Neil was still occupied with the life of Yeats. He looked up. 'Nice walk?'
'Incredible,' she said. 'I've decided to write another book.'
'Might not be book publishers for a few years.'
'Doesn't matter,' Molly said. 'Ambition has nothing to do with this. I'm writing it for an audience of one.'
'Me?'
She took the biography from his hands, put it aside, and sat on his lap. I
'Maybe I'll let you read it, too.'
'If not for me, then who?'
She patted her belly, in which the baby grew. 'I'm writing it for her-or him. I have a story I want to tell her, and if anything happens to me before she's old enough to hear it, I want the story written down for her to read.'
'Sounds important,' Neil said.
'Oh, it is.'
'What's it about?'
She put her head upon his shoulder, and with her face against his throat, she whispered, 'Hope.'
