The Big Bang

by Linda Joffe Hull

  “We have.” Her smile felt natural for the first time since she spotted him standing in the doorway. “He’ll be here or I’ll be there for ovulation day until the end of the year.”

  And the best part, which she couldn’t say, was that the timing didn’t matter at all.

  “That’s great,” Will said.

  “It really is.”

  An overlong moment passed between them.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he said.

  She took a sip from her water bottle. “Me too.”

  They looked past each other.

  “Don’t know what happened that night,” she finally said. “I barely ever have more than one glass of wine.”

  “Pretty much seems to be the common sentiment all around,” he said. “But, like I said, no worries.”

  “I guess I was just so angry and frustrated about the whole pregnancy thing, I—”

  “No need to explain. As you know, our twins were in vitro.”

  “I don’t think I did know that.”

  “I mentioned it to you when… when I was helping you get settled in upstairs.”

  “About that.” She felt herself blush. “Thanks for being there for me.”

  “My pleas—” he said. “No problem.”

  Across the room, two unfamiliar women standing beside the weight rack looked over in their direction and began to whisper.

  “Listen,” they both said simultaneously.

  “Thank you,” he said first.

  She shut off her heart rate monitor before he could hear it blip out of control. “For?”

  “For everything you said that night.”

  Did she tell him she didn’t remember a word? That the evening was nearly a total blur? Sweat broke out at the nape of her neck and rolled down her back. What had she said?

  “Especially about the playground land.”

  “The playground land?”

  “Too marshy to support…”

  “It was.” Cool relief rushed through her.

  “I really appreciated your candor,” he said. “Meant a lot.”

  Her heart rate plummeted back down toward normal. Had she said or done anything more troubling than whatever it was she’d admitted, likely that she’d jumped on Frank’s bandwagon in large part because of the advice of an eerily accurate roadside psychic, there was no way the playground would be the first thing on his mind. “No problem.”

  No problems at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  4.30. Birdbaths. Committee approval is not required for one birdbath that is less than three feet tall, including pedestal. Placement of additional units requires Committee approval.

  Laney reclined on the therapist’s ultra suede chaise and tried not to break down the cost of his Roche-Bobois furniture in $175-an-hour, can’t-submit-to-insurance increments. “So depending on who you ask, I’m sick with the crazy or—”

  “Or allergic to mold,” the therapist said.

  “According to the naturopath I’m so full of it, I not only needed $250 of herbal snake oil but a referral to yet another specialist.” She had to be crazy thinking she’d get answers from a “doctor” that specialized in practically every form of pseudo-medicine. “At least the full of it part of the diagnosis seems consistent across the board.”

  “But the good news is your health checks out with your MD.”

  “I guess.” Laney reached for a Kleenex from the art glass tissue dispenser on the cocktail table beside the chaise.

  The therapist leaned into the arm of his zebra-print chair. “What exactly feels bad?”

  “I don’t know, everything. I’m achy, foggy, forgetful, tired.”

  “Feelings of worthlessness or guilt?”

  “Of course—I’m a wife and mother.”

  “How do you sleep?”

  “Great until I actually lie down and try.”

  “Sleeping pills?”

  “Make me feel like I’m in the Wizard of Oz poppy fields.”

  The therapist noted something on his pad. “How’s your appetite?”

  “Depends.”

  “Weight loss?”

  “Eight pounds,” she may have said with a little too much pride. “And counting.”

  “Are you able to enjoy hobbies, pastimes, and social activities?”

  “When they make money.”

  “Do you enjoy sex?”

  “Not with my husband,” slipped out before she could stop it. “I mean, he has chronic fatigue, so he’s not really ever in the mood lately, anyway.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “I make the best of it.” Any meaningful discussion of extracurriculars was probably best left to a later conversation, imminent, judging by the way he began to scribble.

  “You’re on a hundred twenty-five milligrams of Zoloft?”

  “Is that enough?”

  “Getting the right dosage is key to optimal mental well-being.”

  “Clearly, I’m not optimized.”

  “I also think a course of talk therapy is key to getting to the root of some of the physical manifestations of your mental state.”

  “As in I have hypochondria?”

  “As in it’s worth talking over.”

  Laney gazed at the glass reproduction of The Thinker. “Like maybe once a week?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of three times a week.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  4.56. Playhouses. Committee approval is required for playhouses more than 24 square feet and/or over 6 feet high.

  Nerves.

  Hope set one of the matching gift baskets down, took a deep breath to relieve the jittery feeling, and rang the doorbell. Had to be nerves about the good news she couldn’t yet share.

  Tim opened the door with a sleeping baby nestled in each of his arms.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “They’re absolutely gorgeous!”

  His face was pure joy.

  Picturing Jim with the same blissful expression over his son-or daughter-to-be had her blinking away that jumpy feeling.

  “This is Mackenzie.” Tim rocked just enough so the baby pursed her little rosebud mouth. He turned to the sleepy beauty in his right arm. “And this is Kayla.”

  “Blond curls,” Hope said.

  Tim twisted a tiny ringlet with a free pinkie. “If I wasn’t cradling her while Theresa delivered her sister, I’d have sworn there was a mix-up at the hospital.’”

  Kayla yawned.

  “And this one looks just like her momma when she sleeps.” Tim smiled down at the baby. “Come on in.”

  Hope picked up the second of the rain-dampened raffia and cellophane baskets she’d set below the doorbell and followed him into the house.

  “I’d take those from you,” he rocked one of his double blessings, “but—”

  “I wouldn’t put those little dolls down for anything, either.” Hope stepped into the front hall and set the baskets on a table. “They’re just beautiful.”

  “Speaking of beautiful, life seems to be agreeing with you,” Tim said. “You look great.”

  She felt her cheeks color. “Thanks.”

  “Happier than last we talked.”

  “I feel good.” It was far too early in the process and she’d been too nauseous to attribute any change in her appearance to the glow, but the fact he’d recognized something, even if unknowingly, had her glowing all the more. “I’d probably be happier if I hadn’t volunteered my yard, garage, and now front hall for Maryellen’s extravaganza, but everything’s so well organized…”

  “Ya think?” He looked at a box marked yard sale by the back door and shook his head. “I can’t believe she actually has people delivering their crap to different houses by category.”

  “Maryellen’s nothing if not organized.”

  “And about to pull off the most anal retentive rummage sale of all time.”

  They both laughed.

  “Considering our last community event, I
suppose I sort of understand her need to keep things under control,” he said.

  Hope took a deep breath to quell a sudden wave of the queasies. “Still can’t believe we ate those brownies.”

  He winked. “Relaxed you, though, right?”

  She remembered drinking vodka, eating brownies, and talking pregnancy, psychic predictions, patience. Was there, couldn’t possibly be, the haziest memory of a kiss? “You know…”

  “I know that was an utterly amazing night.”

  That jittery feeling returned.

  Mackenzie’s eyes fluttered briefly.

  Tim kissed her tiny forehead.

  “I just can’t imagine how you went off to the hospital like that.”

  “Nor can I,” he said.

  “Hope!” Theresa appeared at the top of the landing.

  “Congratulations!” Hope said. “Your daughters are absolutely gorgeous!”

  “And thankfully, they’re still sleeping,” Tim said as Theresa came down the stairs and joined them in the front hall.

  They kissed.

  Hope flashed back to sitting with Tim at the picnic tables. She remembered walking alone down the hall toward the vending machine. So high.

  There was nothing more.

  That fuzzy memory she had of some sort of kiss had to be from the dream with not Jim.

  “Look at those baskets!” Theresa peered through the cellophane at MACKENZIE and KAYLA in letters shaped and painted to look like flowers. “I can’t imagine how cute their names are going to look above their cribs.”

  “There are also tree decals and 3-D butterflies,” Hope said.

  “You didn’t need to go to all that trouble.”

  “It’s kind of ridiculous, but I’ve actually lost sleep picturing how it’s all going to look on the wall above their cribs.” In fact, her nagging memory felt no more real than the aching but false familiarity one had after a romantic dream with a celebrity or distant friend.

  Kayla began to coo and Tim broke into the broadest of grins.

  No matter how stoned and drunk she was, she wouldn’t kiss a man other than her husband, couldn’t kiss a man whose wife was pregnant, much less in labor with his two beautiful new daughters.

  Mackenzie made a much more inauspicious sound.

  They all laughed.

  No way she could ever have kissed Tim.

  “Do you have time to take the baskets upstairs?” Theresa asked. “I’d love to see what you’ve been picturing.”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” Hope smiled.

  If even a hint of anything had happened, wouldn’t there be full-fledged horror if not profound awkwardness between them?

  “I’ll keep an eye on my girls while you do,” Tim said.

  Instead, there was easy friendship, a relaxed atmosphere, and joy. Hope rubbed what would soon be her own little bundle as she followed Theresa to the stairs.

  Pure joy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  14.3. Notice of Complaint: Complaints shall contain a statement of charges in ordinary, concise language and clearly state the acts or omissions with which the homeowner is charged.

  The dull throb of the flat-screen TV reverberated through the garage as Laney weaved around the Little Tykes play sets, cast-off lawn equipment, and worse-for-wear patio chairs that had usurped both of their parking spaces. She entered the house and set her purse on the table. “I’m home.”

  Her voice echoed through the empty front hall that was supposed to contain the boxes of Mary Kay, Pampered Chef, and assorted home shopping samples Mother’s Helpers had deemed obsolete and had been earmarked for the yard sale.

  “Hey.” Steve lay beached on the couch like a steadily growing whale, inhaling Doritos like krill.

  Accept that he’s been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue.

  The therapist’s words infused her sigh.

  Expect him to be unwell, not going to accomplish much, if anything, from a honey-do list until he starts to feel like himself again.

  The therapist warned her not to henpeck, but was a polite entreaty to bring three boxes up from the basement when he had nothing else to do so wrong? It wasn’t like she was going to suggest he call Scott Connors, who was hiring insurance agents at his booming agency, at least according to that show-off Julie, when she’d called to schedule a Mother’s Helpers party for next month.

  Expect nothing.

  As expected, nothing had moved, including him, since she’d left for the therapist.

  “How did it go?” emerged from his blowhole.

  “Apparently, I’m still depressed and have over-high expectations for the ones I love.” She headed for the refrigerator for a Diet Coke. “But my hypochondria seems to be improving.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The therapist didn’t hesitate to offer me an Advil for a tension headache.” She shook her head. “Can you believe that?”

  He pointed the clicker toward the TV. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “I don’t exactly have time for ESPN. Randall Fowler’s on his way over with yard sale stuff right now.”

  “Then we’ll get to be the first to congratulate him.” He upped the volume.

  In off-season trade news, Randall Fowler inked a sweet deal that has him trading in his Broncos jersey for the Silver and Black.

  Laney felt her knees weaken beneath her. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning your bestie is headed to Oakland.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  7.4.12. Garage Sales: The Owner of any lot may conduct a yard, garage, or lawn sale if the items sold are his own furniture and furnishings, not acquired for the purposes of resale.

  7:04 a.m.:

  Despite the prediction of rain, the sky was a uniform blue. The only hint of white came from the last few still-snowcapped peaks rising up behind the houses dotting the hillside. Baby birds chirped like circus barkers. Summer was in full swing, but having spent the better part of the week pulling together the biggest yard sale Melody Mountain Ranch had ever seen, Maryellen felt nothing, if not springy.

  She attached balloons to the last of the neon-painted signs directing traffic from Parker Road, along Melody Mountain Parkway, and through the development to their cul-de-sac.

  MELODY MOUNTAIN RANCH COMMUNITY CHURCH RUMMAGE SALE!

  TODAY!!!

  ONE DAY ONLY!!!!!

  SATURDAY, JUNE 23

  8–3

  Before the sale got going, Maryellen took a moment to admire the sea of clothing, outdoor equipment, household items, toys, and furniture dotting the lawns and driveways and flowing into the street itself. Since her first blast e-mail, plans had fallen into place like clockwork. Parishioners, neighbors, even random people who’d heard about the sale, began to drop off their prepriced, separated-by-category items. Considering how much had come in, she was amazed at how little pricing and sorting there was to be done. So little, in fact, the Pricing-and-Sorting committee had morphed into the Night-Before-Prep committee.

  Thanks to Hope and Laney’s generosity of both yard space and storage, the loaders and haulers who would still have been unloading at the Melody Mountain High School parking lot were enjoying coffee and bagels at the playground pavilion. Frank changed the covenants to allow multihouse yard sale permits upon approval of the board and then approved hers. And while the sale didn’t officially start for almost twenty minutes, the first shift was in place with aprons on and change at the ready, awaiting the purchases of a Hispanic couple with a pickup truck, a consignment shop owner, and a smattering of early birds.

  As she headed back down the cul-de-sac, Frank appeared from inside the house. Yard sale casual in a pigment-dyed T-shirt, Lucky jeans, and the sneakers he put on after helping with setup and running back inside to shower, he surveyed the scene, gave her the thumbs-up, and joined her beside the greeter’s chair. “What do you need me to do, Mel?”

  Maryellen smiled. “Just relax, mingle, and watch the money come in.”

  ***r />
  7:45 a.m.:

  Hope kept her mug of peppermint tea in close sniffing proximity to ward off the no longer enticing aroma of fresh brewed coffee.

  “I mean, I’m thrilled as hell Randall got traded, or whatever,” Laney, who’d been on a stream-of-conscious rant about the Fowlers for the last ten minutes, continued, “but you can’t tell me they didn’t have any idea. I’m telling you, they knew all along.”

  Hope shook her head as compassionately and with as little motion as possible.

  “And if one more person asks me how psyched I am about the big news…”

  While Laney seemed content to vent about Sarah Fowler with little in the way of thoughtful response, Hope was happy to stand in one place and not try to track the conversation. She inhaled peppermint to quell morning sickness that, were there no sale as distraction, she’d be suffering in bed, or more likely, on the floor of the bathroom.

  Not that she was complaining. She’d never been so thrilled to be so nauseous.

  “Morning, Frank!” Laney said in a loud, too-chipper voice when Frank Griffin stopped at a table of books that was arguably outside shouting distance.

  He responded to her wave with one of his official church smiles, but picked up a title of interest and began to read the back cover as though hesitating before heading over to say hello.

  “He really does look cute when he does the dress-down thing. Don’t you think?”

  “Never really thought of him that way,” Hope managed.

  “Really?” Laney ran her tongue along her teeth, ostensibly to loosen rogue sesame seeds from the bagel she’d been nibbling. “How can you not?”

  Hope belched.

  “Morning,” Frank said, making his way over, but not really zeroing in. His attention seemed to be on a transaction at the checkout table. “I’d love to chat, but Maryellen has me on a short leash this morning.”

  “I’m sure she does.” Laney smiled.

  “I’m glad I caught you both together, though,” he said. “We can’t thank you enough for the use of your yards and garages.”

  “No problem.” Hope worked her lips into an upward curl.