"Then it's mismarked," Eaton reasoned. A historian by occupation, both teacher and author, he was as reliant on fact as Hugh was.

"She has an ID band," Dorothy noted, "but you never know about those. Oprah had a pair of parents on whose babies were mislabeled. Go ask, Hugh. This doesn't look like your child."

"It's her," Hugh said, trying to sound surprised by their doubt.

Dorothy was confused. "But she doesn't look anything like you."

"Do I look like you?" he asked. "No. I look like Dad. Well, this baby is half Dana, too."

"But she doesn't look like Dana, either."

Another couple came down the hall and pressed their faces to the window.

Eaton lowered his voice. "I'd check this out, Hugh. Mix-ups happen."

Dorothy added, "The newspaper just ran a story about a woman who gave birth to twins from someone else's vial, and you can almost understand it-how can they possibly keep all those microscopic things apart?"

"Dorothy, that was in vitro."

"Maybe. But that doesn't mean there aren't mix-ups. Besides, how one becomes pregnant isn't something sons would necessarily share with their mothers." She shot Hugh a sheepish look.

"No, Mom," Hugh said. "This wasn't in vitro. Forget mix-ups. I was in the delivery room. This was the child I saw born. I cut the cord."

Eaton remained doubtful. "And you're sure it was this child?"

"Positive."

"Well," Dorothy said quietly, "what we see here doesn't resemble you or anyone else in our family. This baby has to look like Dana's family. Her grandmother rarely talks about relatives-what, were there three Josephs all told at the wedding, counting the bride?-but the grandmother must have family, and then there's Dana's father, who is a bigger mystery. Does Dana even know his name?"

"She knows his name," Hugh said and met his father's eyes. He knew what Eaton was thinking. His parents were nothing if not consistent. Pedigree mattered.

"We discussed this three years ago, Hugh," the older man reminded him, low but edgy. "I told you to have him investigated."

"And I said I wouldn't. There was no point."

"You would have known what you were marrying."

"I didn't marry a 'what.'" Hugh argued, "I married a 'who.' I thought we beat this issue to death back then. I married Dana. I didn't marry her father."

"You can't always separate the two," Eaton countered. "I'd say this is a case in point."

Hugh was saved a reply by the nurse, who waved at him and wheeled the crib toward the door.

This baby was his child. He had helped conceive her, had helped bring her into the world. He had cut the cord tying her to her mother. There was symbolism in that. Dana wasn't her sole caretaker anymore. He had a part to play now and for years to come. It was an awesome thought under even the most ordinary of circ.u.mstances, and these didn't feel ordinary in the least.

"Are either of you pleased?" he asked. "At the very least, happy for me? This is my baby."

"Is it?" Eaton asked.

Hugh was a minute following-initially thinking that it was simply a stupid remark-then he was furious. But the nurse was wheeling the crib toward him. He held out his wrist for her to match the baby's band with his. "Are these the grandparents?" she asked with a smile.

"Sure are," Hugh said.

"Congratulations, then. She's precious." She turned to him. "Is your wife planning to breast-feed?"

"Yes."

"I'll send someone down to help her start." The door to the nursery closed, ending Hugh's show of brightness.

He turned on his father. "Are you saying Dana had an affair?"

"Stranger things have happened," said his mother.

"Not to me," Hugh declared. When she shot him a warning look, he lowered his voice. "And not to my marriage. Why do you think I waited so long? Why do you think I refused to marry those girls you two loved? Because then there would have been affairs, and on my side. They were boring women with boring lifestyles. Dana is different."

"Obviously," remarked one of his parents. It didn't matter which. Both faces bore the accusation.

"Does that mean you won't be calling all Clarkes to tell them about my baby?"

"Hugh," said Eaton.

"What about the country club?" Hugh asked. "Think she'll be welcomed there? Will you take her from table to table on Grill Night to show her off to your friends, like you do with Robert's kids?"

"If I were you," Eaton advised, "I wouldn't worry about the country club. I'd worry about the town where you live, and the schools she'll attend, and her future."

Hugh held up a hand. "Hey, you're talking to someone whose law partners are Cuban and Jewish, whose clients are largely minorities, and whose neighbor is African American."

"Like your child," Eaton said.

Hugh took a tempering breath, to no avail. "I don't see any black skin in this nursery. I see brown, white, yellow, and everything in between. So my baby's skin is tawny. She also happens to be beautiful. Until you can say that to me-until you can say it to Dana-please-" He didn't finish, simply stared at them for a minute before wheeling the crib down the hall.

"Please what?" Eaton called, catching up in a pair of strides. He had Hugh's long legs. Or, more correctly, Hugh had Eaton's.

Please go home. Please keep your ugly thoughts to yourselves and leave me and my wife and our child alone.

Hugh said none of those things. But his parents heard. By the time he reached Dana's door, he and the baby were alone.

Chapter 3.

One look at Hugh's face and Dana knew what had happened. Hadn't her excitement been shadowed by worry? Hugh's parents were good people. They gave generously to their favorite charities, not the least of which was the church, and they paid their fair share of taxes. But they liked their life as it was. Change of any kind was a threat. Dana had had to bite her tongue over the uproar wreaked when the senior Clarkes' South Sh.o.r.e town voted to allow in a fast-food franchise, over the objections of Eaton, Dorothy, and other high-enders who wouldn't eat a Big Mac if their lives depended on it.

Dana loved Big Macs. She had long ago accepted that her in-laws didn't.

No. She didn't care what Hugh's parents thought. But she did care what Hugh thought. Much as he was his own man, his parents could ruin his mood.

That had clearly happened. He was distracted, seeming angry at a time when he should have been laughing, hugging her, telling her he loved her, like he had done at the instant of the baby's birth.

Dana needed that. But if her mind registered dismay, she was too emotionally numb to feel it. He had the baby with him, and Dana wanted to hold her. She felt an instinctive need to protect her, even from her own father, if need be.

She started to sit up, but Hugh gestured her back. His hands appeared absurdly large under the baby. She cradled the infant, savoring her warmth. Other than remnants of ointment in her eyes, her face was clean and smooth. Dana was enthralled.

"Look at her cheeks," she whispered. "And her mouth. Everything is so small. So delicate." Even the color. Light brown? Fawn?

Carefully fishing out a little hand, she watched the baby's fingers explore the air before curling around one of hers. "Did your parents hold her?"

"Not this time."

"They're upset."

"You could say."

Dana shot him a glance. His eyes stayed on the baby.

"Where are they now?" she asked.

"Gone home, I a.s.sume."

"They're blaming me, aren't they?"

"That's a lousy word, Dee."

"But it fits. I know your parents. Our baby has dark skin, and they know it isn't from your family, so it's from mine."

He raised his eyes. "Is it?"

"It could be," Dana said easily. She had grown up on questions without answers. "I have one picture of my father. You've seen it. He's as white-skinned as you. But do any of us really know what happened two or three generations ago?"

"I do."

Yes, Dana acknowledged silently. Clarkes did know these things. Unfortunately, Josephs did not. "So your parents blame me. They expected one thing and got another. They're not happy with our daughter, and they blame me for it. Do you?"

"'Blame' is the wrong word. It implies something bad."

Dana looked down at the baby, who was looking right back at her. She was peaceful and content. Elizabeth Ames Clarke had something special, and if that came from genes they hadn't expected, so be it. There was nothing bad about her. She was absolutely perfect.

"This is our baby," Dana pleaded softly. "Is skin color any different from eye color or intelligence or temperament?"

"In this country, in this world, yes."

"I won't accept that."

"Then you're being naive." He let out a breath. Looking exhausted, he pushed a hand through his hair, but the few short spikes that habitually shadowed his brow fell right back down. When his eyes met hers, they were bleak. "My clients come from every minority group, and, consistently, the African Americans say it's tougher. It's gotten better-and it'll continue to get better, but it isn't going away completely-at least, not in our lifetime."

Dana let it go. Hugh was one of the most accepting people she knew. His would be a statement of fact, not bias.

So maybe she was being naive. This baby was already familiar, though Dana would have been hard-pressed to single out any one feature that was Hugh's or her own.

She was mulling that when the door opened, and Dana's grandmother peered in. Seeing her face, Dana forgot everything but the exhilaration of the moment. "Come see her, Gram!" she cried. Her eyes filled with tears as the one woman she trusted more than any other came to her side.

Handsome at seventy-four, Ellie Jo had thick gray hair, secured at the top of her head with a pair of bamboo needles, soft skin, and a spine still strong enough to hold her tall. She looked as if she had lived a stress-free life, but her appearance was deceptive. She had become a master at survival, largely by crafting for herself-and for Dana-a meaningful, productive, reverent life.

She was all smiles as she approached. Her hand shook against the pale pink blanket. She caught in a breath and exhaled with awe. "Oh my, Dana Jo. She is just the most precious thing I've ever seen."

Dana burst into tears. She wrapped an arm around her grandmother's neck and held on, sobbing for reasons she didn't understand. Ellie Jo held Dana with one arm and the baby with the other until the tears slowed.

Sniffling, Dana took a tissue. "I don't know what's wrong."

"Hormones," Ellie Jo stated, wiping under Dana's eyes with a knowing thumb. "How do you feel?"

"Sore."

"Ice, Hugh," Ellie Jo ordered. "Dana needs to sit on something cold. See what you can get?"

Dana watched Hugh leave. The door had barely shut when her eyes flew to her grandmother's. "What do you think?"

"Your daughter is exquisite."

"What do you think of her color?"

Ellie Jo didn't try to deny what they could both so clearly see. "I think her color is part of her beauty, but if you're asking where it came from, I can't tell you. When your mother was pregnant with you, she used to joke that she had no idea what would come out."

"Was there a question on your side of the family?"

"Question?"

"Unknown roots, like an adoption?"

"No. I knew where I was from. Same with my Earl. But your mother knew so little about your father." As she spoke, she peeked under the edge of the tiny pink cap and whispered a delighted "Look at those curls."

"My father didn't have curls," Dana said. "He didn't look African American."

"Neither did Adam Clayton Powell," her grandmother replied. "Many black groups shunned him because he looked so white."

"And did whites accept him as an equal?"

"In most instances."

But not all, Dana concluded. "Hugh's upset."

"Hugh? Or his parents?"

"His parents, but it spread to him." Dana's eyes filled with tears again. "I want him to be excited. This is our baby."