Sweet Expectations (20 page)

“And dream weird dreams. Yeah.”

“Weird dreams?”

“About Jenna. Guess the old subconscious is working overtime.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “I remember Rachel having weird dreams when she was pregnant.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She could never pin 'em, but they bothered her. Drove Mike nuts.”

I rose up on my elbows. “I never heard that.”

“Six years ago you were living in D.C. You'd started at that financial company and were busy.”

“Yeah.” That had been a hectic and exciting time. I'd been dazzled by the offer to be a vice president and thrilled by the salary. The work had been all consuming but I'd been happy with the full, hectic days.

However, as I looked back, I couldn't figure why I worried and fussed over my new job so much. Company deadlines and corporate meetings had seemed so important.

The times I'd seen Rachel pregnant she'd been radiant but she'd also reminded me of Terry and what she'd looked like when she was pregnant with me. I didn't picture Terry glowing. I imagined her afraid and angry. So, I used deadlines and meetings to avoid Rachel's rounding belly.

Sorry now that I'd missed Rachel's pregnancy, it would have been nice to rub her belly and buy her ice cream and pickles instead of ordering baby items online and having them shipped to her with a computer-generated card.

I was back in the thick of the family and I was . . . glad.

The kid needed to grow up around her cousins and her aunts and grandparents. I wanted her to live in this building and feel the sense of peace I could never manage. And maybe if I were lucky she could show me how to live here without always feeling like I had baggage to lug around.

“I'm not making the same mistake you did,” Margaret said.

“What?”

Margaret rested her hand on my shoulder. “I'm going be here when you are pregnant.”

Warmth spread through me, and tears, which were appearing with an annoying frequency, formed. “Margaret, it would break my heart to see you give up the job. Really. Feel free to come home on the weekends, but I don't want you to leave a job you love.”

She shook her head. “It's going to be insane here this fall.”

“I hope we are busy. We need to make money and grow, which I believe we will do. I'm good at growing business, Margaret. This is my wheelhouse. If I need more people I'll hire them. So dig up your bones and let me run with the bakery.”

Margaret shook her head. “When the archeology site closes in December, I'll be back to the bakery to get us through the holiday rush.”

Us. Sounded good. “Won't you be cataloguing artifacts during the winter?”

“My grant doesn't pay me that far. And my sublease will be finished by then.”

“I will accept you back on one condition.”

Margaret folded her arms. “What are your terms, boss?”

“That if they extend your contract you go back. Don't give up your dream. I know this job is everything.”

“It's not everything to me.”

“Please. I bet you are at the job site an hour before everyone else each morning.”

“A half hour.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

“Then promise me you will talk to me before you toss it away to sell cookies.”

She crossed her finger over her heart. “I promise.”

I lay back. “I'm going to hold you to that.”

“Go to sleep before you pass out.” She shut off the light.

“Where are you going?”

“To Rachel's to see if I can score wine. I can't be nice for long stretches unless I'm buzzed.”

I chuckled. “Right.”

The door closed behind her and instantly, my eyes closed.

Seconds or maybe hours might have passed. I didn't know, but the dream did come. Again it was Jenna, and she was looking at me as if I'd disappointed her. She cradled her full belly with her hands and shook her head.

“You need to find them.”

“Them. I thought it was him.”

“Find my son and his father. Time is running out and they need each other.”

Chapter Sixteen

Saturday, 8:00
A.M.

7 days until grand reopening

Income Lost: $2,000

W
hen I woke the next morning, I braced as I sat up waiting to feel the wave of nausea. Holding my breath, I pressed my hand to my stomach, trying to gauge whether I should run to the bathroom or not.

My stomach was calm. I drew in a deep breath and waited. Nothing. Still calm. You'd think I'd be thrilled at the passing of the sickness, but immediately I worried. What if baby was in trouble? My hands slid to my belly, still round and hard, and I waited for the kid to kick. I needed feedback from her and again she was being coy.

“Come on,” I whispered. “A kick or a tap would be greatly appreciated.”

Nothing.

“Damn.”

“Why are you cussing?” Margaret's groggy voice rolled out from under the blue sheet on her bed.

“I'm not sick,” I whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because what if not being sick is a bad sign?”

Margaret peeked her head out from under the sheet. A riot of red curls framed a face lined from a pillow's crease. “Are you cramping or bleeding?”

I glanced under the sheet. “No. All clear.”

She sat up and yawned. “Is the baby moving?”

“No, but she goes dark for long stretches. She's a mind of her own.”

She reached for her thick dark glasses on the nightstand and looked at me with now-magnified green eyes. “Imagine that.”

“This could be serious.”

“Drink a soda or eat a cookie. The sugar will juice her little ass into action.”

“Really?”

“I've known my share of pregnant women.” She rose, her bare feet curling as they hit the bare wood floor. “Are there any cookies in this place right now?”

“I've cookie dough in the freezer.”

“Better be cooked. Salmonella.”

“Right. There's a ginger ale in the back of my refrigerator.”

“There was. I cut it with bourbon last night.”

“You took my baby's ginger ale and mixed it with booze?”

“Hey, I remember you taking a bottle of Rachel's breast milk and putting it in your coffee.”

I shrugged. “It had been a late night.”

“Exactly.”

“Fine.” I rose. “I need to hook up with some sugar so I can make the kid move.”

Margaret sat up. “When did you become such a girl, Daisy?”

“I'm not sure when I crossed that dark line, but I'm there.” I grabbed shorts from the edge of the bed and pulled them on. I reached to fasten the button, but discovered I couldn't. “Crap.”

“Ah, the tall and slim Daisy has joined the ranks of the mortals.”

“I wasn't always slim.”

“You have been for at least fifteen years, and that's a lifetime in my book.”

I tried to suck in my belly, but it wouldn't budge. “I thought you weren't supposed to show for like five months.”

“And you would be about at the four-and-a-half-month mark?”

“Yeah. Five months is technically two weeks away.”

“Tell it to the kid.” Margaret laughed. “Time to get some fat-girl pants. Wonder if Rachel has any?”

“If she does, they'll be too short.” I dragged a hand through my hair. “My life is out of control. Totally out of control.”

“Chill, Diva Daisy. I'll get some clothes on and we'll hit the box store for some maternity clothes and some sugar.”

“Maternity clothes.” A groan rumbled in my throat. “You might as well be talking about space aliens or alternate universes.”

As she chuckled she dug a safety pin from her satchel and handed it to me. “This will hold the drawers up until we can get supplies.”

“I need to be back by nine. The new workers are showing and Jean Paul's movers are coming.”

“It shouldn't take long. Not like we're looking for fancy clothes.”

A half hour later I stood by the maternity sign in the Walmart. We'd stopped at Starbucks, and I'd bought a coffee and a couple of sugar cookies. The cookie had tasted so good. It seemed as if it had been years since I'd eaten food that wasn't a saltine. When the kid did not move after the first sugar cookie I ate a second. This was an emergency, after all.

Finally, as I sipped my coffee, the kid kicked. My hand slid to my belly.
Do it again,
I thought. One more time.

And miracle of miracles, she kicked.

Margaret stared at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “She moving?”

“Yes.” I took her hand and placed it on my belly. Baby Maggie kicked again.

Margaret grinned. “Well, imagine that.”

The stress seeped from my body. “Okay, now that I know the baby is fine I can think.”

“Then let's hit the maternity section.”

Minutes later, staring at the shapeless clothes, a full-blown panic attack threatened. In my regular clothes, I could fool myself into believing the kid was abstract. Yeah, she'd moved, but I was still me. But in these clothes, I wasn't myself.

Margaret handed me several pairs of black shorts with elastic waistbands and a pair of jeans with a full elastic front panel.

“The shorts will get you to mid-October, maybe early November. But the jeans will take you through the duration.”

I accepted the hangers. “Right.”

Margaret pointed toward the changing rooms. “Now you have to go into the nice dressing room and try them on.”

“Does it matter? It's all elastic.”

Margaret sipped her coffee. “Try the damn clothes on, Daisy.”

“Fine. Come back with me.”

“Are you two years old?”

“My maturity level has diminished in the last weeks. So yeah, two about sums it up.”

We chose the handicap changing room for the extra space. Margaret sat, and I handed her the garments before I unfastened my safety pin. The pants dropped to the floor, and I couldn't resist scratching my belly.

“That's sexy.”

“I gave up on sexy when the nausea hit. It's all about what feels good now.”

Margaret rifled through my choices. “They're all black.”

I accepted the first from her. “Black is my favorite color.”

“Yeah, but don't you think you should go for the lighter shades of tops or pants now that you are dressing for two?”

“I'll do whatever I have to do keep this kid safe but I will not walk around in light-colored pants that make my ass look bigger. That's asking too much.” I slid on the pants, which comfortably hugged my belly. My pants had been tightening for weeks, and I ignored it. “Nice to have pants that don't squeeze the life out of me.”

I turned sideways in the mirror, inspected the pants and my growing belly and then glanced at Margaret.

She shrugged. “Not a fashion statement, but it gets the job done.”

“I've seen women who breeze through pregnancy and look so trendy.”

“Rachel always looked cute and pulled together,” Margaret said.

“I never thought much about it, but now I wonder how she did it. She is a goddess in my book.”

Margaret studied my Union Street Bakery T-shirt draping over the pants. “Make peace with the fact you won't see fashionable for a while.”

“How can you say that?”

“You work in a bakery, which is manual labor in anybody's book. Not many knocked-up, sexy bakers in the world. Rachel was the exception.”

I studied my image in the mirror. I'd not taken the time to remove my mascara last night, which left darkened smudges below my eyes. My hair was pulled into a wild ponytail but wisps of hair had escaped to frame my face and make me look a little crazed. My boobs also spilled over the edges of my bra. “This baby is gonna tear me a new one.”

Margaret laughed. “If it's any consolation, Rachel looked pretty wretched toward the very end. Fat ankles, puffy face, and her ass was big, too.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better? I'm only at the halfway mark.”

Margaret shrugged. “Cut yourself some slack. Your plate is full. And Rachel did get back her figure months after the girls arrived.”

“Months after the delivery.” I groaned. “That means I'll look like hell for another seven or eight months.”

Her gaze softened. “This isn't forever, Daisy, and it will be worth it in the end when Baby Maggie arrives. Now try on the rest of the pants and the jeans. There's work to be done at the bakery.”

Twenty minutes later I was one hundred and fifty dollars lighter, wearing a new pair of black shorts, a maternity bra under my T-shirt, and carrying a bag filled with more pants, bras, and panties.

I was officially for-the-world-to-know pregnant.

My stomach settled, my appetite returned with a vengeance so Margaret stopped at a chain restaurant for a couple of egg bagels. The food tasted so good, and I gobbled the bagels. I toyed with going back for a third bagel but Margaret reminded me Baby Maggie was the size of my thumb and did not need the calories.

When we arrived at the bakery, Jean Paul was talking to three very burly-looking men who looked as if they'd tripped out of prison. Long hair, tattoos, stained T-shirts, faded jeans, and boots. As tempted as I was to ask where he found these guys, I didn't. I'd learned with Jean Paul that knowing all the details wasn't always the best course of action.

Margaret and I introduced ourselves, and I showed the men the equipment in the basement in need of being moved to the main floor. I couldn't imagine anyone being able to move any of the equipment, but the men didn't appear worried over the task.

“You must go upstairs,” Jean Paul said. “It's not safe for the baby.”

A couple of the men glanced at me and then to my belly. One craggy-faced guy actually beamed. I'd heard tales of men giving up seats for pregnant women, opening doors, and acting generally silly. The power of the bump.

And so Margaret and I moved back to the first floor to stand and direct the placement of the equipment. The first large standing mixer made it up the stairs in the arms of two men who barely appeared to be straining. Encouraged this might not be so bad and might actually go quickly, I made the mistake of mentally revising the schedule that had been set aside for moving.

The second mixer, a good 50 percent larger, didn't cooperate as well as its smaller cousin. I heard a couple of bangs and crashes and curse words rise up from the basement. While the first mixer had taken fifteen minutes the second took an hour of maneuvering. And when it arrived the movers were red-faced and breathless.

Jean Paul appeared and went straight to his toolbox. “I must take out the back door for the ovens,” he said. “They must be moved to the alley around the corner and through the front door.”

“But what about the front door?”

“It will also have to be removed. But do not worry. It will all be fine.”

Margaret shrugged. “It will be fine.”

“Of course.”

And so we spent the rest of the day listening to Jean Paul hammer away door frames, listening to the grunts of the workmen as they struggled to get the oversized stove out of the basement, into the back of a truck, and then through the newly dismantled front door.

All I could think about as I watched them push the monster machine through the front door was my new paint job, which Jean Paul had already chipped when he removed the frame. Progress was slow. Very slow at times. But finally the last piece of equipment was brought up to the first floor and positioned in the new main-floor bakery.

I shook my head. “Think, Margaret, no more traveling endless flights of stairs.”

“Granted it was a pain, but it kept the size of my butt in check. This place, if you haven't noticed, is full of very delicious foods.”

I placed my hand on my expanding hip. “At least I can chalk my fat rear up to the kid and not the cookies.”

“Lucky you. Here's hoping when you deliver it goes away.”

My cell rang and I glanced at the number, which I did not recognize. “Daisy McCrae.”

“This is Irene Adams, I'm Meg and Tim's mom. Meg said for me to call you.”

“Yes.” I moved away from the noise so I could hear better. “Did Meg tell you I offered them a job?”

“Yes. You're right across the street from my sister's place.”

“That's right.”

“I'm sorry I haven't called you sooner. I've been working double shifts this week.”

“That's fine. Since Meg is under eighteen I wanted to talk to you before she started work. She's the first teenager I've ever hired.”

“Meg's a real good girl.” Irene sounded tired. “I couldn't manage Tim without her.”

“And it won't be a problem with Tim.”

“He's a good boy, and he listens to Meg. Just give him specific instructions, and he'll be fine.”

“And it's okay they work here?”

“I think it's great, a blessing even. Meg could use spending money, and I don't have it to spare.”