“I think she’s seeing someone, but she won’t tell me anything,” Irene said, resurrecting her scowl as she rested her hands on her pregnant belly.
“Bec hasn’t mentioned anything to me,” Georgie answered, knowing she may not be the best judge of what was going on with the younger Murphy sister.
Life had flown by these last several weeks. This was the first time in over a month that she and Irene were able to connect. Honestly, these days, she was lucky to make it out the door with a pair of matching shoes. Business at the bookstore had doubled last month with holiday shopping, and now, with people setting their January New Years’ resolutions, Jordan’s gym had picked up even more steam and signed-on an avalanche of new clients. But Irene was right. Something was going on with Becca.
“I’ll make sure to play the surrogate big sister and find out what’s going on today. Now, tell me everything about your research. Are you leading the way to a world that runs on clean energy alone?”
Irene shook her head. “No, no! You know my project is going well. I’m not letting you off the hook until you tell me what’s going on with you and your mom.”
“Fine,” Georgie said, then took a bite of pineapple cheesecake that her genius of a husband had delivered bi-weekly to the shop.
“Number two,” Irene began. “You’re seventeen weeks pregnant. What’s holding you back from telling your mom and Howard? Everything is still going well with the pregnancy, right?”
Georgie glanced down at the sway in her abdomen, where the alien blueberry peanut had grown into a mini pineapple surprise. And it wasn’t just her belly. Her breasts, once respectable B-cups, had blossomed into va-va-voom C-cups. Something that was not lost on her husband, who had become quite a boob man these days.
“These pregnancy breasts are no joke! I had to buy all new bras last week,” she said, gesturing to her ample chest while simultaneously trying to change the subject.
But Irene wasn’t having it.
“Seriously, lady! What’s holding you back?” Irene pressed.
Georgie shoveled a giant bite of cheesecake into her mouth. “I’m waiting to see what happens today. We’ve got our FBI meeting in less than an hour.”
Irene cocked her head to the side. “Okay, I need you to dial back the cake eating contest and repeat that sentence. All the way in Iceland, it sounded like you said you’re meeting with the FBI? You and Jordan haven’t decided you’ve had enough with blogging and decided to dip your toes into the world of prenatal espionage, have you?”
Georgie swallowed her gargantuan bite. “Do you think prenatal espionage is a thing?”
“Georgie,” her friend pressed.
She wiped a few crumbs of the cheesecake’s delicious graham cracker crust from her lips. “It’s not the Federal Bureau of Investigation, FBI. It’s the facilitated baby intervention activity that the child development experts set up to give us hands-on baby experience.”
Irene pursed her lips. “What are you supposed to do?”
“Some parents are coming to the bookshop with their babies, and Jordan and I are supposed to lead a baby story time movement activity with them.”
She’d spent the better part of the day sifting through board books, looking for something that could work with this age group.
“That sounds right up your alley,” Irene replied, giving her a thumbs-up.
Georgie twisted the cuff of her sweater. “Maybe.”
“Hey, you’ve got this,” Irene said, her expression softening.
Georgie abandoned her sleeve and swiped her finger across the plate, collecting the last morsels of cheesecake, then stuck her finger into her mouth. “I never thought this parenting business would be so complicated.”
“Girl! Chill with the pineapple cheesecake!”
Georgie removed her finger from her mouth and sighed. “I want to feel like I’ve got a handle on my life and on this pregnancy before I bring in my mother’s drama and gobbledygook into the mix.”
“Gobbledygook?” Irene repeated, biting back a grin.
“I’m a bookshop owner. I use fancy words. And you know what I mean,” she replied as her trifecta nodded approvingly.
Irene chuckled. “I think you’re making this harder than it actually is. Babies eat, sleep, and poop.”
“Oh, I know they poop. Even virtual reality babies poop,” she answered with a shudder.
Irene leaned in toward the camera. “Haven’t you been practicing with Fabian?”
“Who?”
“That,” Irene said, coming in another inch, then pointing toward the bottom of the screen.
Georgie looked down. “You can see that?”
“I see a creepy doll head in your lap like I do on all of our calls.”
“Its name is Faby. And yes, the parenting experts sent us some info on diapering, feeding, and bathing.”
True to their word, Lenny and Stu had sent them literature that covered the baby basics. She and Jordan could now diaper, bathe, and pretend-feed a doll. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
“Aren’t you worried there’s something you’ve missed or some baby fact you still need to learn? Your due date is right around the corner,” she said.
Irene released a slow breath. “Sure, I’m nervous. But I’m six years older than Becca. I still remember helping my mom and dad take care of her. It’s tiring, but it’s not brain surgery.”
Georgie gazed down at Faby’s little foot. “What about your research? How will you manage caring for a baby and earning your degree?”
There, she’d said it. It was the unknown balancing act lying before her that kept her up at night. How would she run a successful business and a wildly popular blog while caring for her child?
And when it came to her mother, if anyone knew how to knock the earth off its axis, it was Lorraine Vanderdinkle. She loved her mom and understood the woman more today than she ever had. Still, that uncertainty combined with the ambiguity of what motherhood would hold for her made her want to crawl into a hole stocked with pineapple cheesecake and hide out until there was a clear plan and everything made sense. The librarian in her craved a systematic baby blueprint to give her some semblance of control.
“For one thing, I’m not in this alone, and neither are you,” Irene said before a warm grin bloomed on her lips. “We’ve got great husbands, Georgie. Husbands who would move heaven and earth for us. And think of all the support you have in Denver. Jordan’s dad, Maureen, the Gilberts, Hector and Bobby—and yes, your mom and Howard, too.”
Georgie nodded, knowing her friend was right but still on the fence when it came to her mother.
“Oh, and I almost forgot all those old ladies who pine away for Michael Bolton sitting in your shop, knitting banana hammocks and wool G-strings. You’ve got an entire grandma brigade at the ready,” Irene added with a teasing glint in her eyes.
Georgie broke out into a belly laugh. “I think it’s mostly scarves and baby booties, but I hear what you’re saying.”
“On second thought, you may want to keep a close eye on them. Who knows what naughty things those grannies could be doing,” Irene joked as they broke into another round of giggles.
The door to the bookshop office opened, and Jordan entered the snug space.
“It looks like all the fun is in here,” he said, setting a giant glass of pineapple juice on her desk, then pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.
She took a gulp as Jordan knelt and waved to Irene.
“It’s good to see you, Irene. How are you doing?”
“I’m ready to unload this watermelon,” she answered with a pat to her belly.
“You look great to me. And Will? How’s he?”
Irene’s gaze traveled off camera. “You can ask him now. He just got home.”
Jordan glanced at his watch. “Isn’t it late in Iceland?”
“It’s never too late for kleina!”
“Kleina?” Georgie repeated.
“Sweetened fried dough. It’s
a Nordic dessert, and it’s all this baby wants,” her friend answered as Will appeared on screen and passed his wife the treat.
Irene held the trapezoid-shaped pastry up to the camera, then jammed the whole thing into her mouth.
“Whoa!” Jordan said as Will nodded.
“You are no longer allowed to give me crap for eating while video chatting,” she teased.
Irene grinned and said a garbled goodbye as she reached for another piece of fried dough, then the screen went black.
Jordan leaned against the desk. “They look good.”
“They seem to have things under control,” she replied, going for breezy, but her husband saw through it.
“Hey, we’re getting there. Exhibit A,” he replied and lifted Faby from her lap. “Our fake baby is currently rocking the diaper that I expertly put on her.”
Defining the diaper job as expert level was pushing it. They’d gone through half a dozen disposable diapers, messing up the adhesive tabs before he’d hit the mark. And the cloth diapers? After she’d punctured the poor doll’s leg, they decided they were team disposable all the way.
Georgie stared at Faby, then paused.
“Do you think Faby’s a she?” Georgie asked, eyeing her husband.
Jordan observed the fake baby. “Or he. Faby transcends gender.”
“We’ll learn the gender of our mini pineapple surprise pretty soon,” she said as a crackle of excitement laced with apprehension rippled through her chest.
“Yeah, the big Battle of the Births reveal is only a few weeks away.”
She nodded, then glanced at the clock. “But first, we have to get through this story time.”
“We’ve got a few minutes before it starts. Did you pick out a book?” he asked. But before she could answer, the video chat pinged.
She waved off her husband. “I’ll tell you in a sec. It’s probably Irene calling back to make me watch her eat another klien-whatever. I think it’s payback for the giant slice of cheesecake I ate during our call. My bet is that she wants to exact a little pastry revenge,” she added with a chuckle.
“Georgie, wait—” Jordan exclaimed as she clicked to accept the call.
“Pumpkin?”
Georgie froze, then blinked. This was not Irene. Not even close.
“Is this working?” her mother asked, gaze darting from side to side as she jiggled the phone.
“Yes, it’s working. I’m here. Where are you?” she asked, praying that she and her mother still had an ocean between them.
Her mother frowned. “At the spiritual retreat in India. You know that.”
Georgie plastered on a grin to mask the relief. Thank goodness her mother was still on the other side of the planet.
“I didn’t think you were supposed to use technology. Couldn’t it dampen your psychic abilities?” she threw out, grasping for something.
“It was my psychic voice that compelled me to ask to use my phone, so I could reach out to you,” she replied.
Holy psychic abilities! Could her mother actually have powers that went beyond gleaning the divine energy of votive candles?
“Did that voice mention why it wanted you to call?” she asked, then glanced at her husband, who remained motionless.
“It must be my maternal instinct,” her mother answered.
Jordan gestured to his watch and mouthed F-B-I.
Oh no! She needed to get off this call and fast.
“Sure, that’s got to be it. Well, everything’s all good here, so we’ll let you get back to chanting or whatever psychic fun the retreat has in store for you,” she answered when her mother frowned.
“Pumpkin, what’s in that glass?”
Georgie’s gaze slid to the giant serving of pineapple juice. “Oh, this?” she asked, wishing she had the psychic ability to make it disappear.
The woman leaned in. “It’s too light for orange juice.”
“Nope, it’s not orange juice,” she said, making oh-shit eyes at her husband.
“Are you drinking pineapple juice?” her mom asked with a troubled expression.
Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!
If anyone knew about her non-pregnant aversion to pineapple, it was Lorraine Vanderdinkle. The woman had had a front-row seat—literally—when she’d spewed a pineapple-laden fruit cup all over a row of judges.
Was this it? Was it time to come clean?
She parted her lips when her husband swooped in and entered the camera frame.
“Hi, Lorraine! It’s pee in the cup,” Jordan said, grinning into the camera.
“Pee as in urine?” her mother asked, her voice sliding up a few octaves.
The man nodded.
What was Jordan thinking?
“Why on earth would you leave a glass of pee on a desk?” her mother pressed.
Jordan’s gaze bounced from the glass to the computer’s camera. “I’m trying out the keto diet. With keto, you pee on these strips to learn if your body’s in ketosis.”
Georgie nodded. There was no turning back now.
Her mother’s troubled expression morphed into pure shock. “Shouldn’t you be doing that in a bathroom?”
Jordan snapped his fingers. “Gosh, I’m glad you called, Lorraine. That’s a great idea!”
“And Jordan,” the woman continued.
“Yes,” her husband replied, his smile as plastic as hers.
“You may want to see a doctor, dear. That looks like a considerable amount of urine, even for someone as big as you.”
Sweet pineapple surprise! This call had gone off the rails fast.
Georgie slid the glass out of the camera’s view. “As you can see, we’re doing great. Did you need anything else?”
Her mother chewed her lip. “Have you been by the Ritz-Carlton or stopped in at the Country Club?”
Georgie shook her head. “No, those aren’t places we usually hang out.”
“I drove by your country club the other day,” Jordan chimed.
Her mother’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “How did it look? Did you see Gustavo? He always makes sure we have the best table for brunch. I hope he hasn’t allowed the Bradfords to sit there. Muffy Bradford has been eyeing our spot for months.”
“Sorry, Lorraine, I just drove by.”
“So, no Gustavo?” her mother asked with a slight pout.
“No.”
Her mother tapped her chin, seemingly lost in thought, which gave her the perfect opportunity to pull the plug on this video chat.
“All righty, then! If that’s all, say hi to Howard for us, Mom. Let him know we hope he’s doing well.”
She moved the cursor to the end call button but stilled when her mother gasped.
“What is it?” she asked.
Her mother leaned in. “I have to tell you about Howard! You’d never believe it. He’s completely enamored with the place. He’s like a different person. The man, who could barely play a set of tennis without checking his stock portfolio, meditated for four hours yesterday, and he says he wants to start teaching yoga. Yoga!” she exclaimed.
“Isn’t that what you guys are supposed to be doing—balancing your chi and centering your energy to bolster your spiritual prowess?” she asked, sharing a look with her husband, who gave her I’m-not-sure-what-the-hell-you-just-said-but-let’s go-with-it eyes.
Her mother seemed to chew on that before her gaze drifted downward. “Did you go and see Denise?”
“Who?”
“Denise, you know, my personal shopper and bra-fitter at Saks?” her mother explained.
Georgie glanced at her husband, who shrugged.
“Why would you ask that, Mom?”
“Your breasts, Georgiana.”
Her mother’s expression lost the psychic guru air and morphed into drinks-at-the-club Denver socialite, Mrs. Lorraine Vanderdinkle.
“My breasts?” Georgie threw back.
“Yes, they look amazing. For the first time in years, they’re quite perky. You hide your lovel
y figure in all those ill-fitting cardigans. Oh, and you should have Denise suggest some other pieces! A woman’s wardrobe isn’t complete without at least one Hermes scarf, a few Ferragamo wrap dresses, and, of course, a chic Chanel blazer to tie it together. You know, Denise was the one who suggested I send you that darling romper.”
The room went topsy-turvy. She’d grown used to the psychically empowered version of her mother. This whack in the face of the full-throttle socialite Lorraine was not what she was expecting to encounter. She swallowed hard, her mouth going dry, then reached for her glass of pineapple juice and took a swig.
“Pumpkin! No!” her mother cried, mortification written all over her face.
Georgie looked around the room wildly. “Is something wrong?”
Her mom stared at her, wide-eyed. “You drank from Jordan’s glass of urine.”
“I did?” she replied, giving her husband SOS eyes.
The man swooped into the camera frame. “The nice thing about urine is that it’s sterile, so your daughter should be fine. But we need to go. There’s an urgent…blogging event we need to attend to,” he added, solidifying his title as the world’s worst liar.
“Wait! One more thing!” her mother chimed, not letting them off the call yet. “Have you been in contact with Nicolette?”
Georgie nodded, then positioned the cursor over the end call icon. “Yes, we sure have. We’re going to MC a literacy fundraiser in April for you.”
“Did they decide on the theme?” her mother asked.
“Western,” Jordan answered.
The woman toyed with one of the crystals around her neck. “I love a good Western-themed gala,” she replied on a heavy sigh.
Was her mother homesick?
Georgie glanced at the clock. Their FBI activity was set to start in one minute.
“Jordan?” her mother called.
“Yes, Lorraine.”
A crease Georgie had never seen appeared on her mother’s forehead.
“Why are you holding a doll?” the woman asked, cocking her head to the side.
Georgie glanced at Faby, tucked under her husband’s arm. That darn fake baby had become such a part of their lives, she’d forgotten to tell him or at least gesture for him to keep the plastic infant out of the camera’s view.
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 14