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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: Babyland
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23
The Lion in His Den
W
hen you think about a couple, you don't usually think about the details of their intimate life together. Usually, you assume they have an intimate life, and that's really all you need to know. And unless one member of the couple decides to share an intimate detail—say, a medical problem like dysfunction—you remain blissfully ignorant of private matters that are really none of your business.
And then someone gets pregnant.
Pregnancy, as everyone knows, is proof of sex. It's proof of the intimate life your friends assume you have; it's proof of the intimate life your family would like to pretend you don't have. When someone announces her pregnancy, you're forced to imagine her having sex; even for a split second, the thought flashes into your mind. You can't help it, can you? Announcing a pregnancy is like inviting a person into your bedroom, if only for a moment.
That was why I was not looking forward to telling Jack Coltrane I was pregnant. Because telling him I was pregnant was telling him that yes, I definitely had sex with Ross Davis. My fiancé. The man Jack disdained.
Of course, I argued with myself about this. Anna, I wondered, why do you care if Jack doesn't approve of Ross? Ross doesn't approve of Jack and that doesn't bother you in the least. Well, it doesn't bother you that much.
And here's what I told myself: I care that Jack doesn't like Ross because I want all of my friends to like each other. It's the same thing with Alexandra and Michaela; I'd like them to like each other. That's all.
Maybe, I thought, Jack will hear about my pregnancy from someone else. Maybe I can go the whole nine months without ever mentioning it at all.
Like that could happen.
Finally, I determined to just spit out the news like I was spitting out news of a sale on toothpaste at CVS. Matter-of-fact. No big deal. No emotional content.
I dropped by Jack's studio late one afternoon, unannounced. Was this my first ever drop-in? I believe it was; it certainly wasn't my last.
“What are you doing here?” he asked with a scowl.
“Hello to you, too.” Anna, I thought, maybe this is a bad time. Maybe Jack is too busy.
“Look,” I blurted, “there's something I have to tell you. Actually, I don't have to tell you, I want to tell you ...”
Jack looked to the ceiling and then walked away, right across the room, to a row of shelves. I stood there with my mouth open, like a fool.
“Hello?” I said loudly, to his back. “I was talking to you. You don't just walk away when someone's in the middle of a sentence.”
Jack looked over his shoulder. “You were?” he said. “Sorry. I'm a bit involved here.”
“You're socially inept,” I declared, once again to his back.
“Uh.”
“See? You grunt instead of forming an answer with words. An adult answer. A normal person's answer.”
“Hmm.”
“It's like you were raised in a cave. Were you?”
“Was I what?” Jack, having found whatever it was he was looking for across the room, rejoined me at one of the cluttered worktables.
“Raised in a cave! And there's another thing. You don't listen.”
“Is there anything at all about me you find acceptable?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Your work. I find your work more than acceptable.”
I saw a tiny smile play at the corner of Jack's mouth. “Howie Manowitz's bar mitzvah photos?”
“No. Well, that too. I mean your work. Your own. Jack Coltrane's photographs. The few I've seen of them, anyway.”
“Jack Coltrane, artist, retired some years ago,” he said evenly. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“You didn't disappoint me,” I said inanely. I wondered how the conversation had gotten onto the subject of Jack's work and so far away from what I wanted to talk about.
Just tell him, Anna. Just say it.
“What's wrong?” Jack asked. “You look like you ate a bad clam.”
My stomach lurched. It wasn't bad clams; it was nerves. I felt as nervous as I had just before going onstage as a lineless member of the shabby crowd in my senior year's production of
Les Miserables.
“Amendment,” I said, archly. “You were raised in a cave with a big pile of bat poop for a playmate.”
“Guano. Bat poop is called guano.”
“I know what it's called. I just like to say bat poop.”
“And I'm the one with no social graces?”
“By the way,” I blurted, “have you heard my big news?”
Jack was busy now cutting a mat. “You got the job doing Beatrice Kent's reunion party?”
“Yes, but that's not the big news.” Not the really big news. “I'm pregnant. I mean, Ross and I ... We're going to have a baby.”
“Congratulations,” he said evenly. “Is that what you're supposed to say in a situation like this? You know I'm lousy when it comes to social graces.”
“Congratulations is an appropriate thing to say,” I told him. To myself I added, It's even nicer when you mean it.
Jack looked up from the mat. “Hand me those gloves, will you?”
I did. I felt like crying.
“What?” he said. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong,” I lied, eyes wide. “It's just that, I don't know, you could be, I don't know—”
“Jumping up and down with excitement? Calling the neighbors to tell them the big news?”
I shrugged. I felt like a total fool. “No. I mean—”
“Anna, your big news doesn't change anything in my life. There's a limit to what I can be excited about.” And then he laughed. “Come on, what did you expect me to say?”
I was stunned. I'd never heard anything so cruel. “Nothing,” I said. I tried to sound cold, but my voice shook. “I don't expect anything from you. Because you are the most self-centered person I have ever met. And there's no reason to be such a jerk.”
“Don't cry, Anna.”
“I am not going to cry,” I said, although tears had gathered in my eyes, “and I am not a hormonal wreck, so don't even think about cracking jokes at my expense about female mood swings and ridiculous cravings and swollen ankles.”
Jack had the decency to look slightly ashamed. “I wouldn't stoop to quoting the stereotypes,” he said. “Look—”
“I'm leaving,” I said, cutting off whatever lame apology he might be considering. “I don't know why I'm here anyway.”
I practically ran back to my office so great was my anger, and my embarrassment. Why, why, why, I wondered with every step, did Jack have to be such a jerk? Worse, why had I made such a big deal of telling him I was pregnant? What, what, what had I been thinking? Why should Jack care if I was pregnant? Why should he care about me at all?
And then a sneaking, sly, and seductive voice in my head whispered, Because you want him to.
24
Peas in the Pod
R
oss's slim, manicured fingers traced an invisible line across the tablecloth. “Can we request a creamier tone?” he said. “This is a bit too harsh for my taste.”
The Tuxedo Hotel's wedding coordinator, a dapper man in his midthirties named Walt LaFond, frowned in a practiced sort of way. “No, Mr. Davis, I'm sorry. The linen is non-negotiable.”
Ross looked to me, then back to the sample table Walt had set, and frowned.
“Well,” he said finally. “I suppose they'll do.”
“They'll be fine, Ross,” I said consolingly. “The centerpieces will look lovely against the white, I'm sure.”
Ross had helped design the lush centerpieces that included snapdragons and freesia. You see, unlike the majority of men—or so I'm told—who want nothing to do with wedding preparations, Ross assumed an active role immediately after our engagement. I thought it was sweet, and given Ross's excellent taste, I found his input very welcome. Especially now that I had a pregnancy to endure and a baby to plan for and a business to run. I hadn't even asked Ross to come with me to this tasting; he'd offered to go along all on his own.
“Shall we discuss the vegetable dishes?” Walt said.
Ross frowned. “No saucy preparations for the vegetables. There's too great a risk of spillage.”
Walt nodded seriously and looked to me as if for confirmation of Ross's dictate.
“Absolutely no saucy vegetables,” I said, imagining with horror buttery grease stains on the bodice of my gown.
Again, Walt nodded. He was very solemn for a wedding coordinator. I rather liked that about him. “Noted,” he said. “No sauces on the vegetables. Next we'll try the roasted rosemary potatoes and the grilled asparagus.”
“Actually,” I said, “I'd like to forgo the potatoes in favor of the risotto you mentioned earlier. Ross?”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” he said. “And, of course, you do understand there'll be no shellfish and nothing remotely raw.” Ross winked at me then, and I noted just how pretty his eyes were. If I didn't know better I would have sworn he'd applied glycerine drops before he left the condo.
“Of course,” I agreed. Ross was always looking out for the baby.
The waiter cleared the table and left to bring out the final course. Dessert! I'd requested that we sample several types of cakes, including, of course, a triple-layer chocolate and hazelnut cake and, for those who preferred something lighter, an apricot-filled white cake with a fondant icing. As a treat, I'd also ordered plates of tiny marzipan fruits for each table. I hoped mightily that the kitchen had procured some for the tasting.
When Walt's beeper sounded and he excused himself to take a call in his office, Ross and I shared a smile of content. “We're so in sync, Anna,” he said, taking my hand and squeezing it gently.
I looked up at my handsome, mild-mannered fiancé with fondness. “We are, aren't we?”
“Oh,” he said, releasing my hand, “I almost forgot to tell you the big news. I booked us into The Palace Hotel in Rome, very close to the Spanish Steps. It's amazing that I even got a room only six months before the honeymoon, but I talked to some people and, well, I think you're going to love it. Of course it's wonderfully high-end.”
Of course. And to be honest, wonderfully high-end sounded, well, wonderful. And I hated to put a damper on what had turned out to be a very pleasant afternoon. But someone had to do it.
“Ross?” I said softly. “I'll be so far along in the pregnancy by then. Six months along. I'm not even sure I'll be allowed to fly. Oh, Ross, I'm so sorry.”
Ross's expression remained neutral. “Anna,” he said, “don't worry about a thing. Why don't you check with your doctor and see what she says. We can always postpone the honeymoon until after the baby is born. My mother can watch the baby, or we'll look into hiring an au pair. There's plenty of time and we have plenty of options.”
“But you've gone to so much trouble planning it all,” I said, genuinely sorry for being the unwitting cause of Ross's wasted efforts. “And it all sounds so lovely!”
“It does,” he agreed. “An entire month in Italy. But it will still be lovely when we finally go. And just think. It'll be a celebration not only of our marriage but also of our family. Besides, after a few months you'll need a break from the demands of little Brockland or Boundary.”
I didn't bother to point out that if I was still breastfeeding little Brockland or Boundary—shudder!—I wouldn't be going anywhere without the baby for quite a while. I didn't want to further spoil the plans for what would have been our life. Besides, Ross was being so wonderful about the pregnancy.
“You're a very good man, Ross Davis,” I said, sending him an air kiss. Ross doesn't like lipstick anywhere near his collar.
“So I've been told. Now, come on. Smile. We still have a cake to taste. But remember, only one bite of each. We don't need the sugar.”
My smile faltered just a bit. The truth was I had been fighting off an intense craving for chocolate all morning. I was so looking forward to wolfing down several pieces of rich, gooey wedding cake. And if I were at the tasting alone or with Alexandra, I would have gone right ahead and done so.
“Right,” I said to my perhaps overly fastidious fiancé. “Just one bite.”
25
The Elephant in the Room
I
couldn't avoid Jack entirely; we were in the middle of two projects. So I was determined to act as if I'd never told him I was pregnant. As if he'd never been so horrible. As if I'd never been so wounded.
I arrived at Jack's studio out of breath. I wondered, Had I already gained so much weight that I was reduced to huffing and puffing? By the end of the pregnancy would I be getting around town in an electric scooter intended for the elderly and infirm?
“I've got the seating plan for the Gotts' party,” I told him when I'd caught my breath. “And the essential shot list. Absolutely no photos of Mrs. Gott with her in-laws. I didn't ask why, of course, but I got the feeling—”
Jack cut me off. “Those are for you,” he said, nodding toward one of the many worktables. This one was made of an old wood door atop two sawhorses, and on top of it stood a magnificent arrangement of Blue Moon roses and glossy greenery.
I darted over to the flowers. “They're gorgeous! Who are they from? That's strange. I can't find a card. I guess I can call the florist ... Wait a minute. Why would flowers for me have been delivered here?”
“They're from me.”
I whirled around, not sure I'd heard him correctly. “From you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?” I asked, none too graciously.
Jack looked back to his work.
“I think you're supposed to give flowers to pregnant women.”
“You're supposed to give flowers to all women,” I amended. Oh, how cool and flip I sounded! How tumultuous I felt inside! “That is, of course, if you're a man of culture.”
Jack shrugged. “Sorry it took me so long. But what can you expect from a cultureless man.”
“Thank you, Jack. Really.”
He didn't reply. And I didn't dare bring up the fact that Blue Moon roses are my favorite flower. Whenever they are available, which isn't often, I choose them for special events like twenty-fifth wedding anniversaries. Unless Jack was entirely deaf or entirely uninterested in anything I had to say, he had to have heard me express my love for the roses the color of blueberry ice cream.
I glanced over at Jack and wondered. My prickly colleague, my grumpy occasional friend, had given me a stunning bouquet of my favorite flowers. What did it mean? Were the flowers simply an apology for his having been such a jerk when I'd told him I was pregnant? If so, Jack's apology was a mighty sincere one, especially if money equaled sincerity, and for Jack, I doubt it did. So maybe the bouquet wasn't an apology after all.
“You're still here? What do you need?”
Jack's harsh voice broke my reverie into shards. He was staring at me with as much enthusiasm as he'd show a smelly bike messenger who was lingering unnecessarily after dropping off a package. “Yes,” I said. “I mean, I'm just going. I don't need anything.”
He nodded and turned back to his computer. I'd been dismissed.
“Thanks, again,” I said, about to wrestle the arrangement out the door. “For the flowers.”
Jack didn't reply.

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