Open & Honest (Sometimes) (A High Tea & Flip-Flops Novel Book 3)

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  The door from the garage opens and closes. Thirty seconds later, Jeremy walks past the nursery and turns down the hall toward the office, which he peeks into and then continues on to our bedroom. He’s hiding a shopping bag behind his back, and when he checks for me in our room and starts back toward me still holding the bag, I realize it must be a surprise for me, so I close my eyes, pretending I didn’t see him.

  A few seconds later, he whispers my name, and I open my eyes. He steps into the room. “Were you napping?”

  “Just daydreaming.”

  He lifts my feet and sits on the ottoman, repositioning my feet in his lap. “I have a surprise for you. I think it’s precisely what you’ve been looking for.”

  No pressure there. He presents the bag. Oh no. It’s something from Le Bébé. Expensive surprises are even harder to pretend I like. I hold my breath. He pulls out a white box and lays it on my lap. Okay, let’s be positive. Le Bébé is an exclusive boutique. Celebrity moms shop there. So, whatever this is, it can’t be hideous. Right? I smile at him and lift the lid. I gasp.

  It’s a mobile. It’s a mobile with beautifully-colored fish that look like glass, but they aren’t for safety reasons, of course. It’s gorgeous.

  “The fish light up,” he says. “Just a soft glow. And it plays Brahm’s Lullaby. But if you don’t like it, I’ll return it. I won’t be offended.”

  My sweet husband. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

  “No pressure there.”

  He has no clue why I’m giggling.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  We’re working today. I told Jeremy I’m making notes for my next novel, and I do have that file open, but I’m also browsing. We have a stack of books on pregnancy, of course, and I’ve learned a lot firsthand from Gabi, but I’ve also become addicted to searching the Internet for more information—like the stark honest stuff moms say in the forums. Jeremy has asked me a thousand times to stop because he says I’m fueling my fears. But I think ignorance is dangerous.

  We’re at twenty-three weeks now, and I’m alternately excited and terrified. Today, I’m mostly excited. Then I click on one too many links.

  “Oh, my God. Do you know that American women have the highest rate of maternal mortality in the industrial world?”

  “That’s it.” Jeremy stalks across the room and slams my laptop shut. He turns my chair away from the desk and crouches before me. “You cannot keep doing this. You’ll be insane before this baby is born” He taps my belly. “And how will I explain to our son why I keep his mother locked in the storage cupboard?”

  “It’s not funny. We don’t know what—”

  “We know that you are a perfectly healthy woman. And that we have an excellent midwife. You’re going to be fine.” He holds my hand against my stomach. “And inside you is a perfectly healthy baby. True, socially he might be hampered a bit by the horns and tail, but …” He touches my bottom lip. “Ah-ha, I see that smile trying to come out. Come on, little smile.”

  I smack his hand away. Then I hug him. “I love you so much, husband.”

  “Not half as much as I love you, wife.” He palms my swollen middle as he leans in to kiss me, but before our lips touch, he yelps. When he straightens up his eyes are wide with wonder. “He moved.”

  “Yep.”

  Jeremy breaks into the biggest grin I think I’ve ever seen on him. He kisses me and then kisses our baby bump. “You little bugger.” He holds his hands there, waiting for another connection with his son. When he looks up at me, his eyes are glistening. “I know it sounds stupid, but he wasn’t actually real to me until now.”

  The boulder in my throat won’t let me speak. I lay my hand against Jeremy’s cheek, willing our son to thrill him again. A second later he does.

  The UPS man is beginning to give me strange looks. He’s delivered so many packages from England this month he probably suspects we’re up to something illegal. I carry the latest delivery into the nursery.

  “The FBI is probably investigating us for international drug trafficking,” I tell Jeremy.

  He looks up from his computer. “What?”

  I hold up the evidence. “All these packages we’re getting from England.”

  He just smiles and shakes his head before starting to type again.

  “Seriously, don’t you think it’s too much?” I drop into my chair.

  “I think both our mothers are excited about the impending birth of their first grandchild.”

  “That doesn’t mean they have to buy so many gifts.” I slit the packing tape and open the box from Harrods. Inside is a fancy gift box containing the most ridiculous thing yet—a designer tuxedo romper! I can’t even imagine how much this cost.

  “They’re filling up the nursery.” I burst into tears.

  In an instant, Jeremy’s on his knees in front of me.

  “There won’t be anything left for me to buy,” I sob.

  His eyebrows shoot upward when he looks in the gift box. “You wanted to buy this yourself?”

  “Of course not.”

  He just stares at me.

  “They’re taking over,” I wail. “It’s like he’s not my baby anymore.”

  “Well,”—he pats my belly—“obviously, that’s not true.” He smiles. I cry harder. “Right. So I’ll tell them to stop sending gifts.”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t do that.”

  He tosses the gift box on the floor and stands. As he stares at the romper, he finger-combs his hair back and holds it there. “I’m sorry, Chelsea, but I simply don’t know what you want me to do or say.”

  “Oh, just forget it.” I pull my bloody-nose-ready tissue out of my pocket and blow.

  He glances at me without turning his head. “Are you angry with me?”

  “Why would I be mad at you?”

  He lifts his hands from his head, and his hair falls to his shoulders in a beautiful shiny mess.

  “I hope our son has hair like yours,” I tell him, smiling. “I hope he looks exactly like you. Actually, I want him to be just like you in every way.”

  Silently, Jeremy studies me. “Could I get you a tea?” he says, cautiously.

  “I don’t need a cup of tea.”

  “Maybe you need a nap? Or … something? Anything?”

  “I’m fine, silly. And shouldn’t you be writing?”

  As I walk out of the office, I hear him muttering to himself. I have no idea why.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mom surprised me with a text this morning saying that she was in town and would come by later, but I can’t wait. So, while Jeremy’s waiting for a scheduled phone call from his agent, I tell him I’m going to her house.

  “Wait!” When I give him a look, he adds, “I mean, maybe she’s napping. Jet lag. She’ll be here in a couple of hours anyway.”

  “I know, but I want to see her now. I’ll let myself in, and if she’s napping, I’ll just wait for her to wake up.”

  “But—” He grimaces when his phone rings. “Hello,” he says as he motions for me to wait.

  I wave bye and leave.

  There’s a strange car parked in her driveway when I pull up to her house. As I’m getting out of my car, Mom steps out the front door with a guy I don’t know. He appears to be only few years older than Jeremy, so unless Mom’s got a double life as a cougar, I wouldn’t think he’s her secret lover, but the startled look on her face when she sees me makes me question that. Then he shakes her hand, and I relax.

  He offers me a polite “hello” as we pass in the driveway. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t think what. I turn to watch him start his car and back up before I turn to my mom. “Who was that?”

  “Oh,”—she waves a dismissive hand—“just a man giving me an estimate.”

  “On what?”

  “Hm?” We hug, and then she ushers me into the house. “You look so beautiful, sweetie. You really do glow. How many weeks along are you now?”

  “Twenty-four.” (Which she very
well knows.) “What was he giving you an estimate on, Mom?”

  “Oh … just a minor thing. Plumbing. A leak. In the master bathroom.”

  I’m not sure I believe that, but I’m so happy to see her that I let it go. “How long are you staying? And where’s Uncle?”

  “Just a few days, and Albert was supposed to come with me, but he slipped on a patch of ice Monday and threw out his back.”

  “Ice?”

  “Oh, it’s full-on winter in England.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yes. He just needs to rest for a few days. Would you like a cup of tea? And where’s your husband?”

  “He was on the phone with his agent when I left.”

  She fills the kettle and starts it heating. “A problem?”

  “No, just discussing some chapters he sent her.”

  She peers in a cupboard. “Earl Grey or—”

  “Whatever.” I start toward the refrigerator. “Do you have any Popsicles?”

  “Still craving those? I think you left some the last time you were here.”

  “At least they’re not fattening.” I take the last one and throw the empty box in the trash.

  “It certainly doesn’t look as if weight is a concern for you, sweetie.”

  I close my eyes and savor the first bite of sweet cherry ice. “Did you gain a lot of weight with your pregnancies, Mom?”

  “Just average, I think. I gained the most with Ryan, of course. He weighed almost ten pounds when he was born.”

  “Oh, God. What if—”

  “You won’t. Look how tiny your belly is.” She turns off the screeching kettle and pours water in the teapot.” You weighed just over six pounds, and Amanda says Jeremy weighed only seven nine.”

  Her phone lying on the counter vibrates, and she smiles as she reads the text and taps out a reply. I don’t need to ask who messaged her. I recognize that I-love-Albert smile. I’m happy that she’s happy. I really am. And I love Uncle. But it still hurts a little that my dad is no longer the love of her life.

  “Remember when Dad installed these new cupboards as a surprise for you?”

  She gives me a puzzled look. “What brought that up?”

  I shrug. “I see Dad everywhere here.”

  She pours our tea and hands me a cup. “Do you think about your dad a lot, sweetie.”

  “Don’t you, Mom?”

  She stirs her tea. “I think of him, of course.”

  “It hurts when I think that he’ll never get to be a grandpa.”

  She gives me a sad smile and kisses my cheek. “It’s a nice day. Let’s take our tea out to the garden.”

  Mom and I go shopping while she’s in town. I even relent and let her buy one more outfit for the baby but only one. So instead, she spends her money on me, mostly because she’s not in favor of the way I’m dressing.

  “You millennials, in your leggings and tiny T-shirts, letting your bare baby bellies hang out might be fine in your circle, but it’s not in mine.”

  “But I never see anyone in your circle, Mom.”

  “You know what I mean. And besides, Christmas is coming, and you’ll be seeing the whole family—both families. You need some nice maternity clothes.”

  I love her for not saying that she’s buying me clothes because money is tight for Jeremy and me. And she even insists on buying Jeremy a new shirt—a designer one, like he would have bought for himself not so long ago—saying she adores it, can’t pass it up, but it’s meant for a young man, not someone Uncle’s age. Isn’t she sweet?

  We end our shopping trip at Lisette’s French Bakery & Cafe, which we usually did when Mom was a daily part of my life. I’ve missed this routine so much that I choke up when we step inside.

  “Tradition,” she says quietly, and her eyes are shiny too. She squeezes my hand and then holds it as we find a table.

  We had lunch with Jeremy before we left to go shopping, so we’re here for tea and dessert. We both order our favorites—an eclair for her and a cream puff for me.

  “I’m still worried about Jeremy going back to law practice,” I tell her.

  “Oh?”

  “What if it’s a mistake?”

  Her eyes question me, but she smiles at the server as he delivers our order. “Thank you, dear,” she says to him. As he sets down my cream puff, he gives me the eye, but when his gaze drops below my boobs his interest vanishes. Still, if only for a moment, it was nice to be flirted with.

  Mom pours the tea. “Albert says Jeremy was a good lawyer.”

  “But he told me he hated it, and now he says he didn’t.”

  “Would he have been successful if he hated the work?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” I take a bite of my cream puff and savor it. “I’m just afraid he’ll get depressed.”

  “He’s already—” Her eyes widen for a second before she lowers her eyes to her plate.

  “Mom? He’s already what?”

  “I said he’s all right. Just concerned.” She smiles. “You told me so yourself. Concerned about money.”

  “We weren’t talking about money, Mom, we—”

  “Of course we were. That’s why Jeremy’s going back into law.”

  “Yeah, but I heard you say ‘already’ not all right, and besides I was talking about after he—”

  “I can’t say this to Albert, of course, but I think those little white wigs the British trial lawyers and judges wear are silly looking, don’t you? Not that Jeremy was that kind of lawyer. I know it’s tradition, but still. Speaking of tradition, is your cream puff good, sweetie? I wonder if Mrs. Flynn ever makes them. Maybe we’ll ask her to do that the next time you and Jeremy are at Dovewood. Miniature ones, maybe, for our afternoon tea.”

  Is it lying when your mother tries to distract you by jabbering about ten different things at once? Now she’s telling me about some bizarre dish she ate when she and Uncle traveled in South America. I hear her and make the proper responses, but all the while I’m making a mental list of all the ways my mom has changed since she remarried. It’s almost like she’s deliberately trying to become a whole different woman. I mean, she’s still the same mother but not the same wife at all. It makes me feel sad for my dad. When she lays her hand on mine, I realize that I’d quit listening.

  “You were a million miles away,” she says.

  “Sorry, I was just thinking how so much has changed in the last year and a half.”

  “We both started a new chapter in our life stories.” Her smile dials up a couple notches. “And now you’re starting another one.”

  “Did you love Dad?”

  Her eyes widen, and she stares at me for a moment. “How can you ask that?”

  “You never talk about him.”

  Her expression softens. “It’s you who doesn’t talk about him, sweetie.”

  I look away. Take a gulp of tea, hoping to ease the constriction in my throat. After a moment, Mom speaks again.

  “Do you really think Jeremy will like the shirt?”

  “Yeah, he’ll love it. And I’ll love him in it.” I belch. Crap. I push my plate away. “Heartburn again. I guess cream puffs are another thing I’ll have to avoid until after the baby’s born.”

  She hesitates a second and then pats my hand again. “Oh my. I was hoping you’d skip that part. I had horrible heartburn with all three of you kids. Toward the end, I was chugging antacid like water.”

  “Great. Sounds yummy.” A burst of laughter catches my ear, and I look beyond Mom to see our real estate agent just going out the door with two other women. Suddenly, I know why the man who was at Mom’s house two days ago looked familiar. “Mom, why were you talking to a real estate agent?”

  She looks surprised and utters a weak, “What?”

  “The man who was leaving your house when I got there the other day. He works for the same realtor Rachel does.”

  She raises her cup to her lips and drains it. When she reaches for the teapot, I grab her hand. Her eyes say, you c
aught me. She pulls her hand away and smooths the napkin in her lap. “I wanted an appraisal.”

  “Why? And don’t say to refinance because I know your mortgage is paid off.”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “I was curious. I heard that one of the neighbors—you know her, of course. Sue Barton? Well, she’s selling, moving into assisted living—she’s eighty-two, now—and I heard her house was appraised for an ungodly amount, so I wondered what our house would go for.” She points to my abandoned dessert. “You know, I wonder if it could be the tea that’s causing your heartburn. It’s rather strong, don’t you think?” She drops her voice and leans in. “To be honest, I’m not particularly fond of how strong the British like their tea. But thankfully, Albert drinks coffee too, which he lets me make.”

  I sit there listening to her change the subject—again—to nearly having an accident the first time she tried driving “on the wrong side of the road” and try to remember if my mother has always been this evasive or if it’s a newly acquired talent.

  There’s no moon tonight. We’re lying in bed, spooning in the afterglow. I’m replaying today’s conversation with Mom. She definitely insinuated that Jeremy’s depressed, and if he is, that means he’s confided in someone—Uncle?—but not me. He was still at the club when I got home, so I searched every place I could think of where he might be hiding meds. I found nothing.

  “Jeremy, are you disappointed in our marriage?”

  “Asks the woman I’ve just made love to. Should I deduce a connection?”

  “What? Oh. Of course not.

  “Projection, then?”

  Sigh. How did this get to be about me? “No, I’m not disappointed at all.”

  He snuggles closer. “Then why do you question whether I am?”

  I rethink my question. “We’re being open and honest, right?” He murmurs assent. “Do you wish you’d never left London?”