Irene, who has somehow managed to squeeze herself into a spot to my left, touches my forearm. "I'm more than sure you can handle it."
Yikes. How does Bram not see that his fiancée is hitting on his brother-in-law? And if he does see it, why the hell hasn’t he dumped her yet?
THIRTY
Mr. Whiskers, Destroyer of the Present, Past, and Future
Arthur - 37 Weeks
When my alarm goes off at seven thirty on Sunday morning, I am nowhere near ready to wake up, having been kept awake by my wife's snoring again for the better part of the night. To be honest, I’m in a shit mood myself. I hate to complain, but my life has become a hamster wheel of handling mounds of work, tiptoeing around my wife all evening, then listening to her snore all night.
I roll out of bed and throw on some jeans and a T-shirt, then make my way to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I then read over the instructions for the crib whilst I eat some toast. Tessa is still fast asleep, which I suppose is a good thing, given her mood this weekend. I wouldn’t mind if she slept right through until she goes into labour, and I’m pretty sure she’d agree with me on that one, even though there is no fucking way I’d ever say it to her.
Dexter gets up and joins me in the kitchen, staring up at my plate hopefully.
“All right, Dex, I'll make you some toast, but don't tell anyone. The vet said you're supposed to be off carbs for a while.”
By the time the two of us have eaten, I'm thoroughly confused by the crib instructions and find myself searching for how-to videos on YouTube, none of which seem to be very useful, as nobody has recorded themselves building the exact model and make of crib I'm faced with. As far as I can tell, my wife has purchased the most complicated crib on the planet to assemble. I'm pretty sure it has to do with the fact that it turns into a toddler bed and then later a double bed, and not at all because I have no building experience.
After an hour of watching videos, I walk down the hall to the nursery to get started. I glance out the window to see it's a gray, snowy day outside. A perfect day to spend in bed, but not for me. Dexter, who followed me in here, lays down in the corner of the room and stares at me.
"You don't think I can do this, do you?" I ask. "But I can, and I will. There is no way these poorly written instructions are going to foil my efforts. This is simply a matter of engaging my common sense and my physical dexterity. Mark my words—by lunchtime, these cribs will be done.”
I set to work, whistling the theme to Indiana Jones because not unlike Indy, I’m a very manly man who can use a drill and hammer and fight treasure-stealing Nazis...well, probably. I guess I’ll find out (not about the Nazi-fighting, the tool management thing). And yes, I know this isn’t running the Iron Man or something, but there's a strange feeling of pride associated with the ability to build something with your own two hands that your children will then benefit from.
If I'm really honest, I would say that completing this task alone will serve as proof that I will indeed be a much more involved father than the one who raised me. Not to mention, I'll be able to prove to my father-in-law that I'm not completely useless when it comes to construction.
Within a few minutes, I have all the parts of the crib laid out in front of me in neat piles exactly as they are pictured in the instruction booklet. "Well, we've got all the right parts, Dex, so that's a good sign, wouldn’t you say?"
"I'd say it's a good sign," Tessa says giving me a hint of a smile, which is the closest thing to anything resembling happiness from her in days.
“Good morning. How did you sleep?" I ask, glancing up at her and then sifting through the baggie of screws to select the length I need.
"About as horrible as every other night for the past month." Tessa sighs, then walks into the room and peers down at the progress I haven't made. "You sure you don't want some help?"
"Wouldn't dream of it. Besides, you're supposed to be resting."
She walks over to the rocker and sits down with a small groan. "I didn't mean me. My father would really like to help. Or perhaps Xavier or Ollie knows how to build cribs..."
I stiffen slightly at the notion that I require assistance, then say, "I've got it, thanks."
"No need to get defensive about it."
"I'm not defensive. I'm just sick of everyone thinking I can't do this."
"Well, it's been two hours since you got up, and all you've done so far is take everything out of the box."
"I didn't know I was on a deadline."
"I thought maybe we could spend some time together today once you finish."
"Well, in that case, perhaps you should let me get this done and stop distracting me."
"Fine,” she says in that tone that means none of this is fine and I'm going to pay for my snippy comment later. She struggles to get out of the rocker, then makes a little huffing sound and does her best to stride out of the room quickly. "I'm going back to bed."
"Have a great sleep."
Two hours later, my stomach is starting to growl and I'm realizing it's rather difficult to build something like this without having an extra set of hands to at least hold things whilst you screw them into place. I tried getting Dexter to help, but as smart as he is, he’s also lazy and lacks opposable thumbs.
Speaking of thumbs, I'm pretty sure I'm going to lose the nail on my left thumb, having smashed it with a hammer about forty-five minutes ago. It's now wrapped so I don't get blood all over the carpet in here. I'm sure that wouldn't go over well. I abandoned whistling a long time ago and am starting to feel the slightest bit of regret that I’ve been so insistent on going this alone.
My phone buzzes, and I pick it up off the change table, then swipe the screen. It's a message from Arabella. That awful cat of Evi and Ruben's has managed to get into the throne room. You may want to see it for yourself. Or not.
I close my eyes for a second and let out a long, frustrated sigh. "That fucking cat better have at least nine lives because when I get a hold of him, he's going to be down one."
Oh now, please don’t get all offended and call P.E.T.A. on me. I would never actually do any harm to an animal, but that particular spawn of Satan needs to get the fuck out of my palace as soon as possible. I storm out of the apartment and make my way across the palace to the throne room, where I find Gran, Arabella, Evi, Ruben, and several staff members surveying the damage. And believe me, there is a fuck load of damage to be observed here. Both thrones—my father's and the one my mother used to sit in—have been ripped to shreds so now the white stuffing that used to be inside the red velvet cushions is splayed across the floor as though we’re preparing for a Christmas play. Somehow, that bloody cat has also managed to pull down a five hundred-year-old tapestry that used to hang behind the throne bearing my family's crest. It has been reduced to an enormous ball of string on the floor.
"We are so sorry," Evi says, rushing over to greet me. "I have no idea how he got out. We've been so careful the entire time. It must've been when the staff was clearing up from our breakfast.”
Ruben pulls his Valcourt United check book out of his back pocket. “What do I owe you, Artie?”
I swallow my irritation and manage what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“We insist. Evi’s a whiz at recovering chairs, and we can replace that wall hanging if you tell us where you got it.”
“Not to worry. As talented as Evi is, we do have a furniture repair company on retainer for the thrones. As to the tapestry, you’d first need to acquire a time machine so you could travel back to the mid-fifteen hundreds and make a trip to Naples to visit Charles the Fifth, the Holy Roman Emperor at the time. Ask if he’d be so kind as to offer another gift of gold-wrapped silk from his private stock to my family. I have to warn you, though, you may have to wait there for the better part of a year if he doesn’t have any and needs to send a ship to China for the silk. Once you return, you’d then need to find thirty or so of Avonia’s most talented loomers who would
require sixteen months to complete the tapestry.” As I talk, the smile never leaves my face, even though my tone rises with every sentence until I’m almost yelling.
Ruben lets the hand holding his checkbook drop to his side. “I see.”
“Do you?” I ask, raising one eyebrow.
“Yes, I think I do,” he turns to his wife. “We’ve worn out our welcome, Evi.”
“You think?” I say in a tone curt enough to shock even me.
Evi whispers, “I’m sorry, Arthur, Arabella,” then starts toward the door, tears brimming in her eyes.
Arabella, unable to stand scenes like this, steps in. “No, please don’t cry. Arthur was only joking! I’m sure we have another tapestry we can put up. We have loads of them all over the palace. That one was getting ratty anyway.”
Ruben gives Arabella a small smile. “You don’t have to do that, dear. We know enough to know we’re not welcome here anymore.”
“The strange part is, you’re just figuring this out now,” I say. Turning to Bellford, I say, “Please arrange to have a guard at Mr. and Mrs. Sharpe’s door to watch that that...animal doesn’t escape again.”
Ruben takes Evi by the arm, and the pair slink away whilst I watch. Good riddance.
Evi turns to me, clutching Mr. Whiskers close to her chest. "We’re very sorry, Arthur. We’d do anything to make it up to you if we could."
"Sorry about what, exactly? Sorry about interrupting me constantly to give tours of my office to every person you've ever met? Sorry that you're driving our staff insane giving them ‘helpful pointers’ on jobs they've been doing for many years? Sorry you want to set my father up with some hot-to-trot middle-aged divorcee who spends her time crocheting and playing Candy Crush? Sorry that you've been absolutely awful to your daughter her entire life and favoured your sons so much, she doesn't even know her own worth? Which is it exactly, Evi? Because as far as I can see, there's a long list of things you should be sorry for, not just allowing your horrible cat to ruin my family’s priceless throne room!"
Ruben takes a step toward me. "Now listen here, you! I don't give a good goddamn who you are, nobody talks to my wife that way. And for someone who’s supposed to be so well-mannered, you certainly haven't learned a thing about how to treat your mother-in-law with the respect she's owed." Turning to Bellford, Ruben says, "No need to post a guard outside our door. We'll be gone within the hour."
Grabbing Evi by the elbow, he stalks away, letting the heavy wooden door swing shut behind them. Bellford clears his throat a little and then excuses himself, leaving me alone with Gran and Arabella, both of whom look absolutely shocked.
Arabella, who looks as though she's about to start crying, just shakes her head at me and walks away. Gran opens her mouth to speak, but I hold up one finger. "Not now, grandmother."
"Put that bony finger down before I snap it off your hand. And don't even think to tell me what to do ever again. Now, I know you're under a lot of pressure, but that is absolutely no excuse for treating your in-laws so horribly. The world expects more from you, Arthur, and your children will need more. If you’re going to start giving in to fits of ill-temper, you’ll be no good as a father or a king!”
"I'll be just fine as soon as they're gone."
"If you actually believe they are the problem, you really are turning into your father." With that last jab, she exits the room, leaving me alone with the cleanup crew, none of whom will make eye contact with me–not that I’d want to at this moment.
I storm out of the throne room and back to my apartment. Going straight to the kitchen, I grab a six pack of beer out of the fridge, then walk into the nursery and shut the door behind me.
“Now, let’s get back to building these fucking cribs.”
THIRTY-ONE
Don’t Know What You’ve Got ‘Til It’s Gone
Tessa
I wake up from a nap feeling sweaty, hot, hungry, and thirsty. Heaving myself out of the bed, I slowly make my way to the washroom to go pee and brush my teeth. When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I realize that being on bed rest probably doesn't really mean I need to stay in my pajamas with unwashed hair all day. Besides, what if I go into labour right now? I can’t very well show up at the hospital like this. Oh, please go into labour. Please, please, please. I try to will my uterus to start contracting, using imagery in the manner of an elite basketball player visualizing executing the perfect three-pointer.
Oh, wait. Don’t do that until you’ve had a shower, Tessa. Make yourself presentable first, then visualize your way into labour. I take a long shower, then spend forty-five minutes blow drying and straightening my hair and applying some makeup. When I leave the bathroom, I look hospital-ready in my cozy but cute maternity snowflake sweater and some dark jeans. I even managed to get some socks on by leaning against a chair with one hand, lifting my leg behind me and stretching back as carefully as possible to pull them on, one at a time.
A buzzing sound on my cell phone interrupts me on my way to the kitchen to make a bite of lunch. Picking it up, I see that it's Bram calling. Not in the mood for his crap, I let it go to voicemail.
Seeing I have a text from earlier, I swipe the screen to find Arabella has written to me. Heads up, Tessa. Arthur is in the worst mood I think I've ever seen. You may want to steer clear of him for the next few hours.
Just as I’m about to call her to ask what she’s talking about, a text from Bram pops up. What the hell happened over there? Did you go all hormone ragey on Mum and Dad? They’re moving in with Irene and me. Call me NOW before it’s too late.
Me: Hormone ragey? I WAS going to help you but now I think I won’t.
Bram: Okay. I’m very sorry. I’m just panicking. They’re already on their way!
Me: What are you talking about? Are you sure they're not just coming over for a visit?
Bram: They are DEFINITELY moving in with us. Whatever it is, can you please fix it? The engagement ring has brought out the wild side in Irene, if you get my drift, so having mum and dad here really isn't what I need right now.
Eww. Gross. So glad I didn’t pick up the phone when he called.
Me to Bram: T.M.I. Calling Mum now to find out what’s going on.
I dial my mum's mobile number, but she doesn't pick up.
Voicemail from me to Mum: Mum, it's Tessa. Bram says you're moving in with them? I don't understand what happened. Please call me as soon as you get this.
Making my way down to the nursery, I see that the door is closed. I try to open it, but the door is blocked. "Arthur, I can't get in."
"Yes, well unless it's urgent, it's not really a good time because there are crib parts laid out all over here."
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about why my parents have left, would you?"
"You should ask their demon cat," he calls through the door.
My heart sinks at his words. "Oh, shit. What did he do?"
"Turned our throne room into a shredded mess."
"Oh, Arthur, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
"Go back in time and tell them they can't move in."
“What if I make you some lunch?" I call through the door.
"No, thanks. I'd rather just get this done without any more interruptions."
Oh, well fine then, Snippy Prince. I walk over to the kitchen and make a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. Sitting down at the table, I text Arthur: Grilled cheese sandwich waiting for you in the kitchen.
Him: You eat it. We both know you want mine, too.
Me: Wow. What’s up your butt?
I fume while I down my sandwich and a side of pickles. Pickles—I know, total pregnant lady food, but in my case, I’ve always enjoyed a good pickle, so it doesn’t count as a crazy pregnancy craving. I sit for a few minutes, staring at the sandwich I made for Arthur, willing myself not to eat it. I’ll leave it there all day and night so as to prove him wrong. Part of me is expecting him to come out of the nursery any moment to apologize, but he doesn’t.
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Tapping my foot on the floor, I’m fuming now. How dare he make such a rude accusation?
I pick up my plate and walk over to the sink with it, then decide to put his in the fridge for him. Better that than leaving it out for Dexter to try to get. I walk over to the table and catch a whiff of that warm, gooey cheese and buttery bread. Hmm, maybe I will eat it...I am still hungry.
No, do not eat it, Tessa!
Although, if I do, I can always secretly make him another guilt sandwich to stick in the fridge. Sitting down, I scarf down the second sandwich in under a minute, then feel immediately overstuffed and too uncomfortable to want to stand in front of the stove to make another one. Making my way to the couch, I sit down and prop my feet up on the two hundred-year-old coffee table and watch as my belly pops and ripples as the two babies inside me play. Either that or they’re fighting in there...I'm really not sure which. Although I'm obviously hoping their playing, they could just as easily be kicking each other's faces, developing a lifelong hatred of one another that will require years of intense therapy. Oh God, could they kick each other hard enough to cause a concussion? That would be awful if they were both born with concussion syndrome. I should look that up.
My cell phone rings, and I pick it up to see it’s my mum.
"There you are. What’s going on?”
"I suppose you'll have heard about the throne room by now."
"A very brief overview. Is everything okay?"
"Not really. Your father and I feel just awful. I'm afraid we've pushed your husband to the edge. We wish there was something we could do to fix it." In the background, I hear my father's voice saying, “Speak for yourself, Evi."
Oh, dear. My dad never gets like that.
"Did Arthur say something insulting? He's locked himself in the nursery, and I can't seem to get anything out of him."
"Well, he was certainly forthcoming with us as far as where he stands on how we've behaved since we moved in...and how we've raised you...and also that he's very much against the idea of his father dating Grace next door, so I guess that's out."
The Royal Delivery Page 24
