“Georgie, are you okay?” Jordan asked.
She leaned over, gazing down at the white marble floor, and breathed through the pain.
“Georgiana, what are you doing here?” came her mother’s surprised voice.
Georgie blew out a tight breath, rode out the last spasm of the contraction, then met her mother’s gaze.
“I’m here because we need to talk.”
“As you can see, we’re in the middle of brunch,” Lorraine Vanderdinkle replied with a demure wave of her hand toward Howard, who’d donned a sport jacket over his flowing robes.
Georgie glanced around, trying to figure out where to start, her brain temporarily scrambled from the searing contractions that seemed to be growing stronger.
“It looks like you were able to keep your table,” she threw out, then wanted to jam a tube of vegan cookie dough into her mouth to keep the idiotic comments from flying out.
“Of course, we were able to keep our table. Do you think I’d allow Muffy Bradford to steal it out from under me?” her mother replied, gesturing toward the back of the room where a miffed Muffy pretended not to notice.
“Mom, I need a minute with you and Howard.”
“It’s Wandering River, and you’ve got quite an aura, Georgie. Lots of energy. Something psychedelically powerful is about to happen to you,” Howard or whatever the hell he went by said with his hands in a prayer position.
“Thanks for that,” she replied, still floored that this guy was her formerly pragmatic, anti-yogi stepfather.
Lorraine folded her hands on the table. “Perhaps, I have an opening after brunch. You’ll have to check with my assistant.”
Georgie’s jaw dropped. “Another Nicolette?”
“No, her name is Colette. I’m moving on.”
“Mom, what I have to say to you is bigger than brunch at the club,” she replied as the room went silent.
“Bigger than brunch?” her mother repeated in horror as if anything could top brunch at the club.
“Yes.”
Lorraine glanced at her watch. “Shouldn’t you be at your baby shower?”
“I left it to come here.”
Her mother gasped. “You didn’t like it? Were the colors off? I specifically asked for spring green—not pale green. Now, I’ll have to fire Colette. You have no idea the amount of effort it takes to manage an assistant.”
“That was you?” Jordan asked. “You changed the theme?”
Her mother smoothed an already smooth lock of hair. “I know every party planner in the city. I couldn’t let the news get out that my daughter had a headless doll-themed baby shower.”
But it was more than that. She could see it in her mother’s eyes.
The emotion the woman was working so hard to hide was love.
“The tablecloths had great energy. I could feel it when we picked them out,” Howard added.
Georgie stared at her mother, who was trying to play it cool. She thought back to the picture the Gilberts had taped into the book. While her father had given her the gift of experiencing life through literature, her mother had given her the gift of rebellion—of saying my path isn’t your path. The gift of knowing her choices were her own.
All those pageants had cemented who she wanted to be. Without them, her passion to own a bookshop may have never ignited.
The strange yin and yang push and pull that made her who she was today was, in part, thanks to her mother.
“Mom,” she said gently. “We’re here because I wanted to apologize. I should have told you about the baby.”
“Well, pumpkin, you didn’t, and that’s that,” she replied sharply, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
“No, there’s more. I need to say this.”
Her mother schooled her features. “Say what?”
Georgie held the woman’s gaze. “I’m glad you’re my mom.”
That got her attention. Her mother stood, and not even the Botox could mask her shock.
“You are?”
“Yes,” she answered, tears coming to her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, you can be a lot. But so can I. You see, I thought that if I didn’t tell you about the pregnancy, it gave me control over the uncontrollable. But I was wrong. Life is a roller coaster—an adventure like in The Tale of Peter Rabbit. The Gilberts gave me that book and told me you used to read it to me when I was little.”
A sentimental smile pulled at the corners of her mother’s lips. “Your father hated that book. He’d say, ‘what if she wants to be like Peter,’ and I’d answer back, ‘then we should let her.’”
Georgie took a step toward her mom. “You and dad gave me everything I needed to become who I am today. With the books dad left me, I created an imaginary world with my favorite literary characters.”
“Lizzy, Jane, and that poor girl with the unfortunate name that starts with an H,” her mother interjected as Hermione balked.
“You know her name,” Georgie chided.
Lorraine sighed. “Yes, I do. It’s Hermione. I’d hear you talking to them in your room.”
“Do you want to know what you did for me, Mom?” Georgie asked.
“I’m not sure,” her mother replied. “Do I?”
Georgie swallowed past the lump in her throat. “You helped me learn who I am—and who I want to be. All the pageants let me see that I wanted something that was mine and not yours. It gave strength to my convictions.”
Her mother’s twist of a grin was back. “A little rebellion goes a long way. But I do have to say…”
“Yes?”
“I’m still disappointed you weren’t crowned Miss Cherry Pie. That sailor costume was perfect, and your tap skills were top-notch.”
“They still are,” Jordan said under his breath, biting back a dirty grin.
“You’re practicing your tap, pumpkin? I’m so pleased!” Lorraine replied with a little clap.
Georgie shared a look with her very naughty husband.
“Something like that,” she answered when her mother’s expression grew pensive.
“I don’t say this enough, but I’m proud of you, Georgiana. Even though I’d like for you to incorporate more designer pieces into your wardrobe—”
“Mom…” she warned.
“But you’ve made your way in the world, and you’ve done it on your own terms. I don’t say this often because sentimental talk often leads to tears and tears lead to streaked mascara. But I love you very much,” her mother finished, eyes shining.
Georgie leaned in, and mother and daughter embraced in an overdue hug. And despite her mother’s mascara warning, tears trailed down the woman’s cheeks.
The room exploded into applause, and she looked up at her husband. “We’re making another scene, aren’t we?”
“It wouldn’t be us if we didn’t,” he replied, then gestured behind her.
She turned to find that everyone from the shower had come to the country club.
Barry, Becca, Brice, Denny, Maureen, Hector, Bobby, Marjory, Gene, and even the blue-haired knitting brigade had filed into the country club.
“You all came!” she exclaimed, emotion or another contraction welling in her belly.
“We had to see how it turned out,” Gene said, giving her a hug and then turning to embrace her mother.
“Thank you for suggesting we give Georgie The Tale of Peter Rabbit,” Marjory said to her mother.
Georgie’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “You suggested it?”
Lorraine Vanderdinkle smoothed that same blond lock of hair that never required smoothing. “I can be sentimental from time to time, can’t I, Howard?”
“She can, especially for the spa. It’s her Sankalpa.”
“The spa is your Sankalpa?” Bobby asked.
Her mother lifted her chin. “It would probably come out sooner or later, but yes, after my time spent enhancing my spiritual skills, my Sankalpa came to me in a dream.”
“And,” Hector pressed.
“M
y innermost desire is to spend the day in the lap of luxury, and that’s when I knew.”
“Knew what?” Jordan asked.
Her mother glanced over her shoulder at Howard, then leaned in. “That this psychic energist business was for the birds,” she whispered as the group chuckled.
“But it wasn’t just the spa, was it?” Howard asked with a knowing twist to his lips.
Her mother’s expression softened. “I wasn’t alone in my Sankalpa vision. In my dream, you were with me at the spa. I’d suggested you choose a pink polish for your manicure. But you dismissed my comment and chose a rose shade instead.”
Georgie brushed a tear from her cheek. “That sounds like us.”
Her mother chuckled. “It does indeed.”
“I know what makes me happy. Thanks to you, Mom, I know how to fight for what I want,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.
Her mother nodded. “You certainly do.”
Despite the country club crowd hanging on every word of their brunch bonding session, a profound sense of certainty held them cocooned inside this moment where the connection between mother and daughter, no matter how strained, could never be broken.
“We’re so glad to see you and Georgie getting along so well,” Maureen said, popping the bubble and bringing them back from that place only mothers and daughters reside.
“We sure are,” Denny agreed.
Georgie glanced around. They’d become a giant spectacle.
“Mom, do you think we should leave? I didn’t mean to bring an entourage on my brunch crashing.”
Teary-eyed, Lorraine shook her head, then waved over the country club manager. “Gustavo, we’ll need the gazebo set up immediately. I’ve got an impromptu baby shower to host for my daughter—which is where it should have been to begin with, but…”
“Mom…” Georgie began, but her mother kept going.
“But…I’m grateful everyone’s here now,” she added, dropping the socialite pretenses.
Howard jumped up, whipped off his sport coat, and made little okay signs with his fingers.
“Should we chant?”
“No!” she and her mother replied at the same time.
“Georgie, could you look this way? This is great stuff!” Barry called, still rolling.
She turned to Jordan as her mother went about throwing together part two of the baby shower.
“Why didn’t you say anything and let me know everyone was here?” she asked.
Jordan gave her that cocky pantie-melter of a grin. “And ruin the moment? Only an asshat would do that.”
“Then, we’re lucky that you’re not just any asshat but the emperor of them all,” she replied.
She started to push up onto her tiptoes, not an easy thing to do when carrying a watermelon in your belly, to press a kiss to his cheek. But just before she could pucker up, a splash of liquid hit the marble floor and stopped her mid-lift.
Jordan’s eyes went wide as he held onto her forearms, keeping her upright.
The breath caught in her throat as another contraction hit.
They were coming faster now.
“Did someone spill a glass of water?” she asked on a tight exhale, once the pain subsided.
He shook his head, wide-eyed as his gaze bobbed between her face and the floor.
“No, that was all you,” he replied, looking shell-shocked.
She stared at the liquid pooling on the pristine marble tiles.
“Messy bun girl,” he said, his voice full of wonder.
She held his gaze. “Yeah?”
“Your water broke in the middle of brunch.”
20
Jordan
“The baby’s coming! This is it, Georgie!”
His wife stared at him, looking as bewildered as he felt.
“What do you mean this is it? We have to have brunch first. We’re going to have the shower here. Aren’t we supposed to eat chocolate baby poop? And we haven’t picked up any cookie dough, and we don’t even have my hospital bag,” she rambled, the moment hitting her like a ton of bricks.
“Eat what?” Lorraine exclaimed.
“Remember, Virginia, I ate all the candy bars,” Brice called.
Two for four—poor bastard.
“Okay, so no chocolate baby poop,” Georgie repeated. “But, what about my bag? We don’t have it. And what about Mr. Tuesday? He’s at the shop.”
“I’ll call the store and let Talya and Simon know that they’re on dog duty. They’ll make sure he’s taken care of,” Becca said, pulling out her cell.
“Mia and Mya are with them at the shop. Tell them to take Mr. Tuesday to my house when they bring the girls home,” Maureen added.
A flurry of activity buzzed around them as a life-altering event materialized before them.
He cupped Georgie’s face in his hand. “See, we’re all good.”
“What about Faby? We didn’t even make a plan for our fake baby.”
“I’ll take care of your fake baby,” Brice called.
Georgie leaned forward as another contraction hit. “Can we trust him with Faby?” she bit out.
This was not the birth plan they’d been practicing, that was for damn sure!
“I think so.” He handed the doll over. “Just don’t pop Faby’s head off.”
Brice cradled the fake baby in his arms. “That’s what Briana says to me when I babysit Ollie, and he’s still in one piece.”
Jordan nodded, not one hundred percent reassured, but it was better than nothing.
“We have to get to the hospital. Lorraine, can we take your car? The one we came in is out of gas,” he called.
“You’ll never make it,” she answered with a Botox version of worry written all over her face.
“What do you mean? The hospital is only fifteen or twenty minutes away from here.”
“If Georgiana is anything like me, my mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, my great-great-grandmother, or my great-great-great-grandmother, this baby will be here in minutes.”
“Minutes?” he and Georgie echoed.
“Yes, the women on my side of the family have exceptionally short labor on account of our exceedingly flawless cervixes,” Lorraine explained.
Dr. Beaver must have been serious when he’d complimented Georgie’s lady parts.
“I can’t believe it!” Georgie replied, then gripped his wrist as another contraction hit.
But he believed it. They had to act—and fast.
“Help Georgie over here, so she can lie down,” his father called, removing the throw pillows from one of those fancy half-couch half-bed-looking things.
“Yes, let’s get you to the chaise lounge,” Lorraine agreed.
“So I can deliver a baby inside of a country club next to an ice sculpture?” Georgie threw back, glancing around wildly.
He rubbed between her shoulder blades. While there were worse places to deliver a child, he could certainly understand her trepidation. She wasn’t wrong. How many women gave birth in the same room as an ice sculpture?
“It’s that or the backseat of a Prius, pumpkin,” her mother said gently but firmly.
Georgie cried out as another contraction hit. Without thinking, he lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the couch.
“Is this actually happening, or is it a pregnancy delusion? Please, say it’s a delusion,” she added, blowing out tight punctuated breaths.
“This is happening,” he answered, resting her on the cushions.
She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand, going back to pregnant labor panting.
She gasped. “The contractions are coming fast. They feel like they’re right on top of each other.”
He was thinking the same thing. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the first thing about delivering a baby. But he was the city’s top trainer. He knew how to take control and get shit done.
He glanced up and assessed the scene.
“Hector, call for an ambulance. Let them know Geo
rgie’s gone into labor,” he said, then barked out more orders, directing his friends and family to find towels, blankets, and even hot water because that’s what they called for in all the historical romance movies Georgie loved to watch. And it didn’t seem like a bad thing to have around. Hell, they had an ice sculpture. Why not a bucket of hot water, too?
“Another contraction’s coming,” she rasped, then released a piercing screech.
He turned to the brunch crowd. “My wife is in labor. We need a doctor. Can anyone help us until the ambulance gets here?”
Dozens of hands shot up.
“This is great,” he said, sharing a look with Georgie’s mom.
Lorraine shook her head. “No, most of them are plastic surgeons. Unless Georgie wants vaginal rejuvenation surgery, which is a great idea after the baby comes, these people will be of no help,” she answered.
“I’m a psychiatrist,” called a Freudian-looking guy.
Jordan hardened his features. “Nope, dude, I need somebody who knows what they’re doing.”
“I’m an obstetrician,” came a familiar voice.
And then a familiar face.
“Dr. Beaver,” Jordan exclaimed.
Georgie sat forward and took in the man, rocking tennis whites.
“Which Beaver are you? There are two of you. One of you is my baby doc—the other works on brains. I need the Beaver twin that knows my beaver!” she exclaimed.
Clearly, his wife had hit the part of the labor process where shit gets crazy, and she can say whatever the hell she wants without any threat of repercussions.
“I’m your Beaver, Georgie,” Dr. Beaver said, dropping his tennis racquet and rushing over.
“The one who complimented my cervix?” Georgie pressed, then leaned forward and groaned as another contraction hit.
“You better be the right Beaver, man,” he said, holding the guy’s gaze.
“Yes, that’s me! You’re Joyce’s favorite patient, Georgie. She talks about you all the time. I promise. I’m the right Beaver.”
“I’m Joyce’s favorite?” Georgie said, falling back onto the pillows in dreamy exhaustion.
“Jordan, can you believe it? Joyce likes us.”
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 27
