Mimi Plus Two (The Mimi Chronicles Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  Madam Lala keeps the cast while it cures and will send it off for the next step, once I decide what that is. I just want to get home and shower.

  Upon walking through the front door, Abbie hands me a kale and kiwi smoothie. I don’t even balk at it. I know it’s going to taste highly questionable, but it’s good for Sophie so I down it on my way to the bathroom.

  Chapter 40

  The first thing the countess says to me after not laying eyes on me for months is, “Mimi, you’re huge!”

  I want to reply, “And you’re a bitch.” But I don’t. Instead I greet, “Victoria, how nice to see you. We’re so glad to have you here.”

  Conversely, the earl’s smile is so big it looks like it’s about to swallow his face. He’s completely lost it because instead of shaking my hand or nodding his head in royal acknowledgment, he wraps me in a near bear hug and exclaims, “You look beautiful, Mimi!”

  Elliot and Philippa greet their parents as well and then we all retire to the library. I offer everyone tea and Elliot fetches it. I’ve been a bit clumsy during this last part of my pregnancy and neither of us wants to see me face plant with the tea service.

  Abbie is following him when he comes back. She’s carrying a tray of scones and cookies she’s created for the occasion and she looks like she’s about to hurl.

  I introduce, “Victoria, Archibald, this is Abigail, our nanny.” I hurry to add, “Although we’ve come to think of her as our friend and member of the family.”

  The countess offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and says, “How nice.”

  Elliot hurries to contribute, “Abbie is a great cook. In fact, she made the scones and cookies.”

  “She makes most of our meals. She’s really quite extraordinary.” I know it might sound like we’re overselling her, but Elliot and I both want to put Abbie at ease.

  Pip pipes in with, “She’s also the most remarkable gardener! She’s hard at work on a plan for a garden she’s going to put in here.”

  “My goodness,” the countess clucks, “do you walk on water, too, Abigail?” I think she’s trying to be funny, without success.

  Abbie is positively mute in response. I can see Elliot’s parents are everything she feared they’d be, pretentious, officious and very snooty.

  I manage, “Thanks so much, Abbie. What time do you want us ready for dinner?”

  Our nanny tries to smile, and suggests, “How about six o’clock in the dining room?”

  We eat all of our meals in the breakfast nook attached to the kitchen, but Abbie thinks Elliot’s parents will prefer a more formal setting. I’m sure she’s right.

  While Elliot shows our guests to their room, to rest up from their trip, I head to the kitchen to check the menu for dinner, ala Cora Crowley, The Countess of Grantham. As far as countess’s go, Cora’s way more my speed. Yes, she’s rather grand but she’s delightful and loving and she cares about her staff. Victoria should really watch Downton Abbey so she can see how it’s done.

  I find Abbie at the sink scrubbing potatoes like she’s trying to skin them alive. She’s grumbling, “Fricking creepy lizards, makes my skin crawl.”

  “Lizards?” I inquire. Which causes the nanny to startle and let out a blood curdling scream.

  “Mimi!” she gasps. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

  I laugh, “You were too busy giving that potato what for.” Then ask, “What lizards are making your skin crawl?”

  She looks around all shifty eyed and responds, “What do you mean, lizards? I said buzzards.”

  “Okaaaaaay, what buzzards?”

  Abbie’s face turns as red as my hair and replies, “Oh, nothing. Just something I saw on TV last night.”

  I adore our nanny and think she’s an amazing young person. She’s been an invaluable member of our little tribe and I’m sure she’ll be remarkable with Sophie. But there’s something a little off about her when it comes to the British aristocracy. Normally this wouldn’t affect me at all but I’ve married into this highbrow can of mixed nuts and I’d like to figure out what’s setting her off.

  Alas, I know today won’t be the day, so I ask, “What’s for dinner?”

  “I’m starting out with a vichyssoise and then serving a beet and pistachio salad. The entrée is white bean stuffed portobellos.”

  The drool forming in my mouth is positively Pavlovian. “Bravo!” I clap. “That is a meal guaranteed to impress! What’s for dessert?”

  She answers, “I made a coconut milk ice cream that I’m serving with brandied cherries.”

  In awe, I inquire, “Why didn’t you become a chef? You’re certainly good enough in the kitchen.”

  The nanny looks disgusted. “I would hate cooking in a restaurant!”

  “Why?” I demand. “I bet you’d have diners lined up out the door.”

  “I’d stop loving to cook if I had to make the same meal over and over. No thank you. I prefer being creative and designing new stuff every day.”

  The world’s loss is my gain. I offer, “Abbie, I know Elliot’s parents are a lot to take on at first, believe me, I know. They’re just different from us. I promise they’ll warm up as they get to know you.”

  She looks like she’d rather crawl into bed with a boa constrictor than get to know Victoria and Archibald. Then she answers, “I don’t think they want to get to know me. In their eyes, I’m the help, and truly, that’s fine by me.”

  I smile half-heartedly. “I do know what you mean. I don’t think they even tried to tolerate me until they found out I was pregnant and even then it took some time.”

  “Yes, well, you’re breeding one of them. That sort of makes you important.”

  Chapter 41

  When we’re all seated for dinner, Abbie and Pip bring in the soup. The nanny dishes it up while Elliot’s sister serves. Victoria takes a tentative bite and announces, “My goodness, I don’t think I’ve had better!”

  I glance at Abbie and send her an encouraging look. She merely shrugs her shoulders as if to say, whatever.

  Archibald is next and he concurs, “Delicious!” Then to Abigail, he winks and inquires, “I don’t suppose you’d like to come work for us?”

  Our young helper, would in fact, probably rather eat her own feet, but has the grace to smile and answer, “I’ll have to decline. After all, I’m here to help with Sophie.”

  That starts a round of excited chatter about their future grandchild. Victoria asks, “Are you nervous about the C-section, Mimi?”

  “Terrified.” I answer. “I know they’re considered very commonplace but I can’t get over the idea of the epidural.”

  The countess concurs, “It was much more civilized when they put you to sleep and only woke you once your child was born.”

  “Is that how you delivered us?” Pip inquired.

  “How I wish,” the countess responds. “They no longer offered that service when Elliot was born. Instead, they strapped my wrists down and screamed at me through the whole thing. It was simply dreadful.”

  “Strapped your wrists down? That sounds barbaric!” I exclaim.

  Archibald chuckles and adds, “It might have had something to do with Victoria’s threats to rip their heads off if they didn’t remove the baby immediately.”

  I can’t help myself and smile at the thought. I can’t imagine Elliot’s mom with so much as a hair out of place, yet alone delivering a baby and making threats like a common thug. I would have actually paid good money to see that.

  The countess contributes, “In my defense, Archibald, Elliot was over nine pounds. If there ever was a time to threaten violence, that was it.”

  I say a little prayer of thanks for my C-section and confess, “It’s just the whole needle in the spine thing that’s throwing me.”

  Victoria, very uncharacteristically reaches over to grab my hand and offers, “Mimi, believe me, it’s a gift. It will be over in a moment’s time and you can bring my first grandchild into the world in comfort. I couldn’t wi
sh for anything better for you.” I believe her. It’s like we just had a real moment.

  I look around the table and realize that Abbie isn’t sitting with us, so I inquire as to her whereabouts.

  Pip replies, “She said she’d prefer to eat in the kitchen tonight. I tried to persuade her but she was rather insistent.”

  Knowing how she feels about our guests, I decide to let it go for tonight when Elliot declares, “That’s ridiculous! I’ll go fetch her.” As Elliot leaves the table he collects the empty soup bowls and clears them into the kitchen.

  I hear an exchange of words, although I can’t quite make out what’s being said. The next thing I know my husband and the nanny are carrying in the next course. Once all the dishes are served, Abbie sits down in the only remaining seat, right next to the countess. She looks like she’s on death row.

  Victoria turns to her new dinner partner and announces, “I just love how democratic you Americans are!”

  Pip shoots her mom a dark look, “Mother, Abbie is our friend.”

  The countess plays dumb, “Of course she is. But that’s exactly what I mean.” She adds, “In England, it wouldn’t occur to us to befriend the staff.”

  Before anyone can think of a response, the earl pipes in with, “I think it’s rather refreshing. My best friend growing up was our housekeeper’s son and I have to say, I missed him dreadfully when his mother left our service.”

  I want to yell, “Go Archie!” for his moment of realness.

  The countess, fully unaware that she’s offended Abbie, asks her husband, “Did you ever try to look him up, dear?”

  Her husband replies, “Yes, actually, I did. We met at a pub for tea one day, but by then it had been twenty years since we’d seen one another.” He confides, “It was all a bit awkward.”

  No one knows what to say after that so we eat our salad course in virtual silence. Finally, Victoria breaks the silence by asking, “Where do you hail from, Abigail?”

  Our nanny inhales a pistachio and starts to choke. After several coughs, she gains her composure and replies, “I’m from Oregon, Your High…, rather Vic… I mean, Your Ladyship.”

  My mother-in-law responds, “Please, call me Victoria.” She looks around the table and adds, “After all, when in Rome.” Then she asks, “And did you mother teach you how to cook like this?”

  Abbie grimaces, “Actually, no, I grew up with eight younger siblings. Cooking was my contribution to the family effort.”

  I ask, “Were you always this good?”

  She laughs, “Not unless you consider peanut butter and gravy sandwiches good.”

  “How in the world did you come up with that revolting combination?” my husband inquires.

  “Well,” Abbie answers, “I didn’t want to cook so I figured if I made horrible stuff they would figure something else out. Of course with nine kids and a small farm to care for there wasn’t any time. So they just kept eating what I made. Sometime after mushroom and banana pancakes I decided to make the most of it and experimented with combinations that actually sounded good.”

  The earl contributes, “Well cheers to you, my dear. You’ve totally won my heart.”

  Good old Archie. I’m starting to think he’s the warm fuzzy one in the couple.

  Chapter 42

  The rest of the week flies by with uncharacteristic speed. My family kicks in to entertain Elliot’s parents and it’s April 26th before I know it. Richard arrives today, which means tomorrow is Sophie’s birthday.

  I’ve packed my hospital bag at least six times hoping I haven’t forgotten anything. Elliot assures me he’ll bring me anything I’ve neglected to include, but it’s not so much about the bag as it is about feeling in charge of the situation, which I simply am not.

  Elliot’s taken his family out to lunch, so they’re gone when Richard arrives. My dashing friend shows up on my doorstep with two dozen long-stemmed pink roses and a box of truffles from La Maison Du Chocolat in New York. I hug him as best as my giant belly will allow and drag him into the house.

  “Richard, I’ve missed you!” I declare.

  He smiles at me lovingly and replies, “I’ve missed you too, Mimi.” Then he adds, “But being that you chose Elliot over me, I’ve finally decided to start dating.”

  “Really?” I ask. Why I’m surprised by this I don’t know. I mean Richard is a very attractive and eligible bachelor so it makes sense he’d be dating. “Any luck?”

  He shakes his head in disgust, “Not a bit. It’s a jungle out there. Every woman I meet sees dollar signs before she even bothers to see me. I’m so tired of the jaded socialites and shallow gold diggers, I could spit.” He shakes his head, “I don’t know where to look to find someone real.”

  I suggest, “I think you need someone with more money than you.”

  My friend laughs, “That’s going to be a hard find. But I assure you, all the ladies of independent means I’ve encountered, are a real bore. They don’t get excited about anything.”

  So I try, “You need a woman of independent means who’s a bit eccentric.”

  Obtusely, Elliot replies, “I’m looking, but I’m seriously getting a bit a despondent over the whole thing.”

  I go for less obvious, “Maybe you need a matchmaker from the great beyond.” Then I drop the hammer, “Perhaps your father has an idea.”

  Richard chuckles, “Perhaps he does.”

  Wait, what? “Richard, are you thinking about giving Pip a chance?”

  He shrugs his shoulders, “Why not? She’s really quite beautiful once you get over the whole shock of her talking to the dead.” He continues, “As you mentioned, she’s a woman of independent means, so she’s not after me for my money. And truthfully, I haven’t given her a chance. So I figure, why not?”

  Wow and wow. “Richard,” I start, “you’re going to have to be pretty smooth about getting to know Pip. To say that you’ve put her off would be a great understatement. You’ve been downright rude to her.”

  Richard nods his head, “I have. And I’m very sorry about that. But I think the best way to proceed is to just move forward and make no mention of our uncomfortable history.”

  “Well good luck to you, Richard Bingham. I’m looking forward to watching the show.” And just then my water breaks. Amniotic fluid comes gushing out of me soaking our new sofa and dribbling onto the carpet.

  Richard seems completely unaware of the drama that’s occurring until I yell, “Oh hell, I think my water just broke!”

  Richard jumps up and demands, “Let’s go!”

  I counter, “I can’t leave without my bag. Go get it, will you? It’s in my closet.” My friend runs up the stairs and is back in remarkable time.

  He ushers me out to his rental car and hands me his phone. “Call your husband and family and let them know we’re on our way to the hospital.”

  I’m about to do just that when I’m hit with what I can only assume is a contraction. This baby puts all those piddling little Braxton Hicks cramps to shame. I groan in agony and try to focus on breathing when it moves around to my back. That’s when I let out a blood curdling scream, almost sending Richard off the road.

  He pulls his car into the ambulance bay and starts laying on the horn. Two nurses rush out to find out what all the commotion is about. Richard explains that my water broke and I am in a great deal of pain.

  One nurse rolls her eyes and says, “Labor’s painful.” To Richard she demands, “Get your car out of here and meet us inside.”

  They wheel me into the waiting room when I’m hit with another agonizing cramp. “Holy shit, this hurts!”

  The on call doctor comes over and asks how long I’ve been in labor. I reply, “Maybe ten minutes. It started right after my water broke.”

  He suggests, “Let’s take you back and see how far you’re dilated.”

  I respond, “But I’m scheduled for a C-section tomorrow. I can’t deliver Sophie vaginally, she’s breach!”

  That kicks him into gear. H
e asks the name of my doctor and gets the nurse to page her. Then he calls the O.R. to schedule a room. By the time he checks my cervix I’m already 5 cm dilated. He declares, “Your baby appears to be in quite a hurry. Is your husband with you?”

  “No!” I yell. “Crap, he’s having lunch with his parents. My friend brought me in.”

  At that moment Richard slams through the door and exclaims, “Everyone’s on their way!”

  Chapter 43

  The anesthesiologist is a very young looking Asian man. Actually he looks more like a boy of twelve or thirteen. In the midst of another contraction I scream, “Look here, Doogie Howser, I want a doctor who knows what he’s doing. No way are you getting near me with that epidural.”

  Dr. Lou smiles calmly and responds, “Mrs. Fielding, I assure you, I’ve been doing epidurals for ages.”

  I snipe, “What, on the pigs in anatomy class? Get away from me and get me a real doctor, someone who’s old enough to shave.”

  “Unfortunately, the only other anesthesiologist on call right now is eighty-seven and he just fell asleep in his soup in the doctors’ lounge.” I can’t tell if he’s toying with me or if he means it. Crap. Then he adds, “Would you rather have a doctor with good eyes and no hand tremors or should I go wake him?”

  “Gah! Fine, go ahead but if you paralyze me, I’m going to sue you for every chopstick you’ve got!” I’m normally WAY more pc than this but I’m terrified and in pain. It’s a combination that brings out the worst in me.

  Dr. Lou opens the back of my gown and rubs a cold wet cotton ball on my lower back. He says, “I’m just cleaning the area before I numb you with a small shot under the skin. It’s going to prick a little, but it’s not the epidural.”