“My son and daughter-in-law broke the news by putting a message in a specially made fortune cookie,” offered another woman.
“A fortune cookie, Georgiana!” her mother repeated theatrically.
Somebody needed to get this drama llama a microphone.
“And my daughter and son-in-law invited the whole family to Hawaii and told us at a pineapple farm,” a man offered.
“Pineapple,” her mother repeated, then gasped and stared at the can that had come to rest near the edge of the stage. “The day that I snuck away to call you—the day I felt the need to see my baby’s face. That wasn’t urine in the glass that you drank. It was pineapple juice. You can’t stand the stuff. I watched you projectile vomit an entire pineapple fruit cup onto a row of pageant judges.”
Georgie looked on, her heart in her throat, as a bitter realization swept over her mother.
“It’s a pregnancy craving,” she offered, but her mother shook her head.
“On the day that we arrived in India. We called to find you in the bathroom. That box in your hand, it was…” she trailed off as it all came together.
“A pregnancy test,” Georgie finished, but she didn’t have to. The betrayed look in her mother’s eyes said it all.
“You knew that day and didn’t say anything?” her mother asked, losing the talk show host vibe and now just looked like…a mom. A crestfallen mom.
Georgie’s chest tightened as she felt a tiny shift in her abdomen—her baby—and stared at her mother. She didn’t know what to say or where to start as the complicated dance she and her mom had been doing for so long played out in her mind.
Why hadn’t she explicitly left the message that she was pregnant?
Did she want to break the news in person, or was there something deep within her that didn’t want to tell—didn’t want to open the mother-daughter-crazy-train floodgates?
She parted her lips to say, say what? I’m sorry, or even, when you caught me on the toilet, I was too freaked out at the moment to manage your reaction as well as my own? But her husband’s hand clasped around hers, and the man cleared his throat before she could work out what to say.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, then gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’re taking this family discussion out of the spotlight. I’m sure my friends and CityBeat founders, Bobby Chen and Hector Garcia, wouldn’t mind taking over our auction duties.”
“We’d be happy to,” Bobby replied as he and Hector hurried toward the stairs leading up to the stage.
Jordan led her away from the spotlight, and they met the men halfway.
“Good luck, honey,” Hector said with a wince, then handed Faby over.
“We’ll take it from here,” Bobby added as Jordan gave him the folder.
“And you two,” Lorraine called, pointing an unmanicured finger at the CityBeat duo.
“Yes, Lorraine,” Hector answered, jolting upright like a soldier addressing a general.
“You own the internet! I cannot believe you didn’t send a flying robot to my location to tell me that my daughter was pregnant.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Bobby murmured, but her mother seemed to have passed rational thought and moseyed on into full-fledged gala spectacle.
“And last but not least, Muffy Bradford,” she called out in socialite meltdown mode. “I know you’re here because you made the awful choice of serving spiced meatballs and goat cheese croquettes at the gala last year. And I see that, despite my firm warning, you’ve made the same perilous choice again this time around.”
A shimmer of red sequins skulked toward the back of the room.
“And, Muffy Bradford, if I hear you’ve been trying to get Gustavo to give you our table at the club, we will have words!” she roared, then stomped out of the ballroom.
Decked in head to toe Gucci or a retreat-issue tunic, this Denver socialite was back, and she wasn’t messing around. And she was hurting. Georgie had seen the flash of wounded vulnerability in her eyes. A look her mother had never given her. Even after all the pageant fights and the back-and-forth over her choice to own a bookstore and make her way on her own, her mother had never looked so brokenhearted.
Howard raised his hands as if he were readying himself to broadcast a message from the great beyond. “My cowboy friends, the road is long, but the journey is short. Meditate on that and skip the meatballs. Namaste,” he said, then turned to follow her mother.
Georgie clutched their fake baby as she and Jordan weaved their way through the packed ballroom, now buzzing with whispers and hushed conversations. But she didn’t give a damn about what any of these people thought.
“I need to get to my mom before she leaves. I need to talk to her without every jet setter in Denver watching,” she said, emotion welling in her chest.
Jordan threw open the ballroom doors, and she ran into the hotel’s main vestibule. Her mother stood, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief, but returned the item to her pocket when they spied each other from across the cavernous space.
“I was going to tell you, Mom. I was,” she pleaded.
“Georgiana, you could never understand,” her mother answered.
“Lorraine?” came a man’s voice in a thick French accent.
Everyone turned toward a spindly gentleman dressed to the nines, wearing a Ritz-Carlton name tag with Jean-Philippe written in gold lettering.
As if a switch flipped, the thread of vulnerability she’d seen in her mother disappeared.
“Dear, dear, Jean-Philippe! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” she purred as the two exchanged air kisses as if nothing life-shattering had occurred.
The man frowned with concern etched on his expression. “It has been several months. The staff and I have missed your visits.”
Her mother smoothed her tunic. “As you can see, I’m in bad shape, JP. You’re the best concierge in Denver. I’ll need the full spa package, and I need it now. Can you make it happen?”
“Mom, can’t we talk?” Georgie sputtered as Jean-Philippe clapped his hands, and a woman, materializing from nowhere, sailed over and handed her mother a glass of champagne.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vanderdinkle are checking in. Ready the spa. Call her stylist. Let Chanel know we have a wardrobe emergency.”
“Thank you, darling,” her mother said, squeezing the concierge’s hand.
“And I promise you full discretion. We will never talk of this dark, dark day,” JP added, touching the fabric of her mother’s tunic, then cringing.
Georgie’s mouth hung open in astonishment. Was that it? Was everything okay?
“And your daughter? Will she be joining you at the spa?” Jean-Philippe asked.
Lorraine Vanderdinkle met her gaze, and Georgie felt an icy chill trickle down her spine. That uncharacteristic flash of vulnerability she’d seen in her mother’s eyes was gone, and flippant indifference had taken its place.
“No, JP, she won’t be joining me. I’m far too much to handle and such a burden,” her mother said in a teasing tone, but she wasn’t joking. The hard glint in her mother’s gaze conveyed that much.
“Mom—” Georgie tried, but her mother waved her off.
“No, no, no!” the woman said, then flashed a plastic smile. “There you go, pumpkin. You don’t want me involved—so I’m not! It’s done. I’ll be no more trouble for you.”
Georgie ran her hands down her face. “I don’t want it to be like this,” she said, barely able to get the words out.
Lorraine Vanderdinkle’s socialite smile wavered a fraction, but the woman was able to get her emotions in check.
“But you do, Georgiana, you do. Your actions or, more like your inaction, proved it,” she finished.
“This way, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderdinkle, your suite is ready,” the concierge said and gestured toward a bank of elevators.
“That’s it?” Georgie asked, her voice cracking as her mother and Howard started for the elevator.
Her mother stopped, then tu
rned to face her. Georgie rested her hands on her belly, and her mother’s gaze landed there as well. For a split-second, she’d thought all had been forgiven until her mother’s expression hardened. A plastic smile stretched across the woman’s lips as she donned her socialite armor.
“Yes, pumpkin. That’s it.”
18
Jordan
“You should try calling your mom,” Jordan said, then took a sip of his chocolate-flavored protein shake as Georgie entered the kitchen.
He took the pineapple muffins out of the oven, then poured her a glass of pineapple juice as she headed for the table.
She blew out a weary breath. “That was quite a feat.”
“What was?” he asked, returning the juice to the fridge.
“Crossing the room,” she deadpanned.
He met her at their compact kitchen table, then pulled out a chair for her. She sank into it, her charm bracelet jangling as she settled in, then kicked her bare feet up onto an adjacent chair. With the morning sun streaming in through the kitchen window, the rays highlighted the copper and chestnut in the tendrils that fell from her messy bun. He stared at this remarkable woman. Clocking in at thirty-eight weeks pregnant, she couldn’t have been more beautiful. That pregnancy glow was the real deal. With her hair piled on top of her head and her hands resting on her belly, he could make a sport out of admiring his wife.
The soon-to-be mother of his child.
He’d understood the biology of having a baby, but bearing witness to the changes in his wife’s body had made him sure of one thing.
Women were a hell of a lot stronger than men.
By a mile.
Probably more.
Sure, he could flip a six-hundred-pound tractor tire. But that lasted seconds. Georgie was saddled with the weight of making a baby twenty-four seven. That took balls—no, not balls—a damn powerful uterus. If, in some far-off dimension, a pair of balls challenged a uterus to a fight, his money would be on the uterus, hands down.
Jesus! People always say it’s the pregnant women who have strange, vivid dreams, but he was living proof fathers-to-be could have some whack-a-do observations of their own.
On the baby front, after the gender reveal debacle, they’d stuck to their—well, mostly Georgie’s choice—and decided not to learn the baby’s gender.
Yeah, he was good with it.
Okay, maybe good was a misleading characterization.
Now, mere days before he was due to become a father, he understood the plight of the men he’d met in the noisy part of the waiting room at the obstetrician’s office.
In a strange daze a few nights ago, he’d crept out of the bedroom, after Georgie had fallen asleep, and worked a little obsessive pre-parent baby magic on the computer.
Had he broken down and possibly added their unborn child to the wait-list for the Denver baby NFL?
Yes, yes, he did.
Had he also gone down another strange rabbit hole after a few clicks and descended upon the world of toddler trombone lessons?
Was their child on the wait-list for that, as well?
Yes, but only because he had to list a gender on the baby NFL registration page. He’d ticked the boy box and then felt like an absolute asshat because, of course, a baby girl should have an equal shot at the baby NFL. What kind of father wouldn’t want the same for his daughter? So, he’d switched the baby NFL to girl, and then chose boy for the trombone classes.
It was completely illogical, but it gave him a strange sense of security.
Very strange.
At least he was doing something—even if this something could be considered a prerequisite for admittance into a psychiatric facility.
If Georgie freaked out and put the kibosh on the idea, they’d only be out the deposits. And even though he knew Thad and Briana, two doctors he trusted, weren’t on board with all the baby-this and baby-that classes, a drive inside him implored him to do more. Here, Georgie was carrying the baby and working and blogging and doing a damn good job pretending like she wasn’t upset about the fallout with her mom. Sure, he’d taken over doing the laundry, cooking, and cleaning, but that seemed a far cry from the full-time job of growing a human.
Georgie stared at the muffin and the glass of pineapple juice he’d set in front of her and sighed.
“My mother knows how to get in touch with me. I’m sure she’s got a new Nicolette by now, who could unlock her phone for her,” she answered, but there was more hurt in her voice than bite as she stared at the meal she’d been eating for breakfast, day in and day out, through her pregnancy and frowned.
“You’re not hungry?” he asked, watching her closely. She’d been a pineapple consuming machine for months. She usually drained a glass in seconds. You’d think she’d just rolled in from a stint on the Sahara.
“I’m not feeling so much like pineapple today,” she said as her gaze slid to the chocolate protein drink in his hand.
He held out the shake. “Do you want this?”
“Yeah? Is that weird?” she asked, taking his protein drink, then chugging down half of it in under ten seconds.
“Protein is a good energy source and great for the baby,” he replied to the spirit of the frat boy who decided to invade his wife’s body.
“Perfect! I was thinking of knocking out a quick 10K run this morning,” she teased, wiping away her chocolate mustache.
“You are one pregnant badass. I’ll give you that, MBG. But, at your race pace, I think the baby would be born before you made it one kilometer.”
She took another sip, then gave him a healthy dose of side-eye. “You better watch it, mister. All these hormones might make me supersonic fast or Superwoman strong.”
He glanced at his phone. “Well, Ms. Supersonic, we don’t have a whole lot of time before we need to head over to the bookshop for—” he paused.
“The baby shower,” she supplied flatly, her gaze trained on a spot on the wall.
Yeah, today might be a tough one.
They’d decided not to follow convention—imagine that—and settled on having a joint baby shower, men included, with their close friends and family. Becca, citing the fact that she was unable to throw her sister a proper shower, had designated herself, and Brice, as the lead party planners.
What could possibly go wrong with those two in charge?
Still, it was the least of his concerns.
“Did your mom even RSVP? I know Becca invited her,” he asked, treading lightly.
The last thing he wanted to do was upset his wife. But it was a coin toss when it came to her reaction regarding her mom. Sometimes, she wanted her mom to show up to the shower, and then she’d change her mind and say that she wanted her to stay away. Other times, she wanted her mom to want to show up, and then not show up—but then decide to show up anyway.
This mother-daughter business was thorny stuff.
He and his father had been estranged for many years after his mother passed. But all it took to get them back on track was Georgie, charming the pants off his dad, and a Michael Bolton ballad.
“Oh yes, Lorraine Vanderdinkle is always one to RSVP,” she answered, injecting a thread of mock-haughtiness into her reply.
“And?”
Georgie made a flippant flick of her wrist. “And she’s unable to attend due to a brunch commitment.”
He frowned. She couldn’t be serious.
“A brunch commitment?” he pressed.
“At the country club, of course. She wouldn’t want to disrupt the delicate balance of the Denver elite brunch dynamic now that she’s back. I’m sure Gustavo has her table all ready,” she said, back to mock-haughty. But even her terrific impression of a deranged socialite couldn’t hide the disappointment he saw as plain as day in her eyes.
It had been a rough last couple of weeks. Being pregnant has its emotional ups and downs. Being pregnant and balancing a damaged mother-daughter dynamic had taken a toll on his wife. He’d reached out to Howard, aka Wandering Ri
ver, to try to orchestrate a reunion, but the man was still in full-on yogi mode and spoke entirely in metaphors for their entire conversation.
He’d said that Lorraine was a rock, wanting to roll but stuck in the moss.
Like mother, like daughter.
“I told Howard about the shower,” he said, coming to sit with her at the table.
“When?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“What did he say?”
“He wished us every blessing and suggested the next time it rains, we dance naked under the storm clouds and pay homage to the showers that nourish the planet.”
She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. “Do we have the strangest life ever?”
He rubbed her arm, then touched the charm bracelet, gazing at the little shit shovel.
“Yes, we’re probably in contention for the couple living the strangest life ever. What do you think, Faby?” he said, turning to the baby doll seated in the center of the table.
They may have failed every Battle of the Births challenge, but they’d done a damn good job keeping track of that fake baby.
Georgie opened her eyes and chuckled. “We should probably add a Faby charm,” she said, brushing her fingers over the bracelet. “And thank God you got me a bracelet and not an anklet. Look at my ankles! Wait, I can’t even see them,” she added, trying to get a glimpse over her belly.
What she didn’t know was that he’d already ordered not one but two surprise charms.
He took her feet into his lap and massaged her arches. “Your ankles look all right to me.”
“Good, because last time I could see them, it wasn’t pretty,” she replied, then blew out a tight breath. “How about we walk to the bookshop?”
He wasn’t expecting that.
“Are you up for it?”
“I think it would do me good,” she replied, then sucked in a tight breath.
“Are you having another Stevie Nicks?” he asked, feeling his heart rate kick up.
“Braxton Hicks, you giant asshat,” she replied, half laughing half trying to breathe through what joyless Joyce had explained were practice contractions that Georgie needed to “put on her big girl panties and tough out.”
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 24
