The Storm (Fairhope) (19 page)

“How long have you been out of work?”

“What do you think your manager would say about you? Could I have a reference?”

“If you won all of those awards, why didn’t they keep you?”

Their presumptive comments flushed my self-esteem down the toilet.

As I told Jessica goodbye, I mused sadly that the stars were not aligned in my favor with regards to reentering the medical device sales world. I envisioned myself living out my dream of becoming an artist, clothed in paint-streaked tights and a Southern Belle t-shirt, hair swept back into a loose ponytail, only a splash of makeup and a Sonic Coke … surrounded by breathtaking canvases, rich with color and life, waiting to be sold … set free from the corporate chaos I once loved.

“Please, Jana.” Grace forced the flier for the women’s conference in my face. “Gavin wants me more involved in church. We are about to be mothers, and
you
need to figure out the stay-at-home mom gig. Let’s do this.”

I rubbed my eyes, every inch of my being shouting at me to nestle back under the covers. “Do what?” I mumbled, reluctantly reading the flier.

Dressed to a tee, she scrutinized my faded pajamas and Wal-Mart slippers. “We only have an hour before we need to be there or we miss the food.”

God forbid we miss the food.

“I’m supposed to be resting.”

She forced herself inside and gestured to my flawless abode. “You’re not resting anyway by the looks of your house.”

I glared at her but caved in, stomping off to my bedroom to find something decent to wear. Style was optional, but breathing wasn’t. I crossed my fingers for at least one cute dress I could squeeze into. Thank God, I had one.
One.

I was a whale.

The conference turned out to be more of a support group focused on redefining ourselves as wives and mothers first rather than discussing the Proverbs 31 woman. The moderators were several years older than us—I’ll call them Trophy Wife (Tina), Domestic Diva (Dianne), and Holly Homemaker (the obvious, Holly). Trophy Wife and Domestic Diva might as well have said women were going straight to hell for working outside the home.

“Jana, Grace, we are so glad you joined us. Would you like to share your thoughts?” It was small group time.

No, not really.
I shot Grace a look that clearly stated:
You drug me into this, speak up.

Her pouty lips pressed in a thin line. “If God wants me to stay home and raise my child, should I have chased money instead of the man I love? Gavin’s a cop, for goodness sake. He risks his life for all of us every day, and I would never ask him to change that.”

“I agree with that,” Holly Homemaker offered. “The Proverbs 31 woman did work outside the home.” I winked at her appreciatively. She was the most down-to-earth of the three leaders, and I hoped she could teach me a thing or two on my quest to master life in the domestic department. Now I had no choice but to identify with the stay-at-home moms, at least for a while. We’d exchanged numbers earlier.

Understanding both sides of the female dilemma, I had no desire to take sides in the mommy wars. Clearly, extremes exist on both sides, from the Domestic Divas who weren’t all that domestic but had so much money they pissed on it, to the Brooke Bennetts who pushed family aside in favor of screwing a married coworker and glistening in the corporate limelight. But most of us wallowed somewhere in the middle, desiring to support our families and raise wonderful children, however we could best accomplish those things.

Trophy Wife cleared her throat, exchanging a glance with Domestic Diva, the plastic wife who was the property of a local oncologist. “God calls us all to seek different professions, but the Bible is clear that the woman’s focus should be on her husband and children first. I believe most of us could cut our budgets significantly.” Rumor had it that Trophy Wife had a babysitter on Tuesday and Thursday, the only two days her kids weren’t locked up at preschool.

I stared at the humongous diamond on her left hand and wondered what the hell they knew about cutting budgets.

Grace snorted. “Not mine. I truly
need
to work. I understand that Gavin and our baby will come first, but I disagree that it’s wrong for me to help him.” She folded her arms across her chest, daring the duo to mess with the fearless Grace Milton.

I spoke up. “I agree. I find nothing wrong with her helping Gavin financially. What he does for our community is honorable, and it’s a shame he doesn’t get paid more.” Grace beamed at me.
Love you
, she mouthed.

“Jana, God clearly states that a man’s role is to provide for his family,” Domestic Diva said to me almost patronizingly. “Back to you: you want to learn how to be an excellent wife and mother. I believe God took you out of your job because you are not
supposed
to work as a mother.” Domestic Diva patted me on the back, confident of her assessment of “God’s will” for my life. She looked like she had baked one too many cinnamon rolls and skipped Mommy and Me Jazzercise in favor of
Days of Our Lives
and a bag of potato chips.

Trophy Wife chimed in. “She’s right, Jana. I prayed for the longest time, and God showed me that I was not supposed to work and that my place in the home was with my children…” She twisted her model thin legs to the side after adjusting her designer heels. “It’s about obeying God.” She paused and turned her attention to Grace, whose beautiful face was twisted in a defiant scowl.

Don’t do it,
I told Trophy Wife telepathically, tensing with anticipation of the mistake she was about to make.

“Grace, you mentioned depression earlier. I hope you receive this in a caring manner, but have you considered reordering your priorities?”

She did it.

“Maybe I’m depressed because of all the bullshit I have to hear from people like you who are clueless when it comes to making your own bed or wiping your own ass.” She shot daggers at all three of them, one by one, and nodded her head curtly toward me. “Jana, I’m out.”

I followed her like a lost puppy, skittering from the room of shocked, probably pissed-off homemakers. It was not the first time I trailed out in Grace’s smart-ass wake.

“Well, that went well.” Dripping with sarcasm, she popped a peppermint stick of Orbitz in her mouth. “Someone needs to tell those bitches there is a big difference between a stay-at-home-mom and a wife who doesn’t work.” We hurried to my car, two pregnant women on a mission to escape as quickly as humanly possible.

“You are un-freaking-believable.” I stomped my feet as the giggles spilled from my gigantic abdomen. “That wasn’t much of a lesson on being a stellar mom and wife.” I unlocked the candy apple red Mustang I was borrowing from Jessica’s mom and hoisted my supersized self in. “Now we can’t show ourselves in our church again. Maybe I should call Andrew’s mother and tell her I’m ready to pray to Mary.”

“That’ll earn you some brownie points!” She paused, a devilish look settling on her face. “I bet
we
could teach
them
a thing or two about the bedroom … then maybe they wouldn’t be so damn stiff.”

I burst into laughter, shaking my head. Only Grace…

“I bet Trophy Wife has to fake all her orgasms, she’s so fucking uptight. While her hubby’s getting after it, she’s probably obsessing over the spot of mustard the housekeeper left on her granite.” Grace rolled her eyes, chomping her gum. Sarcastically, she made humping motions, rolling her eyes back in her head.

“True that on Tina. I do like Holly, though. She’s cool. I see her at the park, and her kids are so well-behaved. Maybe she can be, like, my mentor or something.”

“She’s all right.” She ran a brush through her beach-y waves. “While I’m feeling brave, let’s pay Brooke Bennett a visit. I’d like to beat her ass.”

My mind constructed an image of Grace beating the crap out of Brooke in a dark alley. Picturing Brooke out cold in a pile of soot, that perfect nose bleeding, I smiled with satisfaction. Maybe she’d be sneaking around with Jeff, and Grace could kick his ass, too.

“If Gavin asks Andrew, tell him we had a
great
time, okay?”

My fingers found the radio dial, thinking that K-Love wasn’t Grace’s choice of music after our church catastrophe.
Click, click
. Something by Shakira filled the air. Perfect. I started singing, if you can call it that, at the top of my lungs. Grace joined in, our terrible voices wailing in unison.

“Oh! Don’t forget!” Grace exclaimed as we finished murdering the song. “Saturday night … we have a date to see Gavin play. It will be our last rendezvous before you are cuddling with baby Calla!” Pride and something lustful clouded her eyes. “It always makes me feel better to hear his voice, to see him in that irresistible spell he slips into when he’s strumming his guitar, knowing he’s a
ll
mine.”

A smile tugged at my lips, thrilled to see that all seemed fabulous again in the Milton household. “We’ll be there.”

Gavin’s
husky tenor rivaled the best of country stars, and I grinned proudly as the uproarious cheers from the tipsy crowd of mostly scantily clad women simmered through the cool night air. Oblivious to his devastating handsomeness, Gavin smiled shyly in our direction as the melodious tune spread its ambiance over the engaged crowd. I shook off the drops of beer that landed on my shoulder, a free gift from the drunken grandmother in a tattered tank top behind me. I could be wrong, but I thought she slurred, “I wanna tap that.”
Tap that, really?

Lucky for the old lady, Grace’s adoring eyes were glued to center stage on her ferociously sexy husband, mesmerized like sweet sixteen and feeling the first sparks of love. Concealed in her love struck trance, she tuned out the cat calls.

Gavin was playing the last song of the night before the crowd would venture away from The Gulf and join the after-party or pass out on the beach. Grace, Andrew, and I claimed our designated front-row view, and were the only three spectators who weren’t liquored up, a la pregnancy. Andrew being smart enough to avoid a tongue lashing from his alien-invaded hormonal wife, he volunteered to drive his swollen duo the whole five minutes back to his parents’ beach house where we would inevitably crash.

I squeezed Grace’s hand, mouthing,
He’s yours
.

Gavin could put a spin on anything from Bruno Mars to Kenny Chesney, and his casual weekend gigs never failed to draw a crowd. After his faint-worthy performance at Andrew’s and my wedding reception, I figured it was only a matter of time before he scored Hollywood. But as the son of a former police chief and the brother of a fallen soldier, I underestimated his dedication to public service.

Intoxicated hollers and clapping exploded as the final silvery notes filtered through the floating Orange Beach breeze. Blushing lightly, Gavin cleared his throat and adjusted his microphone. He carefully set his guitar down.

“I can’t thank you enough for your support. I may not be back for a while, since I will be a daddy soon.”

More excited cheers.

“I wish you were
my
baby daddy,” someone yelled, and the crowd erupted into a unanimous laugh.

Gavin’s cheeks were inflamed instantly.

Flushed and shaking a little, he sucked in a deep breath. “I have a few words for my amazing wife, Grace.” Courageously, he straightened his shoulders and brought his gaze to hers.

I watched her jaw bottom out, and she clapped her manicured hand over her mouth. Singing in front of a crowd was one thing, but Gavin never
spoke
in front of a crowd.
Ever.
He failed public speaking in college … twice. Grace usually spoke for him in required social situations like toasts at weddings.

Andrew and I exchanged a curious glance as the noise hushed to a slight murmur.

He zeroed in on Grace, tuning out the hundred plus people surrounding him. “I could not do
any
of this without you, Grace. You are the most radiant woman I’ve ever known, the only woman who ever stole my heart. You are the confidence that unleashes my voice, the song that inspires me to sing. This … this chemistry between us, it’s automatic, an effortless electricity that refuses to fizzle out. When people say there is no such thing as a soul mate, I
know
they are wrong. I smile and feel sorry for them, because they haven’t experienced the absolute perfection that is
me and you
.” He paused. “I’m more in love with you now than the day I asked you to marry me.”