Inconceivable! (33 page)

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Your turn,” he said, letting go and stepping away.

“My turn for what?”

“To say you’re sorry for behaving like a child.”

“I’m not sorry I called you out on being a jerk. But I’m sorry I did it in such a blunt way. Next time, I’ll use more tact. There. Are you happy?” I turned to climb back into bed.

His hands wrapped firmly around my ribs, right under my breasts. “You’re not allowed to go to bed angry.”

He turned me toward him and kissed me, leaning into me until I sat down on the bed. He unbuckled his pants and removed his shirt. An intensity that was both sensual and angry-looking colored his face.

I laughed. “Are you requiring make-up sex?”

“Yes. And you’re going to enjoy it.”

Hot damn. He was right.

After the last of the thrusting and a final, strong heave, John started to climb off me.

“Hey, stay inside!” He froze in place, though I felt him already going limp.

Keeping him inside me a couple of minutes after he climaxed was one of several “tricks” I’d discovered online for improving the odds of sperm arriving at their destination inside my uterus.

“Okay. You can get up.” I patted his arm. He kissed my cheek and headed for the bathroom. I kicked my legs into the air and supported my pelvis with my hands, using gravity to assist the little swimmers.

John came back into the bedroom and gave me a funny look. “I bet that’s uncomfortable. How long do you have to stay like that?” Embarrassment brought a flash of heat to my cheeks as my husband looked at me in what was probably the least flattering position known to humans.

I lowered my legs, peeled back the covers, and slid underneath.

“That’s it. Just a couple of minutes.”

John clicked off his bedside lamp, leaving us in darkness. As I cozied my body into his, satisfaction brought a smile to my lips. I was doing all I could to maximize our chances of getting pregnant. Surely, it would happen this cycle.

an you believe Prince Henri and Prince John married those two commoners? Honestly. They must be after their money. Don’t you think?” Adela batted her eyes at the handsome Frenchman who brought our entrées. His face was blank; he didn’t recognize us.

“I do not know.” He responded in stilted English as he set our plates on the table.

“I think that Adela girl will look hideous when her belly gets really big.” Adela puffed up her cheeks and reached her arms in front of her abdomen, fingers entwined. “Can you believe she got pregnant so soon?”

Adela, you’re killing me!
And her emerging bump was, in fact, killing me on the inside. My jealousy was an untamable beast that nickered at every reminder of Adela’s pregnancy.

“Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait.” Our garçon made a hasty retreat.

I laughed too loudly at the poor guy’s awkwardness. I needed to adjust my volume from Ozarks holler to Paris café. “I can’t believe you just said that! Do you think he knows who we are?”

“Not a chance. I’m Camilla Madiera and you’re Jill Larson. Are those the fake names we decided to use?”

“You picked them. Your name sounds like a movie star and mine sounds like a farmer’s wife.”

“You
are
a farmer’s wife. Kind of.”

“He’s an environmental scientist, thank you very much. Let’s finish in the next twenty minutes so we can head up the hill before traffic picks up.”

Sacre Cœur
was our destination. Adela was Catholic, and wanted to visit this church before giving birth. It was the pretext for what I viewed primarily as a wives-only shopping excursion to Paris. I craved a new pair of boots as much as I craved another bite of brie.

As we rode through the streets, Adela looked at something on her phone. “What does John say about the protesters?”

Protests resumed at the smelter with new vigor after John made his statement to the press condemning the scientists’ findings.

“He says they’re orderly, so that’s good. He’s hoping the town will implement a curfew so the queen doesn’t have to step in with a heavy hand.”

Strategy sessions about how to handle the protests consumed a great deal of John’s time, so I loved getting to spend the day with Adela. It was the first time we’d been together for any significant length of time.

“You know, you’re a riot. Why haven’t we done this sooner?” I offered her a piece of gum.

“We’re too busy coddling our princes. But we should plan more escapes like this.” She popped the spearmint nugget into her mouth.

I looked at my bag from
Au Printemps
sitting in the floorboard. It held black silky lingerie, exactly what I needed to fulfill Dr. Cloutier’s advice to focus on making my husband happy as the main means to getting pregnant. This little something-something promised hours of baby-making fun. Even though all my post-sex pelvis-lifting efforts hadn’t yet brought positive results, we had to stay the course. I did my best to bring an optimistic spirit to our baby-making efforts, but a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach grew more intense with each passing month. Having to watch Adela swell into new, beautiful proportions only increased the pressure for me and John to conceive.

At
Sacre Cœur
, our plain clothes guards walked ahead of us. The crowd was light, so we easily found a bench, the ideal place to sit and take in the sights of the basilica.

Adela bowed her head in prayer, and guilt sat heavy on my shoulders. I was interested in the church simply as a tourist. My heart clung to my anxiety over our inability to get pregnant, crowding out everything else, including God. I remembered all the verbiage I’d learned growing up in church about “casting my cares on the Lord,” but the words now had a tinny ring.

Instead of praying or reading the Bible, I read and meditated on the stories of other women who were trying to conceive. I especially loved reading about those who struggled for months or years, but through one method or another, finally saw those two glorious lines on their pee sticks. They were the saints, the women who had worked miracles. So, I was religious about my fertility rituals: taking my temperature every morning before getting out of bed, ensuring we had sex daily, and doing pregnancy tests as early as five days before my period was due. Instead of a rosary, I gripped that piece of lace John bought me in Ghent. Many of the delicate strands were now broken, unable to withstand so much handling.

“Care if we move on?” Adela stood.

“That’s fine. Did you want to light a candle?”

We walked over to a small table. She dropped money into a wooden box and took a white tea light. She placed it in a tall candleholder, and with one hand on her belly, she lit it. Every time her hand floated to her lower abdomen, my jealousy stirred.
Shh. I’m happy for them. I really am
…
kind of.

“Why do you guys light candles?”

“It’s a symbol of hope.”

“Then I want to light one, too.” After making my donation, I placed my candle beside Adela’s. “To hope.”

We walked around the perimeter to a small alcove toward the back where several benches sat in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. Adela picked a seat and I heard her doing Hail Mary’s under her breath in Latin. I sat close by, listening to her quiet, rhythmic recitation and staring at the statue in front of us. I almost laughed out loud at the realization I was the anti-Mary. She got pregnant without a man so much as looking at her while John and I were trying all kinds of positions during and after sex to improve our chances of conception and it still wasn’t happening. And here beside me was a woman who had gotten pregnant “by accident.”

Hey, Mary. For the record, I’m not praying to you because I’m not Catholic and I don’t believe in praying to anyone but God. And I can’t even do that right now. But, if you hear me, can you tell God I really,
really
want a baby? I’m asking you to do this for me because I think you get it. You know how important it is to be a mother. And I want to be a mom. I want it so bad it hurts.

I stopped my train of thought, unsure how to end my non-prayer conversation with the statue. Adela reached over and squeezed my hand. She stood and walked away. I got up, looking at the open hands of the stone woman and simply said, “Thanks.”

ernard, I’ll be right back,” I said, motioning toward the women’s restroom at the back of the café. My stoic guard merely nodded in acknowledgement. I was on a mission and I wanted to accomplish it before Tilda arrived for our Christmas gift exchange.