Christmas Bliss

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Maybe,” she shrugged. “Did you ever receive your divorce papers? The final decree? It should have been mailed to you.”

  I searched my memory, but the months after Richard went off to prison were a long-ago blur. “Now that you mention it, I guess I didn’t ever get a final decree. But maybe it got lost in the mail.”

  “Did you move after you split with him?” she asked.

  “No,” I whispered. I felt the baby kicking again. I pressed the palms of my hands atop my belly and closed my eyes.

  “I’m sorry to bring you such unwelcome news,” Inez said. “So, you really haven’t had any contact with Richard in all these years? Not even a letter from prison?”

  “I got a letter. Just one. I burned it. And then I went about rebuilding what was left of my life after he wrecked it. Richard Hodges is dead to me. Or he was right up until half an hour ago when you walked into my life.”

  “What about the father of your child?” she asked. “Does he know about any of this?”

  “Harry knows I was married before,” I said. And then I felt the blood drain from my face as it hit me. “Oh my God. If what you say is really true … I got remarried, after Richard went to prison. To Sandy Thayer.”

  “Sandy Thayer? I’m confused. Didn’t you say that was your first husband’s name?”

  “It was. I married Sandy again. Another big mistake. Sweet man, but we … Oh dear God. If I was still married to Richard, when I married Sandy, that would mean I committed bigamy?”

  “Maybe.” She gave me a weak smile. “You said your baby’s father is named Harry? What happened to Sandy? I thought your husband’s name was Sandy. How does Harry fit into all this?”

  “The second time around, I only stayed married to Sandy for eighteen months, then I filed for divorce. We were better as friends than we were as husband and wife. Harry and I have been together two years.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “But you and Harry aren’t married?”

  “No. And with my history, I have no intention of getting married ever again.”

  “I suppose if you don’t intend to remarry, it’s probably immaterial whether or not you’re still married to Richard Hodges.”

  “Are you kidding?” I cried. “I can’t still be married to that man. Even the mention of his name, all these years later, makes me want to vomit.”

  “That might be morning sickness,” she said, standing up. “Try sucking on a peppermint first thing in the morning before you get out of bed.”

  I managed to get to my feet again. “You’re leaving? You can’t just walk in here and drop a bombshell in my lap and then just walk away, Inez. What should I do? I’ve got to get this settled. Right now. If Harry finds out…”

  She shrugged. “I’m not a lawyer, dear. I’m just an old busybody. But if you’re asking my advice, I’d say you should probably talk to a lawyer. Maybe you’re right. Maybe Richard Hodges did follow up and get a divorce decree. But for your own peace of mind, you should probably find out.”

  I walked her out to the reception area and Jeeves followed. The sun was going down, and a gray pall was cast across the now-darkening room. The red “No Vacancy” sign blinked off and on in the window. Without thinking, I switched on the small Christmas tree that I’d so carefully placed in the corner two weeks earlier. Tiny white lights twinkled among the strings of oyster shells, starfish, and bleached-out sand dollars I’d hung there.

  Her hand was on the doorknob.

  “Inez? Why did you come here today? You don’t even know me. Why’d you go to all the trouble of tracking me down?”

  “I was wondering that myself, the whole time I was driving out here today,” Inez said. “I shredded all the other files. But it’s not true that we’re strangers. Warren and I used to dine at your restaurant all the time.”

  “That’s how I know you! From Guale. You liked table three. He always ordered the seared tuna. You liked the pecan-crusted chicken.”

  “You were very kind to us, especially with that bothersome walker of Warren’s. We missed seeing you at the hostess stand after you sold the restaurant to your chef. I almost did shred that file of yours. But then I saw your name and I remembered you from the restaurant. It’s not a very nice Christmas gift. But I do think it’s better to know, don’t you?”

  “I do. Thank you.”

  “Merry Christmas, BeBe Loudermilk.” The doorbell chimed again as she walked out. I watched her car, a modest midsized beige Acura, pull out of the parking lot. Without thinking, I hid the file folder.

  I looked over at Jeeves and put a finger to my lips. “Not a word.”

  Chapter 5

  Weezie

  I was just getting ready to take the lemon pound cake layers out of the oven when I heard my cell phone dinging to notify me of an incoming text.

  Jethro stood directly under my feet as I placed the three layers on a wire rack to cool, hoping an errant crumb would fall his way.

  I gave him a stern look. “No counter surfing. You understand?”

  His tail thumped twice and he crouched down in his waiting position.

  The text was from BeBe and it was in all caps.

  NEED U @TYBEE. ASAP!

  I sighed and looked around for my car keys. BeBe has an annoying habit of having emergencies when I’m right in the middle of something crucial—like baking test versions of my own wedding cake. But she is my best friend. She’d bailed me out of jail, wiped away my tears after my divorce, loaned me money, and most important (and annoying) she’d shoved me right into the arms of the waiting and willing Daniel at the lowest point of my life.

  I owed her, doggone it.

  ON MY WAY, I texted back.

  My pulse was racing as I urged Ol’ Blue to its top speed of fifty miles an hour, wondering about BeBe’s urgent message. I tried to call her a couple of times, but my calls went directly to voice mail.

  Luckily, since it was Sunday morning, most of the good citizens of Savannah seemed to be either slumbering or worshipping. Still, the trip to BeBe’s seemed to take forever. Not because of the distance. From the downtown historic district to Tybee Island is maybe fifteen miles. But culturally, politically, and socially, Tybee and the sometimes snooty, snotty downtown couldn’t be farther apart. Downtown is chablis and caviar. Tybee is Pabst Blue Ribbon and boiled peanuts.

  I pulled into the lot at the Breeze Inn, but every slot was full, and the “No Vacancy” sign was lit up—even now, in the dead of winter.

  BeBe’s new Mercedes was parked in front of the manager’s unit, and since there wasn’t an empty parking slot, I was forced to park at the construction site next door.

  I blew through the front door of the manager’s quaint whitewashed log cabin cottage without knocking, leaving the fir wreath swinging from its hook.

  Although the Christmas tree was lit, the front office was deserted. “Babe?” I noticed the door to their living quarters was ajar, so I pushed on through. The silence felt ominous, and I felt a prickle from the back of my neck.

  The cozy living room, with its whitewashed pine walls, vintage rattan sofas and chairs, and shell-encrusted fireplace, was empty. Jeeves, a white West Highland terrier with a personality of a dog twice his size, rose up from his perch on a chair by a sunny window and gave me an inquiring look, but I didn’t even pause to pat his head.

  “Babe?” I was starting to feel panicky.

  “Back here,” she called finally. “In the bedroom.”

  “Are you okay?” I covered the distance of the tiny hallway in three strides. One look into the unit’s only bedroom told me that something was definitely amiss.

  The room looked like a tornado had just blasted through. Clothes were strewn on every surface—floor, bed, chair, nightstands, and dressing table. Shoes were tossed atop the clothes, and in the middle of the mess sat BeBe Loudermilk, on a flowered chintz slipper chair, dressed only in an oversized T-shirt and what looked like men’s cotton drawstring pajama bottoms.

  “Do I look okay?�
� she demanded, running her fingers through an unruly tangle of blonde curls. She thrust her feet out in front of her. “Look at these!”

  BeBe’s size five feet were encased in a pair of fluffy white slippers with floppy pink-lined ears.

  I bent down to get a good look. “Bedroom slippers?”

  “Bunny slippers,” she groaned. “The only shoes I can get on my big, fat, swollen, two-years-preggers feet.”

  I flopped down onto the bed. “This is your idea of an emergency? Swollen feet? Really? You scared the bejeezus out of me! I know Harry’s on a fishing trip. I was terrified you were going into premature labor and I’d have to deliver the baby myself.”

  “No such luck,” BeBe said glumly. “When I went to the doctor last week he said this kid of mine already weighs probably seven pounds. Seven pounds, Weezie! And I still have four weeks to go till my due date. What if I gain another ten pounds? What if this baby weighs nine or ten—or God forbid, eleven pounds? Did I tell you Harry casually admitted last week that he weighed over ten pounds when he was born? That’s almost twice what I weighed at birth.”

  She placed both hands on top of her swollen belly and glared downwards. “Slow down in there, Squirt. You hear me? Your mama can’t be rolling no ten-pound baby.”

  I cupped my hands into a megaphone and addressed the baby myself. “Squirt Sorrentino. Ignore your silly mama. You just keep on growing. Aunt Weezie’s gonna be right here when you get out.”

  “Whoopedy-shit,” BeBe said. “I’m gonna be the one doing the hard labor while you get to stand around out in the waiting room looking all cute and smiley in your ‘I’m the godmother’ T-shirt.”

  “That reminds me.” I reached into my tote bag and brought out a small tissue-wrapped bundle. “I picked up a little push present for you at an estate sale in Ardsley Park yesterday.”

  “What is it?” She regarded the bundle suspiciously, even as she took it from me. “Some kind of antique scalpel? A pair of forceps?”

  She tore at the paper, then smiled as the gleam of silver emerged from the tissue.

  “It’s a sterling Tiffany baby rattle,” I said, taking the dumbbell-shaped ornament and jingling it back and forth to demonstrate. “It was at the bottom of a drawer full of sterling flatware I picked up at the same sale. I didn’t even notice it until I started polishing everything last night.”

  She traced the ornately etched letter S on the stem of the rattle with a knowing touch. “This is hand-engraving. How did you have the time to get it monogrammed so quickly?”

  “I didn’t. All the silver was monogrammed with that same big old S on every piece. Eleven place settings. Plus serving pieces. Not to mention a bunch of gorgeous damask banquet napkins, also monogrammed. Guess how much?”

  She pursed her lips and considered. Like any proper Southern post-debutante, she knew a thing or two about sterling silver. “What pattern?”

  “Francis First,” I said, sounding as smug as I felt.

  “That’s nice,” she said, staring down at her swollen ankles.

  “Nice?” I repeated. “Nice is an iced tea spoon for fifty bucks. I just scored eleven place settings of gorgeous sterling silver that is probably worth at least a hundred bucks for each piece, for a hundred and fifty bucks. Total.”

  “A place setting?”

  “For all of it—a hundred fifty for eleven place settings, plus. But I’m going to keep it as a wedding present to myself. The S just seals the deal.”

  “S?” She had a blank look on her face.

  “For Stipanek, of course. BeBe, are you sure you’re feeling okay? You’re acting so spacey.” I turned around and put my hands on my hips, like a disapproving room monitor. “What happened in here?”

  “I had a severe wardrobe malfunction. I can’t show up for my baby shower at Merijoy Rucker’s looking like Who-Shot-Sally. Especially since Merijoy herself is pregnant again, and damn her, she looks like an absolute goddess.” She gestured around the disheveled room. “This is every piece of clothing I own, including all the cute maternity things I bought at that new boutique up in Atlanta, and none of it fits anymore. Face it. I’m an elephant. I look like shit on a stick.”

  “Merijoy’s knocked up again? I didn’t know that. What is this, her ninth or tenth kid?”

  “Sixth. She’s six months pregnant. Swear to God, Weezie, I saw her at Publix last week and she was wearing jeans. With a belt! And in the meantime, here I am, schlepping around in my ugly maternity top by Omar the tent-maker and Harry’s old sweatpants. I wanted to kill myself. I still might if I can’t find something to wear to this shower.”

  “Quit being such a drama queen,” I said, looking around the room. “You are not that big. There must be two dozen outfits here. Surely one of them fits.”

  “No,” she said mulishly. “I look awful in everything. I’m fat as a pig. I’m gross. I don’t know why on earth I ever let Harry talk me into having a baby.” She picked up her cell phone and tossed it to me. “You’re just going to have to call Merijoy and tell her I can’t make it to the shower. Tell her I’m dilated or something.”

  “Nuh-uh.” I tossed the phone back, but it fell to her feet.

  She just stared down at it. “I can’t bend over to get that, you know. I haven’t seen my toes in weeks. Months, even.”

  “Too bad, but I’m not doing your dirty work. Call her yourself.” I dropped the phone in what was left of her lap.

  “Come on,” she cajoled. “You’re a way better liar than me.”

  “Nobody’s a better liar than you. Anyway, you can’t skip out on your own baby shower. It’s just not done. What about your grandmother? And don’t you have some other family coming into town for this shindig?”

  “My aunts and all my girl cousins are driving down from Charleston and Fripp Island,” she said gloomily. “And the only reason they’re coming is to see just how fat and gone to seed I am.”

  “You are so not fat. You’re almost eight months pregnant. You look terrific. I bet you haven’t even gained twenty pounds.”

  “Try twenty-seven pounds. And eight ounces.” She thrust her rounded belly forward, to emphasize her point.

  I picked up a coral silk floral print A-line dress with a sweetheart neckline, and draped it over her abdomen. “Why can’t you wear this? The color is great on you.”

  “All those flowers?” She shuddered. “I’d look like my grandmother’s sofa.”

  I picked through the pile of garments on her bed. Finally I handed her a chocolate-colored jersey knit wrap dress with three-quarter sleeves and pale blue banding at the hem and cuffs.

  “Here. Wear this. It’s adorable.” I peeked at the price tag still hanging from the sleeve. “Holy geez! Three hundred fifty dollars? Are you kidding me?”

  BeBe sighed heavily, but she unknotted the drawstring on her pajamas and let them slide to the floor, and pulled the shirt over her head. It was the first time I’d seen her undressed since she’d started to show.

  “Stop staring,” she ordered, unzipping the dress. “I already feel like a freak.”

  “You’re not a freak,” I said. “But I had no idea being pregnant made the blood vessels in your stomach look so blue. Or that you had an outie belly button.”

  “I didn’t until I got knocked up. Isn’t this gross? I have to put a Band-Aid over it if I want to wear anything the least bit stretchy.”

  “It’s not gross at all. It’s kind of cool, I think. Especially the boobs. You used to just barely be an A-cup, right? Now you’re what, a C?”

  “You sound just like Harry,” BeBe said, sliding the dress over her head. “He seems to think my body is some fascinating new amusement park. You’d think he’d be turned off, but not old Harry.” She rolled her eyes meaningfully, then turned back to the mirror, to appraise her appearance.

  “It fits all right, I guess, but doesn’t it make me look like a Hershey’s Kiss?”

  “No it does not. Stop running yourself down. You look great. The dress is chic and
flattering. Being pregnant totally suits you. Your hair and skin look great.”

  “If you tell me I’m glowing I’m going to barf,” she warned.

  I handed her a wastebasket. “Be my guest. I’ll tell you something else, BeBe Loudermilk. Even if you don’t want to hear it. Harry Sorrentino is the best thing that ever happened to you. He is the real deal. He’s smart and kind and sexy as hell. And he’s an honest-to-goodness grown-up adult—which we both know are an endangered species as far as men are concerned. Also? He happens to adore you. So you need to stop all this bitchin’ and moaning about being pregnant and do the right thing for your child and for yourself and Harry. You need to marry your baby daddy, BeBe.”

  She got a funny look on her face. Then she slumped down, buried her head in her hands, and began to sob.

  “I can’t,” she said, her shoulders shaking with emotion.

  “Sure you can,” I said, stroking her back in an attempt to comfort her. “It’s easy. You get a marriage license and a ring, and find yourself a justice of the peace and bingo—instant respectability.”

  That made her cry even harder.

  “Okay, I didn’t mean to insinuate you’re not already respectable,” I said, backpedaling as fast as I could.

  She sat up and dabbed at her eyes with the hem of one of her discarded dresses. “You don’t understand,” she said, sniffling louder. “I mean I really can’t marry Harry. Even if I wanted to.”

  “Why not?”

  A fresh round of tears welled up in her eyes. “Because … because I just found out I’m probably still married.”

  She was as serious as a heart attack. “Married? To who? I mean, whom?”

  “To Richard!” she cried. “Oh my God, Weezie. It’s my worst nightmare come true.”

  * * *

  When she had calmed down a little, she told me the whole ugly story.

  “You have to promise not to tell a soul,” she cautioned.