The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva

by Jacqueline Diamond

  With a shrug, Lew accepted the large bag. A puzzled expression crossed his face as he felt the shape of it. “What do you carry in here anyway?”

  “Oh, breath mints,” Chelsea said. “Would you find them for me?”

  “Sure.” Lew dug around in the purse. He seemed to be taking a long time, but Barry lost track. The music had resumed and two dancers were performing a brilliant pas de deux.

  The dance segment of the gala lasted about forty minutes. There was a short intermission, during which Chelsea declared that she had no intention of stirring from her seat. To Barry’s surprise, his father didn’t object.

  He must realize he’d never be allowed backstage to see Angela during intermission. In any case, he was taking his defeat with good grace, Barry thought.

  When the performance resumed, a soprano named Sylvie Bernadis performed a couple of arias. Slim and lively, she wore her chestnut hair upswept above a blue strapless gown that appeared to have been cantilevered into place. Although Barry was no judge of singing, she sounded lovely to him.

  At last the true star of the evening emerged from the wings, bowing and smiling. Fiorello Magnifico basked in the applause as he swept to the front of the stage, nearly trampling the soprano, who dodged back.

  They proceeded to sing two duets. The splendid music nearly got lost in the unintended comedy as Fiorello’s bulk repeatedly eclipsed Sylvie’s slender figure. She had to execute a complicated series of steps to remain in public view.

  Barry heard titters at one climactic moment when Il Magnifico lumbered forward, flung out his arms and came within inches of sweeping his “beloved” into the orchestra pit. The woman glared at the oblivious tenor as she took her bows and exited.

  A stir of anticipation ran through the onlookers as the man prepared to sing his arias. Or perhaps, Barry realized, the tension was being transmitted from his father, two seats away.

  He glanced at Lew. And couldn’t believed what he saw.

  His father was holding a pie. Lemon meringue, judging by the smell. Where on earth had it come from?

  Barry’s gaze fell on Chelsea’s large purse. She’d handed the thing to his father, yet surely she hadn’t been part of this.

  He’d trusted her, and she’d sworn to help. Had she lied?

  Chelsea’s eyes flicked toward him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just had to.”

  On stage, Fiorello broke into his signature aria, “La Donna é Mobile” from Verdi’s Rigoletto. The song’s title was translated, Barry recalled, as “Women Are Fickle.”

  Verdi had gotten that right.

  CHELSEA BALLED her hands into fists. She was afraid Barry would tackle his father before he could take action.

  Only after Lew stood up and began moving forward did she spot an unforeseen hazard. If he had thrown a pie during the press luncheon, it would have been an easy shot. The theater was a different matter.

  Four rows ahead of them, the orchestra pit yawned like the Grand Canyon. It was hard to imagine even an experienced pie-tosser like Lew being able to clear the thing, especially when he hadn’t had a chance to practice.

  What if he missed? What if he hit the conductor?

  Lew didn’t appear fazed, however. He planted himself, feet apart and lifted the pie in one hand, carefully taking aim.

  When Fiorello spotted him, he forgot to sing the next line. Seizing the opportunity, Lew yelled, “Save the junkyards!” and launched the pie into space.

  Over the orchestra it flew. Too high? Too wide?

  It smacked into the tenor’s forehead, spattering yellow and white goo onto his tuxedo and across the stage. The force of the impact dislodged Fiorello’s hair—no, his toupee—which slipped to a rakish angle, revealing sparse clumps of graying hair plastered to a shining pate.

  The musicians stopped playing. Time hung suspended for a split second.

  Lew bolted for a side door. He didn’t make it. A couple of guests, with Werner Waldheim in the lead, pinned him down and shouted for security.

  “I can’t tell you how disappointed I am,” Barry said, close to Chelsea’s ear. She could hear the anger in his voice.

  Suddenly she didn’t feel triumphant. She might have been true to herself, but she’d hurt Barry.

  Before she could apologize, a band tightened across her abdominal muscles. At first, she thought she was having a false contraction of the sort that struck occasionally during the last weeks of pregnancy.

  The squeezing didn’t stop. It went on and on until she wondered if she’d been gripped by a bulldozer.

  “I’ve got to go help my father.” Barry stood up.

  Chelsea gasped. “I’m in labor!”

  “Oh, sure,” he muttered. “Let me by.”

  “I can’t.” The house lights came up, although most of the audience remained seated. “I’m…it hurts!”

  “I’m not going to be made a fool of twice in one evening,” Barry growled, then hesitated. “Chelsea? You’re kidding, right?”

  She could feel sweat breaking out on her forehead. “No!”

  “Oh, Lord.” Barry turned to his family. “Chelsea’s in labor.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder, with all the ruckus,” Grace said.

  “We’ve got to get her to a hospital,” Barry said.

  That was exactly what Chelsea wanted to hear.

  IN AN IDEALISTIC part of her brain, Chelsea had been hoping she might be able to give birth the natural way. But an hour of labor while she was rushed to the hospital and prepped for surgery, dispelled any lingering romanticism.

  No way were both of those babies coming out of there. Not if she had anything to say about it. Fortunately, Dr. Keller agreed.

  The surgery went more easily than she’d expected. The best part was hearing each twin’s lusty cry and seeing the awe on Barry’s face. And, of course, cuddling the babies herself as each was wrapped and laid beside her.

  They were tiny and fierce and cute. A boy and a girl. Chelsea hadn’t picked names in advance. She’d imagined that when she saw their little faces, names would pop into her mind.

  Instead, remembering Lew, all she could think of was the term “tarred and feathered.” She didn’t think the kids would enjoy being called that.

  Watching Barry marvel at them, she knew he would be a devoted father. She wished he could be her husband, too, because she loved him so much.

  However, any possibility of marriage had vanished earlier that evening. The right wife for Barry would never have stooped to helping Lew.

  “Aiding and abetting.” Nope, the kids wouldn’t like those names, either, Chelsea reflected as the anesthesiologist injected something into the intravenous tube.

  She drifted off to sleep, still trying to think of names.

  AFTER CHELSEA was taken to the recovery room,

  Barry gave the babies a checkup in the nursery. A neonatalogist had already examined them, but it never hurt to make certain. Overjoyed to confirm that they were healthy, Barry then went to post bail for his misbehaving father.

  “I’m not going to apologize,” Lew said as they left the jail.

  “You should. You made a mess of things, although the gala did manage to go on,” Barry said.

  “Please don’t tell me that tenor came back and sang!”

  “He certainly did.” When Barry had called the Menton house to let everyone know that Chelsea and the babies were fine, he’d learned that the soprano had filled in until Fiorello, head covered by a plumed hat, returned to his devoted audience.

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Lew said. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to getting some sleep.”

  “Not so fast.”

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning.” His father yawned.

  “Andrew assured me that he and Grace are wide awake and can’t wait to see you. We’re going by their house,” Barry said as they entered the parking lot, and headed for the car. Having gotten his second wind, he was fully alert despite the late ho
ur. Across the roof of his sports car, he watched his father’s face register alarm. “You mean I have to face the witch?”

  “You’re darn right you do.”

  “Tonight?”

  A grim sense of satisfaction gave his words weight. “You’re the star of the show, Dad. I wouldn’t want you to miss a minute of it.”

  “Wonderful,” Lew grumbled. “Now tell me some good news. Tell me about the babies.”

  On the drive to the Hollywood Hills, Barry filled him in about Chelsea’s delivery. “I’m glad everything went well, but I wish I’d been there,” his father said wistfully. “You are going to marry that girl, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” Barry said. “She seemed to be growing up, becoming more responsible. Then she pulled a stunt like sneaking you a pie. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Wait a minute,” his father said. “You’re not going to let a silly thing like a pie-tossing come between you and the mother of your children!”

  Around them on the road, headlights softened the darkness. L.A.’s freeways, like New York’s subways, never slept.

  “You let your differences come between you and Mom,” Barry said.

  Lew took his time before answering. Finally he said, “We both wanted to be in control and we weren’t willing to compromise.”

  “You still aren’t.” Barry exited the freeway.

  “I’m too old to change,” said his father. “But you’re not. Besides, Chelsea isn’t afraid of conflict like Meredith was.”

  “Mom was afraid of conflict?” Barry didn’t believe it. “That’s not what the way she sounded to me.”

  “She made lots of cutting remarks,” Lew said. “She shrank from hashing things out, though. Any hint of real confrontation sent her scurrying into sarcasm. Not that I’m trying to pin the blame on her. I’m a tough guy to live with.”

  Thinking back, Barry remembered asking his mother once to talk to a teacher he considered unfair. She’d promised to schedule a meeting, but kept finding excuses for putting it off.

  Intuitively, he’d understood her discomfort. After that, when he had a problem with anyone, he’d worked it out for himself.

  But some differences couldn’t be worked out because they ran too deep. Like the conflict between his parents. And, perhaps, the gap between him and Chelsea.

  “When I get married, I don’t want to live with that kind of power struggle in the family,” Barry said. “I’m a straight-arrow, like Mom, and Chelsea’s off-the-wall, like you. In time, we might start to hate each other.”

  Lew shook his head. “Chelsea’s unconventional, but, unlike me, she’s not usually a pain in the butt. As for you, you’re stable enough to anchor her and you don’t shrink from confrontation. I’d say you two are good for each other.”

  Barry wished it were true. He’d never loved anyone as much as he’d loved Chelsea tonight, watching her deliver their two precious babies.

  On the other hand, she’d made him absolutely furious a few hours earlier. Could he live with such roller-coaster emotions?

  They pulled into the Mentons’ driveway. “Here we go,” Lew said. “Time to face the music and dodge the bullets.”

  “One thing you can say for Aunt Grace. She’s not afraid of conflict.”

  “You can say that again. But please don’t.”

  Andrew met them at the door and escorted them to the family room. The big-screen TV was tuned to a late-night talk show.

  “We’re on all the stations!” Grace, looking perky in a fleece pants outfit, was curled at one end of the couch. “Supporters have been calling the FOB all evening pledging donations.”

  “You’ve made them famous, Lew.” Andrew offered soft drinks all around and Barry accepted one thirstily.

  Lew perched on a chair, as far as possible from his former sister-in-law. “You’re not angry?”

  “I was boiling,” Grace admitted. “I’ve calmed down, though. Let me show you something I taped on the news.”

  With the remote control, she cued the VCR. The image onscreen was replaced by an earlier broadcast of a press conference at the theater.

  Fiorello Magnifico, his toupee back in place, stood in a rehearsal room beside Werner Waldheim, facing the glare of lights. Grace fast-forwarded for a few seconds, then let the tape roll at regular speed.

  “I don’t want any child to suffer the way I did while growing up,” Fiorello was saying, with no trace of an Italian accent. In the excitement, he’d apparently forgotten about it.

  “What do you mean?” asked a reporter.

  “My mother dressed me in Army surplus clothes from the time I was ten until I finished high school,” Fiorello said. “Can you imagine what that does to a sensitive artistic temperament like mine?”

  “Wait a minute,” said the billionaire at his side. “You mean this whole campaign is about the fact that your mother made you wear Army surplus clothes?”

  The tenor gulped before replying. “Of course not. Mostly, I’m angry about the government’s wasted money. But you can’t know how demeaning it is for a child, having to walk around in camouflage like some kind of nutcase.”

  “My father wore camouflage,” Werner said. “He was a career Marine. I wouldn’t call him a nutcase.”

  “Don’t tell me your mother wore Army boots, too!” said Fiorello. “Sorry. That was a joke.”

  “I’m not laughing,” said his erstwhile friend. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure she did wear Army boots on duty, if her assignment called for it.”

  “Your mother was in the service?” the tenor asked dazedly.

  “That’s why I was so eager to help you. I thought we were supporting the Armed Forces, not making fun of them!” snapped the executive. “I’m withdrawing my support for the Government Outlet act immediately. And if I were you, I’d drop charges against that pie-throwing fellow. Some people might call him a patriot.”

  Fiorello babbled a weak objection. Under fire from the reporters, however, he backed down and began treating the entire incident as a joke.

  “Hurray!” shouted Lew. “I’ve struck a blow for little guys everywhere!”

  “Please don’t strike any more blows of the pie-throwing variety around me,” said Grace.

  “I know I abused your hospitality,” Lew said, “but it was in a good cause.”

  “All’s well that ends well,” she conceded. “If you ever do anything like that again, though, I’ll hire a thug to break both your arms.”

  “Mother!” Andrew said.

  “I couldn’t threaten to shoot him. I believe in gun control,” she said.

  “Now there’s another subject!” Lew said.

  “Not tonight. Please.” Andrew yawned, and his mother followed suit.

  Quickly, Barry bid them good-night and escorted his father out. Lew frothed at the mouth all the way back to the condo, citing friends who had confronted rabid skunks and marauding coyotes and felt safer with protection. Once he got home, however, he went quietly off to bed.

  Barry was glad he’d had the presence of mind earlier to call Dr. Withers and arrange for him to cover at the office tomorrow, as they’d discussed in advance. That meant he could sleep late and then spend time with Chelsea and the twins.

  The problem was, he still didn’t know what he was going to say to her.

  14

  ON MONDAY MORNING, the nurse came in early to roust Chelsea from her sleep. “Time to get up and move around,” said the cheerful R.N., whose name tag read Ms. Owens.

  Chelsea couldn’t believe this woman expected her to leave her bed. “I just had surgery!”

  “It’s best for you to get moving right away,” said the nurse. “They’ll bring your babies in shortly.”

  “Is my…is Dr. Cantrell here?” Chelsea asked. She’d nearly slipped and called him her husband.

  Last night, she’d made the decision to help Lew with full awareness that it might drive Barry away. All the same, she wondered why he hadn’t appeared yet. It was past 7:00 a
.m. If Barry didn’t arrive soon, he’d have to start work for the day and she wouldn’t see him for hours.

  “He hasn’t come by,” said the nurse. “I’ll crank up your bed to help you sit. Ready?”

  Chelsea wasn’t, but she tried to be a good sport. Somehow, she managed to stand with Ms. Owens’s assistance and shuffled for a few steps. She felt about a million years old.

  Her energy began returning when the twins were wheeled in, each in a little plastic bassinet. “They’re doing very well,” said one of the nursery attendants. “What are you going to call them?”

  Chelsea liked Barry’s mother’s name, Meredith. She also adored Lew, but she wasn’t naming her son after that cantankerous old soul. “The girl’s Merry.” She spelled it out so it wasn’t confused with Mary. “As for the boy…” Inspiration struck. “He’s Hank, if Dr. Cantrell doesn’t mind.”

  “Good names.” The woman wrote them on stickers, which she attached to the bassinets.

  After she left, Ms. Owens returned to give instructions on baby care. Chelsea’s milk should come in soon, she said. The hospital encouraged breast-feeding because of the many health benefits.

  Then she was gone. The babies, so cute and tiny Chelsea could hardly believe they were real, slept peacefully. The other bed in the semiprivate room remained empty.

  An hour later, the babies were taken back to the nursery, to Chelsea’s disappointment. Because they were twins and had been born a few weeks early, the neonatalogist had left instructions for extra monitoring during their first few days.

  Nine o’clock passed with no sign of Barry. He must have gone to work by now. He hadn’t even bothered to stop in.

  Chelsea blinked back tears. She’d expected him to be angry. She hadn’t expected him to avoid her altogether.

  A wave of postpartum blues swept over her. In a dark future, the babies would insist on drinking chocolate milk from bottles and become thoroughly unhealthy, space aliens would invade earth and take over all the receptionist jobs, Barry would return to Prego Prego and Chelsea would have to beg Starshine to let her move back in.

  She sank against the pillows in a pool of self-pity. Darn it, she loved that fuddy-duddy doctor. Why did he have to be so stubborn?