Magnolia Wednesdays (19 page)

Vivien freed up a finger and put it to Evangeline’s lips and shook her head slightly. She would announce her pregnancy when she absolutely had to and that was definitely not today. Not here in the middle of a Gray family Thanksgiving, with everyone primed and ready to pounce. She spotted Caroline coming down the hall from the kitchen and locked gazes with Evangeline to make sure she’d made herself clear. “We didn’t bring any buns or rolls,” she said pointedly. “Maybe next time. Not today.”

Melanie leaned in for Evangeline’s kiss and Vivien shot Evangeline one last warning look; there was no such thing as overkill with Evangeline. Skipping her usual verbal duel, the housekeeper retreated to the kitchen as they greeted Caroline, who wore pencil-straight black pants and a body-hugging cream cashmere sweater. Caroline was a tough act to follow under the best of circumstances; today she made Vivien feel like King Kong lumbering along after Fay Wray.

The kitchen was a hotbed of activity with Cook directing two helpers who’d been brought in for the day as well as Yolanda and Ben, who would plate up and stage the meal and then help Evangeline serve.

In the study, Vivien greeted Ham and Judy, who were already slurping up martinis. Melanie took one from their father and sank down into the overstuffed sofa beside Judy. Vivien, who was completely dreading the Just Peachy conversation and the long meal to come, hesitated beside the drinks cart, eyeing the pitcher of martinis like a diabetic trapped in a candy store. She knew it was off-limits, but could one tiny drink actually do damage?

She was contemplating this question when her father put a drink in her hand. Before she could blink, Evangeline, who’d just arrived with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, removed it.

“Evangeline,” Caroline said, “why don’t you pass those hors d’ oeuvres and . . .”

Evangeline ignored Caroline completely. While this was not unusual, the speed with which she dropped the hors d’oeuvres in Caroline’s lap then poured and shoved a Coke into Vivien’s hand and a glass bowl of nuts in the other, was.

In the silence that descended, Vivien carried Evangeline’s offerings to the sofa and lowered herself into it.

“Evangeline . . .” Caroline began, but Evangeline had already tsked at Vivien and flounced out of the room.

“Now then,” Caroline said as the study door closed behind the housekeeper. “What’s all this business in Just Peachy?”

Vivien wished desperately for a shot of rum to go in her Coke, but knew that Evangeline would never allow that to happen.

“I heard from people I haven’t spoken to in years,” her father said. “Were you fired from CIN? I thought you said you resigned.”

“Everyone at the club asked me about it. I left bridge early yesterday; no one could talk of anything else.” Caroline was not a happy camper. “I thought that Glazer boy was a friend of yours, Vivi. Weren’t you in school together?” She downed her martini in one long gulp, then signaled her husband for another.

Resentment and a weary sort of resignation warred within Vivien. She’d told her mother all about Matt Glazer and her attempts to rebuff his attentions in college and after, but Caroline clearly didn’t remember a word of it. And there would be no point in reminding her now.

“Matt Glazer is no friend of mine,” Vivien said, wishing now for anesthesia in any form.

Did they give out early epidurals? “He writes a gossip column, for God’s sake, and thinks he’s a journalist. I ran into him the other day and I could hardly believe the personal questions he asked. He was way too nosy.”

“Too nosy?” Hamilton laughed. “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

Vivien saw Judy hide a smile behind her hand.

“Well, there’s no benefit to pissing him off,” her father pointed out. “The next time you see him, you should at least be polite. Politics is more perception than reality these days. And we have to keep Hamilton’s political career in mind.”

“Maybe we should invite him over some Sunday, cultivate him a bit,” her mother mused. “He may be printing gossip, but people read him. And Hamilton
is
looking seriously at a run for governor.”

“You’re joking,” Vivien said. “He attacked me, questioned my word in print. And you want to curry favor with him? What happened to blood being thicker than water?” Vivien knew she shouldn’t be surprised at what she could only see as their betrayal, but it hurt nonetheless.

“And what happened to your understanding of the political process?” her father asked. “Bad enough with all those investigative pieces and the way you destroyed poor Harley. Now you’re alienating a member of the press.”

“That piece on Harley Jenkins was fifteen years ago,” Vivien pointed out. “And Matthew Glazer is not a serious member of the press. He writes a thing called Just Peachy, for cripes sake.”

Judy and Ham were following the conversation as if it were a tennis match. Melanie just looked uncomfortable. She seemed to have a much greater talent for becoming smaller than Vivi did.

Caroline turned to her husband as if Vivien hadn’t spoken. “What do you think, Warren? Maybe a Sunday afternoon barbecue this spring? Or we could invite him for cocktails at the club one evening if we need to move sooner.”

Vivien downed her Coke, chased it with a fistful of nuts, and shot an imploring look at Melanie.

“We could include him in the party we’re holding for Ham’s largest political donors,” Judy offered. Hamilton nodded sagely, clearly practicing his gubernatorial look.

“Good grief!” Vivien exclaimed. “I’m pretty sure gossip columnists don’t offer or print political endorsements.”

All eyes were back on Vivi.

“There’s no reason why they couldn’t, is there?” her mother mused. “Is there some journalistic requirement that they remain neutral?”

“You mean other than the fact that no one with an ounce of intelligence would take them seriously?” Vivien asked, though she could see her sarcasm was lost on them. They were actually considering currying Just Peachy’s favor for political purposes.

“Why don’t you just try to win over Jonny Quest and George of the Jungle,” Vivien snapped. “The Cartoon Network is right here in Atlanta. And I’m sure voters would really appreciate their political insights.”

There was a silence during which all eyes hovered on Vivien, who filled her mouth with yet another handful of mixed nuts in order to stop herself from saying anything else.

“Did, um I mention that Cole Wesley’s future daughter-in-law is in the, um, Wednesday-night belly-dance class at the Magnolia Ballroom?” Melanie said tentatively into the quiet.

As distractions went, this one worked pretty well. Everyone’s eyes left Vivien to refocus on Melanie. “They’re getting married in April.”

“I always loved watching Cole Wesley play,” their father remarked. “Didn’t the son make it into the minors?”

“Yes.” Ham, too, was a huge baseball fan. “He made it to Double A, but he just never had the consistency to go farther. I think he’s with the sports marketing firm that manages Turner Field. Boy, I would have given an arm and a leg to meet Cole Wesley when I was a kid. I still would.”

The kids arrived in the study, shooed there by Evangeline. “Cole Wesley?” Ham Jr. asked. “Do you know him, Aunt Mellie?”

“No,” Melanie said. “Just his future daughter-in-law.”

“Well, if you ever get to meet him, shake his hand for me,” Ham Jr. said. “And I wouldn’t turn down an autograph, either.”

Trip didn’t say anything, but Vivien saw a look of interest light up his face.

“Are you a Wesley fan, too?” Vivien asked her nephew.

He nodded; his smile was genuine. “Oh, yeah. He’s about my favorite pitcher of all time.” It was the most animated Vivien had seen him since she’d arrived in Atlanta.

Vivien reached for more nuts, thinking that maybe she could finagle an introduction for Trip. Maybe she could ask Angela Richman to help make it happen. While her hand was still in the bowl, Evangeline removed it. “Drop ’em,” the housekeeper said. “You and you-know-who have had enough.”

Vivien dropped the nuts as instructed. “Evangeline,” she said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one had overheard. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“I understand that you’re eating for two. But I’m not going to stand by and let you feed that little one junk. Or alcohol. Or anything else that might be bad for it.”

Unfortunately, Evangeline was as good as her word.

Yolanda and Ben did the serving and taking away. For everyone that is, but Vivien. Evangeline was her personal server for the holiday meal. While everyone over twenty-one had a different wine with each course, Evangeline filled Vivi’s goblet with apple juice, which might have looked like Chardonnay but definitely didn’t taste like it. And while the entire family was served countless helpings of all their holiday favorites, Vivien had approximately four ounces of turkey, a plateful of green beans and carrots, and a serving of Melanie’s sweet potato casserole that was so small it might have actually dropped onto Vivien’s plate by accident rather than design.

“Sweet potato is a vegetable,” she hissed in Evangeline’s ear when the housekeeper refused to give her more.

“Not when it’s covered with all that butter and brown sugar, it’s not,” Evangeline replied. “You want some more of those green beans? Or how about some of that tofu dressing the twins made?”

As the meal drew to a close Melanie unbuttoned her pants so that she could breathe. Shelby’s eyes appeared glazed, as if she were in some sort of food stupor. Trip was working on his third plate of dessert. When the last plate had been cleared and the rest of her family was clutching their stomachs and groaning how full they were, Vivien’s stomach felt cruelly empty. Except, of course, for its tiny occupant. Whom Evangeline, Vivi’s own personal food policeman, had sworn to honor and protect.

19

F
EELING MORE THAN a little ridiculous, Vivien pulled the floppy hat brim down low over her forehead and slipped on a pair of dark glasses. Fortunately, on this first Wednesday morning in December it was chilly enough to justify the lined trench coat she’d buttoned all the way up to her chin. Even though she was running late for her ob-gyn appointment, she paused outside the entrance of the medical building to study the lobby just in case Matt Glazer had staked out the place.

When she was fairly certain the coast was clear, she scurried across the open space toward the elevators with her chin buried in her chest, her eyes on the marble floor. In Dr. Gilbert’s waiting room she kept her gaze cast downward as she walked to the sign-in counter. Though she knew it was overkill, Vivi decided to use an alias just in case Glazer had identified the office and had someone on the “inside.” Realizing she should have thought about this before she’d reached the desk, she scribbled the first name that popped into her head, then without removing her “disguise,” she made her way to one of the few open seats.

It was hard to see through the dark glasses, but not hard to tell that the other women were stealing glances at her. The woman beside her got up under the pretext of looking for a magazine on another end table and didn’t come back.

Vivien removed the sunglasses, but kept her hat and coat on. After a few minutes passed and she didn’t pull out a gun or make any sudden moves, the women around her went back to their magazines and their conversations. Opposite her a woman picked up a copy of the
Weekly Encounter
. The woman beside her said, “Did you read this week’s Postcards from Suburbia?” and Vivien tensed in her seat. “Of course, I did. Can you believe the nerve of that Scarlett Leigh?”

“Everyone at book club last night was incensed. ‘Here parents don’t have lives of their own. They’re much too busy revolving around their sons and daughters,’ ” she paraphrased in a snide tone that made Vivi sink lower in her chair. “With that name and the things she’s saying, she must be somewhere in the southeast.”

“She better not wander into my suburb, she’ll have tire tracks from a Chevy Suburban on her back,” the other woman said. “I’ve never read anything so insulting in my life.”

Vivien thanked God that she hadn’t used her pseudonym on the sign-in sheet. The door to the inner sanctum opened and a nurse with a clipboard said, “Venus Williams? Miss Williams?”

There was a stunned silence as the rest of the patients stopped whatever they’d been doing to scan the room for the six-foot tennis player. Vivi winced as she slipped her sunglasses back on and stood. She could feel every eye in the place on her as she crossed the room. Clearly, she was going to have to do a little better in the alias department if she wanted to remain incognito.

“Have you felt the baby move yet?” Dr. Gilbert’s hands were warm and gentle on the taut skin of Vivien’s stomach.

She nodded her head as he probed gently; she still started with surprise every time she felt what had to be a kick or a jab.

“Here’s the top of your uterus,” he said kneading a spot just above her belly button. “The baby’s about one and a half pounds now. He’s definitely outgrown the fruit references, though your stomach will hit that watermelon stage along the way.”

Vivien smiled at his teasing tone.

“Any swelling?” he asked as he pulled the band of her underpants back into place and pulled the gown closed in front.

She shook her head again, figuring the swelling of her stomach went without saying.

“All your vitals look good,” he said as he helped her sit up. “How are you feeling?”

“You mean other than the constipation, heartburn, and gas? And the fact that I can’t seem to keep a thought in my head for more than five minutes at a time?”

“That’s standard operating procedure,” he said. “Most of your brain cells will come back after you give birth. Or at least once the baby starts sleeping through the night.”

“And how long is that likely to take?” she asked.

“It depends. Every situation, like every baby, is different. But I’d say somewhere between a couple of months and a couple of years.”

Vivien blinked. “Years?”

He shrugged. “It’s not the norm, but it happens.”

“This is one of those small details that I think women should be made aware of
before
they get pregnant.”

“If there was full disclosure, I’d be out of business.” Dr. Gilbert smiled at her, but he didn’t sound too worried. He paused a moment, then nodded toward the chair where her clothes lay folded. “My assistant mentioned that you were, um, hiding behind a trench coat and dark glasses when you arrived. And that you signed in as Venus Williams.” He cleared his throat. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Vivien blushed. She’d felt like an imbecile sneaking into the office in her “disguise” and, of course, the alias she’d chosen had been ill-advised. But the last thing she needed was for Matt Glazer to figure out which doctor she’d been visiting and why.

“No, I, um. . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment but couldn’t come up with a lie that was remotely convincing. “I haven’t told anyone about my pregnancy yet, and I just didn’t want word to get out until I was ready.”

He nodded. “Well, of course that’s your business. But I’m not sure how much longer you’re going to be able to keep it a secret,” he said. “You’re carrying small, but your shape is definitely changing. And you’re going to get a lot bigger before it’s all over.”

He smiled and signed off on the paperwork he held in his hands. “I will promise you that my people know better than to give out information about our patients. You can be assured of that.”

After the doctor had left, Vivien put on her trench coat and dark glasses and pulled the hat low on her head. Although it was hard to see with her shades on, Vivien managed to pay for the visit and schedule her next checkup as well as an ultrasound at the checkout desk. Then she walked quickly through the waiting room, which was still packed with bellies of all sizes, with her head down and her face averted.

Once again, she felt slightly ridiculous but while she had no doubt that Dr. Gilbert believed in his staff’s discretion, she also knew Matt Glazer. His first piece about her had stirred up all kinds of attention. He was unlikely to drop something that had struck that loud a chord.

As it turned out, Dr. Gilbert was right about the difficulty of keeping her pregnancy a secret. That very afternoon Vivien was dressing, or rather trying to figure out what on earth she could squeeze into that would see her through decorating the ballroom as well as tonight’s class, when Melanie rapped lightly on her bedroom door and entered, catching Vivi studying herself unhappily in the dresser mirror.

“Looks like I unearthed these just in time.” Melanie held up a short stack of clothing, which she placed on the bed.

“I hope they’re extra larges,” Vivien said as Melanie came to stand beside her, both of them now studying Vivien’s reflection in the mirror. The gap in the black pants had stretched well beyond safety pin range and the camisole was so tight that it made her already sensitive breasts hurt. And there was, of course, the fact that she couldn’t actually breathe.

“Oh, they are,” Melanie smiled as she plopped down on the foot of the bed. “What are you now, around the end of your fifth month?”

Vivien stared at her sister’s smiling reflection in the mirror while she tried to think what to say. A denial sprang to her lips.

“Don’t bother denying it, Vivi,” Melanie said. “I’ve been pregnant three times and given birth twice. Your stomach hasn’t popped all the way, but the signs are pretty hard to miss.”

Vivien dropped down onto the bed beside her sister. “How long have you known?”

Melanie shrugged. “A while. Honestly, if I hadn’t been so blown away by your coming to stay and my life in general, I probably would have known the first time I watched you eat.” She laughed. “The boobs are a dead giveaway. And so is the stomach, kiddo.”

“And here I thought I had everyone but Evangeline fooled.”

“I saw her torturing you on Thanksgiving.” Melanie laughed again. “I thought you were going to choke on all those vegetables.”

“Worst Thanksgiving ever,” Vivien acknowledged. “I didn’t even get a piece of pumpkin pie.”

“I carried a lot bigger than you when I was pregnant,” Melanie said. “I just sort of . . . inflated. I used to envy those women who stayed the same except for a little pouch of a stomach.” She smoothed a hand over the stack of clothes. “I kind of liked having boobs, though. I really hated to give those up.”

Vivien sighed. “Are you kidding? I feel like they’re alive; they’ve taken over everything.”

“Just wait until you start nursing and you feel them fill up with milk.” Melanie’s sigh was a happy one. “I loved nursing Shelby and Trip. I felt so . . . necessary. In those early months you are absolutely all they need.”

“I don’t know,” Vivien said. “I never pictured myself as a milk dispenser, though I am feeling pretty cowlike.” She paused. “Or as a mother, really.”

“How does Stone feel about it? It must be so hard for him to be away.”

Vivien took the top piece of clothing from the stack Melanie had brought. It was a pair of khaki pants with an elastic waist and stretch fabric at the stomach.

“Is he upset? Unhappy about you being pregnant?”

Vivien refolded the pants and reached for the next item. It was a black knit top with three-quarter sleeves and a generous pleat down the front. There were black knit pants to match.

“Because it takes two people to make a baby, you know. It’s not like you got pregnant all by yourself. Why he should . . .”

Vivien kept her gaze on the clothes, trying not to think about Stone and really not wanting to talk about him. There was a pair of jeans and a white long-sleeved oxford shirt that looked tailored but had generous panels on the sides. The last items didn’t seem to belong with the others. The first was a low-cut fuchsia halter top in a thin stretchy material meant to tie around the neck and across the back. With it was a matching palazzo style pant designed to ride low on the hips, exposing the midriff. Vivien wasn’t sure if it was designed for the bedroom or a nightclub, but it looked vaguely familiar. “Where did this come from?”

“It was a gift,” Melanie said. “Someone sent it to me when I was pregnant with Shelby.”

“This?” Vivien held the pieces up. Even at eight weeks the outfit would have looked ludicrous. She didn’t even want to think about how it would make her look now. “What moron sent this outfit to a pregnant woman?

Melanie raised an eyebrow. There was a strange expression on her face. “You did.”

Vivien blinked in shock. If ever there was a symbol of just how far apart she and Melanie had grown, how little she’d understood or cared about the life her sister was living, this outfit was it. Vivien could hardly believe that she’d acknowledged her little sister’s pregnancy and impending motherhood with an outfit better suited for an exotic dancer than a mother-to-be.

“Oh, my God,” Vivien whispered. “I was such an idiot.” Her sister had called her all excited about her pregnancy and Vivien had sent her lingerie. Had she imagined it would be stretchy and comfortable? Or had she thought that maybe Melanie would like something sexy for after the delivery? “What was I thinking?”

But of course that was the point. The occasion had required a gift and she had sent one. She hadn’t really been thinking about Melanie at all.

“Oh, Mel. I am so sorry. I was so out of tune with you. I didn’t understand . . . anything. And I didn’t try to.”

Melanie took the pink strips of fabric from Vivien and laid them out on the bed. “I put it on once for J.J. when I was about nine months pregnant.” Her lips quirked upward. “He told me all I needed was a pole and a stage.” A giggle escaped as she looked at Vivien and then back at the outfit. “We laughed for a good thirty minutes.” Another giggle. “And believe me, when you’re that far along, there aren’t all that many things that feel even remotely funny.”

Melanie slipped the halter over Vivien’s head and over the straining blouse. “I’m so glad I saved it for you,” Melanie said as she tied the ends behind Vivien’s back. Another giggle escaped. “It’s perfect!”

They erupted into laughter then, side-splitting, stomach-jiggling, can’t-get-your-breath laughter. They laughed so hard that tears started to form.

They stopped trying to talk and just gave in to the laughter. Vivi felt it deep down in her fingers and toes. It suffused her body; she even imagined it twining its way down into the strands of her DNA. She had no doubt that her cantaloupe-sized little one could feel it, too.

They rolled on the bed in their mirth, laughing and giggling. Every time one of them began to get herself under control the other would snicker and they’d be helpless again.

“Oh, my God,” Melanie finally got out. “I can’t think of the last time I laughed this hard.” She lay limp on the bed.

“My life hasn’t felt all that funny lately, either,” Vivien said. “Embarrassing and humiliating, yes. Funny? No.” She, too, lay on her back, staring up at the guest room ceiling.

Without moving, Melanie reached over and grasped the tissue box from the nightstand. She pulled one out and handed it to Vivien then took another for herself. They both dabbed at their eyes and cheeks. Vivien hiccupped sporadically. Other than that neither of them moved.