I heartily want to point out to Blaine that he is in fact not an independently wealthy lord of the manner. He’s a Realtor, working for the people he tries so hard to impress. Yes, I’m sure he’s worth quite a bit of money, but he has as much class as a monkey’s butt.
I open the car door. “We might as well look while we’re here.”
Blaine rattles off the houses features, “This is a six bedroom, seven bath home boasting both a tennis court and swimming pool. The property is on 5. 9 acres and abuts a forest preserve so there can be no more building behind it.” Of course he’s insinuating the riff raff are barred from ever getting near this property and erecting homes on a pathetic half-acre. He continues, “The entry is Italian marble, the kitchen is travertine and the rest of the house is Brazilian cherry.” Blah, blah, blah.
As we walk up the manicured path leading to the front door, I’m expecting to feel the same loathing I’ve had for the other homes I’ve seen. So far, this one is much less McMansion-esque, which is a huge plus. It has the feeling of old world elegance. No faux turrets and overly fussy architecture all smooshed together on a tiny lot. It has all the characteristics of the Georgian architecture I love, even though it’s a much more recent build. There are eight, twelve-paned sash windows on the lower floor, the same amount on the second floor and half again as many dormered windows on the third floor. Because three people living in a house each need their own floor, don’t you know?
I’m rendered speechless when we walk in. The entryway is as big as my entire house, yet it’s so warm and charming I’m hard pressed not to love it. Instead of being all white, sterile and pristine, the walls have been painted a warm toffee color and the period dentil molding sets it off in a rich creamy satin. There’s a truly enormous staircase that curves up to the second floor, but even that doesn’t intimidate as much as it tempts you to climb up so you can slide down the banisters.
If I ever lived in this home, which I won’t (because jeez, who the heck would clean it?), I would move into this kitchen. It’s massive but so warm and welcoming I just want to get right to work baking something. There is a six-burner Wolf stove with warming oven, a massive commercial refrigerator, double ovens and even double dish washers. The island is big enough to easily fit a king-sized mattress, so I could sleep in here as well. Breathe, Mimi.
Blaine can tell that I love the house and I make a mental note to try to dial back my enthusiasm. The bedrooms, one more fantastic than the next, are all en-suite except two of the smaller bedrooms which are a Jack and Jill set-up. I’m guessing those are used for young children or servants. God knows.
The pool is extraordinary and the grounds are other worldly. Large mature trees, both hardwood and fruit abound. The tennis court is an impressive, albeit unnecessary beast. I don’t think I’ve ever even lifted a tennis racket. I’ll have to ask Elliot if he plays. The pool house is lovely and small and manageable. I could live there in a heartbeat. There is a golf cart available if I want to further peruse the land, which I simply cannot. I’ve hit my capacity to absorb all of this grandeur and tell Blaine I’ve had enough for today. I’m sure he thinks it’s because I want to go home and tell Elliot all about it so we can make an offer, not. I have to fall asleep immediately; I am so overwhelmed that people live this excessively. Overwhelmed and dare I say, in love?
Before pulling out of the drive, Blaine hands me the brochure on the house. It’s twenty glossy pages of the most amazingly gorgeous photographs of the estate in various seasons. It probably cost thirty bucks just to print the thing. In one photo, the entry houses a hundred and eighty-seven foot Christmas tree (yes, I exaggerate but barely), then there is one of the formal dining table set up for twenty-four diners (I kid you not) and my favorite is the one of the kitchen with a full breakfast buffet laid out on the counter. All for the bargain price of $5,469,000, a steal by anyone’s estimation.
Chapter 12
I’m on my way to pick up Ginger for a cup of tea. We’ve both given up coffee in an attempt to be as healthy as possible during our pregnancies and have replaced our caffeine addictions with the passion fruit/verbena blend at The Tea Room. Ginger meets me in her driveway and she does not look well. “Heya, get in.” I say as I open the passenger’s door from the inside.
She climbs aboard and groans, “I feel like I’m ready to deliver any minute.” Ginger is only sixteen weeks pregnant to my fifteen but she looks like she’s at least eight months gone.
“You’re huge! Of course I’m sure you love hearing people tell you that.” I laugh. She doesn’t even crack a smile. “Ginger, how are you feeling? Everything going okay?”
Without any notice whatsoever, my sister bursts into tears, big, ugly, snotty tears. I immediately pull my car over. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“I didn’t want to burden you, but we, we…” snort, hiccup, sniffle, “we haven’t heard baby three’s heartbeat since before your wedding.”
Holy crap! I ask, “Why haven’t you told me this before now?”
She blows her nose before answering, “I didn’t want to ruin your big day.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt and wrap my sister in my arms. “Oh, Ginger. I’m so sorry. What does this mean? Is the doctor sure the baby is…” I pause to figure out how to phrase this sensitively and settle on, “gone?”
She shakes her head. “There are a couple possibilities. One is that baby three is dead.” She sobs before continuing, “The other is that the heartbeat is beating in sync with one of the other babies. So every time I go in, they listen for an echo, which could be baby three’s heartbeat. We have an ultrasound appointment tomorrow to try to get confirmation one way or another.” She adds, “Unfortunately, it’s very common for one of the fetuses to die early with multiples.”
My sympathy isn’t enough. “I’m so sorry. Would you rather just go home? I would totally understand.”
“No way!” she assures me. “I need to get out of the house and out of my head for a while. Let’s get tea and then find something else to do to fritter away the day, maybe a pedicure?”
But after tea and a nice sampling of pastries (because we’re gestating and we need the extra calories—that’s our story and we’re sticking to it) we decide to forgo the pedicures and head over to my house to look at housing brochures.
Elliot left for New York yesterday. He’ll only be gone two days but it’s weird not having him home. When I woke up alone this morning, I briefly panicked thinking the last few months were just a dream. My relief was palpable when I spotted a pair of his loafers sitting next to the wall.
I tell Ginger about all the colossal homes Blaine has been trying to push on us as I hand over a stack of brochures. She laughs. “What does Elliot say?”
I roll my eyes. “Turns out his highness grew up in houses like these and he finds them ‘perfectly acceptable domiciles.’ His words, not mine. I had to Google “domicile” to know what he was talking about.”
Ginger flips through the stack and pulls out my favorite. “Holy cow, look at this one!”
My breath catches a little. “It’s even better in person.”
Ginger brightens up immediately. “Let’s call Blaine so you can show me.”
I shake my head. “We’re never going to buy the thing. It would be a complete waste of time.” That’s when it hits me, it would be a complete waste of Blaine’s time and I immediately jump on board with the idea. That little twerp needs to be brought down a peg or two. As I have nothing else on my schedule today, I’m happy to work towards that end.
Ginger and I spend three hours at the castle I’m never going to call my own. We plot and plan all kinds of parties and adventures, including the possibility of hosting a small circus for our children’s joint birthday celebrations. Then we set about figuring out how to decorate each room. After we’re done, we take the golf cart out to explore the grounds. Blaine stays back at the pool where I’m sure he’s calculating how many hundreds of thousands in commission he thinks he’s going to
make selling us this ridiculousness. I can’t wait to tell him it’s a no go, but think I’ll enjoy letting him imagine it’s going to happen for a while longer.
We drive through the grounds quietly, both lost in our own thoughts when I break the silence and say, “I know you’re worried about baby three and I’m not trying to make light of that, but have you guys started talking about names yet?”
Ginger confirms, “You bet, we have. Jonathan thinks we should use names of famous artists, you know, with me being the director of the museum and all. So far he’s suggested Picasso, Leonardo, Salvadore, Jackson and Hieronymus for boys.”
“Impressive list,” I choke, hoping to God they have all girls, although I do like the name Jackson. Of course as an artist, I find Jackson Pollock’s work highly overrated and reminiscent of blood spatter, but what do I know? “What about if you’ve got girls in there?”
“Freda, Georgia and Moses.”
“Moses? Who do you think you are, Gwyneth Paltrow?”
Ginger giggles, “God knows I’m not trying to emulate her. It’s short for Grandma Moses.”
“Wow.” I mean what else can I say? For once, words escape me.
Ginger asks, “What about you guys? Any ideas?”
“We’re kind of going along the lines of you guys, thinking in terms of writers we love.”
“Oh, what fun!” Then she starts to ramble off possibilities, “You could name a boy Henry or Earnest or Charles. And if it’s a girl, you could name her Louisa, Charlotte or Jane. Which are you considering?”
Of course my sister has picked names from highbrow authors of the classics. So I sheepishly respond, “We’re thinking Sophie or Stephen.”
Ginger pauses for a moment, looks confused and confesses, “I’m drawing a blank. I cannot think of any authors with those names.”
Confession time, “Well, Elliot, believe it or not, idolizes Stephen King.”
Ginger gasps, “You’re kidding!”
I shake my head and say, “Of course you know my love of all things, Sophie Kinsella.”
Ginger nearly busts a gut laughing, “Oh my God, that’s hysterical!”
A bit offended I declare, “Well at least the names are classic. It’s not like I’m jumping on the bandwagon to find the most farfetched thing in the world to call my kid.” Of course I’m thinking Hieronymus and Moses, but now doesn’t seem the proper time to make fun.
My sister agrees, “Totally. I want our babies to have good solid names that won’t be a hindrance to them in life.” Ahem, Hieronymus and Moses? But again, I don’t say it out loud. “I was going through baby books the other day and almost choked when I saw what people were naming their kids today. I picked up a book called Name Your Child for Their Star Sign, freaky stuff in there.”
“Tell me about it. Renée’s been regaling me with names her friends are sticking their kids with and I feel like calling child protective services on them. Camille has friends named Bluebell, Margarita and Vienna.” I continue, “I get naming your kid after a flower, but Bluebell? That’s something you’d name your cow!”
Ginger snorts, “And Margarita? Why not just name her Daiquiri or Mud Slide?”
I’m laughing so hard I’m in jeopardy of running into a tree. “And Vienna! If you’re going to name your daughter after a sausage, why not Bratwurst or Kielbasa?”
This is just the kind of distraction Ginger needs today. After we finish the grand tour and head back to Blaine, I offer, “Ginger, if you ever want me to go to a doctor’s appointment with you or you just need to talk, please let me know. I’m always here for you.”
Ginger reaches out and takes my hand. “I know you are, Mimi. Thank you.”
This crazy life is full of such ups and downs it’s amazing more of us don’t drop dead from the sheer shock of living. Here Ginger never even thought she could give birth to her own children. She accepted it and signed up with adoption agencies only to wind up pregnant with triplets. Now she finds out that she may have lost one of her babies. It’s been the most wonderful and horrific rollercoaster ride of her life. Yet I’m willing to bet she wouldn’t change a thing.
Chapter 13
For five solid weeks, starting the week before my wedding, I’m the picture of health. I’ve never been more rested and radiant. I am a veritable goddess of well-being. Enter this week. My boobs ache like the heavy weight champion of the world has mistaken them for his boxing bag. My nipples are the size of my head and the veins running through them are so dark, you’d swear my blood was as blue as Elliot’s. And that’s just my boobs.
My baby bump is as cute as ever but all the stretching and pulling of the skin, to make room for this kid, is making me itch like I have a virulent case of chicken pox. I’m in line at the grocery store the other day and all I want to do was lift up my shirt and scratch till my skin comes off; which of course I don’t do. Although I do bend over to pick up a quarter only to pass gas on the person behind me. It was no delicate little poof of air either. That expulsion could have been a contender.
I’ve still been craving all things meat. Meatloaf, meatballs, pot roast, pork, if it’s meaty, I want it. As a result, I have not been eating enough fruits or vegetables and am constipated. I’m currently full of baby, meat and crap, the trifecta of discomfort. After gassing the person behind me in line, I call my doctor and ask for help. She prescribes a prenatal vitamin with a stool softener. So far so good, I’m still a gaseous time bomb but at least I’m not stopped up.
Being a newlywed, Elliot and I have not yet achieved the comfort level of old married couples who understand cutting the cheese, burping and other bodily functions are par for the course. I think we were hoping to ease our way into this. Yet, nature is not allowing me the dignity I crave. Just this morning I went into the spare room where Elliot is editing in order to bring him a fresh cup of coffee, when what should happen? I sneeze. That’s right, I sneeze, wet my pants and release stinky fumes all at the same time. My face turns red with mortification and Elliot pretends he doesn’t notice. While he might be able to imagine I’m not the most disgusting thing on the planet, I can’t. I’ve never been good at ignoring the elephant in the room so I simply announce, “That’s right, Elliot. I just sneezed, farted and wet my pants.”
He looks up at me over the rim of his glasses and smiles, “Yes, I know.”
I demand, “Then say something! Don’t pretend this ugliness isn’t happening!”
“What would you like me say?” I roll my tear-filled eyes and prepare to cry when he offers, “Can I get you a towel?”
Then I really do cry. I’m so humiliated by my body’s duplicity and irritated by my stuck-up English husband’s reaction to it; I don’t know what to say. I just stand there.
Elliot tries to console me, “Mimi, everyone, um, err… you know, passes wind, even me. It’s a natural function of the human body. And given that you’re creating life, I assume there might be a good deal more in there than normal.”
Through my sobs, I manage, “Shut up, Elliot. Yes, I know even you fart, but do me a favor. If you want me to feel better, you better start doing it in front of me. Understand?”
Elliot looks like I’ve just asked him to urinate in public, which I did not. Although it’s clear that’s something I’ll be inclined to do if I sneeze, cough, or God forbid, laugh outside the comfort of my own home. He tries to console me. “Mimi, if that will somehow help you, I’ll endeavor to try.” That’s all I ask.
While we’re on the subject of horrific body betrayals during pregnancy, I’d like to issue a warning: not all gas is just gas, so be careful. Sometimes, especially when you’re taking a prescription strength stool softener, this trapped air is traveling with a friend. If you forget and try to push it out anyway, don’t be surprised if you fill your pants.
I grill Renée on all the disgusting things yet to come and she assures me there are many. Hurray! I can look forward to hemorrhoids, acne that would put a teenager’s complexion to shame and excessive sw
eating. If that isn’t enough there’s heartburn, leg cramps and not being able to sleep for more than an hour at a time without having to go to the bathroom. Dear God, we’d better love the heck out of this baby as it’s destined to be an only child. Elliot is never going to want to touch me again once this one pops out. Oh, and about that, Renée assures me her fifty-plus hour labors are atypical. Let the good times roll.
Today is our sixteen week appointment even though I’m seventeen weeks pregnant. The doctor was booked solid last week and apparently it’s not considered an emergency when the mother is desperate to find out the sex of her child. So here we sit, me in my stylish paper gown with my butt hanging out and Elliot looking as dapper and English as ever. Seriously, he’s wearing tweed.
Dr. Fermin comes in all bright and perky and wants to know, “How are we doing today?”
Elliot answers, “Lovely.” at the same time that I offer, “Gassy.” That about sums it up.
She opens my gown and globs the warm gel on my stomach before rubbing the ultrasound wand over it. I’m staring intently at the monitor trying to figure out what I’m looking at when I see a wonderful, perfect little foot staring back at me. The doctor asks, “Do you want to know what you’re having?”
I yell out, “Yes!” before Elliot even has a chance to weigh in.
The doctor smiles and asks Elliot, “Do you want to take a guess?”
He looks closely at the monitor and breaks out into a huge grin and exclaims, “We’re having a boy!”
My obstetrician wonders, “How do you figure?”
Elliot points to long straight part of our child and replies, “Right there. That’s his manhood, no?”
Dr. Fermin bursts into laughter before answering, “Uh, no. That’s the baby’s leg.” Then she looks at me as if to suggest, “Someone thinks highly of himself.”
Mimi Plus Two (The Mimi Chronicles Book 2) Page 6
