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“Thank you, Julia,” Ford says when he hugs me.
“No problem. Figured she’d like something to open while we open gifts for the baby.”
He grins. “You know my daughter well. She hates not being the center of attention.”
The flood gates open shortly thereafter. My TA Irene, Hallie and Fiona from yoga class. Luke’s mother and her wife, the two of them cackling over hilariously inappropriate vegetable innuendos.
Grey and I both notice Eva and Ford chatting together in a corner.
Friends, old and new, crowd the barn, chatting over mimosas and small plates of Elijah’s ham and brown sugar biscuits, pimento cheese finger sandwiches, and fried oyster salad. The food is absolutely divine, but then again, Elijah’s food always is.
We also devour Monty’s homemade cupcakes and insane chocolate chip cookies dusted with sea salt. He made enough to feed a small army, but by the time we’re ready to open presents, everything is gone.
Gracie and Eliza herd Grey and I to the front of the room, where an embarrassingly huge pile of gifts waits for us. Olivia leads the room in a champagne toast to me, Grey, and Charlie Brown.
Grey grabs my hand. I look at him. Look out at all the smiling faces beaming at us. Colleagues. Friends from college. The women I’ve met through yoga, some of them with their babies in their arms.
“This is overwhelming,” I whisper. “The amount of love in this room.”
He grins. “We’re lucky, aren’t we? To have a support system this big and this awesome?”
“So damn lucky,” I say, shaking my head. “Makes me want to help women who aren’t so lucky. I’m new to this mom thing, but I can already tell support is everything.”
He tilts his head. “Let’s do it then. Let’s help those women.”
“You want in?” I ask, smiling. So much freaking smiling these days.
“Of course,” he replies. “Let’s talk about it when we get home.”
We sit in a pair of chairs and start to open gifts. Eliza records everything in a small pink notebook—we’re all still convinced it’s a girl—while Grey drapes onesies across his chest, and I hold up fuzzy blankets and stuffed animals for everyone to see.
Eliza wants me to open her gift. It’s an adorable grey gingham baby bubble romper. Smocked, just begging for a monogram. As southern and sweet as it gets.
Exactly the kind of thing my Southern mama would get her grand baby.
“Thank you,” I say, eyes welling with tears. “It’s beautiful.”
She pulls me into a tight hug. “We couldn’t be more excited to welcome you and this baby into our family.”
Grey looks on, tears in his eyes, too.
It takes an obscene amount of time to open our obscene amount of gifts. As soon as the last gift is opened and carefully packed back up, a stream of helpers already loading up Grey’s car, he is on his feet and heading for the back of the room.
I notice the tables have been cleared over there, and Ford is crouched beside a pair of speakers, cursing quietly as he tries to plug them into the floor.
Putting my hands on my low back—Lord does it ache—I pad over.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
Ford looks up at me. “If I can ever get these motherfucking speakers figured out, it’s going to be a dance floor. Mr. Boogie Nights over there”—he nods at Grey, who’s pouring himself another glass of champagne—“insisted on having one.”
I smile. Again. For the seven hundredth time today.
“I didn’t know there was dancing at baby showers,” I say.
“Why not? You love it. I love it. Pretty sure Charlie Brown’s going to love it, too,” Grey says breezily, sidling up to me. He clanks his champagne against my flute of OJ. “If there’s any excuse at all to dance, I’m going to take it. I have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
Ford shakes his head, grinning. “Y’all are so cute it’s gross, you know that? I love it.”
“We love you,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Seriously. I don’t think we’d be here right now if you hadn’t talked some sense into Grey so he’d let you come back to Montgomery Partners full time. Charlie Brown and I appreciate that more than you know.”
“I appreciate it more than you know,” Grey says. “Thank you, brother.”
Ford waves us away, turning back to the speaker situation. “Y’all are welcome. Just save the dirty dancing for behind closed doors, all right?”
“I make no guarantees. Do you?” I ask Grey.
He takes a sip of his champagne and smacks his lips. “Nope.”
It takes a couple minutes and some help from Greyson, but Ford eventually figures the speakers out. Grey plugs in a laptop, and few seconds later, “Let’s Dance” starts to play.
My heart flutters inside my chest.
There’s no way I could pick a favorite Bowie song. But if I had to, this one would be a top contender.
