I gave her a look.
“I know you wouldn’t, but still, if Harry finds out about this, it’ll just kill him.”
“You’re not going to tell him?”
“That the mother of his unborn child is apparently still married to a sex freak and convicted criminal, who, I pray to God, is still locked up in prison? That I’m probably a bigamist, because I married Sandy Thayer while I was still married to Richard? Are you nuts?”
“Harry knows your backstory, and he obviously doesn’t care,” Weezie said. “Think how hurt he’d be if he found out you’d been keeping this a secret. I just don’t want you to mess this up, BeBe.”
Chapter 6
BeBe
I didn’t want me to mess this up either. It had taken me years, but I’d finally managed to find Mr. Right. And I didn’t intend to let anything or anybody spoil my hard-won happiness.
Of course, our relationship got off to a pretty bumpy start.
A little over two years ago, I woke up one morning and discovered that a charming snake in the grass named Reddy Millbanks III had managed to cheat me out of literally everything except the clothes on my back.
I’d met Reddy on the rebound from yet another doomed romance—at the Telfair Ball, of all places, an annual charity benefit attended by the cream of Savannah society. How could I know he’d weaseled his way into that party the same way he later weaseled his way into my bed and my bank accounts?
When the dust settled from that fiasco, I was homeless and forced to move into the manager’s unit of the broken-down tourist court on Tybee Island that Reddy had bought with my money—and without my knowledge—with the intention of selling it off quickly to make another fast buck.
Imagine my surprise to find said manager’s unit already occupied by an irascible charter fishing boat captain named Harry Sorrentino. Imagine my further surprise to find myself quickly falling in love with Harry—and his little dog Jeeves. The baby had been a surprise too. At thirty-seven, I’d figured I wouldn’t ever have children. But when I discovered I was pregnant and hesitantly shared the news, his reaction was one I never could have predicted.
He’d wept! And then he asked me to marry him. But I’d resisted, and considering this unwelcome latest development, it was a good thing I had.
Now, in the meantime, I still had to make an appearance at that dreaded baby shower. Weezie was determined to make that happen.
She held up a pair of brown suede pumps. “Here. Put these on.”
“Can’t,” I said, sticking out my bare legs so she could see the pitiful condition of my puffy ankles and feet.
“All these gorgeous shoes. Can’t you wear any of them?”
“Nope.” I pointed at a pair of plain black flats by the closet doors. “Those nun’s shoes are the only ones that fit. Unless you count flip-flops. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to wear flip-flops in December.”
Weezie handed me the shoes and I managed to wedge my feet into the flats.
“You look nice,” she said, ever the loyal best friend.
“Liar.”
“What does your grandmama have to say about your refusal to get married?”
I rolled my eyes. “About what you’d expect. She’s scandalized, disappointed. She says the least I can do is lie to people and say we’re engaged. And of course, she says my mama is rolling over in her grave.”
“Which she probably is,” Weezie pointed out. “We’ll get my uncle James to straighten out this mess. And after he does, I still think you need to marry Harry.”
“You can talk till you’re blue in the face, but you won’t change my mind. Marriage is fine for some people—I think it’s absolutely right for you and Daniel—but Harry and I don’t need a piece of paper to prove our commitment to each other.”
“Whatever.” Weezie knew it was pointless to keep arguing. She gave me a critical once-over. “Okay, so we’re good here, right? You’ve got a cute outfit and some, uh, semi-cute shoes. Now, slap on some makeup and your big girl jewelry and let’s hit the road. Merijoy gave me strict instructions that I was to get you to her house half an hour early.”
“Do I have to?”
“Don’t make me come over there and whomp you upside the head with an eye-shadow brush,” she said, handing me my cosmetic bag.
I sat down at my dressing table and did as I was told, smoothing foundation over my face, followed by a quick sweep of eyeliner, mascara, and coral lip gloss, while Weezie roamed around the room, putting it back just the way she designed it all those months ago after Harry and I formally moved in together.
I glanced over my shoulder at her. “Speaking of weddings, how are the plans coming along? Did your mama get your dress fixed? How did the tasting go at the restaurant?”
“Mama’s working on the dress. It’ll be fine. It’s Daddy I’m worried about.”
“How so?”
“He’s just not himself. He forgets things—and not just little things. I asked Mama about it, and she about bit my head off. She’s in denial.”
“That’s a tough one,” I agreed. “What about the food for the reception? Has Julio got something fabulous planned?”
She nodded. “Wait’ll you see. It’s gonna be amazing. Julio and Daniel have outdone themselves. Tiny little crab cakes and lobster bisque and on and on.”
“Which reminds me. Wasn’t Friday night the big night at Cucina Carlotta? How did it go? Is Daniel the toast of the town?”
Weezie’s usually cheerful face clouded over. She bit the side of her lip and wrinkled her nose.
“What? He burned the biscuits? Overcooked the shrimp?”
“You know better than that,” Weezie scoffed. “It went great, from what I can tell. He says the restaurant has been totally slammed.”
“You don’t look too happy about it,” I pointed out. “What’s going on, Weez?”
“It’s probably nothing.”
“Tell me,” I ordered. “I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s wrong.”
She busied herself straightening my room, putting shoes back in boxes, hanging clothes in the closet. “I’m being silly. I know I am, but I can’t help the way I feel.”
“What is it you’re being silly about? Something with Daniel?” A hideous thought occurred to me. “Oh my God. Tell me you’re not having second thoughts. Just because marriage isn’t right for me, that doesn’t mean it isn’t right for you. You and Daniel are perfect together. I knew you would be, the first time I laid eyes on him.”
“It’s not that,” Weezie said. “It’s the dumbest thing. When I was at Guale yesterday, one of the waitresses had tacked up a photo of Daniel and Mrs. Donatello—Carlotta, on the bulletin board.”
“What kind of photo?”
“It was from one of those New York tabloids—taken at this swanky party Carlotta threw in his honor.”
“And?”
Weezie was standing in front of the closet, her back to me. I heard a muttered stream of words, only a few of which I could make out. But the words and phrases “bombshell,” “cleavage,” “dinner jacket,” and “shit-eating-grin” seemed fairly distinct.
I managed to heave myself up from my perch. I gently placed my hands on my best friend’s shoulders and turned her around to face me. Her eyes were red. She sniffed loudly.
“So. I gather the photo was of Daniel and some tramp named Carlotta and her boobs. He was wearing a dinner jacket and a stupid smile. And this is making you insane with jealousy. Is that about the gist of it?”
She nodded and gulped. “I told you it was crazy. I’m ashamed of myself. But I can’t stop thinking about it. I thought he was going up there to work for some big fat Italian lady with a white bun and fallen arches. You know, some sweet old nonna type. And Daniel never said anything to let me think otherwise. Then I see this picture of her—swear to God, BeBe, she looks like a young Sophia Loren, and she’s got herself wrapped around Daniel … pasted to him!
“And the thing that gets me? T
he worst part? He was wearing a dinner jacket. Daniel Stipanek—in a dinner jacket!”
I patted her shoulder. “You’re right. The dinner jacket thing is unforgivable. The man is totally not to be trusted and you should definitely cancel the wedding.”
She gave me a baleful look. “He didn’t call me for two days. Not even a text. And he never mentioned the party she gave him or the fact that his boss looks like a supermodel.”
“So you’re saying you don’t trust him?”
“No! I trust him completely. Utterly. It’s that woman I don’t trust.”
“Have you discussed this with him?”
She nodded. “He finally called last night. And he did say he hasn’t had a spare minute. He claims he didn’t mention the party because he didn’t think it was important. Because he hates big crowds.”
“Which he does,” I pointed out. “What does he say about this Carlotta hag?”
Weezie shrugged. “You know how Daniel is. He claims he doesn’t have any idea how old she is or that she was planning that party. And he says he’s lonely. And he misses me.”
“All of this sounds exactly like the Daniel I know,” I told her. “When I owned Guale and he was single and available—every gorgeous woman in Savannah made a run at him. And he never even noticed them. Daniel’s no player, Weezie. He’s in love with you.”
“The rational me knows all that,” Weezie said miserably. “The rational me knows he’ll be home in a week, and we’ll get married and it’ll all be good. But the crazy-pants Bridezilla me cannot get rid of the image of that woman with her boobs all pushed up in Daniel’s grille.”
Her eyes were starting to tear up again.
“I thought I was the one with raging hormones.” I gave her shoulder a final pat. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think the only way you’re going to get through this next week with your sanity intact is to go up there.”
She looked startled. “New York? Are you crazy? I’m getting married in a week. It’s Christmas. My busiest time of the year at the shop. I can’t just drop everything and go to New York.”
“Okay. It was just a thought.” I grabbed my pocketbook and my keys and headed for the front door. As soon as I walked into the living room, Jeeves hopped down from his chair and trotted over to the door. With effort, I managed to lean over far enough to scratch his chin.
“Sorry, sport. This is a baby shower. It’s strictly chicks. No boys, no dogs allowed.” I tossed him a treat from the jar by the door, and he caught it in midair, then trotted back to his chair to savor.
Weezie followed me out the door and stood by while I locked up.
“Anyway, I don’t need to go to New York,” she continued. “Yes, he’s lonely. And I’ve never been there, and even Daniel, who hates Christmas, says it’s pretty cool to be in New York during the holidays, but there’s no way I could go. I’m getting married next Sunday.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I agreed. “Besides, I need you to take a look at the new kitchen cabinets and give me your opinion on the paint color. I’m thinking maybe it’s too dark.”
Weezie turned and pointed in the direction of our latest construction project. “How’s the house coming?”
Living in the charming but cramped manager’s unit at the Breeze Inn was always supposed to be a temporary solution to our housing situation, but with the baby coming, Harry had the bright idea to buy a dilapidated old 1920s-era wood-frame house located on the north end of the island and have it moved to a vacant lot beside the motel. That was six months ago.
The house, which had once been the commissary for Fort Screven, a decommissioned World War I army post on Tybee, had been partially disassembled, jacked up, and loaded onto a flatbed tractor-trailer for the mile-and-a-half trip down Butler Avenue to our property on the south end of the island. The plan was for the commissary to be reassembled on a new raised foundation, and transformed into a period-perfect three-bedroom, three-bath nest for our new family. But plans have a tendency to go awry. Especially on Tybee, where everybody and everything runs on island time.
“You know how it goes out here. Always something. First the electrician’s helper got put in jail for DUI. Then the Sheetrock guy’s truck got repossessed, so we had to start all over with a new guy, but then the new guy’s wife kicked him out and sold all his tools on Craigslist, so now Harry’s been staying up all hours of the night trying to get it done. In the meantime, all the new windows are on back order, and my new Viking stove is sitting in a warehouse somewhere in Jacksonville, but my appliance guy can’t find the paperwork to prove we paid for it.”
I let out a long, exasperated sigh. “And, oh yeah. I just found out I might still be married to Richard Hodges.”
“Sorry I asked,” Weezie said. “But look on the bright side. You’ve still got six weeks until your due date. You and I have done our job. We bought the crib and the changing table; the drapes and slipcovers are done. Your rugs were delivered this week. The house is going to be amazing. Especially the nursery. I can’t wait to paint Squirt’s nursery.”
“Really? It’ll all get done? I won’t have to bring my baby home to sleep in a dresser drawer in an eight-hundred-square-foot apartment?”
“Really. I promise. Totally ah-freakin’-may-zing.”
“And we’ll figure out how to make sure I’m divorced?”
“James will.”
I gave her a hug and held up my pinkie. “Swear?”
She laughed and wrapped her pinkie around mine. “Pinkie swear.”
Chapter 7
BeBe
When we pulled up in front of the Ruckers’ sprawling Colonial Revival mansion in Ardsley Park I spotted a huge bouquet of bright pink balloons tied to the mailbox and waving in the breeze. I leaned forward in my seat to get a better look. “Are those what I think they are?”
“Babies. Yes. You are correct. Those are giant pink naked baby-shaped balloons.” Weezie glared at me. “Cute, right? No more Ms. Cranky-pants. If I know Merijoy she’s gone to a lot of trouble to put together a fun and tasteful baby shower in your honor. You’ll get a ton of useful loot for the baby. This was a very sweet and thoughtful gesture on her part. So you need to put on your best party manners and be a gracious and grateful honoree. Right?”
“Right,” I mumbled. “Gracious. Grateful.”
A hideous thought occurred to me. “What if somebody knows? About Richard?”
“Who would know?” she scoffed. “Hardly anybody even remembers you were married to him.”
“It’s Savannah,” I said darkly. “Nobody here forgets anything. Especially the bad stuff. There are people in this town who still remember the day Sherman and his Union troops rolled into town back in 1864.”
It was still daylight, but I could see the glowing icicle lights dripping from the eaves of the house. The enormous cast-iron urns on either side of the front door held large topiary boxwoods crisscrossed with more lit Christmas lights, and large pots of white poinsettias lined either side of the steps leading up to the covered porch. Wreaths hung from every window of the house, and the wreath on the front door was decked out with pink and blue pacifiers, miniature baby bottles, and plastic rattles.
Merijoy herself opened the front door just as I went to ring the doorbell. She was dressed in a form-fitting dark green sheath. Of course my eyes went directly to her abdomen. No noticeable bump. Well, maybe a small I-just-ate-a-cheeseburger one.
“BeBe!” She folded me into a hug, which was awkward, because my enormous baby bump looked like it could totally beat up her nonexistent one. “Don’t you look precious!”
“Thanks,” I said, graciously and gratefully. “You look wonderful. You’re seven months along? How is that possible?”
“Oh, honey,” she drawled, slapping her backside. “That’s just how I’m built. I always carry my babies high and tight up front. You should see the rear view. I look like a water buffalo!” She turned around and wriggled her ver
y tiny hiney, to prove it to us.
“As if,” I said under my breath, earning myself a jab in the ribs from Weezie.
“And here’s our bride too,” Merijoy said, ushering us into her house. She beamed at Weezie. “Are you getting nervous yet?”
“Not at all,” Weezie assured her.
While Merijoy gushed about weddings, Christmas, and the imminent birth of her sixth child—a boy, she confided—I glanced around the living room. A towering fir seemed to fill one corner of the room, its angel tree-topper touching the two-story-high cathedral ceiling. The thing was plastered with hundreds and hundreds of gilded and glittered angels, all of them lit by miles and miles of tiny white lights.
“Wow, what a tree. Is it real?”
“Oh yes,” Merijoy said. “Randy Rucker won’t allow a fake tree in his house. So we actually have six trees—the others are in the dining room, the kitchen, the great room, his office, and the children’s playroom. All of them have different themes. And I spend most of my waking hours vacuuming up pine needles.”
Merijoy plucked a cellophane box from a console table behind a green velvet sofa, opened it, and took out the largest orchid I have ever seen. “This is for you,” she said.
It was approximately the size of a dinner plate.
“Oh, wow, thanks,” I said feebly. “A corsage. I don’t think I’ve had a corsage since I went to the KA pledge party at Ole Miss.”
The doorbell rang just then, and she left me to fasten my own corsage. Pinned atop my now D-cup boob and trailing pink and blue ribbons, I felt as though I were wearing a potted plant on my chest. I glanced over at Weezie. “How’m I doing?”
Before she could answer, I was suddenly engulfed in a tidal wave of female relatives; my grandmother, my great-aunt Helen from Beaufort, Aunt Bizzy from Charleston, and the clot of cousins I’ve always referred to as “the Marys”—Mary Margaret, Jeanne Marie, and Mary Elizabeth.
With affectionate squeals and shrieks and pats and hugs and kisses, they circled around me, exclaiming over their joy at seeing me, their approval of my dress—Aunt Bizzy referred to me as “cute as a bug,” something nobody has said of me since I was eight—and questions. Endless questions.
Christmas Bliss Page 5
