Totlandia: Spring

by Josie Brown

  Dedication

  Begin the story

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgements

  About Coliloquy

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Totlandia: The Onesies, Book 3 (Spring)

  by Josie Brown

  Bought by Maraya21

  kickass.to / 1337x.org / h33t.to / thepiratebay.se

  Palo Alto | San Francisco

  Dedication

  For Martin, Austin and Anna

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday, 2 January

  4:55 p.m.

  In clear defiance of Bettina Connaught Cross’s edict, Bettina’s sister-in-law, Lorna Connaught, rounded up her friends in the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club Onesies group to inform them that Kelly Bryant Overton had been dismissed, and therefore, their memberships in the club, and hers, were now guaranteed.

  The relief on the faces of Jade Pierce, Ally Thornton, and Jillian Fredrick was all the proof she needed to know she’d done the right thing.

  Her aching concern over a far bigger issue, her one-year-old son’s well-being, numbed her own joy. Dante had recently been diagnosed as autistic.

  She’d held back this knowledge from her husband, Matthew, only to have him overhear her discussion on the matter with Dante’s doctor.

  Stunned by the news, it had left him helpless.

  Since then, she’d punished his inability to accept this new reality with her silence.

  But now, it was time to go home and face the music. To come clean with him and to express her own sorrow and shame over her duplicity about Dante’s condition.

  The expansive Tudor home Matthew had inherited from his paternal grandmother sat on the highest crest of Vallejo Street—east of Van Ness, on the block between Jones and Taylor, right where Vallejo plummets into Ina Coolbrith Park before emerging out the other side, in the neighborhood of North Beach.

  Had the Summit—the residential high-rise, which was home to a few of San Francisco’s swells, including Matthew’s sister, Bettina, and her family, four-year-old daughter, Lily, and her husband, Art—not blocked them on the north side, their home’s panoramic vistas would have been a complete three-hundred-and-sixty degrees. Instead, they made do with a slim peek-a-boo view of San Francisco Bay, albeit one that afforded them a straight-on shot of Alcatraz, Berkeley and Mount Diablo beyond.

  Matthew, sitting by the living room’s large picture window, stared out at a cargo ship that was inching its way through the sailboats dotting the bay. When Lorna entered, he didn’t move. She stood there motionless, resolved not to say anything until he turned around on his own. Their mutual silence transformed the room into an echo chamber for Dante’s insistent humming, making it sound much louder than it really was. They’d always assumed his drone was the start of infant babble they’d heard from other children his age. How they longed to hear those sounds from Dante. Now they knew better. Maybe someday he’d talk, but no time soon.

  Finally, Matt turned his swivel chair in order to look at her.

  Lorna stared at his face. “You’ve been crying,” she said. It wasn’t a question but a declaration.

  “Okay, yeah. I’m upset! What did you expect? I just found out—from a doctor I’d never met, at a damn New Year’s Eve party, no less!—that my wife’s been hiding the fact our son is autistic!”

  “Matthew, please! I’ve only known for a couple of weeks. And I was going to tell you the next day, in fact! I just…I just didn’t want to ruin the holiday.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “To hell with ‘the holiday!’ What about the rest of our lives?”

  “Believe me, Matt. It’s a blow to me, too. But we both have to be strong, if not for our own sakes, then for Dante’s.”

  Instinctively, both of them looked over at their little boy. By now they’d become used to his unfathomable gaze. Now, knowing that his face might never express laughter or tenderness, or for that matter, pain, their hearts ached that much more.

  “Lorna, answer me truthfully. Why is it that you’ve never introduced me to your family?”

  “I…I guess I figured you’d find them too unorthodox. And heaven knows Eleanor and Bettina would find something to hate about them.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to tell me. All my life I’ve been on the receiving end of their disapproval.”

  “They both adore you, Matt. You know that.”

  “Is that what you think? Admit it, Lorna. I’ve never lived up to their expectations. Then again, I’ve never lived up to yours, either.”

  She knew she should say something, that he wanted her to protest, to prove him wrong.

  Instead, she said nothing. If she denied it, she’d be lying. They both knew that.

  Finally, he shrugged. “And yet knowing all my faults, you married me anyway.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Is that what you think? That my goal was to marry a rich slacker, have a child with him, then pawn any genetic issues he may have, God forbid, as yours?”

  “In your opinion, I’m just ‘a rich slacker?’” His smile was thin and cold. “I’m glad you’ve finally come out and said it.”

  “Okay, yes, I admit it. I don’t think you’re living up to your potential. Heaven knows you’ve got all the brains and money and connections to do so.” She wiped away a tear. “Still, that’s no reason to blame me for Dante’s autism.”

  “Lorna, try to hear me out. All I’m trying to say is that I”—he paused, as if considering the best way to put it—“I thought you had leveled with me, too. I thought since you were—you know, ‘perfect,’ it could make up for all my bullshit. I could hold my head up high, because you’d be there for me, to set things straight. Hell, even Eleanor has come to realize you’re damn close to perfect. At least, as close as anyone who would’ve married me can be. I guess we were both wrong. No one is perfect.” He looked down at his feet. “I know you never talk about your family because there’s some pain there. It’s why I’ve never pushed you on the topic. But now, I need you to be honest with me. Is there anything I need to know about them?”

  She shook her head angrily. “What exactly is that supposed to mean? Are you insinuating that I’ve been hiding some deep, dark family secret?”

  “Don’t twist this around on me. All I’m trying to do is to make sense out of this. All I’m asking is if—well, if you have a family history of this kind of thing. I looked it up, and there is some genetic correlation.”

  “Whoa! Wait a minute! I’m guessing there are as many broken branches on your family tree as there are on mine.” She poked him in the chest. “Look, Matt, if you want to spread the blame, start by holding up a mirror. How about all that pot you smoked in high school and college? And what about all the times you refused to hold Dante when he was an infant? Don’t you think that could have a negative effect on his development?”

  “That’s my point! I never said I was perfect. But at least I’ve been honest about it.”

  “I am so out of here!” She started for the front door.

  “What? Wait! You don’t get it!”

  But yes, she understood perfectly. He wanted her to fess up. About her parents. About her past.

  She couldn’t do it. Not
now. Not when anything she said or did could stain Dante, too.

  She looked down at her son. No matter what his issues were, he was still the one love of her life. He was still her whole world.

  At that moment, she knew what she had to do.

  But she couldn’t do it with Dante in tow. She turned back to Matt and thrust Dante into his arms. “Take care of him until I get back.”

  Before his shock thawed into concern for her and the doubt she knew he felt for himself showed, she ran out the door.

  Chapter 2

  Thursday, 3 January

  10:13 a.m.

  There comes a time when every woman must face one simple fact: she is not happy with the life she has created for herself.

  For Bettina Connaught-Cross, this realization came to her during the first of her three dry cleaning errands.

  In San Francisco’s Pacific Heights, dry cleanliness was next to Godliness. The fourteen laundering establishments, located just down the hill within Cow Hollow’s thirteen-by-four-square blocks, made the adjoining neighborhood a Mecca for those who, like Bettina, obsessed over the meekest shadow of a stain, be it on a couture frock or her reputation.

  Bettina’s first stop was the Peninou French Laundry and Cleaners, where her silk blouses were waiting for her. She was just about to hand the cashier her claim ticket when the little voice in her head first whispered, “It’s okay for you to cry.”

  Bettina’s hand froze.

  The woman waited patiently for a moment or two. Then, very gently, she pried the ticket from Bettina’s freshly manicured fingers.

  Bettina pretended to be miffed and accused the woman of smearing her nail polish, but in truth, she was embarrassed to have someone witness her despair. She grabbed her blouses (on hangers and secured in couture breathable bags) and stormed out the door.

  She had almost reached the threshold of Deluxe Cleaners just one block over, where three of Art’s suits were waiting for pickup when the voice added, “And with all you do for him, how could he have done that to you? And with her of all people!”

  Bettina knew the he and her the voice inside her referred to. Just seventy-two hours ago, as the clock was striking midnight on New Year’s Eve, she had walked in on Art screwing her supposedly oldest and dearest friend, Kelly Bryant Overton.

  During the Connaughts’ annual New Year’s Eve party, of all times and places.

  And that wasn’t the worst of it. While in the throes of some grotesque act of sexual debauchery, Art declared his hate—not anger or even disappointment, but out-and-out loathing—for his wife.

  Bettina fled before either of them realized she was in the room.

  To top it off, Bettina knew she wasn’t the only one who had walked in on her husband in flagrantedelicto. Lorna Connaught, her sister-in-law, whom she despised, had run out of the adjoining bathroom just prior to Bettina walking in.

  The next day, Bettina had said nothing to Art. Ironically, he’d been blissfully unaware of her silence.

  Was he also completely oblivious to her pain? Perhaps her recent Botox injection, which helped to keep her brow placidly wrinkle-free, made it impossible for him to notice her shock and awe at his betrayal. And no doubt he presumed her stoic demeanor was proof of her post-party contentment.

  It was all she could do to keep from punching him square in the gut so that he’d truly feel her pain.

  The past two days had passed in a fog. But this morning, as the founder and leader of the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club, she had to smile through her anguish while she led the club’s “T☺p M☺ms Applicati☺n C☺mmittee” in a vote to eliminate one of the five probationary members in the club’s most junior families, those in the Onesies.

  Both Lorna and Kelly were in this group.

  Needless to say, Kelly had been duly ousted.

  The official reason (Bettina would have been horrified to tell the committee members anything approaching the truth) was that Kelly had cheated by getting professional help with her probationary challenge—hosting the club’s after-Thanksgiving potluck.

  At their ladies’ lunch yesterday, Bettina had enjoyed informing Kelly she knew about her and Art, and that she was now exiled from the club. Bettina’s goal was to crush Kelly like a bug under her Louboutin bootie, dissolving Kelly to tears.

  Instead, the traitor had the audacity to smile triumphantly at her…

  And to hand Bettina a paddle, implying that she used it on Art.

  Art liked to be beaten? How disgusting!

  How tempting.

  As Bettina stepped into the Ooh Là Là French Cleaners to pick up her Irish lace lingerie and Lily’s ballet skirts, she was almost afraid of what else the voice would say to her. Would it chastise her for being oblivious to the crumbling state of her marriage? Would it hint at other disasters to come?

  Would it remind her that, had their roles been reversed, Bettina would have blackmailed Lorna?

  But no, this time the little voice’s counsel was inspiring. “Don’t forget. You are Bettina Connaught-Cross. Your people made their fortunes during the San Francisco Gold Rush. You got rid of Kelly. Without the club, she’s nothing. You’re married to a partner in one of the city’s most prestigious financial firms. Now you have something you can hold over him. You’ve founded a club in which other women fight to join. And you can also keep Lorna from betraying you by pretending to give her the only thing she ever wanted from you…acceptance.”

  By the time the Ooh Là Là’s clerk handed Bettina the hangers holding her lingerie, she felt invincible again.

  She was just about to walk out the door when she noticed she was missing something. “Excuse me, but my claim ticket included my daughter’s ballet skirts.”

  The clerk’s blank stare earned her a snarl from Bettina. “I don’t have all day. Go back and find them. Chop chop!”

  The woman scurried away. Within five minutes, the line for pick-ups was out the door. The grumbling from the store’s other patrons might have earned them an apology from anyone else, but not Bettina. Lily’s tiny chiffon wraparound skirts were priceless, not just because they had been specially fitted and imported from Paris, but because of the joy it gave her precious child.

  Finally, the clerk reappeared, box in hand. Bettina practically ripped it from her. She lifted off the lid, perused its contents, and slammed it shut again. “What are you trying to pull? These aren’t my daughter’s!”

  “But…you said ballet skirts!” To prove her point, the woman lifted the lid and pulled out a tiny pink skirt.

  Bettina glared at the woman. “Yes, but my four-year-old would never wear pink! She is serious about her art. Her skirts are black.”

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t seem to have them.”

  “If you don’t, it’s because you’ve carelessly handed them over to someone else. Or maybe you’ve sold them. I presume, then, you know how much they’re worth.”

  The clerk shrugged. She’d had enough of Bettina’s guff. Considering she also had a wrestler’s girth while Bettina sported a minus-two frame in designer couture, no doubt if push came to shove, she could take Bettina three out of three times.

  Instead, she pointed to the sign over the doorway, which read:

  THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS NOT RESPONSIBE FOR ANY LOST, STOLEN, OR DAMAGED ITEMS.

  Bettina crooked a finger at the woman. The clerk hesitated, but the rumbling from the restless crowd left her no choice but to lean closer. The room went dead silent as Bettina declared, “If I find out you’ve given my daughter’s skirts to some other little girl, I will hunt you down. No matter where you go tonight after you leave this dreary little job—to the Mission, perhaps? The Outer Richmond or the Tendernob? No matter. I will follow you to your slum hovel. And when the time comes for you to pick up your measly belongings and make the inevitable move in your little hobo existence, I will find you. Look over your shoulder because I will be there, too, making your life miserable. I. Will. Haunt. You.”

  The woman didn’t s
hudder in fear or even blink.

  Instead, she smiled.

  Then she tapped her nose with her middle finger.

  The crowd behind Bettina roared with laughter and applause.

  Despite this, Bettina walked out with her head held high.

  She waited until she was a block away before collapsing onto the doorstep of a Victorian walkup.

  I’ve lost it, Bettina thought as she sobbed. I’ve lost everything! If I can’t scare a dry cleaning clerk, how will I be able to keep the PHM&T members in line?

  Worse yet, how would she break the news to Lily that she’d lost the little girl’s most prized possessions?

  Despite the pep talk from her internal voice, the discovery of Art’s affair had devastated her. Most assuredly, the upheaval in her life was his fault. To top it off, he wasn’t even an attorney. If he had been, she could have at least threatened to sue the cleaners for every dime it was worth.

  The sorrow and the pity of her predicament left her hollow. Or maybe it was the fact she hadn’t eaten all morning. She craved something. Appreciation, perhaps. Love, most definitely. No, something else…

  Cake.

  She remembered passing a bakery just a block up on Union Street.

  While she baked Martha Stewart-worthy delicacies for her family, all of her life she had eschewed sweets, knowing full well that allowing even one tempting morsel to cross her lips would wreak havoc on her mannequin-thin frame.

  To hell with that. She was always sacrificing for others. Marrying Art had been a sacrifice. Having a child had almost sacrificed her figure, but she discovered a Method Nazi to whip her quickly back into shape within a month. And she couldn’t count the number of sacrifices she’d made for PHM&T.

  So why should she care if no one else did?

  Bettina practically ran to the bakery.

  ***

  “A cupcake, please. The chocolate one, there.” Bettina jabbed her finger at the top shelf of the glass bakery case.

  The jacked twenty-something manboy behind the bakery counter did a double-take. “You mean the carob ‘pupcake’ right? And like I said, it’s carob, not chocolate. Cocoa can kill your dog. Your breeder should have told you that.”