Shooting the glass one last desperate look, Whit turned away from it. "No, Phillip, water," she said, then marched into the kitchen to get it herself.
One of this things she had gone to see the doctor about was the nausea that had seemed to come and go, the timing of it not something that she had even considered as anything other than some strange illness. It was a typical symptom, the doctor had assured, and didn't keep to a specific timetable and often didn't conform to the stereotype, which had been far less reassuring.
When the nausea was there, it was typically in the evenings, responsible for putting her off a number of wonderful meals that she normally loved. And she loved Camille's. He knew she did and because he was so damned good at remembering the things she liked, she was nearly certain she caught the scent of one of her favorite entrees.
The reason she was only nearly certain was that she was forced to retreat from the kitchen back to where the air wasn't provoking her gag reflex. With a hand that trembled just slightly, she dropped into a chair and put her head between her knees until the twisting in her stomach passed.