My body plastered in too-tight scrubs and hair pulled back, I made it to my early morning case the next day, but definitely without bells on. My aching body begged me to stay nestled in my inviting sheets for at least one more day.
I skipped an appointment with my obstetrician to work this case. Jeff’s words from the week before, when I told him about the appointment, taunted me: “You can’t use your pregnancy as an excuse not to work. If you take care of yourself, you will be fine. Can’t you reschedule?” It would have done no good to tell him I tried to reschedule, but Collin refused to take the case for me.
Thankfully, the case started and ended on time. As I bolted toward the double doors, Dr. Hatten’s surgery nurse yelled, “Wait up, Jana!”
I whirled around to face her, my car keys clinging loudly. “Yes?”
“This pissed me off, so I wanted to tell you. Collin told us he couldn’t believe you got pregnant and were still trying to do this job. I told him to go to hell.” She wiped her hands on her scrubs, dramatically rolling her eyes.
I bristled, fighting the tears that slowly crept up. “Thanks for telling me.”
“He’s such a prick. Our inventory was managed terribly until you got here. Covington has been good to us, but we’d be fine if we didn’t have to work with him, or that other guy, anymore.”
I took the high road. “I’m glad we are doing a better job managing inventory now.”
She pursed her lips together. “That guy with him didn’t chastise him. He acted like you wouldn’t be here much longer. You’re not quitting, are you? We hate those bastards.”
“That guy” had to be Jeff.
Angrily, I cocked my head. “No, I won’t be leaving Covington Company. Not if I have anything to do with it.”
Relieved to get out of that hospital, I coerced Grace into girl time at Page and Palette. I needed to fill my life with more Grace gabbing instead of Covington drama. Hers was much more entertaining, and there was nothing I could do at this moment about the other.
“Tall decaf, whatever the house is,” Grace ordered, her right hand resting on her abdomen protectively.
“I’m not skipping the caffeine, and I don’t want a lecture,” I told her. “I’m ready for this day to rot in hell.” She shook her head disappointedly while I focused on the barista. “I want one of those iced mochas, with the whip cream. Can you put chocolate syrup on top?”
I gave her the backstory, and for once, she listened without interruption. “That’s such bullshit,” Grace said. “I should have Gavin arrest those two. With all the crap Collin does, it wouldn’t be hard. A little birdie should tell Jeff’s wife about his fling with Brooke.”
I cringed. I would love to see Jeff busted, but his poor family…
Grace added an extra sugar to her coffee. “You know, this is the twenty-first-freaking-century. We are stuck being the spawns of feminism, and gone are the days of the one-income family for most of us, especially me. There’s no way we could make it on Gavin’s salary, but I don’t care. I’m never quitting my job after what my mother went through.”
“With that voice, Gavin could make millions if he wanted to … and you could take him to the bank if he ever betrayed you, which is doubtful.” Gavin could compete with any contracted singer, and he was blessed with the boyish good looks to seal the deal. Shooting for the stars was second to defending the good citizens of Fairhope, which was perfectly fine with possessive Grace. She’d never worried about cash when there were credit cards.
She smiled girlishly at my compliment. “No joke … no prenuptial agreement in this marriage!”
I eyed the moist strawberry cake that was begging me to buy it, my taste buds betraying my desire to eat healthier. I prayed for willpower and sipped my sinfully calorie-ridden dessert drink. “I like working. I totally respect stay at home moms—I mean, Mama stayed home with me and Daniel! But that’s just not me.”
I reflected back on my childhood, noting the differences for mothers now. Some women welcomed work reluctantly, some of us excitedly. Our daughter, or son’s future wife, may have no choice one day. I had the best support system that money could not buy—my family. I could reduce the juggling act and, theoretically, succeed as Mom, Mrs. Andrew Cook, and Jana Cook, Covington Rep. At least I hoped.
“Working full time is uncommon for young moms in Fairhope,” Grace mused, rubbing lip gloss over her lips. “This town is full of old money and the career-driven wealthy upper class. Have you seen the wedding rings on all these women?” She snorted. “Somebody is going to cut off their fingers one day.”
Before our laughter ceased, she changed the subject. “Okay, Jana. I am prepared for you to tell me I am being nosy and stupid, but…”
“No, go ahead. No more Covington!”
She hesitantly unfolded a weakened piece of paper and laid it out on the table.
Alex. 555-1345.
I raised my eyebrows. “So?” I slurped the rest of my delicious treat.
“I saw his name in Gavin’s planner under last Thursday. No explanation, just ‘Alex.’ Then, I found this phone number in his pocket.”
“You were digging in his pockets?” I asked incredulously. “And how many times have you looked at that piece of paper? It’s falling apart.”
She looked guilty. “I have a weird feeling about it. When I asked him who Alex was, he got all weird and stuttered something about work.”
“Grace, think about how many people he meets in a day. Someone always asks for help or has questions. Isn’t he taking those classes to become a detective? Don’t you have bigger things to worry about?”
She shrugged, still looking suspicious.
“Grace, you are being paranoid. What, do you think Gavin is into, you know, that kind of thing?” I thrust my hips back and forth and made a barbarous face. “Men always crave a taste of something different, but…”
She laughed so hard that tears sprung in her sparkling eyes as she doubled over. “Okay, okay. You’re probably right, but I wonder why I can’t shake the notion that something is up.”
Why was she so paranoid? “Grace, is there something else going on with you guys … that you haven’t told me?”
She hesitated and looked away. “No.”
“Okay, then. You need something to fill up that mind of yours.”
“Like what?”
Remembering what I had to look forward to, I paused for dramatic effect. “Guess who finds out the gender in two days?” I clapped my hands together loudly and squealed, generating unwanted attention from coffee-sipping customers trying to read books.
Grace leaned back in her seat confidently, momentarily forgetting this Alex. “It’s a girl!”
DESPITE BEING BLISTERINGLY hot, the day I anticipated since the moment I found out I was pregnant proved to be stunningly beautiful, finally void of rain clouds. I took off work the afternoon of the ultrasound—there was no way anyone from Covington was going to ruin this for me—and Andrew met me at the obstetrician’s office. I decidedly shut off my cell phone and left my computer in the car, hooked to the charger, where it would rot until the next day.
“…there is absolutely nothing there,” the cute little ultrasound tech said confidently, grinning. I was jealous of her awesome little ass. She was maybe twenty-one. “It’s definitely a girl.”
Baby Girl Cook was spread eagle. No penis there, for sure. Or if there was one … probably not a good sign…
I squealed, forgetting my inferior ass. “Yayyyy!”
Andrew’s wistful, sweet smile when he heard “It’s a girl” will forever be etched in my mind. “A girl. I’m going to have a daughter. Calla Marie Cook.”
After fighting over girl names for months, we agreed the night before. He wanted Julie. I wanted Ella. He discovered the name at work, a suggestion from a colleague who was obsessed with flowers. I loved Calla instantly.
Grace was quite boastful that her prediction was right. After letting her gloat, Mama and I tore up the downtown shop
s that evening, leaving Covington Company worlds away. We rummaged through every children’s and infants’ shop in Fairhope, eventually trekking our way into Mobile, searching for good deals since my tight-ass husband had me on a ridiculous budget.
“You will have baby showers,” was his reply to my protesting.
I bought Calla a gorgeous smocked dress that mirrored the one tucked in my imagination. It was embroidered with adorable crab smocking, and I could see her sitting on a blanket in the sand, picture perfect. Mama purchased a soft, fuzzy, three-piece pink and white polka-dotted outfit that was ideal for her to wear coming home from the hospital. I daydreamed; full of romantic ideas that one day Calla’s own daughter might wear it.
“Jana,” Mama said loudly as she shoved a handful of outfits back on the shelf, notably sloppier than they were before. I scoured the place, hoping the sales representatives did not catch her lackluster effort at returning the clothes to their rightful place. “Seeing all these outfits reminds me of when you were little. Daniel was so terrible—” She snickered, unleashing a snort. “You would beg him and his friends to play with you. Do you remember that? One time, you had on a sundress that looked almost just like this one…” She pointed to a yellow, checkered sundress highlighted with pink roses. “…and they told you that the little girl next door had no clothes and she needed your dress. You were about four, maybe five. You took it off, and then walked next door in your Minnie Mouse panties to help her out. You were so sweet. You almost cried when they told you she had no clothes.”
I laughed out loud. “I remember that.” The little girl’s cashmere-clad, bouffant-haired mother found me naked, told me to put my dress back on, and promptly marched me back home to inform Mama that I was behaving inappropriately, scurrying around naked and giving away my clothes.
I also remembered the much smoother tactics my older brother’s friends had tried to get me out of my clothes in my later years … when I definitely did not have to beg them to “play” with me anymore. Daniel was not much of a protector; he was too concerned with baseball and getting my friends out of theirs. He practiced playing doctor with Grace long before he actually became one, mastering the art of bedside manner. Mama and Daddy should have known better than to let us stay up late with the big boys…
Chuckling, when I should have been cringing, at the memory, I made a mental note to keep a closer eye on Calla than Mama and Daddy had on us.
Lost in the warm, fuzzy feeling of a mother-to-be, I lost myself in the moment, piecing together her wardrobe in that fairytale boutique, until clumsy Mama literally stumbled upon the perfect furniture set, hand-crafted, real wood, and intricately ornate, at a discount store for a fraction of what it would have cost at a boutique.
Her left ankle caught one of the dainty spiral legs, and hollering loudly, she plummeted to the ground, landing face first with a loud BANG! The store owner rushed over to us at the speed of lightning, horrified.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am! Are you okay?” His face was red as a beet, and I’m sure he was calculating how much this could cost him. Mama was fine other than pain and suffering from sheer embarrassment, but the store owner offered us an extra twenty percent discount as consolation.
Needless to say, Andrew was proud of the results of our excavation.
It took nearly all weekend to perfectly piece together Calla’s furniture, but seeing the finished product was satisfying. On Sunday night, I found myself enjoying the cool night breeze and awe-inspiring sunset from our back porch. Our view of the sunset never failed to be less than incredible—it was my favorite thing about our attractive neighborhood. Whenever the sun began its retreat, the sky swirled with an artist’s palette, creating inexplicable pictures throughout the vast space. The colors bounced off the crystal clear ponds and illuminated the bristling trees. Clouds melted into balloons and roses and the occasional cartoon animal. From our rustic back porch swing, I could hear birds chirping cheerily and crickets singing peacefully. I was wrapped in a solace, sheltered from the stress of my everyday life.
I craved all things spiritual, searching for a gateway to transcend this pit I had fallen into. The need to pray, or meditate, or something, burned brightly from the sparks of my spirit. I had never actually meditated but always wanted to, more pressing things moving further up my bucket list. I could enroll in one of those classes. Maybe I would transform into some version of a Zen goddess, escaping my unfair professional reality into a mental solace of “being” that hopefully involved love, sex, and chocolate…
Fizzling out of my daydream, I fingered the cover of the inspirational book I held. I should start with prayer—that, I had practice at.
“God, you have blessed me more than I deserve,” I prayed aloud, my voice not much louder than a whisper among the chanting wildlife. “I thank you for the many blessings that you have allowed Andrew and me to experience. You have given us more than we deserve.”
I listened to myself, hating how rehearsed I sounded, so disgustingly “religious.” I relaxed and started talking to God like I used to … like a friend.
“I need your help getting me through this conflict at work. I have a sinking feeling, like everything is going to go wrong, but I know you have a plan for me. You always have and you always will. So … don’t leave me.”
Suddenly, tears threatened to cascade in waterfalls, and I lost the ability to speak out loud. I tried hard to choke them back, but a few escaped, echoing the sound of pain. It felt good to release some of the hurt that had built up inside of me, and when it was over, I sensed peace, a whisper of hope. The old familiar wrap of comfort that granted me the faith to believe everything would be all right.
Sunset darkened to night, and a chill skipped through my bloodstream, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickling. The moon was bright and almost full, gleaming boldly in the turquoise-black sky. The birds hushed, settling in for their evening slumber, and the crickets chirped louder, announcing their dominion over the darkness. Andrew’s prized deck boasted a partial canopy shelter that was aesthetically attractive yet generously allowed for the pristine moonlight to shine through.
We longed for this brief time where we could roast marshmallows out by a warm fire and actually need our favorite North Face jackets, as we talked outside over an Easton Corbin song. Hot chocolate replaced my margaritas, although I usually couldn’t resist a pre-relaxation Captain Morgan & Coke beforehand. (Unfortunately, I was SOL on liquor now that I was expecting.) I wolfed down s’mores while Andrew snuck blocks of pure chocolate and skipped the graham crackers and marshmallows.
As I closed my serene prayer, relieved to feel better, Andrew stepped outside, tossing me my pink North Face jacket. He whipped his other hand out from behind his back, presenting me with a tall, steaming glass of hot cocoa overloaded with fluffy, sweet marshmallows. “Hi, sweetheart,” he breathed huskily. “What are you doing? Please tell me you are not working.”
I glanced down at an array of papers scattered across the table where I was seated. “Hey, babe. Ummmm … not anymore.” I took a quick sip of my hot cocoa. “I’m done.”
Rolling his eyes, he pointedly gathered up the papers and pushed them aside. “It’s Sunday night; this is your time off,” he ordered. “No more work. I’m sure you’ve already over-analyzed the week.”
I sighed. “I know,” I admitted resignedly. “In the back of my mind, I think that if I can figure out what stepping it up a notch means to them, maybe the situation will start to improve.”
“You’ve done everything you can do. Baby, I just think you need to realize that your boss is not going to give you any opportunities to stand out.” He paused and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I think … I think he’s already made up his mind about you.”
My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“Jeff suggested that you shouldn’t do this job as a mother. That says it all. He won’t fire you because he can’t; he will just try to make you miserable until you throw in the towel.�
�� His tone grew very serious. “I want you to get through this pregnancy and then quit. You are miserable.”
A wave of defensiveness clothed me. “I’m not quitting.” Instinctively, I balled my fists. I did not realize I was shivering until Andrew tucked me into my jacket.
“I know you don’t want to.” Andrew bent down to start a fire. “If you won’t quit, you need to do something about it. No amount of money is worth you putting up with this treatment.” He paused, sounding like his mother again.
I sensed it wasn’t the time to bring up the fact that his greedy employer would not cover Calla’s or my insurance. Andrew worked hard to take care of us, and I did not want to hurt his pride. And there was no way I would let the Cooks help us out.
I changed the subject before I upset myself to the point of no return. “All of this ruins my night, and you’re right, there’s nothing more I can do.” I silently cursed my fears and forced a smile on my face. “I’m excited about our baby coming.”
Andrew stood up and wrapped his arms around my neck. “Me, too.” He kissed me gently on the cheek, letting his lips linger momentarily, giving me comfort. “I can’t wait.”
It was completely dark now. “I can’t wait to take her to the park, and take her swimming at Mama’s,” I said in almost a whisper. “Or, should I say, Mimi and Pop’s!” My parents had already picked out their grandparent names. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mama so excited.”
Andrew groaned dramatically. “Calla is going to be one spoiled little girl … our first child, their first grandchild. We’re going to have to make sure your parents don’t spoil her to death.”
I ignored his jab at my parents. If anyone was spoiled, it was Andrew Cook, who grew up the center of attention in the midst of his father’s political success and his mother’s Sports Illustrated career. “Knowing that we have a child on the way makes me want to be a better person even more. You know?”
“I agree.” Andrew gazed out into the darkness. “It’s a big responsibility. No more golf or fishing for me,” he pouted, only half joking.
The Storm (Fairhope) Page 8
