Joe said, smiling at the sight of his wife curled in the platform rocker by the radiator with Adam, dead asleep, draped over her shoulder like a sack of flour. “I wish it could be Bermuda, or even the Poconos.” “I like it just fine right where I am,” she replied, cupping a hand about the baby’s head while she rose, carefully, her upper body held erect, looking like a goldenhaired geisha in her silk kimono. The front of her robe, where she’d been nursing Adam, had fallen open, Joe saw. He glimpsed the curve of her breast, creamy-white, with just a touch of rosiness-the color of a Babcock peach. He felt oddly stirred by this, the sight of her with her robe innocently open, and his son asleep on her shoulder. His son! He could hardly believe it, but, yes, the adoption papers had been filed, and in six months or so Adam would SUCH DEVOTED SISTERS 441 be legally his. A minor technicality. He couldn’t have loved Adam any more than if the boy had been his own flesh and blood.
