The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  What was taking so long? She read over her interview questions and answers again, then looked down at her wingtips. Since she’d taken a Lyft, she could have worn her Ferragamos after all.

  She picked up her portfolio and flipped through the pages. The door opened, and she snapped the portfolio shut. Karl stepped out of the room, his back to Anne, and bowed. “Thank you all so very much.”

  The panelists applauded as if he had just sung an operatic aria. Anne gritted her teeth. The jerk actually bowed.

  “Please, shut the door,” Priscilla called.

  Karl turned with a grin that clouded over when he saw Anne.

  “Seems like that went well for you.” She forced herself to smile.

  “May the best artist win.” He smirked and sauntered down the hall.

  His foul cinnamon scent made her stomach roil. Even though she didn’t want to leave her seat in case they came out to get her, she rushed to the bathroom anyway. She got sick, cleaned herself up, and stuck a piece of peppermint gum in her mouth to mask the odor. Feeling better, she hurried back.

  Luckily, she had sat back down when Fredricka came out into the hallway.

  “Hi.” Anne beamed at her.

  Fredricka had a rare frown on her face and toyed with her silver necklace. “I have to recuse myself because of a conflict of interest.”

  “Close the door,” Priscilla called.

  Fredricka closed it.

  “What’s going on?”

  “The committee asked me to step down because I sell your work in my gallery.” Fredricka put her hand on Anne’s shoulder and raised her brows. “Sorry.”

  “Me too.” Anne watched Fredricka walk down the hall. With her on the committee Anne had hoped she might have a chance.

  Priscilla opened the door with a sober face. “Come on in.”

  Anne realized she was still chewing her gum. It would be unprofessional for her to have gum in her mouth during an interview. She didn’t see a trash can, so, in a panic, she swallowed it instead and stepped inside the room.

  Priscilla and a stocky, square-jawed man with a wispy comb-over sat at the long conference table. Anne had assumed the interview committee would be larger. Karl’s cinnamon scent lingered in the room, and she tried not to inhale. Her portfolio slipped out of her hands and dropped on the floor in front of her. She picked it up, put it on the table, and tried to hang her purse on a chair back, but the strap kept slipping off.

  She sat down across from Priscilla and the man, then, remembering her practice, stood and held out her hand to him. “Hello. I’m Anne McFarland.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m Jessie Willingsby.” He shook her hand with his own; it was twice the size of hers, and hers were big.

  “I’m so glad to meet you. I just got the horseshoes. Thanks for them, and for pulling out the nails.”

  “No problem.” He had a kind face. In his dark corporate suit, he didn’t seem like a typical cowboy. She was tempted to look under the table and see if he wore boots. His tie did have horseshoes on it, though.

  He pulled his hand away, and she realized she’d still been holding it.

  “I look forward to seeing what you do with them.”

  “I can’t wait to show you.” Anne sat down and untied her portfolio. “Do you want to see my work?”

  “Not yet.” Priscilla’s hair had been dyed blond and styled in a Marilyn Monroe fashion. It looked better that way. “First off, is it true you’re having problems controlling our little artists?”

  That jerk. He had been trying to throw her under the bus.

  “Not really. No.”

  “Karl has graciously offered to help you.”

  “That’s okay. Everything’s under control.” Why would Priscilla bring this up in an interview? Anne had thought Priscilla liked her.

  “It better be. I’ll be stopping by more often to see how you’re doing.” Priscilla paused. “And the last time I was in there, the classroom was a mess.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll work on that.” Anne began to perspire. Not only had Priscilla thrown her under the bus, but now she was backing up over her.

  Anne folded her hands on her lap. Good thing they weren’t meeting in the classroom now. She hadn’t cleaned up very well after the last session.

  “Okay, let’s start with the official interview questions.” Priscilla looked at Mr. Willingsby.

  He cleared his throat and read from the paper in front of him: “Why are you the right person for the residency?”

  Perfect—she could answer this one. “First of all, I love the museum.” She ticked off the other three points on her fingers as she nailed the question.

  Mr. Willingsby jotted notes while she talked.

  Priscilla asked, “Being an artist can be very challenging. How do you keep balance in your life?”

  Anne froze for a moment. She hadn’t thought of this question. Priscilla tapped her pen on the table edge. Mr. Willingsby frowned at her, and she stopped.

  “Sorry. Would you please repeat the question?” Anne felt like a third grader at a spelling bee.

  “How do you maintain work-life balance?”

  Anne swallowed. “Even though art is my life, I practice yoga, walk the San Francisco hills, and spend time with friends.”

  Mr. Willingsby jotted more on his paper and asked the next question. “Tell us about your artistic path.”

  She had anticipated this one too. However, the fan twirling overhead cast shadows on the table in front of her, and she couldn’t concentrate. Her body felt like an overheating Karmann Ghia. The air conditioner must not be working. She wanted to take off her jacket, but she didn’t want the underarm stains on her blouse to show. Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit her again.

  “Excuse me. I need some air.” She stood, and her chair fell over. She darted out of the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom.

  21

  That night, Anne stared at the stick resting on the sink. She felt faint, put the toilet seat down, and sat. It just couldn’t be. But those two blue lines didn’t lie. Oh my God! What was she going to do?

  She counted on her calendar again, backward and forward. It had been seven weeks since she’d been with Sergio and, oh God, that guy from Ruby’s. She just couldn’t be pregnant. Not now. Not when her career had been going so well. She loved her work at the museum. She had the residency opportunity. The museum hadn’t contacted her yet about its decision. After her fiasco of an interview, she probably wouldn’t get it, but at least she had a chance.

  How could she have let this happen? What a hussy. Sure, she’d been a bit down and lonely, but that was no excuse. Yes, she wanted a baby someday, but with a committed partner.

  God, how could you be so mean as to put me in this predicament? Deep in Anne’s heart, she acknowledged she was the only one at fault. How could she have had sex with two guys within forty-eight hours? Both dalliances had taken her by surprise and caught her unprepared. Obviously.

  She touched the lucky horseshoe she’d hung in the relationship corner above the shower. “You worked too well. I meant for you to get me a new man, not get me pregnant.”

  She grabbed the hammer, ripped the horseshoe off the wall, pulling some plaster with it, and dropped the art piece in the trash can, then pulled it back out. She had to use it as a sample with her students. She carried it to the box of materials for the museum and placed the horseshoe inside, then lay on her daybed.

  What was his name, that creepy wannabe cowboy from Rhinestone Ruby’s? Barnaby. What a name. She’d thought he was so sexy in his Stetson and tight chaps. How cliché. Just like in the movies, she’d been the girl who woke up in the morning with regret beside a guy in a raunchy apartment. She couldn’t blame it on the beers, Electric Slide endorphins, or even the green lace corset.

  The day after their tryst (if she could call it that), he’d sent her a Facebook friend request, but she’d deleted it. Was he the guy who’d continued to like her Instagram posts?

  How could S
ergio have shown up in town so soon afterward?

  Yes, they’d jumped right back into bed as if no time had elapsed. And because of their absence from each other, their lovemaking had been even more intense.

  She looked down, put her hand on her stomach, and asked, “Who’s your daddy? I wish that little stick could tell us.”

  She imagined DNA tests, lawyers, court orders. Sergio had always told her he wanted lots of children.

  She closed her eyes and thought about her last visit to Michigan. As she’d held little Brian, her cousin Pootie’s son, Anne’s maternal instincts had kicked in. His blond peach-fuzz head, blinking blue eyes, and tiny, soft hands holding on to her fingers had made her wish she had one of her own.

  What was she going to do? She should make an appointment at Planned Parenthood and consider her options. But she needed someone to talk to. She picked up her phone and dialed her mom.

  “Hello.” A loudspeaker echoed in the background.

  “Mom, what’s all that noise?”

  “I’m in Detroit, at an Avon convention. They’ve got so many new wonderful products. I’ll send you some.”

  Anne visualized her mom rubbing overly scented lotion on her hands. “Fine.”

  “Did you hear Sue Garner is getting married?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You remember—she’s Gloria Garner’s daughter. You used to babysit her. Called her Susie Q.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “It seems she’s in the family way. Gloria is so excited. How’s your love life?”

  Anne swallowed. She so wanted to tell her mom she was pregnant and ask for advice, but under these circumstances, she couldn’t share that. Anne couldn’t call Pootie, either. She’d tell Anne’s mom and Aunt Tootie, and then everyone in Oscoda would know. They’d all ask if Sergio was the father. Then they’d all get their hopes up that she was going to keep it.

  “Annie, I’ve gotta go! The awards are starting. I’m getting a Mrs. Albee Award for being one of Michigan’s best-selling representatives.”

  “That’s great, Mom. Bye.” If Anne decided to have an abortion she wouldn’t tell her family anything about it. Ever.

  Fay would understand and help her make a decision. But could Anne confess the whole truth? She’d never told anyone about Barnaby.

  I had a one-night stand, and we got drunk, and then Sergio came for an unexpected visit, we got carried away, and, well, oops.

  She could hear Fay now: blimey this and blimey that.

  The next morning, Anne walked into the Coffee Cup Café. Taylor Swift’s “Lover” played softly. Anne waved at Stan the Barista Man and looked around. Even though the place was packed, Fay had managed to snag their favorite, bay-window table. Anne hoped she’d have the courage to confide in Fay about her predicament. If not, she would need to make a decision on her own.

  Fay stood and gave Anne a quick squeeze. “Sorry, I don’t have much time. I’ve an install.”

  She handed Anne a cup. “Here, I’ve ordered for you.”

  Anne licked the whipped cream off the top of the mocha and sat down.

  Fay sat, ran her hand through her smashing turquoise bob, and gave Anne an envelope. “And here’s your check from the gallery. Five of your small heart pieces sold. Everyone is bonkers over them.”

  “Sweet.” Outside the window, summer breezes blew ornamental pear-tree branches.

  “We sold the hearts for one hundred dollars apiece, so the check is for two fifty, since the gallery’s cut is fifty percent. Will you make some more for me?” Fay dunked her tea bag.

  “I’ll try. I’m still working on my Southwest inspirations.”

  “Okay.” Fay nibbled a bite of scone. “Ooh, scrummy.” She pushed it toward Anne. “Have some.”

  The thought of taking a bite nauseated her. She’d already been sick once that morning. She felt better now but didn’t want to chance it. “I didn’t get much sleep. This mocha will help.” She took a sip.

  “You do look tired.”

  A group of teenage girls sat at a nearby table, drinking coffee and scrolling through their cell phones. Their bra straps showed beneath their sundresses.

  Fay leaned toward Anne. “Blimey. Me mum would have killed me if I’d tried to wear something like that out of the house.”

  “Mine too. Fashionista Fay, why don’t you say something to them?”

  “They have no class. But it’s not my job to tell them so. They wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.”

  “My mom didn’t let me drink coffee at that age, either. Did yours?”

  “No. How’d the interview go? I heard Fredricka had to sit out.”

  Anne filled her in about Karl’s bow. “I think Mr. Willingsby liked me, but Priscilla was very businesslike. In fact, she was downright icy.” Anne told Fay about Priscilla’s snarky comments. “What a disaster.” She didn’t mention the part when she ran out to the bathroom and discovered that Priscilla and Mr. Willingsby were gone when she returned. “I really wanted it.”

  “Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll get it!” Fay pulled off another piece of scone.

  Anne drank some mocha. “What do you know about Priscilla? What kind of art did she do?”

  “I’ve never seen her work.” Fay pulled out her phone and googled her. “Nothing here about her genre. Degrees up the wazoo, though.”

  “I know. Maybe she’s a shadow artist.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s from Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way—someone who hangs out with artists but never does any work herself.”

  Fay stuck out her lower lip and ran her hand through her hair.

  “I didn’t mean you.” Anne put her hand on Fay’s arm. “You’re a professional. You do more than just hang out. You encourage. You curate. You sell.” Anne held up the check with a grin.

  “Maybe someday your workaholic friend will try to do some art.”

  Anne leaned forward. “Maybe you can take my adult class at the museum. I do all sorts of lessons for artists at all levels.”

  “Maybe. You never know what life will bring.” Fay raised her eyebrows.

  “That’s true.” Anne held on to the edges of her chair, took a deep breath, and let it out. “I’ve got news.”

  “So do I. You go first.”

  “No, you.”

  Fay smiled and raised her voice. “I’ve got a bun in the oven.”

  Confused, Anne glanced at the scone, at the barista behind the counter, and back at her friend. Face aglow, Fay put a hand on her stomach.

  Anne’s hands flew to her cheeks as the realization set in. “What? You’re pregnant.” Her plans blew up in flames. No way could she tell Fay now what she was considering.

  Fay guffawed. “Abso-bloody-lutely. Isn’t it a miracle?”

  Anne forced a smile. It had been more than a year since Fay had moved into Bay Breeze with George and subsequently married him.

  Anne swallowed. “Congratulations. How far along are you?”

  “Four months. We waited to share the news until the coast was clear.” She continued, in her bawdy English accent, “I know. I thought I was going through the change. When the doctor told me, I said, “Blimey. I’m no spring chickadee! Isn’t it dangerous? I’m almost forty-seven.” She reassured me geriatric pregnancies are commonplace now and easy to monitor. I’m a geriatric! How do you like that?”

  Anne didn’t know what to say. She just stared at her friend.

  “I know what you’re thinking. We’re kind of old, but George is deliriously happy. When we were first engaged, we considered adoption, but then we decided we were too old. This is all meant to be!”

  Feeling queasy, Anne eked out, “What a blessing.”

  “Yes, it sure is. It was soooo hard not to tell you, but I promised George I’d wait until after we got all our geriatric test results back. Paul was ecstatic; he insisted we all continue to live together at Bay Breeze and take care of him. He said he’d be delighted to hear the pitter-patter of
little feet besides just Lucky’s, his beagle-basset. There’s plenty of room there for all of us.”

  Anne sipped her mocha, trying to listen with an open heart as Fay bubbled on. “Because of my age, they’ve done a bunch of tests, and there’s every indication she—yes, it’s a she—will be healthy. We’re going to name her Diana. After Lady Princess Diana.”

  Anne couldn’t help but smile.

  Fay glanced at her phone and stood. “I’ve got to get to work. But wait.” She sat back down. “What’s your big news?”

  Anne was afraid she might throw up. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “Sorry. You do look green around the gills.”

  Anne needed air. “Nothing important. I’ve got to get to work too. I’ll tell you another time.” She ran out of the café.

  22

  How could Fay be pregnant too? At least she knew who the father was. Late that afternoon, Anne crawled into her daybed, picked up her journal, and began to jot:

  Pros Cons

  a cutie in my life no partner

  clock is ticking family would be mortified

  loss of freedom

  not enough money

  Even though the cons side tipped the balance way over, thinking about ending the pregnancy grieved her. She’d never wanted a white picket fence or to be a stay-at-home mom. She’d always wanted to have children, though, hoped to get married and after a while have a child or two. But now, without a partner in her midst and as her thirtysomething clock ticked, she knew this might be her only chance. Maybe God’s plan was for her to have this baby.

  It was probably the biggest decision she’d ever make. She needed some kind of grounded spiritual connection. She wasn’t religious, never went to church services, except when she visited her family in Michigan. She felt closest to God when in nature: walking on a beach or a park path, or even fishing on a lake. Doing her art was a form of worship for her too. When she let her heart guide her and created intuitively, she could feel God’s divine love within her.

  She felt too ruffled to make art right now, though, and it would be dark soon, so walking in nature was out of the question. Going up to Grace Cathedral, Sylvia’s church, might help. She always felt close to her old friend there. Sometimes Anne walked the cathedral’s labyrinth or did Tuesday night yoga.