Kids deserved stability. Maybe that meant that they deserved a loving, adoptive home. Yet try as he might, Barry couldn’t reconcile himself to giving them up.
He didn’t know what to do. It was a humbling feeling.
“Can I give you some advice, son?” asked Lew, appearing in the open bedroom doorway. He wore a black suit with a bolo tie that intensified the resemblance to Colonel Sanders that Chelsea had pointed out earlier.
“Go ahead.” Barry knew that his father, who wanted very much to be a grandfather, would probably say something he didn’t want to hear. Still, it was only polite to listen.
“Don’t eat a man’s coconut pie until you know what he plans to do with it.”
Barry frowned, trying to find some deep, metaphorical meaning in his father’s odd statement. Then he remembered his late-night snack.
“I saw it in the refrigerator,” he said. “I figured it was for us both.”
“You ate half,” Lew pointed out. “That’s a lot for one sitting.”
“I haven’t had a coconut pie in years.” An alarming notion occurred to Barry. “You weren’t planning to throw it at someone, were you?”
“Who, me?” His father’s eyes widened in mock confusion. Barry’s mother, Meredith, used to refer to it as his sneaky-fox-pretending-to-be-a-deer-in-the-headlights look.
“There aren’t going to be any politicians present today, as far as I know,” Barry said. “The event is to publicize the opera and ballet’s fall season. Surely you don’t object to singing and dancing.”
“I’m expected to sing and dance?” Lew joked. “You should have told me. I’d have worn my tap shoes.”
The man was impossible. And wonderful. Barry started to give him a hug, then, respecting their habit of keeping a distance, turned it into a clap on the shoulder. “No pie-throwing, Dad.”
“I promise.” Lew grinned. “I haven’t got a pie and, besides, I’m in a good mood today, thanks to you and Chelsea.”
“We haven’t decided…”
“You’ll do the right thing,” said his father, and vanished before Barry could respond.
8
THIS WASN’T going to be easy, Chelsea thought as she and Angela drove onto the freeway on Saturday morning. She was glad she had this chance to talk to her young friend alone.
Angela had asked for a ride to the theater, since she had to arrive an hour and a half before the rest of her family. Chelsea had agreed, partly because it would make Angela happy and partly because she wanted to explain the circumstances of her pregnancy before the girl heard the news from someone else.
The problem was, she discovered as she tried to decide how to start, that she didn’t want to set a bad example. Although Chelsea treasured her live-and-let-live attitude, she didn’t want to give a twelve-year-old the impression that having children outside of marriage was a good idea.
The hard part was to explain why she’d gone to bed with Barry in the first place, besides the obvious fact that he was cute. She was sure there had been a good reason, even if she hadn’t been consciously aware of it.
Suddenly Chelsea knew what it was.
“I did a foolish thing,” she said. “I want to tell you about it because you’re going to find out anyway.”
“Otherwise you wouldn’t tell me?” Her face surrounded by a cloud of hair burnished by the May sunshine, Angela hugged herself protectively.
Chelsea had forgotten how oversensitive an adolescent could be. “I wouldn’t have told you because it’s embarrassing.”
The girl relaxed. “I can’t believe you’d be embarrassed about anything!”
“Well, I am.” She decided to plunge right in. “Some time ago, I had a bad relationship and it made me doubt myself. I stayed away from men for a long time, which wasn’t hard, because most of the guys I meet are creeps.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” In a few seconds, Angela had gone from vulnerable child to blasé young lady. Chelsea smiled at the transition.
“Then I met a supernice guy and I jumped at the chance to prove something to myself,” she said. “I’m afraid I also jumped into bed with him.”
“What happened?”
Chelsea took a deep breath. “I got pregnant.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Angela stared at her. “Is this for real?”
“Not only is it for real, it’s twins.” She swung past a slowpoke in the middle lane.
“What about the guy?” Angela asked. “Did he turn out to be a jerk?”
“No.” Chelsea might as well spill the rest of it. “He turned out to be Barry.”
“My Barry?”
“The same.”
“Good,” said Angela. “You two are perfect for each other.”
Chelsea’s hackles rose. “We are not. You know how you don’t want your family to run your life? Well, I don’t want a man to run mine, either.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” the girl said. “Would he?”
“I like him,” Chelsea conceded. “He can be fun to have around. But there’s this undercurrent of stuffiness. A place for everything and everything in its place.”
“I know what you could do!” Angela said. “You could get married, but live in different houses.”
“People don’t do that.”
“Why not? You’d never be lonely, because you’d each have a baby to play with,” the girl said. “I love babies! I’ll sit with your kids anytime you want, and I won’t charge for it, either.”
Chelsea had meant to bring up the subject of adoption, but suddenly she couldn’t. What if Angela got so upset she messed up her solo?
“Look! We’re almost there.” She exited the freeway a block from the theater, grateful to be spared any further conversation.
It occurred to Chelsea, as she parked in the underground garage, that having children of her own meant she would have to set a good example all the time. How on earth did parents manage?
THE CATERED LUNCHEON took place in a large rehearsal hall transformed for the occasion with tables, chairs and a temporary stage. In addition to the press, the attendees included FOB members and their guests. Barry, sitting between Chelsea and Lew, shared a table in back with the Mentons.
From where Barry sat, the reporters appeared to be enjoying their meals of Chinese chicken salad. The TV crews, however, were too busy setting up to eat, and the newspaper photographers jockeyed for position with the cameras.
Chelsea looked radiant, Barry thought, sneaking a glance at her. She wore her hair upswept, which emphasized the delicacy of her bone structure and the sculpted fullness of her lips.
His father was right, he thought; she did glow. Barry couldn’t smell any hormones, however, only exotic perfume mingled with the herbal softness of her shampoo.
Her one-shoulder purple jungle-print dress, made him yearn to slide that strap down her arm. Oh, for a little privacy!
Better not to think in that direction. Indulging his fantasies was how he and Chelsea had landed themselves in this dilemma in the first place.
Barry leaned forward as the current chairman of Friends of the Opera and Ballet mounted the stage. The man spoke a few words about the upcoming season and noted that the details were in the press kits.
“Now we have a treat for you,” the man said. “Without further ado, here is the marvelous Fiorello Magnifico, who will star in our holiday gala in December.”
To Barry’s right, Lew cleared his throat with a low growl. This was not a friendly noise. As the tenor bowed and an accompanist slipped into his seat at the piano, Barry studied Mr. Magnifico for clues to his father’s apparent dislike.
Pudgy, of average height, with black hair so thick it was probably augmented, the tenor radiated self-importance. His cavalier’s costume, complete with lace-trimmed sleeves and a costume sword strapped across the chest, looked like it had been swiped from a production of The Three Musketeers.
“Now I will sing for you,” the man said, unnecessarily. He had a strong Italian a
ccent, which was surprising, since he came from New York. In fact, Barry thought he detected a nasal Bronx undertone.
The pianist played a few notes and Fiorello launched into an aria from Don Giovanni. The opera had been one of Barry’s mother’s favorites, so it was familiar, and he could tell that the man sang it well.
However, he didn’t like the way Fiorello flirted with every female at the front tables, batting his eyes and wiggling his ample stomach. If he’d been singing the title role of Don Juan, his actions might have made sense, but in this aria, he was supposed to be a devoted suitor declaring that his true love’s happiness was his only reason for living.
By the time Fiorello finished to enthusiastic applause, Barry understood why someone might throw a cream pie at the man out of sheer annoyance. He was glad he didn’t have one handy to tempt him.
That didn’t explain the snarl on Lew’s mouth. Barry still didn’t know what Fiorello had done to antagonize him.
After one more song, the man left the stage. It was time for the youth ballet.
WHEN ANGELA danced onto the stage, Chelsea thought her heart would break.
The girl looked achingly beautiful. Fragile. Fluid. She floated, drawing all eyes from the other young ballerinas.
Without thinking, Chelsea reached over and took Barry’s hand. She felt as if she had to hold on to someone or she might melt onto the floor.
His large hand enfolded hers protectively. Through their touch, his steadiness calmed her. The dependability, the resoluteness she distrusted so much were suddenly welcome.
Chelsea wasn’t sure why she felt shaky, watching Angela strike one graceful position after another. The young dancer managed to capture both the joy of self-discovery and the agony of self-doubt. The sight brought back memories of Chelsea’s own adolescence.
From her hairstyles to her study habits, she had insisted on charting her own nonconforming course, despite the taunts of other students and the disapproval of teachers. Sometimes she’d felt as vulnerable, and been as determined, as Angela looked.
Chelsea didn’t even notice when the other girls drew back to let her perform solo, because it seemed as if Angela had been alone on stage from the moment she entered. Surely everyone could see that the girl had a rare gift. No wonder tears were pouring down Cindi’s cheeks and glittering in Grace’s eyes.
As Angela completed a series of leaps and spins, Chelsea’s heart constricted. What if this were her child? What if she weren’t there for those key moments, the triumphs and tragedies?
She couldn’t bear to give birth to a child and never know what happened to him or her. Or, rather, to them.
Not to know whether the twins were crying at night, or laughing at funny stories. Not to watch them grow through all the fearful, magical stages of childhood.
She wanted to be there for moments like this. What else was life about?
When the audience erupted into applause, she discovered she was still holding Barry’s hand. For one electric moment, she looked into his face and saw her own longing for their children mirrored there.
This was why a woman might want to tie herself to a strong, self-possessed man like Barry: to share with him the happy and difficult times ahead. To lean on him when she felt overwhelmed, and when the children needed him.
Disgusted with herself, Chelsea yanked her hand away. A woman could certainly come up with some bizarre ideas while under the influence of ballet, she reflected, and began clapping as hard as she could.
BARRY WAS SEIZED by an urge to drag Chelsea aside and demand to know why she’d squeezed his hand, and why she’d then pulled it away. He didn’t understand anything about her or, at the moment, himself. In defiance of all logic, he wanted to hang on to her as tightly as she’d just held on to him.
Watching Angela dance had been a transcendent experience, mostly because he’d shared it with Chelsea. His ache for her was both irrational and irresistible.
He couldn’t do anything about it at the moment, though. To Barry’s intense frustration, he had to sit here for the rest of the press conference or risk embarrassing his relatives.
When the applause subsided, the chairman of the FOB introduced a few celebrity supporters in the audience. Among them was the reclusive billionaire Werner Waldheim, who rarely made public appearances. In his late thirties, slim with graying dark hair, he had a self-possessed air that belied his reputation as a computer geek.
Several reporters asked about Fiorello’s upcoming performance schedule, and the tenor strutted back on stage. Barry found it painful to listen to his fake Italian accent with its Bronx underpinnings, but the press lapped up the words.
They kept scribbling as he detailed future engagements in Europe, then added, “And I’m very grateful to Mr. Waldheim for supporting the proposal I discussed on several recent TV shows.”
“Could you restate that position, Mr. Magnifico?” called a reporter.
Barry leaned forward. Here, at last, might be a clue to why that coconut pie had appeared in his refrigerator last night.
The tenor drew himself up. “Certainly. It’s a national scandal. According to the newspapers, the Army sometimes mistakenly sells items to Army surplus stores and then has to buy them back at inflated prices. I believe it’s time we nationalized these stores.”
“Why not just demand that the Army be more efficient?” someone called.
“Because these surplus goods belong to the taxpayers. If the Army doesn’t need them, it, not the individual storeowners, should profit from the sales directly,” said the tenor.
“You’ve also called for nationalizing junk dealerships,” commented another reporter. “What’s your justification for that?”
“It’s hard to distinguish between the two types of businesses. Besides, I’m sure junk dealers end up with a lot of government vehicles,” said Fiorello.
Next to Barry, his father muttered something under his breath. It sounded like, “My kingdom for a pie.”
Aunt Grace, however, was nodding in approval, just as Barry’s mother would have done at any suggestion that the government should take charge of private matters. He hoped Lew didn’t notice.
“Do you really think you have any chance of succeeding?” asked a TV anchorman.
“Yes, with Werner’s support,” Fiorello said. “I don’t have the pull with politicians, but he does.”
“Are you serious about this issue?” someone asked Waldheim.
The billionaire beamed as he spoke into a microphone. “I’m honored to be friends with such a great artist and happy to assist our armed forces.”
In his fury, Lew vibrated like a rocket ready for blastoff. It was a relief to Barry when the tenor finally took himself off stage and his father calmed down.
As soon as the press conference ended, Chelsea darted out the door. Instinctively, Barry strode after her through a twisting corridor.
When she took a wrong turn into a no-exit hallway, he cornered her. “I want to know why you grabbed my hand,” he said. “You were hanging on to me for dear life.”
“It didn’t mean anything,” Chelsea said defiantly. “I just felt like it. If my chinchilla had been sitting next to me, I’d have held his little paw.”
“It had something to do with Angela, but there was more to it,” Barry said. “We’ve got to work things out between us. There are two children’s futures hanging in the balance.”
“Oh, about that.” Chelsea gave him a skittish smile. “I’ve decided to keep them. Don’t worry about it. It isn’t your problem.”
“Keeping the children isn’t a problem. It is an important issue.” He struggled to maintain an even tone. “I intend to provide financial support whether you want it or not, and I insist on being involved.”
“Why? To make sure they go to the right schools?” Chelsea challenged.
Barry winced. He’d had a conversation with Andrew on Friday afternoon about the value of sending children to private schools where they could make worthwhile social conn
ections. Obviously, she’d overheard and gotten her feathers ruffled.
“That’s negotiable.” Barry refused to be dragged into petty squabbling. The two of them sounded too much like his own parents. “We’ll continue this discussion when we’ve both simmered down. Let’s go find the others. I don’t want to leave my father alone for too long.”
“Why not?” Chelsea didn’t resist as he caught her elbow and drew her along the passageway.
Barry explained about the coconut pie. “Now I understand what he’s got against this Fiorello character.”
“I agree that the man’s an idiot, but why does his stupid campaign concern your father?” Chelsea asked.
“His best friend owns a junkyard.”
“That’s a good reason to throw a pie,” she said.
“Can you imagine how Aunt Grace would react if my father did such a thing?”
Chelsea gave him an amused look. “She’d get over it.”
Barry groaned. “I don’t think so.”
They found the others chatting in a happy knot near the elevators. “People liked my solo so much that I’ve been asked to dance at the December gala!” Angela threw her arms around Chelsea. “I’m glad you convinced me to stick with ballet!”
“Yes, thank you,” Grace said over her granddaughter’s head.
“She’s the one who deserves the credit,” Chelsea said.
Barry spotted his father trying to slip off, and caught up with him. “Don’t even think about going after that tenor,” he told Lew in a low voice. “Pie or no pie, I know you’re up to some mischief.”
“The man’s going to be performing in Europe all summer and fall,” his father said. “You can’t blame me for trying to take a poke at him before he gets away.”
“Physical violence?” Barry asked uneasily.
“Not exactly.” From his pocket, Lew produced a dispenser of Silly String. “I figured I could blast him with this gooey stuff. Just to make my protest.”
“No,” said Barry.
“Spoilsport.” Good-naturedly, his father put away the string. Still, Barry knew he’d have to keep an eye on the man until he left town. You could never tell what he might do next.
The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva Page 9
