“Has Nathan and Jared picked a day yet for the wedding?” Mrs. Silkworth inquires.
“Not yet. There are a few challenges with their schedules and they’re even considering scheduling around Maggie and . . .” I say, pausing for a moment to not include my pregnancy. “Henry having the baby. She’s due in August and they’re trying to figure out scheduling between Nathaniel’s and Naturally Me.”
“They want to marry that quickly?” Mrs. Silkworth questions.
“They’ve joked about Maggie getting pregnant again not long after she's due,” I present teasingly.
“Well, from what I heard, they’re considering it after you’re due,” Ms. Silkworth announces.
I stop breathing for a second or two.
“Oh, Emma, darling,” Ms. Silkworth calls, hugging me. “Do you really think that one of my best girlfriends wouldn’t brag about her youngest son who’s going to be a father, do you?”
“I . . . .” my voice fails me.
“They both are such lovely men, Nathan and Jared,” Mrs. Silkworth comments, redirecting the conversation. “Be sure to put in a good word for me to attend.”
“Of course,” I choke out.
“Here you go, ladies,” Joe says, handing us our drinks.
“Thank you, Joseph,” Mrs. Silkworth accepts, winking at him.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I’m not one for gossip, but I adore you two, so, I must know. How long have you two really been dating?” Mrs. Silkworth pries. “Elaine told me that it was before the fashion show, which I had guessed.”
“Just before the show,” Joe confirms.
“I know you’re lying, Joseph,” Mrs. Silkworth laughs. “I’ve known you since you were born.”
“He first snagged me back in July,” I share. “But, it took a few months for me to come around to it all.”
“That it did,” Joe says. “But, she was worth the wait.”
“You two are darling,” Mrs. Silkworth states. “You better invite me to the wedding. I am practically an aunt to you, Joseph.”
“Of course, Melanie,” Joe agrees. “But, I don’t think we’re quite ready to talk about that just yet, right, Emma?” Joe gives me a sly grin.
“Right,” I confirm. “Not yet.”
“Well, I guess planning for a baby who’s on the way does take a little priority over a wedding,” Mrs. Silkworth tactfully presents.
“What?” Joe says.
“Your mother told her,” I reveal.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Joe comments.
“Your mother is proud of both of you,” Mrs. Silkworth states. “Besides, we’re like sisters. We tell each other everything.”
Joe and I smile and nod, not sure what to say.
“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Mrs. Silkworth asks.
“Not yet,” Joe confirms.
“Well, he, or she, will be a Covelli, and that’s all that matters,” Mrs. Silkworth adds. “I’m happy for both of you. You’ll make lovely parents.”
“Melanie, darling,” and older woman calls, walking towards us.
The two women exchange greetings, hugging and kissing each other on the cheeks.
“Vivian, you know Joseph,” Mrs. Silkworth presents. After Vivian and Joe exchange their greetings, Mrs. Silkworth introduces me.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Humphrey,” I say warmly.
“Oh, darling, call me Vivian,” she insists. “Any future daughter-in-law of Elaine’s is family according to Melanie and me. Isn’t that right, Melanie?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Silkworth agrees.
I smile and nod before taking a sip of my iced tea.
“We haven’t seen you as much, Joseph. Where have you been?” asks Mrs. Humphrey.
“He’s been busy in California,” Mrs. Silkworth teases. “Haven’t you, Joseph? Wooing Emma and all?”
Joe smiles bashfully.
“Congratulations, by the way,” Mrs. Humphrey states. “I was shocked to hear the news from Elaine.” Mrs. Humphrey reaches forward and turns my left hand that is holding my glass. “Why isn’t there a ring on her finger, Joseph?” She eyes Joe speculatively with a hint of playfulness.
“I . . .” Joe falters.
“That’s my fault,” I announce.
“How so?” presses Mrs. Humphrey.
“I’m not ready,” I share.
“But, you’re ready to be a mother?” Mrs. Humphrey raises an eye brow with her growing smile.
“It’s complicated,” Joe begins.
“What’s complicated, Joseph?” Mrs. Humphrey presses. “You love her, yes?”
“Yes,” Joe agrees immediately.
“You’re the father of the child, yes?”
“Yes,” Joe establishes.
“Then?”
“I’m complicated,” I blurt. “I . . . .”
“No need, Emma,” Mrs. Humphrey cuts in. “I’m just roasting Joseph here. I mean nothing by it. My apologies. Besides, Elaine has kept us,” she says gesturing between herself and Mrs. Silkworth, “up-to-date on all things Emma and Joe ever since she told us you two were dating.”
My mouth opens to comment, but nothing comes out.
“We mean nothing by it. We’re just happy to see Joseph so happy,” Mrs. Humphrey explains.
“Thank you,” Joe coughs out, clearly still nervous about us being on the spot.
My heart goes out to him, feeling bad about the awkwardness I’ve created since I turned down his proposal — but, he hasn’t asked again either to change that uneasiness.
Mrs. Silkworth directs our conversation back to a lighter topic, talking about non-important things around us at the charity event. From time to time, either Mrs. Humphrey or Mrs. Silkworth add side jabs or comments about Joe and myself and I openly appreciate them, knowing that they’re just an extension of his family and mean well by the whole thing. I’m able to tease even myself when I share with the ladies how Joe came to find out that I am pregnant. They goad him on his sudden declaration of love, asking me to marry him immediately, which they commend.
At some point, I’m able to ask Mrs. Humphrey if she has her own business. She quickly and happily shares that her family has been in the steel business for centuries along with other types of materials, even diamonds. Regardless that it’s part of the family business, she jokes about the whole facade concerning the true value of diamonds, which is nothing — they’re as common as seashells, all of them, that wash up on the shores.
“So, Joseph,” Mrs. Humphrey calls, as if to see if he’s been paying attention to our conversation that the three women have been dominating.
“Yes, Mrs. Humphrey,” Joe returns politely.
“I’ll never get you to call me by my first name, will I?” she presses with a smile.
“No ma’am,” Joe replies with a grin.
“Anyway, I was just wondering, what kind of gem would you get Emma for her engagement ring? That is, if you do plan on proposing properly?” Mrs. Humphrey questions.
My heart speeds up a little, nervous and excited to hear Joe’s answer.
“You’re trying to trick me, Mrs. Humphrey,” Joe challenges. “I’m not that easily misled, especially with Emma standing right here.” His hand tightens around my waist.
“What ever do you mean, Joseph?” Mrs. Humphrey asks with a grin.
Mrs. Silkworth steps closer, smirking and eager to see where the conversation goes.
“If I say nothing, you’ll make me look like a fool,” Joe states. “Making me seem like I don’t plan on asking Emma to marry me, whether asking her properly or not.”
“No?” Mrs. Humphrey baits.
“And, if I do, you’ll have me reveal information that I may not wish to have Emma overhear,” Joe adds. “I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t.”
“You are so much like your father.” Mrs. Humphrey declares. “Isn’t he Melanie?”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Silkworth confirms.
<
br /> Would I be lying if I said that I enjoyed, but also was slightly disappointed by Joe’s answer, hoping to know if he would even ask me again?
An announcement that dinner will be served is made by one of Abigail’s minions, so Joe and I excuse ourselves from our conversation with Mrs. Silkworth and Mrs. Humphrey and proceed to our table where we’re sitting with Joe’s parents, Emily and John Jr., David and Charlotte, Daniel and Isabella, and Jimmy and Allen.
I almost choke on my glass of water when I overhear Jimmy and Allen discussing that each seat per table cost a thousand dollars — only ten thousand for a table of twelve people if paid for collectively. Leaning into Joe’s side, I inquire to make sure I understand these facts are correct. When he confirms it, we argue about me covering the money for my seat. Joe insists it’s not a big deal, that one of the Covelli companies covered the expense as a charitable donation. Our meal is exquisite, but still not worth a thousand dollars a plate — maybe a hundred or two, but definitely not a thousand.
After dinner, Joe and I get up and take a stroll around the building, wanting to stretch our legs from sitting for a while and to get away from the two hundred plus people in attendance. We take turns using a restroom away from the main entrance, wanting to give ourselves some privacy.
When we return to the main lobby area, there are a number of people standing around the silent auction tables, including the she-devil. Joe and I entertain ourselves with a random conversation to avoid certain people, but she deliberately rushes to get into our line of sight and blocks us from entering the ballroom when we’re approaching the massive doorway.
“Excuse us, Abigail,” Joe requests politely.
“Of course,” she agrees. “But, I was just wondering why you guys haven’t entered the silent auction?”
Did she just seriously ask that question?
“There is a reason why it’s silent, Abigail,” Joe instructs sternly.
“I know,” she confirms. “But, you’ve always bid in the past. Did she sway you not to? This is all for a good cause.”
Joe just looks at her, not willing to give her the satisfaction of a conversation.
“What about you?” she presses, looking to me before Joe gets the chance to lead us away.
“What about me?” I check.
“Why haven’t you bid anything?” she asks calmly with a hint of fire behind her eyes.
“I don’t see how any of that is your business,” I reply.
“Why not?” Abigail says, raising her voice. “Can you not afford it?”
“Back off, Abigail,” Joe directs.
“It’s okay, honey,” I soothe, purposefully accenting my last word to irritate Abigail.
I swear I see Abigail’s eye twitch.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” a man inquires, moving to the left of Abigail.
“Joe and his . . . friend . . . didn’t bid on anything, daddy,” Abigail complains.
“Is that true, Joseph?” Abigail’s father searches.
“Not that it’s either of your business, but no. We didn’t,” Joe verifies.
“Why not, my boy? It’s for a good cause. Do one of you have something against helping people with Parkinson’s Disease?” he pushes.
“Not at all,” I reply calmly but sternly. “I have a problem supporting an industry that is about making money and not really helping the people it claims to support.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” Abigail whines. “That’s not true.”
“By law, any non-profit organization is only required to donate ten percent of their total collected funds to actually be put toward assisting the so-called disease or the people whom the money is collected for,” I explain.
“Some of the money needs to go to paying the people who are running the organization,” Abigail challenges.
“You mean the remaining ninety percent? It’s the very epitome of a sham. A nonprofit that needs ninety percent of its funding to pay for people’s salaries rather than actually assisting with preventative care let alone actually finding a cure for the disease,” I continue.
“How do you think they’re supposed to operate if they don’t spend some of the money?” Abigail pushes.
“Easy,” I challenge. “It’s called budgeting. In any industry, to turn only a ten percent profit while your overhead is ninety percent is ridiculous except in a few industries such as trucking.”
“Well, those people in the organizations are working really hard to find a cure. At least they care and are trying . . . you aren’t even willing to donate any money,” she throws back.
I hear Joe chuckle as I try to curb my own laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Abigail whines.
“Trust me,” I begin. “There will never be a cure. Not when the medical industry makes trillions of dollars a year. They’re making money off of the very people who are sick and need the assistance, making the sick think that popping a pill in their mouth for the rest of their life is necessary or normal. There’s a cure . . . there are even preventative measures for illnesses, but the general population won’t hear about them, or if they do, they’ll be told that these so-called natural cures are dangerous when really it’s the drugs that are being pushed on them that are making them sicker.”
Abigail stares at me blankly, clearly unsure of what to say.
“Joseph,” Abigail’s father calls heatedly.
“Yes, Mr. Ward?” Joe replies calmly.
“I strongly recommend that you teach your . . . friend here, manners. This is not how we act in our society.”
“I most certainly will not,” Joe defends. “Emma has my full support to be herself and speak her mind.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Ward snaps in shock.
“You heard me,” Joe insists. “I know how you choose to live your life and direct your family, but do not think for one moment that that is how my family operates. We may do business together, but I will not alter my behavior, or ask the woman I love and the mother of my child to alter her’s just to appease you. If Emma and I are going to donate anything, it will be with that which we feel most comfortable to do and to the people who need it rather than give money to those who count it, line their pockets and then decide what will become of its bare minimum requirements to the people who need it.”
“How dare you speak to me or my daughter like this, Joseph,” Mr. Ward states. “I think she’s a poor influence on you and your father will hear from me about it.”
Joe smirks and looks to me, “Are you ready to go home, beautiful?”
With a wide smile, I reply, “Of course, handsome.”
Abigail’s expression is hilarious — you can see the gears trying to work to comprehend everything that has been said and not said in our conversation. Her father stands wide-eyed at us. This must be the first time Joe has ever stood up to him and doesn’t know what to make of Joe’s behavior.
Not giving Abigail or her father a chance to reply, Joe and I walk into the ballroom and say our farewell to his family and a few others. Joe briefly mentions the reason to his father, but to everyone else, we inform that I’m not feeling very well and that Joe insists on getting me back to rest.
As we make our way down the steps to where Hunter and several of our other bodyguards wait for us, I lean into Joe and announce, “I am so turned on right now . . . I had the strong urge to do you right there in the lobby.”
Joe laughs.
“You think I’m kidding,” I assume as the car door closes behind us. “Hunter?”
“Yes, Emma?”
“Please put up the privacy window,” I request.
“Yes, miss.”
Right as the window hits the halfway point, I’m hoisting my dress up and straddle Joe. “Another first for me,” I share.
“But . . . doesn’t the go-kart incident count?”
“That wasn’t sex,” I inform. “That was just having you rub me off. So, no . . . it doesn’t count.”
“Mmmmm,” Joe hums
into my mouth as we kiss. “Another first for us then.”
One Hundred Thirty Six
Two days later, speculations about me being pregnant are in the news — I would most likely surmise that it’s Abigail’s way to get even and her way to weasel in-between Joe’s and my relationship. Little does Abigail know that I don’t feel threatened by her or her attempts in away — rather I harbor a small bit of empathy for her. The media and Abigail can say whatever they want, I honestly don’t care at this point since I’m so happy. Each time we’re seen in public, paparazzi are close by, trying to snag photos of Joe, me and my belly — it’s quite comical with what they say and how they’re alluding to the pregnancy with a bulge in my outfit. I wouldn’t doubt that they’ll use Photoshop soon before I even have a bump.
“When did you want to start taking care of things with your parent’s home?” Joe asks.
“While we’re here,” I remind.
Before we came to New York for Easter, I told Joe that since using Dr. Cahallan’s techniques, I’ve been feeling good about wanting to begin taking care of my parents’ home. I made sure to mention my desire to Mr. and Mrs. Nelson when we saw them a few days ago.
“Mrs. Nelson is still looking for the lawyer’s card,” I inform. “She said if she couldn’t find it that she would get the information from the people who clean it this week.”
“Okay,” Joe replies. “You sure you’re up for it? You know . . . with the pregnancy and all?”
“I’ll be fine,” I soothe. “I’ve got the tapping stuff in my purse for when I do go and . . . I’ve got you.”
Joe pulls me closer to him when he passes by in his walk-in closet. “You’ve got me for life,” he reminds. “You can’t get rid of me now, beautiful . . . not with this little Covelli in here.” His hands caress my belly.
“I know . . . and, you mean little Peterson,” I joke, sliding my hand over his.
Joe gives me a glare. “Covelli . . . regardless if you marry me. He . . . she . . . will be a Covelli.”
“Maybe,” I tease.
“Definitely,” he confirms with resolve and a kiss. “What are the plans for today?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “You’re mom wanted me to come over this morning, and then we’re having lunch with the girls.”
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