by Julia Kent
“I've been so bored! Carol hardly needs me. She took over at work and is running the division like she was born to do it.”
“And you come off bed rest tomorrow,” he says softly. “You're supposed to walk a little.”
“Still no sex,” I say sadly.
He's uncharacteristically silent for a while, and then:
“Dr. Jeffs said you could walk to Consuela's. Use the elevator.”
“When did he say that?”
“When I called two days ago to make the reservation at Connie's.”
“You mean when Gina called.”
“No. I called.”
“You? You actually called a place? Dialed a phone and spoke to someone? Wow, Andrew. I had no idea you were evolving like that. Next thing I know, you'll learn to pump gas.”
“Let's not be too hasty.”
My phone buzzes. I grab it from the nightstand. It's Mom.
Can you send me the link to all the baby products you've ordered for the twins? The Consumer Product Safety Commission just declared some products hazardous to babies and I want to double check your list.
I read Andrew the text and he shakes his head. “Good old Pam.”
“Yeah.” I type a response and include the link. It's easier to go along with her than to fight. “She's so cautious and analytical.”
“Nothing wrong with that. She also seems to have more energy since the new treatments took hold.”
I nod, finish the text, and snuggle into his arms, my belly rising up like I'm Mauna Kea, emerging from the oceans as tectonic plates shift.
Which is a good metaphor for what is happening in my body and heart.
“Who knew it was Lyme disease this entire time?”
“In a way, Dad did.”
“James is so weird,” I blurt out. “He treats you three so differently than he treats me, or Shannon, or Pam. And then there are the women he dates...”
“You mean the gold digger Barbies?”
“Andrew!”
“What? Dad calls them that.”
“He does? I had no idea he was so self-aware.”
Andrew's cheek is pressed against my belly. When he laughs, the vibration radiates through to the babies, who both suddenly move at the same time.
“I think he considers it a badge of honor.”
“Why does he like my mom so much?” I ask as Andrew pokes Righty.
“I don't know.”
“She's nothing like Elena, right? Our mothers aren't similar.”
“Not one bit. My mom would have gotten along with Pam really well, but they're different. Mom was more social. More into networking and parties and gatherings. She would have found Pam's analytical side charming, though.”
“Your father certainly does.”
He sits up, questions in those brown eyes. Will our boys’ eyes be his shade of brown or mine? Whose nose will they get?
“Nothing's going on there,” Andrew says slowly. “We know that. No worries about becoming accidental stepsiblings.”
“Not for want of trying on James's part.”
Andrew goes still. “What?”
“Come on. You know he likes my mom.”
“My dad isn't attracted to anyone who was born before Clinton was president.”
“So,” I say, holding up my empty glass of water. “My feet have fallen asleep, I have to pee, I'm dehydrated, and I really want to pig out on brunch. How much time do we have to make it to Consuela's?”
Andrew looks at the clock. He has to stretch over my belly, which gets a not-so-gratuitous kiss along the way. “Five minutes ago. We had to leave five minutes ago.”
“Good thing Consuela loves you.”
“Not as much as you do.”
I toss a ping-pong ball at him. “Okay. Let's walk there. Haven't had a contraction in two weeks.”
He looks outside at the sunny day, blue sky inviting us to come join it. Hesitation isn't in his nature, but his shoulders square and I realize why he's not saying anything.
“I know. There are wasps out. We don't have to walk. It's just, you suggested it, and–”
“No. It's fine.” His eyes drift to his sport coat, casually draped over the back of a chair. “I have my Epipens.”
“And I have extras in my purse,” I assure him. As he nods, his eyes drift to my belly. Anaphylactic insect allergies aren't new to me. I don't have one, but my best friend did growing up. Andrew's is well documented.
His mother's death–and sacrifice for him–haunts him.
The specter of either of our children having the same allergy is one we barely talk about. In a sense, we don't have to. He's careful. I'm careful. His mother's death means that he has at least two Epipens on him at all times now, so no one ever has to make the choice Elena forced on Declan in the moment both she and Andrew were stung.
I understand that choice better now.
Understanding it doesn't make it less painful.
“Hey, beautiful,” Andrew says to me as he buttons his dress shirt, seeing my tear-filled eyes. “It's fine. We'll walk in the sun. I'm not a vampire anymore,” he teases.
“You worry about the boys.”
He stills, eyes on mine. “Of course I do.” A sad smile comes over his face. “But time will tell. And Epipens come in pairs for us.” Kissing me softly, then more deeply, our embrace grows more intimate by the second, his body mine to lean on, my body growing his children.
When we untangle, it's with a sniffle from me and a sweet touch of my jawline from him, followed by dueling stomach growls.
Ah, hunger.
Ten minutes later, we're dressed and in the elevator, the sudden drop of the car making my lower belly feel like it's a wave pool. Andrew senses the change in me and gives the boys a good rub, the kind of affectionate touch he never gave before the pregnancy. As we walk out to the Boston streets, heading toward Congress and Consuela's secret rooftop restaurant, I breathe in the salty city air.
My hand seeks his and finds it instantly, our fingers threading comfortably. He slides his sunglasses on and I take him in, deeply grateful for a life with a man so strong, handsome, caring, and most important–all mine.
If you had told me five years ago I'd have this someday, I'd have assumed you got into Chuckles' catnip stash and were pulling my leg.
As we walk, I adjust my stride, Andrew's long legs covering more territory per step than mine. The bigger I get, the more I waddle, but keeping up with him feels good, though he slows down to make it easier on me. My body needs to stretch and move, the blood flow important. I've never been one to work out much, but I do fine.
Pregnancy makes me feel more in my body than ever before.
Sunny days like this make me appreciate having a place on the water. The city is busier than you'd expect on a Sunday morning, easing into the afternoon. It's July, which means the tourists are pouring in, the Tea Party re-enactment boat packed with people and a long line at the ticket window. The scent of garlic and sweet sausage wafts past us as we get closer to Consuela's, then ginger and peanuts. Plenty of trendy places have moved into the area, but Connie’s food can't be smelled from the street.
She's high above it all.
You can't call Consuela's to book a table. There is no website. It's the kind of place a billionaire like Andrew knows about because he's Andrew McCormick, CEO of Anterdec, and that's that. Celebrity chefs like Consuela don't hire mystery shoppers, they don't advertise, and they certainly don't have two-for-one specials on Monday nights.
“You okay? The walk isn't too much?” he asks me as we wait at a crosswalk, his hand warm and strong in mine.
“Fine as can be.”
A lazy little honeybee bounces from blossom to blossom in a planter outside a café. Shannon is allergic to them, but that little puffball covered in pollen could sting Andrew and he'd be fine. The randomness of anaphylaxis is something I'm not educated enough to fully understand, but on an emotional level, I am an expert on anticipatory danger from creatures
that weigh less than .00025 pounds.
Until you carry around forty-five extra pounds of baby (okay, fine, babies and Cheetos...), you don't realize how hard stairs can be. My mother would note that my pregnancy weight is equal to 180,000 bees.
How do I know this?
Because she actually calculated it for me. When your mom's an actuary, you learn these details.
“What are you doing?” Andrew asks as I head toward the stairwell. He's pointing at the elevator.
“Elevator” is a stretch. It's a flat door, the old-fashioned kind, with the accordion grate and everything.
I look pointedly at my belly. “We can't fit in that thing, unless you have a shoehorn.”
“Then you go without me. I'll take the stairs.”
Claustrophobia is not an issue I've ever experienced, but I get a whiff of it now.
“Nah. Let's do the stairs.”
Skeptical eyes meet mine. “Are you sure?”
“I need the exercise.”
“No.” He jabs the elevator button.
“What do you mean, no?”
“You're not climbing the stairs.”
“I said I'm fine!”
“And I said you're not overexerting yourself as you come off bed rest.”
“There isn't room for both of us in there!”
“Then I'll walk, you ride.”
But the elevator doesn't come.
As we wait, a guy in a white kitchen uniform walks in, carrying a bag of produce. He pauses, then says, “it's broken.”
“Broken?” we answer in unison. His eyes drift to my belly and he practically chokes.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“See?” I turn on Andrew as he leaves. “I'll take the stairs.”
“We can go to a different restaurant.”
I ignore him and start up.
The rooftop part of Consuela's bistro becomes annoyingly apparent as we trudge upward. Behind me, halfway there, Andrew pauses and sighs. I turn around to look at him and he makes a face of chagrin.
“I wish you'd taken the elevator.”
“Why? Because my fat ass is hard to look at?”
A hand goes straight to said body part. “That entire sentence is an abomination.”
“So is my ass. I thought baby weight was supposed to be for the babies.”
“You've never been more gorgeous.”
“You always say that.”
He steps up to my level, both hands groping me now, making me laugh. My belly's so big, we can't squish together enough to kiss, but by God, the man can do a proper reach-around.
“Andrew?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you just going to stand here holding my butt?”
“Maybe. It's not bad as hobbies go.”
My stomach roars indignantly, hunger turning into a verb.
His growls back.
Unclenching his paws, he presses his palm to my sacrum, urging me up. “If you can't walk the rest of the way, I'll carry you.”
“Hah! As if.”
The air around us changes as I realize my grave error.
I have challenged the most competitive man in the world.
Feet out from under me in an instant, I'm in his arms, my cheek against his shirt buttons, hair caught in the crook of his arm, and let me tell you, Lefty and Righty are not happy with what their father is doing.
“Andrew!” I squeal. “The babies are rolling around like they're protesting, signs and banners and all! Put me down.”
The jerk starts running up the steps.
“Vince said I need to do more weight-bearing exercises.”
“I am not a sandbag!”
“No. You're not. Sandbags don't complain,” he says in an amused tone. I can't wiggle out of his arms or we’ll fall.
“Put me down at the next landing,” I insist. He ignores me and keeps going.
And going.
Until finally, we burst into the open air of the rooftop to find Consuela's deeply amused face staring at us.
“Renewing your wedding vows? Carrying the bride across the threshold?”
“We did... get married... here.” Andrew very carefully sets me upright again, the skirt of my maternity dress now wedged up my butt. He’s perspiring heavily, and he can barely catch his breath, but he’s trying his best to speak normally.
“Show-off,” I call out, just loud enough to turn a few heads of fellow patrons, but not enough to get scowled at. Straightening my dress, I square my shoulders. Consuela's gaze drifts to my belly.
“Oh, so sweet,” she says in her lightly accented English. “Your babies. Señor and Señora McCormick are going to be Mami and Papi soon.”
“Times two,” Andrew says proudly. My mouth starts watering when a server passes by with a plate covered in what appears to be thinly sliced smoked salmon, eggs, and artisanal toast.
“You have eyes only for Amanda, but she has eyes for sustenance,” Consuela says with a laugh, giving me a big hug and a kiss on both cheeks. “Let us get this woman some Pan con Tomate!”
“How's business, Connie?” Andrew asks as he helps me sit, gently gliding the seat under me, gentlemanly manners on full display.
“Could not be better. People are acquiring a taste for fresh, real food,” she says, earning a... frown?
Her eyes cut to me. “Why does that bother him?”
I shrug.
Shaking his head quickly, as if shooing away a gnat, Andrew smiles. “It doesn't. It’s just a hot topic lately.”
“Good food is controversial? Since when?”
“Do you think there's really been a turn in the market for high quality, pure food?”
“I do. And it's about time. Americans tolerate so much, what is the word?” She struggles to find it, finally exclaiming with a finger snap, “Crap! Yes, that is the word. Crap.”
“That's true,” I agree.
Andrew leans toward me and whispers, “Cheetos and marshmallows qualify as crap.”
“Then hand over the crap and save the real food for yourself. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.”
Pan con Tomate, crusty bread rubbed with garlic and oil and topped with tomatoes, appears as if an angel delivered it. Sparkling water in a wine glass, with lemon and lime floating in it, is the perfect accompaniment. Lefty and Righty start chanting “Eat! Eat! Eat!” and the vibrations of their little voices travel up from my womb into my mouth. My tongue and teeth operate before I've even grabbed a napkin for my lap.
Connie is deeply gratified.
“Good food, Andrew. Real food. Quality food cooked with love. That's the secret ingredient, the caring. We feel seen when we are fed well.” She pats my shoulder. “Is this not true?”
“Mmmph?”
They both laugh as I take a sip of water and swallow.
“Connie,” I say, “See me. See me as clearly as possible. I especially want to be seen through your dessert eyes.”
A half hug from above follows, her spicy perfume subtle but distinct. “I knew Andrew chose well with you. Knew from the moment he brought you here, that first time. Shall I choose your menu, taking great care with the sweets?” She looks to Andrew.
“You are the expert. I defer to you.”
Her eyes widen. “When does that ever happen? A McCormick renouncing control over something? My goodness!”
I have to swallow quickly before I choke on my own laughter.
Andrew cocks one eyebrow but says nothing.
A call from the kitchen, barely audible, makes her turn and wave to us as a tray of breads and oils appears, and I find myself facing a speechless husband.
“We're not that bad,” he mutters as he reaches for a piece of bread.
I laugh. “Andrew, you carried me up here because I made a joke. You insist you're 'winning' the baby-making contest with your brother because I'm carrying twins. You and Declan tried to outdo each other showering Shannon and me with gifts in Las Vegas, including a seven-foot animatronic–”
He p
ops a piece of tomato bread in my mouth to shut me up.
“Let's talk about something else. Oh, I know!” he says in a bright voice that instantly sets me on edge. “How about baby names?”
“Mmmmp pfttt iss eyem.”
“Perfect! Your mouth is full and you can't talk. I'll suggest something other than Lefty and Righty. How about Paul and Dominick?”
I shake my head.
“Richard and Oliver?”
I shake harder.
“Erik and Roger?”
I make a face.
“Well, Leo and James are out.”
I finally swallow and reply, “Your father and my mother would kill us if we name one of them Leo. But you're right.”
Smug looks always find their way to his face. “Of course I am.” He frowns. “About what?”
“We need names. Why not Andrew Junior?”
His turn to make a face.
“How about Al and Barkin?” I suggest. Al Barkin was my prom date in high school. He's a town cop now, and we had a run-in with him years ago, right after Shannon and Declan's wedding.
If Andrew's fingernails could make sawdust out of the table top, they would. “That's not funny.”
“Why are you jealous of a guy I haven't dated in forever?”
“I'm not.”
“You are!”
“How about Coffin and Raleigh?” A diversion technique: Those are the last names of the two people Shannon is most likely to call me in the middle of the night to help her dispose of their bodies.
“Hah!”
“Everyone's asking, Amanda,” he says as a seafood stew appears, along with an assortment of grilled vegetables, pastries I can't pronounce, and refills of our water. I stare at the loaded table and have just one question:
What is Andrew going to eat?
Rubbing my belly as the babies move and kick in response to the rush of calories hitting their bloodstreams, I sigh in contentment. This is going to be a fun food marathon.
Andrew had better clear the rest of his day.
For real this time, too.
“We said we wanted classic names. No children named after movies or television.”
“Baskin and Exotic are off the list.”
“And no family names,” I confirm before taking an enormous spoonful of soup, careful not to turn the top of my belly into a bathmat.
“That doesn't leave much.”
