassuring.
    Could it be a realtor?
    When the door opened and I saw Nathan stepping inside, I was momentarily incapacitated by the joy fizzing through my veins. He looked up, smiling at me. His dark hair and clothes were dappled with moisture from the snow. Before he could say anything, I skipped down the stairs, surprising myself by