Read Online Odd Socks by Ilsa Evans - Free Book Online Page B

all looking at me expectantly. ‘You’re right. She’s lovely.’
    â€˜Oh, I knew it!’ Bronte hugs herself with glee. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist her! She’s just too . . . too special , isn’t she?’
    â€˜She certainly is,’ I say slowly, looking back at her tiny face. ‘Really special.’
    â€˜Damn straight,’ agrees Nick with obvious pride.
    â€˜So what are you going to call her?’ Mum asks Bronte and Nick eagerly while I concentrate on stroking the baby’s tiny fingers. ‘Have you thought of any names?’
    â€˜Yeah, as a matter of fact we have.’ Nick grins at Bronte. ‘Haven’t we, Bron?’
    â€˜Yes. We’re going to call her –’
    â€˜Sherry,’ finishes Nick. ‘We’re going to call her Sherry.’
    â€˜But that’s my name!’ Mum looks at them both with amazement. ‘What a coincidence!’
    â€˜It’s no coincidence, Gran,’ laughs Bronte. ‘We’re calling her after you, duffer.’
    â€˜Oh. Oh, I don’t know what to say.’ Mum shakes her head and stares at her grand-daughter open-mouthed. ‘I’m really touched. I really am.’
    â€˜Hello, Sherry.’ I put one of my fingers in her tiny palm and she curls an impossibly minuscule set of digits around it. I’m a bit taken aback at their choice of name. What a lovely gesture for my mother. Besides, as if I wasn’t already totally infatuated, her parents have sealed the deal by naming her after an alcoholic beverage. It might not be my absolute favourite, but then ‘Champagne’ doesn’t quite make it as a first name.
    â€˜I just can’t believe it,’ Mum mutters, and then gets up off the bed quickly. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute.’
    â€˜I think she’s really pleased,’ says Nick as he watches my mother clumsily open the bathroom door. ‘In fact, I think she’s crying.’
    â€˜What about you, Mum?’ asks Bronte. ‘Do you like it?’
    â€˜Yes – nice name, nice gesture,’ I answer without taking my eyes off Sherry. ‘Well done, both of you.’
    â€˜Her full name is going to be Sherry Rose Woodmason,’ says Bronte. ‘The ‘Sherry’ for my Gran, and the ‘Rose’ for Nick’s.’
    â€˜Lovely,’ I reply supportively. Although, despite the name’s obvious liquid attractions, I do have a few reservations about the whole ‘Sherry’ thing. Because there’s a pretty good chance the child will be tall, blonde and blue-eyed like her parents, and there’s an equally good chance that she, like her mother and myself, will also be big-breasted. And the thing is that the world is not particularly kind to big-breasted, blue-eyed blondes named Sherry – or, at least, kind in the way I’d prefer.
    â€˜Hello? Anyone home?’
    â€˜Nick! Bronte! Congratulations!’
    â€˜Hand her over! I want to hold my first grandchild!’
    I automatically tighten my grip on the baby while I look towards the doorway of the room. David, Diane and their brood are crowding in bearing huge smiles, a variety of gifts, and the obligatory pink balloons. David and his other three sons, Evan, Christopher and Michael, are all built in the exact same mould as Nick. All tall, blonde and Nordic-looking. Diane, on the other hand, looks a lot like my best friend, her sister Camilla. They are both fairly short, around five foot three or so, with light-brown hair, green eyes and a neat figure. Theyare also both very good value to have around, and have gone a long way towards convincing me that height and IQ don’t have to be mutually inclusive.
    â€˜Terry! I hear you turned midwife last night.’ Diane smiles at me with admiration. ‘Rather you than me, I have to say!’
    â€˜She’d do anything to be the first to see