Babyland

by Holly Chamberlin

  “I know what it’s called. I just like to say bat poop.”

  “And I’m the one with no social graces?”

  “By the way,” I blurted, “have you heard my big news?”

  Jack was busy now cutting a mat. “You got the job doing Beatrice Kent’s reunion party?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the big news.” Not the really big news. “I’m pregnant. I mean, Ross and I ... We’re going to have a baby.”

  “Congratulations,” he said evenly. “Is that what you’re supposed to say in a situation like this? You know I’m lousy when it comes to social graces.”

  “Congratulations is an appropriate thing to say,” I told him. To myself I added, It’s even nicer when you mean it.

  Jack looked up from the mat. “Hand me those gloves, will you?”

  I did. I felt like crying.

  “What?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I lied, eyes wide. “It’s just that, I don’t know, you could be, I don’t know—”

  “Jumping up and down with excitement? Calling the neighbors to tell them the big news?”

  I shrugged. I felt like a total fool. “No. I mean—”

  “Anna, your big news doesn’t change anything in my life. There’s a limit to what I can be excited about.” And then he laughed. “Come on, what did you expect me to say?”

  I was stunned. I’d never heard anything so cruel. “Nothing,” I said. I tried to sound cold, but my voice shook. “I don’t expect anything from you. Because you are the most self-centered person I have ever met. And there’s no reason to be such a jerk.”

  “Don’t cry, Anna.”

  “I am not going to cry,” I said, although tears had gathered in my eyes, “and I am not a hormonal wreck, so don’t even think about cracking jokes at my expense about female mood swings and ridiculous cravings and swollen ankles.”

  Jack had the decency to look slightly ashamed. “I wouldn’t stoop to quoting the stereotypes,” he said. “Look—”

  “I’m leaving,” I said, cutting off whatever lame apology he might be considering. “I don’t know why I’m here anyway.”

  I practically ran back to my office so great was my anger, and my embarrassment. Why, why, why, I wondered with every step, did Jack have to be such a jerk? Worse, why had I made such a big deal of telling him I was pregnant? What, what, what had I been thinking? Why should Jack care if I was pregnant? Why should he care about me at all?

  And then a sneaking, sly, and seductive voice in my head whispered, Because you want him to.

  24

  Peas in the Pod

  Ross’s slim, manicured fingers traced an invisible line across the tablecloth. “Can we request a creamier tone?” he said. “This is a bit too harsh for my taste.”

  The Tuxedo Hotel’s wedding coordinator, a dapper man in his midthirties named Walt LaFond, frowned in a practiced sort of way. “No, Mr. Davis, I’m sorry. The linen is non-negotiable.”

  Ross looked to me, then back to the sample table Walt had set, and frowned.

  “Well,” he said finally. “I suppose they’ll do.”

  “They’ll be fine, Ross,” I said consolingly. “The centerpieces will look lovely against the white, I’m sure.”

  Ross had helped design the lush centerpieces that included snapdragons and freesia. You see, unlike the majority of men—or so I’m told—who want nothing to do with wedding preparations, Ross assumed an active role immediately after our engagement. I thought it was sweet, and given Ross’s excellent taste, I found his input very welcome. Especially now that I had a pregnancy to endure and a baby to plan for and a business to run. I hadn’t even asked Ross to come with me to this tasting; he’d offered to go along all on his own.

  “Shall we discuss the vegetable dishes?” Walt said.

  Ross frowned. “No saucy preparations for the vegetables. There’s too great a risk of spillage.”

  Walt nodded seriously and looked to me as if for confirmation of Ross’s dictate.

  “Absolutely no saucy vegetables,” I said, imagining with horror buttery grease stains on the bodice of my gown.

  Again, Walt nodded. He was very solemn for a wedding coordinator. I rather liked that about him. “Noted,” he said. “No sauces on the vegetables. Next we’ll try the roasted rosemary potatoes and the grilled asparagus.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’d like to forgo the potatoes in favor of the risotto you mentioned earlier. Ross?”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” he said. “And, of course, you do understand there’ll be no shellfish and nothing remotely raw.” Ross winked at me then, and I noted just how pretty his eyes were. If I didn’t know better I would have sworn he’d applied glycerine drops before he left the condo.

  “Of course,” I agreed. Ross was always looking out for the baby.

  The waiter cleared the table and left to bring out the final course. Dessert! I’d requested that we sample several types of cakes, including, of course, a triple-layer chocolate and hazelnut cake and, for those who preferred something lighter, an apricot-filled white cake with a fondant icing. As a treat, I’d also ordered plates of tiny marzipan fruits for each table. I hoped mightily that the kitchen had procured some for the tasting.

  When Walt’s beeper sounded and he excused himself to take a call in his office, Ross and I shared a smile of content. “We’re so in sync, Anna,” he said, taking my hand and squeezing it gently.

  I looked up at my handsome, mild-mannered fiancé with fondness. “We are, aren’t we?”

  “Oh,” he said, releasing my hand, “I almost forgot to tell you the big news. I booked us into The Palace Hotel in Rome, very close to the Spanish Steps. It’s amazing that I even got a room only six months before the honeymoon, but I talked to some people and, well, I think you’re going to love it. Of course it’s wonderfully high-end.”

  Of course. And to be honest, wonderfully high-end sounded, well, wonderful. And I hated to put a damper on what had turned out to be a very pleasant afternoon. But someone had to do it.

  “Ross?” I said softly. “I’ll be so far along in the pregnancy by then. Six months along. I’m not even sure I’ll be allowed to fly. Oh, Ross, I’m so sorry.”

  Ross’s expression remained neutral. “Anna,” he said, “don’t worry about a thing. Why don’t you check with your doctor and see what she says. We can always postpone the honeymoon until after the baby is born. My mother can watch the baby, or we’ll look into hiring an au pair. There’s plenty of time and we have plenty of options.”

  “But you’ve gone to so much trouble planning it all,” I said, genuinely sorry for being the unwitting cause of Ross’s wasted efforts. “And it all sounds so lovely!”

  “It does,” he agreed. “An entire month in Italy. But it will still be lovely when we finally go. And just think. It’ll be a celebration not only of our marriage but also of our family. Besides, after a few months you’ll need a break from the demands of little Brockland or Boundary.”

  I didn’t bother to point out that if I was still breastfeeding little Brockland or Boundary—shudder!—I wouldn’t be going anywhere without the baby for quite a while. I didn’t want to further spoil the plans for what would have been our life. Besides, Ross was being so wonderful about the pregnancy.

  “You’re a very good man, Ross Davis,” I said, sending him an air kiss. Ross doesn’t like lipstick anywhere near his collar.

  “So I’ve been told. Now, come on. Smile. We still have a cake to taste. But remember, only one bite of each. We don’t need the sugar.”

  My smile faltered just a bit. The truth was I had been fighting off an intense craving for chocolate all morning. I was so looking forward to wolfing down several pieces of rich, gooey wedding cake. And if I were at the tasting alone or with Alexandra, I would have gone right ahead and done so.

  “Right,” I said to my perhaps overly fastidious fiancé. “Just one bite.”

  25

  The El
ephant in the Room

  I couldn’t avoid Jack entirely; we were in the middle of two projects. So I was determined to act as if I’d never told him I was pregnant. As if he’d never been so horrible. As if I’d never been so wounded.

  I arrived at Jack’s studio out of breath. I wondered, Had I already gained so much weight that I was reduced to huffing and puffing? By the end of the pregnancy would I be getting around town in an electric scooter intended for the elderly and infirm?

  “I’ve got the seating plan for the Gotts’ party,” I told him when I’d caught my breath. “And the essential shot list. Absolutely no photos of Mrs. Gott with her in-laws. I didn’t ask why, of course, but I got the feeling—”

  Jack cut me off. “Those are for you,” he said, nodding toward one of the many worktables. This one was made of an old wood door atop two sawhorses, and on top of it stood a magnificent arrangement of Blue Moon roses and glossy greenery.

  I darted over to the flowers. “They’re gorgeous! Who are they from? That’s strange. I can’t find a card. I guess I can call the florist ... Wait a minute. Why would flowers for me have been delivered here?”

  “They’re from me.”

  I whirled around, not sure I’d heard him correctly. “From you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?” I asked, none too graciously.

  Jack looked back to his work.

  “I think you’re supposed to give flowers to pregnant women.”

  “You’re supposed to give flowers to all women,” I amended. Oh, how cool and flip I sounded! How tumultuous I felt inside! “That is, of course, if you’re a man of culture.”

  Jack shrugged. “Sorry it took me so long. But what can you expect from a cultureless man.”

  “Thank you, Jack. Really.”

  He didn’t reply. And I didn’t dare bring up the fact that Blue Moon roses are my favorite flower. Whenever they are available, which isn’t often, I choose them for special events like twenty-fifth wedding anniversaries. Unless Jack was entirely deaf or entirely uninterested in anything I had to say, he had to have heard me express my love for the roses the color of blueberry ice cream.

  I glanced over at Jack and wondered. My prickly colleague, my grumpy occasional friend, had given me a stunning bouquet of my favorite flowers. What did it mean? Were the flowers simply an apology for his having been such a jerk when I’d told him I was pregnant? If so, Jack’s apology was a mighty sincere one, especially if money equaled sincerity, and for Jack, I doubt it did. So maybe the bouquet wasn’t an apology after all.

  “You’re still here? What do you need?”

  Jack’s harsh voice broke my reverie into shards. He was staring at me with as much enthusiasm as he’d show a smelly bike messenger who was lingering unnecessarily after dropping off a package. “Yes,” I said. “I mean, I’m just going. I don’t need anything.”

  He nodded and turned back to his computer. I’d been dismissed.

  “Thanks, again,” I said, about to wrestle the arrangement out the door. “For the flowers.”

  Jack didn’t reply.

  26

  Three’s a Crowd

  “Lovely,” a woman in head-to-toe couture murmured as I made my way down the carpeted hallway of the Ritz lobby. I blushed—I know I did—and smiled graciously at my admirer. Rather, at the admirer of the dozen Blue Moon roses I carried in my arms like a beauty queen’s winning bouquet.

  I spotted Alexandra the moment I passed into the bar. She’s never hard to spot.

  “Where did you get those?” she asked. “Here, put them on this chair.” She got up and pulled a third upholstered chair away from the small table. “Magnificent. Who’s the florist?”

  “Alfonzo’s. They do beautiful work.”

  Alexandra sat back down and peered at me. “You haven’t answered my first question. But maybe I should rephrase it. Who gave you the bouquet? I’ve never seen roses so blue.”

  “Jack gave them to me,” I said with a nonchalant toss of my head. “You know, because I’m having a baby. And maybe because he’s sorry he wasn’t more excited when I first told him I’m pregnant.”

  Alexandra’s expression remained neutral, but something in her tone was not. “That’s a mighty big apology. And a bit personal from a colleague, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all,” I lied. “Lots of people have given me little gifts since they’ve learned I’m pregnant.”

  “Gifts for you or for the baby?”

  I considered. “Well, mostly for the baby. I’ve already gotten three packs of onesies, and I’m not even sure what they are. But Ross gave me a gold bracelet. See?” I held up my right arm to display the glittering bangle.

  “That’s appropriate,” Alexandra said, unimpressed. “He’s your wealthy fiancé.”

  I looked at the stupendous bouquet propped in the chair like a third person at the table. A third, troublemaking person.

  “Are you saying that Jack’s gift is inappropriate?”

  Alexandra laughed. “Everything about Jack Coltrane is inappropriate. That’s only one of the reasons I like him.”

  “That’s only one of the reasons I find him infuriating.”

  “Ah, so he does arouse some passion in your breast.”

  “I wouldn’t call it passion,” I protested.

  “Strong feelings then,” Alexandra concluded. “That’s a start.”

  The conversation was not going at all as I’d hoped. Or was it?

  “A start of what?”

  Alexandra took a sip of her drink before answering. “I don’t know. That’s up to you.”

  I let that remark sink in for a moment. And then I said, my voice low, “Are you suggesting I have an affair with Jack?”

  “Absolutely not. What an imagination, Anna. Pass the cashews, please.”

  Yes, I thought, what an imagination, Anna. I passed the dish of cashews.

  “Well, what do you mean?” I asked.

  “I just think it’s good for you to know someone who makes you really feel your feelings. Someone who shakes you up, challenges you, someone who makes you think.”

  I looked at my exotic friend. The style. The attitude. The intelligence.

  “That someone is you,” I replied.

  “I’m not a man.”

  “Well, I’ve got Ross.”

  I’ve got Ross. It sounded like I had a disease. I’ve got the flu, I’ve got eczema, I’ve got shingles.

  Alexandra reached for her bag. “Yes, indeed, you have. And I’ve got to get going. You’d better put those flowers in water soon.”

  “Each stem is in a little tube of water,” I said. And then I thought, That must have cost a pretty penny.

  Alexandra leaned into the bouquet and breathed deeply. “Lovely fragrance. Are you sure you have a big enough vase?”

  “Of course. Don’t be silly. The bouquet isn’t that monstrous.”

  But I wondered, Did I have a large enough vase?

  Our waiter appeared, and Alexandra asked for the check. Until then, he’d been entirely impersonal and professional. “Ma’am,” he said now, “that’s the biggest bouquet I’ve ever seen. And working here, I’ve seen a lot of flowers given to a lot of women. Whoever he is, he knows he’s got someone very special.”

  The waiter walked off, and Alexandra grinned mightily.

  “You look like the Cheshire cat,” I said. “That’s not necessarily a compliment.”

  “I think the Cheshire cat is quite fetching. Admit it, Anna. Flowers are a romantic gift.”

  “Not always,” I said. “I send my mother flowers on Mother’s Day.”

  “Don’t pretend to be obtuse, Anna. It’s very annoying.”

  The waiter reappeared. Alexandra grabbed the check and signed, and off went the waiter with a grin as wide as Alexandra’s had been. Alexandra is a notoriously big tipper.

  “Okay,” I admitted, “maybe Jack’s gift is romantic. But this is a romantic occasion. I’m having a baby. I’m bringing a new life into
the world.”

  I knew how lame I sounded. I didn’t need Alexandra to roll her eyes so dramatically.

  “I need to leave,” she said.

  “Do you really have to go?” I said suddenly wanting very much not to be alone.

  “I do. I’ve got work to do.”

  Alexandra headed off but was back within minutes.

  “You changed your mind?” I asked hopefully.

  “No. But I forgot to mention that I heard a name today you might want to consider. You know, for the kid.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wait, I wrote it down.” Alexandra flipped open her wallet and extracted a yellow Post-It note. “Here.”

  She handed the note to me. It read: Mnuple.

  “Um,” I said, handing the note back to her, “where did you hear it?”

  “Some show on NPR. I don’t know if I got the spelling right. Anyway, keep it.” She stuck the Post-It note to the table. “I’m off.”

  You’re off, all right, I thought, watching Alexandra negotiate her way past a table at which were crammed two beefy middle-aged men in gray suits.

  I left the bar a few minutes later. The Post-It note remained stuck to the table.

  Later that night I lay in bed and thought. The whole thing, which at first had made me feel oddly excited, now was beginning to make me uncomfortable.

  Jack Coltrane might have feelings for me. And instead of being repulsed or unconcerned, I was enticed by the possibility. Enticed and now disturbed. The idea of Jack’s having feelings for me was one thing, but the idea of my having feelings for him in return was quite another.

  But I didn’t have feelings for Jack; I wasn’t interested in him romantically so there was no problem, was there? But there was a problem.

  Be honest, Anna, I told myself. Jack’s feelings alone have no power. What gives them power is your having feelings in return. For some horribly incomprehensible reason, you have feelings for Jack. Tiny feelings. Just the hint of feelings. But even those miniscule feelings are too much.

  I remembered then something that Alexandra had said to me months earlier. I’d complained that I’d badly scuffed the toe of my pink suede pumps on the way back from Jack’s studio that morning.