“I almost forgot to tell you,” I say instead. “Berni and Aidan called. They finally delivered the twins. Aidan’s a little hungry, but everybody’s healthy and doing well.”
“Good for them,” Kate says. Then she immediately comes up with a new brainstorm. “If she’s done delivering, maybe Berni’d like to join me. She could probably use a weekend at the beach.”
“She probably could, but the doctor said no windsurfing for another twenty-four hours.” I laugh. “Then there’s the whole problem about being around to breast-feed.”
“She could bring the babies,” Kate suggests, ever flexible. But even she doesn’t sound convinced.
“Maybe the twins should leave the hospital in a stroller, not a 757,” I say.
Kate sighs. “Doesn’t matter. I know how to spend a weekend on my own. I’ll just enjoy my one hundred hours of solitude. Maybe I’ll write a book about it.”
Worse things can happen than spending two days on a beautiful stretch of island, reading beach books and searching for seashells. And if Kate strolls the sand in that sexy new bikini, she won’t have to be alone for long. Though meeting new guys doesn’t seem to be on her agenda. Maybe Owen’s momentarily stepped out of the frame, but he’s clearly still in the picture.
When we hang up, Bradford rolls on top of me with a little smile and a long kiss.
“I need your full attention now,” he says.
“You have it,” I say, closing my eyes and savoring the sensation of his strong body against mine.
I hear a sound from the living room and start to sit up.
“Don’t worry,” Bradford says, his strong hands on my shoulders as he gently shifts me back against the bed. “Just Pal.”
As if he’s heard his name mentioned, Pal gives a little bark. Which seems strange. I’ve never heard him do that in the middle of the night before. But then all’s quiet again and Bradford’s smothering me in kisses. We’re moving together now, lost in the moment, our bodies finding the same rhythm. My breath is coming fast and I gasp with pleasure.
And I’m not the only one gasping.
“Oh my god, Daddy! What are you doing?” calls out an indignant, high-pitched girl’s voice.
For an instant, my eyes lock with Bradford’s and we’re both too startled to move. Then Bradford leaps off me, snatching the crumpled sheet from the bed to wrap around himself. I grab for my abandoned T-shirt and a pillow. No way I’ll find the panties.
“Skylar!” Bradford says, looking into the dim room and seeing the outline of his lanky soon-to-be-fourteen-year-old daughter standing at the foot of the bed. Sounding more cheerful than most men could in the same situation, he adds, “Great surprise! We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m here,” Skylar says petulantly, shrugging out of her Prada backpack and flinging it on the floor.
And apparently the party’s just starting. Walking into the bedroom now, accompanied by the faithful panting Pal, is a perfectly coiffed Louis Licari blonde, dressed in a hip-hugging blue pantsuit with an expertly knotted Hermès scarf at her neck. It’s the middle of the night, but she looks like she stepped out of an ad on the back cover of Town and Country.
She pushes aside the duvet and sits down primly on the edge of the bed. She doesn’t look at me, but I swear she sniffs the air. “Bradford, what kind of homecoming is this for your wife and daughter?” she asks.
Bradford’s ducked into the bathroom and emerges now in a pair of jeans. He tosses me a terry bathrobe. “You’re not my wife. My ex-wife, if memory serves,” Bradford says.
“Whatever,” Mimi says, tossing her head. “Who’s your latest girlfriend?”
“You’ve met Sara and you know she’s my fiancée, not my girlfriend,” Bradford says sharply.
Mimi looks me over. And at this moment, I’m at a distinct disadvantage, cowering in a Yankees T-shirt and Bradford’s too-big ratty robe. For a man who dresses in Savile Row suits and Loro Piana cashmere sweaters, he sure doesn’t pay much attention to what he puts on after a shower.
“So you’re his fiancée. Big deal. Risky business, if you ask me,” she says sarcastically. “You got the diamond and moved in. But you haven’t exactly sealed the deal. Have you thought about that?” She looks approvingly at her own well-manicured fingernails and smiles secretively. “Things can change, you know.”
“Wrong again, Mimi,” says Bradford. “The only reason Sara moved in before the wedding is so Dylan could start the school year. But this is a done deal.”
“Are you at least using condoms?” Skylar asks.
Mimi smirks and cocks her head in my direction. “Do you play tennis well enough to be invited to the country club doubles tournament? Do you know how to be a trophy wife?”
“Do you even have a personal shopper at Bergdorf’s?” Skylar volleys.
“Has Bradford told you he doesn’t like sex in the morning?” Mimi fires at lightning speed.
Whoa. The two of them are shooting questions faster than Tim Russert on Meet the Press. But with these topics, any network censor would demand a five-second delay. Skylar sits down on the bed next to her mom. We’re certainly an intimate little family group. Maybe I should make some tea.
But Bradford isn’t waiting for crumpets. He strides over to the bed and puts his arm around Skylar. “Mimi, cut it out. What are you possibly thinking of, barging in at this hour?”
“You weren’t happy that I took Skylar away for so long,” she says, adjusting the gold circle pin on her scarf, “and you said you wanted to see her the moment we got back. So this is the moment. We came here straight from the airport.”
“And I’m tired,” Skylar complains, yawning dramatically.
I get up and offer my hand to Skylar. “After that flight, you must be exhausted,” I say sympathetically. “Come on, let’s get you to bed. I’ll take you to your room.”
“I don’t need your help. I know where my room is,” Skylar snaps, standing up and grabbing her backpack. “This is my house, not yours.”
“Skylar, dear,” Mimi clucks approvingly. “That’s not a nice thing to say to this . . . woman.”
“Well, it is my house. I’ve been here longer than she has. A lot longer,” Skylar says, her voice getting louder.
“And you’ll be here long after she’s gone, dear,” Mimi says.
“You can bet on that,” Skylar shoots back.
She storms out of the room and I see Bradford set his jaw. “I’m not going to let you do this,” he growls to Mimi in a low, controlled voice. “It was your decision to walk out two years ago and run off with that sleazy CEO. Now you have to live with the consequences.”
“What consequences?” Mimi asks, feigning innocence. “I had a little fling. I’m back. Now you’re having a little fling. Come on, darling. How long can yours last?”
“Forever,” Bradford says, taking my hand. “Sara and I are getting married. That’s permanent. You and I are divorced. Also permanent. Why doesn’t that sink in?”
“Because I’ve decided I want you back,” Mimi says coyly. “And what Mimi wants, Mimi gets.”
“What Mimi wanted was a CEO who had more money than me, as I remember,” says Bradford. “I can’t help it if he was indicted and went to jail for fraud.”
“He’ll be out in two years,” Mimi says. “But I never liked him anyway. The sapphire-and-diamond necklace he gave me turned out to be fake.”
Bradford shakes his head. “I’m not going through this old history again. Thank you for bringing Skylar over. It’s great to have her here. We’ll resume our usual custody arrangement—one week our house, one week yours.” He glances at his watch. “Do you want us to bring her back at three a.m. next week, or should we pick a more civilized hour?”
Mimi plays coquettishly with her Elsa Peretti earring and offers Bradford a winning smile. She leans in and territorially puts her hand on his shoulder. “Oh darling, whatever you want. I wasn’t trying to upset you. Skylar’s missed you and so have I. It�
�s been too long apart.”
Too long apart for what? Or for whom, more to the point? For Bradford and Skylar or Bradford and Mimi? Lord knows I haven’t been missing Mimi. And I’m hoping Bradford hasn’t either.
“Look,” says Bradford, his tone softening. “Skylar’s welcome here any time of the day or night. The door’s always open. Or at least she has the key. But next time you’re coming over, I’d appreciate it if you used the doorbell. And some advance warning wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”
“You used to like it when I surprised you,” Mimi says, flirtatiously strumming her fingers on his shoulder. “You know what I mean, don’t you, darling? That night in Vienna. The black lace garter belt. I know you remember.”
Bradford looks momentarily embarrassed. Okay, so he does remember. Mimi notices Bradford’s expression, too. “I still have that garter belt,” she says, rubbing her hand seductively along her hip.
The woman is shameless—and appropriately named. For her, life is all about Me, Me, Me. But I refuse to let myself be jealous of Bradford’s ex-wife. Mimi’s the past and I’m the future. Bradford’s told me a million times that he made a mistake marrying the slick, social climbing Mimi. This time around, he wanted something real. Someone real. I pinch myself. Yup, I’m real all right. Though the situation is feeling a little absurd.
Luckily, Bradford’s not falling for Mimi’s charm act. “I’ve got an important meeting in the morning,” he says, putting an end to the conversation. “I’m heading out early, but Skylar can sleep in. Sara will be here when she gets up.”
“Sure will,” I say chirpily, happy to prove to Bradford that despite the midnight intrusion, I’m glad Skylar’s here. “I’ll make breakfast. I whip up a pretty good banana pancake.”
“Aren’t you the good little housewife,” Mimi says, releasing Bradford’s shoulder and reverting to her snarky self. “Your little flapjacks. How quaint. Let’s see how they measure up to the soufflés Skylar ordered every morning in Paris at the George V. When she was with me.”
Turning on her heel, Mimi reaches for her alligator purse, pulls out a gold compact and powders her nose. As if leaving with a shiny nose at three a.m. will blind the doorman.
Bradford follows his ex to the front door and throws the dead-bolt lock as soon as she’s gone. He comes padding back into the bedroom and climbs into bed.
“We’d better get some rest,” he says, kissing me amiably. So much for our post-midnight passion. Within seconds he rolls over and falls into a sound sleep. I lay awake for the rest of the night—or what’s left of it—watching the pulsating digital numbers click toward dawn. Come to think of it, Mimi’s right. Bradford doesn’t like sex in the morning. Wonder what else she knows about him.
Dylan is already eating a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch when Skylar sleepily slouches into the kitchen. He barely looks up when she flops down at the table, dressed in skin-tight white shorts, an orange halter midriff top, and a chain-link belt wrapped around her tiny waist. If she were one of my students, I’d send her home to put on some clothes. I look protectively at Dylan. But fortunately, he’s still at the age when he doesn’t notice girls and he thinks Britney Spears is famous for her singing.
Dylan peels back the top of his sandwich and starts cheerfully making little Swiss cheese balls which he shoots across his plate. Across the table, Skylar stares at him disdainfully.
“Good morning!” I say brightly to my almost stepdaughter. “Or I guess, good afternoon! Sleep well?”
“The bed didn’t feel right,” she says huffily. “Don’t you know that anything less than three-hundred-count sheets makes me break out in hives?”
Dylan looks up, finally interested. “Do you want to count to three hundred by threes?” he asks. “I can do it. Three . . . six . . . nine . . . twelve . . . fifteen . . .”
“You’re such an idiot,” Skylar says, rolling her eyes.
“Eighteen . . . twenty-one . . . twenty-four . . . twenty-seven,” Dylan continues, undeterred.
I put my hand on his. “That’s great, honey, but let’s finish counting later.” I turn to Skylar, ignoring both the idiot comment and her idiotic comment about the sheets.
“Chocolate chip pancakes?” I offer Skylar, deciding on the spot that past noon, a well-balanced lunch can include Hershey’s. And a little dash of sugar might sweeten her mood.
“Gross,” Skylar says disdainfully, wrinkling her nose. “You want me to get fat? You want me to get pimples? I get it. You’re trying to make my life hell, aren’t you.”
Wow, we got there fast. I figured I’d have to confiscate her gold MasterCard, delete her AOL buddy list, and marry her father before I could actually destroy her life.
“How about some Cheerios?” I ask, trying not to take the bait. And thinking that something with the word “cheer” in it might have a subliminal effect.
“My mother always gives me Special K,” she says. “No sugar. No fat. And get it? She thinks I’m special.”
“Yeah, my mom thinks I’m special, too,” Dylan pipes in, now eating the grimy little cheese balls he’s done playing with.
Skylar stands up, scraping her chair loudly against the terrazzo tile floor. “I’m going over to Heather’s house. I’ll be back whenever,” she says, popping one of Dylan’s cheese balls in her mouth and heading to the door.
“Wait,” I say, trailing after her. “Who’s Heather? Where does she live? Can I take you?”
“Don’t bother,” Skylar says, sailing past me. “Heather lives in Manor Haven.”
Hadley Farms. Manor Haven. Why do all these suburban communities sound like rest homes?
“Heather’s sister’s picking me up in the Mustang convertible,” Skylar continues, grudgingly giving me more information. “She just got her driver’s license.”
Now I’m stumped. Is Bradford’s daughter allowed to get in the car with a sixteen-year-old? I don’t even know what I should be more worried about—Skylar in the car with a newbie driver or nubile teenagers driving with the top down. Hopefully the car’s top, not theirs.
“I have some errands. I’ll drive you instead,” I say, grabbing for my wallet.
“Over my dead body,” Skylar retorts, slamming the door behind her.
Dylan looks up at me with a big grin. “Now what are we going to do, Mom?” he asks happily. He’s never had a sibling before and Skylar seems to be providing a certain level of entertainment.
I take a moment to think who I can ask about this, and in a burst of inspiration, I rush to the intercom.
“Enrique?” I entreat.
“At your service,” says the friendly doorman from his guard post at the gate. “What can I do for you today?”
“Skylar’s driving with her friend Heather’s sister over to Manor Haven. Can you tell me where that is? I’m thinking about following them.”
“Don’t bother,” Enrique says soothingly. “I’ll keep an eye on them. It’s just two gated communities over. All private roads between here and there and the speed limit’s ten. Cops at every corner flag anybody going over fifteen.”
Who says suburban children are overprotected? “Thanks,” I say, sighing in relief. Enrique knows everything. Next I’ll have to ask what he suggests about Skylar’s too-tight shorts.
Exhausted, I slump down next to Dylan and nibble on the crusts he’s left on his plate. Amazing how many people one little grilled cheese sandwich can feed.
“So now can I count?” Dylan says. “Thirty . . . thirty-three . . . thirty-six . . . thirty-nine . . . forty-two . . .”
I don’t care how long it takes him to get to three hundred. At least I haven’t ruined his life yet.
When I get to Berni’s hospital room an hour later, I edge my way past baskets brimming with flowers and three king-sized orange trees. So many helium balloons are pushing toward the ceiling, I feel like I’ve wandered into the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. In a corner, the drummer is still on duty, though now he’s switched to a keyboard, abandonin
g primitive primordial rhythms for easy listening.
Aidan is swaying in place to the music, cradling one baby in each arm. And darned if they aren’t cooing instead of crying at Neil Sedaka’s greatest hits. Poor kids. When they’re older, they’ll never understand why they feel so happy in elevators.
“They’re just gorgeous,” I say, smiling into their sleepy sweet faces. “Who do they look like?”
“Robin Williams,” says Berni groggily from her bed.
I do a double take, and push up one of the baby’s teeny sleeves, rubbing my finger gently along the soft, smooth arm. Nope. Not hairy. Sweat’s not pouring down his face, and he’s not compulsively spewing jokes, either.
“I don’t see the resemblance myself,” I say.
“No, really. The three orange trees came from Robin Williams,” says Berni, who’s apparently misheard my question over the strains of “Love Will Keep Us Together.” “Wasn’t that fabulous of him? I love Robin.” She shoots a sidelong glance at Aidan. “Maybe we can name one of the babies after him.”
“We could name them both Robin,” says Aidan. “With an ‘i’ for the girl and a ‘y’ for the boy.”
“Or an ‘i’ for the boy and a ‘y’ for the girl,” counters Berni.
Aidan signs and turns to me. “We can’t agree on names,” he says, in case I hadn’t guessed. “We’ve been through six books including the Manhattan telephone directory and nothing seems good enough. We may have to go with working titles. Baby Project A and Baby Project B.”
“Better than your idea of Hannibal and Clarisse,” says Berni.
“Silence of the Lambs was a great movie,” growls Aidan. “One of my favorites.”
It’s a good thing Aidan’s not a Jim Carrey fan. I wouldn’t want him naming the babies Dumb and Dumber.
I hold out a finger to one of the infants, marveling, as everyone does as he (or is it she?) clenches it tightly. I extend a finger to the other baby, who has an equally strong grip. Funny how two little beings who weigh less than six pounds each can take over a room. Not to mention your life.
“How about naming them Ben and Jerry?” I suggest. “It might entitle the kids to a lifetime’s free supply of Chunky Monkey.”
Mine Are Spectacular! Page 7
