Georgie stared out at their friends and family, then her gaze landed on him.
Her bottom lip trembled. “What if our child wants to enter beauty pageants? There will be so many things out of our control, Jordan. Maybe keeping the pregnancy from my mom was my attempt to hold on to some semblance of control? And more than that, is our child going to think we don’t have his or her best interest at heart? What kind of mother will I be? Will I be a total control freak and not allow them to figure out who they want to be? Am I strong enough to let them reject everything I stand for to allow them to find their way?”
Sweet self-help soliloquy! This got deep quickly.
The room erupted into a flurry of reassuring comments when he said the only thing that he thought could ease her mind—or at least distract her from her worries.
“I signed up a dual sex baby for toddler trombone lessons and the baby NFL.”
The chatter stopped.
“You did what?” Georgie asked as Barry took a step toward him, camera in hand.
This guy was going to hit the baby shower bizarro moments mother lode.
“What’s a dual sex baby?” Hector asked, sharing a look with Bobby, who shrugged.
Jordan looked out at the group of people, all staring at him as if he had ten heads.
“It’s a baby with a penis and a vagina,” came one of the blue-haired brigade members, holding up her smartphone.
“Georgie’s baby has a penis and a vagina?” asked another.
“This is what the phone says.”
Becca frowned and crossed her arms. “I didn’t think you learned the sex! That could have helped me with planning the games and added a whole new dimension to this party. The only interesting baby game I could find on the internet was when you melt a bunch of different chocolate bars into diapers to make it look like poop. Then, everyone gets a taste of each baby candy poop diaper, and they have to guess which candy bar it is,” Becca said, her pout still in place.
Brice winced. “Oh no! I ate them all. I didn’t think you needed those for the shower.”
Jordan raised his hands to get the group’s attention. While he was grateful they wouldn’t have to sample chocolate baby poop, he needed to clarify the dual sex baby comment.
“What I meant was that I made up a boy and a girl baby profile and put our child on two waiting lists.”
“I thought we agreed not to do that?” Georgie said with a pinched expression, which could either mean she was pissed or having another Stevie Nicks practice contraction.
“We did,” he conceded.
“Then why did you do it?”
He held her gaze. It was the moment of truth.
“Maybe for the same reason you didn’t tell your mom—wanting some control over the unknown.”
Her lips twisted into the hint of a grin. “You really are the Emperor of Asshattery.”
He grinned right back at her. How he loved this woman!
“We can’t have you being the only one freaking out about losing control,” he said, leaning over to press a kiss to her temple.
“I think you guys are missing the point,” Brice said, through a bite of a pineapple scone.
“And what’s that?” Georgie asked.
“Control is an illusion. Things always change, Georgie,” Brice said, tossing the final bite into his mouth, then reaching for another flaky pastry.
Georgie leaned forward and stared at the man. “Did you call me Georgie?”
The guy grinned through the bite. “Yeah, that’s your name.”
“I’m amazed you remembered. You’ve called me Virginia and Georgia for so long, it almost sounds odd to hear you get it right.”
“You can thank Becca for that. She said that if I got your name right at the baby shower, she’d get down on her knees and—”
Becca’s cheeks bloomed scarlet as she clapped her hand over Brice’s mouth. “This is not an appropriate place to discuss our Georgie arrangement.”
“You called it the Georgie arrangement?” Georgie balked.
Yeah, he had to side with his wife. Having your name equal a BJ was pretty gross.
Becca threw up her hands. “What did you want me to call it? The Virginia arrangement? That would have only confused him more!”
“Did you say the baby has a vagina?” another blue-haired brigade lady called.
Sweet Jesus! The nice knitting ladies hadn’t moved on from the dual sex fiasco—and it would all be captured on film.
“Not vagina! He said, Virginia, like the state,” Becca answered, raising her voice and speaking slowly.
“Can I explain my thoughts about change?” Brice asked, his voice muffled by Becca’s hand.
“Do your thoughts involve whipped cream or handcuffs?” Becca queried as everyone’s eyebrows shot to their foreheads.
“Becca!” he and Georgie cried in unison—with a searing parental bend to the word.
Becca was like a little sister to him and to Georgie! Sure, she was a grown woman—but still!
“What do you do with the whipped cream?” a blue-haired briagader asked.
At least they’d moved on from vaginas.
“Ask the phone?” another offered.
Becca shook her head and removed her hand from Brice’s mouth.
“Keep it clean,” she warned.
“Got it. Now, Georgie,” Brice said, then glanced at Becca as if to make sure she was keeping track of all the correct uses of Georgie. “Control is an illusion. Like I was telling Becca the other day when I was here for a pest inspection. I can’t get all the spiders out of the bookshop. There will always be some I miss. All I can do is try my best, and the rest you’ve got to leave to the universe.”
“Are there spiders in my shop?” Georgie asked, her gaze rocketing to the ceiling where, thankfully, there wasn’t a spider about to pull a Little Miss Muffet caper.
“No,” Becca replied as Brice nodded yes.
“You see, Virginia,” the man continued, two for three on the Georgie front. “All you can do is sit back and love the people around you. Also…”
“Yes, Brice?”
“Good hair never hurts,” the man added, running his hand through his exceptionally good hair.
Becca shrugged, then grinned at her boyfriend. “He’s not totally wrong.”
Georgie stood up. “No, he’s not wrong at all. We’re not in control. Not one little bit. I’ve lost my father. Jordan, you’ve lost your mother.” She gazed around the room. “All we can do is love the people we have in our lives.”
“Are you all right?” he asked his wife as she nestled Faby into the crux of her arm, looking decidedly like a woman with a mission.
She nodded. “Yes, I’m good. I know what I need to do before this baby is born.”
“And what’s that?” he asked as a determined spark gleamed in her eyes.
“I’m taking Faby, and we’re getting out of here.”
“You’re leaving?” Becca cried.
Georgie nodded resolutely.
“Yes, but it’s for a good cause. It’s something I have to do.”
He cupped her face in his hand. “Is it something with the baby? Do you need the doctor?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He held her gaze. “Then what?”
She schooled her features—going full-on hardcore MBG. “I need you to be the Clyde to my Bonnie.”
That was a new request, but one he had no trouble answering.
He met her badass expression with one of his own. “Call me Clyde. What do you have up your sleeve, Bonnie?”
Her blue-green eyes flashed unwavering determination. “We’re about to go country-club-gangster and crash brunch.”
19
Georgie
“Land ho!” Georgie cried, pointing at the street sign for Country Club Drive as her trifecta bristled at her attempt at pirate-speak.
Jordan cranked the wheel, and the van shrieked and heaved as they took the corner. She didn’t need
to supply directions. Her husband knew the way to the posh playground for Denver’s elite families, but the urgency coursing through her body had given her the fortitude of a dogged sea captain, trapped in roiling waters and hellbent on making it to shore. Besides batten down the hatches, land ho was the only pirate phrase she could think of, and lucky for her, it suited the situation.
Thanks to Brice Casey—yep, the once douche canoe whose asshattery had sparked the Own the Eights blog and tipped the first domino that had led her to this very moment—she’d had an epiphany. She also needed to find another pest control company to dispose of the spiders Brice had missed—but that was a task for another day.
Here’s what hit her like a wrecking ball. It was the same thought she had when she saw the first positive pregnancy test—but with a twist.
Life is a roller coaster. She wasn’t wrong about that.
But, unlike the day she learned she was pregnant, reeling from how she’d manage to do it all, Brice’s words led her to see that she didn’t have to.
She and Jordan weren’t going to be perfect parents.
They would be loving parents.
Love couldn’t be measured by a score or a competition. Love was beyond that—infinite and abundant.
He’d said that all you can do is hold on to the ones you love—and he was right.
She and Jordan had each lost a parent. They’d battled their own demons and insecurities, but one thing remained true.
Love.
It was their foundation, and thanks to the wacky ups and downs the universe had thrown at them, love was all around them. Bobby and Hector, Gene and Marjory, Denny and Maureen, Irene and Will, even Becca and Brice. But two people were missing.
Her mother and Howard.
But with love comes risks. And just like Peter Rabbit, she was ready to put it all on the line.
Had she momentarily lost her gangster edge and bawled her eyes out, then hugged everyone at the shower before they left?
Yes.
Did she then steal Brice’s car keys off the counter and tell Talya and Simon to let the guy know that they’d hijacked his van?
Yep, at that point, she’d regained her Bonnie and Clyde vibe and went with it. Plus, everyone else who’d arrived at the party had walked, so their choices were limited when it came to securing a vehicle.
“What’s the plan?” Jordan said, starting up the long drive leading to the country club.
She chewed her lip—a very un-sea captainy behavior, but she had a lot going on. Hormones, adrenaline, that boost from Jordan’s shake. It all came together like a pregnancy pick-me-up that sent a zing through her body until another Braxton Hicks contraction knocked her down a peg. Truth be told, even with the practice contractions giving her a run for the money today, she was so amped up, she could probably power the city with the stimulants in her bloodstream.
“We’re pulling a Peter Rabbit,” she answered as her trifecta donned leather jackets to add to the badass, break-the-rules vibe.
“You want us to enter a dangerous place and barely make it out in one piece?” he questioned.
She nodded. “I don’t know about you, but that’s exactly how I describe brunch at the country club.”
He glanced over. “And once we crash the place?”
“I’m going to confront my mother. There’s no more hiding behind late RSVPs and unanswered emails. If she wants nothing to do with me, she’ll have to tell it to my big, fat, pregnant ankles. I’m going to apologize, and like it or not, she’ll have to listen.”
There, that was a plan.
“There’s nothing wrong with your ankles, MBG,” her husband replied.
“Fine. My big, fat, pregnant face!” she amended as the van sputtered and came to a standstill.
Jordan tapped the gages on the dashboard, and she craned her neck to see what he was doing.
“What’s wrong?”
He leaned back. “We’re out of gas. We were low, to begin with. But I thought we’d make it.”
She blew out a frustrated breath, then gathered her resolve. Her date with destiny was just up the road. A little car trouble was not about to stand in her way.
She snagged Faby, then swung open the door. “It’s not too far. We can walk.”
Jordan jogged up alongside her and shielded his eyes, staring down the treelined drive. “This might be a longer walk than you think. I should call up and have them send a golf cart.”
She shook her head. “Oh no! I am not losing the element of surprise. This is the last place in the entire world my mother would expect to find me.”
“Why is that?” he asked, offering his arm, which she gladly took.
“Because after she made me compete in the country club’s debutant pageant here when I was seventeen, I explicitly told her I’d never set foot in this place again.”
She froze and gripped her husband’s forearm as a lightning bolt of a contraction tore through her.
Jordan stroked her cheek. “Georgie, let’s call the doctor.”
She shook her head. “No, not yet. The contractions are still pretty random. Dr. Beaver said to wait to call until they were five minutes apart. Something just like this happened the other day. I had a bunch of contractions, and then they stopped. I need to see my mom. I need to have some kind of resolution. And I need it today.”
“Why today?” he pressed as they continued up the drive.
She stared down at her belly. “Call it pregnancy intuition. Call it indigestion. Call it never wanting to see another pineapple for as long as I live. I just know that I have to do this.”
His jaw dropped. “Are you serious about the pineapple?”
“Yeah, in fact, whatever happens inside this godforsaken place, afterward, we’re calling for a car and having it take us to get a giant tube of vegan chocolate chip cookie dough.”
“Wow! I never thought that I’d hear you say that again. Pregnancy cravings and anti-cravings come out of nowhere,” he replied.
“I know. It was like a switch flipped,” she answered, rubbing her belly.
They continued up the drive as luxury cars whipped past them. Maybe Jordan was right? What she thought would be a two- or three-minute walk was taking much longer. Then again, she’d never walked it. After a few more steps, she was ready to give in and let Jordan call for a golf cart when they rounded the bend, and the pristine country club building emerged. Shrouded in emerald green fairways and manicured hedges, the June sun glinted off a sea of luxury cars parked in the circle drive.
“We made it!” she cried, walking up the steps as two men opened a set of grand double doors for them to enter.
Jordan lowered his voice. “We’ll play this cool, right?”
“Right, I don’t want to make a scene. What happened at the gala cannot happen again,” she replied, then spied the man she needed.
Gustavo.
The Country Club General Manager.
And Denver upper-crust insider.
“Hello, Gustavo!” she said as the man did a double take.
“It’s been ages, Georgiana,” the man said, dipping down for a set of air kisses. “Your mother and Wandering River didn’t mention you and your husband were joining them for brunch.”
She had to bite back a grin. Howard, still calling himself Wandering River, had to have raised some eyebrows. Then again, this was Colorado, and he was loaded.
“I’m dropping in unannounced, and I’d like to keep it that way,” she answered.
“I see,” the stately gentleman replied with a weary nod.
A nervous grin stretched across her face. “No funny business. I just need to see my mom.”
“I’ve seen your video,” the man parried back.
She shared a perplexed look with her husband. “Which video? Jordan and I make lots of them for our More Than Just a Number blog.”
“This one was from a benefit,” the man added, raising an eyebrow.
Oh no! Gustavo could not think she was a rabble-rouser!
He’d never let her into brunch!
She cringed.
“Shall I let your mother know you’re here?” the man offered.
Oh, hell no! He was trying to brunch block her!
Gustavo had over thirty years handling Denver’s social elite, but she was armed with something that gave her the license to do whatever the hell she wanted.
She was mega-pregnant, carrying a baby doll, and packing a giant belly.
She lifted her chin. “No, you shall not let my mother know we’re here.”
“Georgie,” her husband said under his breath, but she’d decided not to take his warning.
“Like it or not, Gustavo, we’re crashing brunch,” she said like a mob boss.
“Hi, there, I’m Jordan Marks,” her husband said, cutting in and shaking the man’s hand.
“Could we at least find a jacket for your husband—club dress code policy, you know—and then I could escort you in,” the manager offered, but she could sense a crack in his brunch defense facade.
She waved him down. “Look at me, Gustavo! I’m as big as a whale and could blow at any minute. We don’t have time to play dress up. Do you have kids?”
“Yes, they’re grown now,” he answered with a distinct look of terror in his eyes.
“Do you remember what it was like when your wife was pregnant? The cravings, the hormones, the yo-yo emotions? I’m going into brunch, Gustavo. And you don’t want to get in my way today,” she continued.
“I’d listen to her, man,” Jordan cautioned.
Gustavo swallowed hard. “I think we can waive the jacket requirement due to your delicate condition.”
She patted the manager’s arm. “You’re good people, Gustavo,” she said, then grabbed her husband’s hand and entered the sanctuary of chef-prepared omelets and a pastry table the size of Cleveland.
“I see them. They’re in the center, close to the windows,” Jordan said, pointing past a swath of club members.
Georgie nodded. With not a strand of gray hair on her head, her mother was back to looking socialite fabulous.
This was it!
They wove their way through the dining room when her nerves started to get the best of her. Her stomach—or the baby—did a flip-flop as another contraction took her breath away.
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 26
