“I don’t know why you spend so much time running over there,” she’d said, looking innocently at her new manicure and not at me. “Most of your correspondence with Jack can be done by e-mail or fax.”
I’d opened my mouth to respond and realized I had no response. No good one, anyway—nothing that made sense. And now, alone in my darkened bedroom, I wondered, Why did I spend so much time face-to-face with Jack when it wasn’t strictly necessary?
I shivered with embarrassment. It didn’t matter that there was no one who knew what I was thinking; my own conscience was ashamed of itself.
Why, why, why, had Jack given me those flowers? And for one wild moment I wondered, Had Jack tried to outdo Ross’s gift? But Jack didn’t know about the gold bracelet, he couldn’t; I’d never mentioned it to him. Of course, he might have assumed that Ross had given me an expensive bauble; men like Ross are very skilled givers of high-price-tag gifts. But would Jack stoop to such a macho tactic? And to what purpose? To impress me. To offer his sincere apologies. To get me into trouble with Ross.
With a loud groan I tossed back the covers. If I couldn’t sleep at least I could do something productive like read a book, rather than obsess about Jack and his damned flowers. And about my having happily accepted them. Because accepting those flowers was the closest I’d ever come to doing—to feeling—anything illicit. I wasn’t so hormonal that I failed to realize a woman engaged to one man ought not to be titillated by another man’s gift of flowers.
Even if the flowers were given in apology of rude behavior. Even if they were given by someone who was nothing more than a friend.
27
Practice to Deceive
The following night Ross stopped by on his way home from a late meeting with his accountant. The meeting, I learned, had been held at Morton’s. Ross loves their beefsteak tomatoes; he forgoes the football-sized baked potatoes and passes on the bread.
“Alfonzo’s.”
I finished pouring hot water into my teacup before turning to him and saying, “Excuse me?”
Ross walked over to the bouquet of roses sitting on the dining table. “Those flowers must be from Alfonzo’s. I recognize the style.”
“Oh.” It was all I could say. Please, please, please, I prayed, don’t ask who gave them to me!
You’ve done nothing wrong, Anna, I told myself. But I didn’t quite believe it.
Ross touched one of the blossoms with a perfectly manicured finger. “When did you get them?”
I felt faint. I didn’t know if the truth was the best answer or the worst. I set the cup of tea on the countertop, afraid my hands would start to shake.
“What?”
“When did you buy them?” Ross looked from the flowers to me. “They’re amazingly fresh. Alfonzo’s has the freshest flowers. Of course, the prices are insane. But you know that. You’ve worked with Alfonzo’s for a few events, haven’t you?”
Was it possible I would be able to avoid both lying and telling the truth? Was it possible Ross didn’t care to press me on the matter?
Was it possible I was such a coward?
“Um, yes,” I said. “I have.”
Ross looked at me with head cocked. Was it concern on his handsome face? Or suspicion?
“What’s the matter, Anna? Do you feel sick? You look pale.”
I laughed lightly and crossed my arms. It was a gesture of defense, or maybe one of avoidance.
“No, no,” I said, “I’m fine. Just tired. I’m always tired these days.”
“Promise me you’ll try to get some sleep. Your clients can wait. Your health is more important right now.”
I wondered, Only right now? Because I’m carrying your baby?
“I promise,” I said.
Ross gave me a kiss on the cheek and hugged me gently. “I can’t say I particularly like the color of those roses,” he said, pulling away. “There’s something strange about it.”
“Mmm,” I said, noncommittally.
When Ross left I fell onto the couch and breathed a troubled sigh.
28
A Rose by Any Other Name
When it comes to names for a baby, everyone and her sister has an opinion. And no one is shy about voicing it.
My mother, not usually the type to interfere in my life—some might say, in fact, that the day I moved out of the house and went off to college she heaved a huge sigh of relief at her newly empty nest—suddenly had several interesting suggestions to make.
“I’ve always loved the name Myrtle,” she told me one afternoon during my weekly call to my parents. “You know, the myrtle has lovely fragrant flowers. Pink and white. Very pretty. I’ll never forget the myrtle bushes I saw when your father and I took that package tour to Greece.”
I repressed a groan. My mother hadn’t been able to offer any advice on recovering my sanity when my high school boyfriend left me for my so-called best friend, or when I was starting my own business, but she could serve up suggestions for naming my unborn child.
“Mom,” I said, quite calmly, “if I wanted to name my child after a plant I’d choose Rosemary. Or Sage. Or Fern, or even Daisy. Not Myrtle.”
“Now why do you just dismiss the idea of Myrtle?” my mother snapped. “Is it because you’re thinking of one of those weird names, like, I don’t know, Mergatroid or something?”
Mergatroid?
“No weird names, Mom,” I assured her. “Ross doesn’t like out of the ordinary names, and neither do I. We’re sticking with the classics. Like Elizabeth or Catherine. And if it’s a boy, then Stephen or William.”
There was a moment of silence, and I dared to think my mother had dropped the subject.
“Mom?” I said, when the moment had gone on freakishly long.
My mother said, “Have you considered Hazel?”
That evening, I discovered that Ross had had an alarming change of heart.
After dinner we settled in my living room. I put on a Madelaine Peyroux CD and got comfortable with Vogue and a cup of tea. Ross stretched out on the couch and put his hands behind his head.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, musingly. “I want my son to stand out. I want him to be a take-charge kind of guy so he’s going to need a take-charge kind of name. You know?”
“Sure,” I said, innocently flipping through Vogue, sipping tea, paying only partial attention to my fiancé.
“And if she’s a girl, well, I want the same thing. I want her to be a real standout. But not aggressive like a boy, of course. I want her to command attention but in a feminine way. I want her to be beautiful and strong but not bitchy. I see my daughter as a Bodecia or maybe an Anastasia.”
I choked and reached for a napkin with my free hand. Had I heard Ross correctly? “Sorry?” I said brightly, dabbing my lips.
“Wait a minute,” Ross replied, still more to himself than to me. “Didn’t that Russian princess Anastasia wind up getting murdered? Or going insane? Something bad happened to her. No, I think a warrior princess makes a better role model after all.” Now Ross looked directly at me and smiled. “Bodecia Davis. That has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Um,” I said, closing the magazine, “yes. It has a—ring. So, what names are you thinking about for a boy?”
“Caesar is my first choice,” he replied, looking back to the ceiling. “But I have considered Thor. Or Attila. Attila Davis. King seems a bit much, a bit obvious. I don’t want to throw my son’s superiority in the faces of the lesser kids. Besides, someone might make a comparison to Elvis, and I really don’t want that happening. No son of mine will die fat and on the toilet.”
I thought I might be sick. Carefully, I took another sip of tea and wished it were a vodka tonic. What’s next? I wondered. Famous historical battlegrounds? I could see it now: Meet little Waterloo and his sister Iwo Jima. Life isn’t hard enough so we wanted to burden our offspring with provocative names that would hang around their wee necks like a big stinky albatross.
More importa
nt, we wanted everyone we meet to know how clever we are!
“Ross?” I said. “Maybe we should just wait on choosing a name, you know? I’ve heard stories of parents having a name all picked out, and then the baby is born and they take one look at her and realize the name is all wrong. And then they come up with another name. A brand-new name.”
A nice, normal name like Robert or Marianne.
Ross smiled indulgently and rose from the couch. “All right. We won’t make any decisions yet. No use in your getting upset and upsetting the baby.”
I smiled faintly.
“But that doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking,” Ross promised, planting a kiss on my forehead like a daddy. “You know me. I’m always thinking.”
29
Green-Eyed Monster
How could I say no to what might be the last opportunity to wear my navy blue Ralph Lauren pants suit? Worn with a few strong gold accessories it would be just right for the party Ross and I were invited to at the home of a power couple he had met while vacationing with his brother in St. Barts. Ellen and Martin Mountjoy lived in a four million-dollar penthouse in the Four Seasons.
Everyone, Ross told me as we rode the elevator to the Mountjoys, was going to be there. Just about everyone was. Including my interesting colleague Jack Coltrane. I spotted him as soon as Ross and I came through the front door. He wasn’t alone.
“Ross,” I said, “why don’t you go on in. I think I saw the Casablancas over by the buffet. I’m going to visit the ladies’ room.”
Ross looked down at me, puzzled. “But you went just before we left the apartment.”
I smiled stiffly. “Yes, I did. But—”
“Of course.” Ross nodded. “Right. I’ll be—”
“I’ll find you.”
Ross melted into the crowd, and I walked right over to Jack.
“What are you doing here?” I asked by way of greeting.
A slow grin came to Jack’s face. “Nice to see you, too.”
“I just saw you three hours ago,” I snapped. “I didn’t think there was a need for niceties.”
Let me explain why I was acting like a social cretin and Jack like a polite, civilized fellow. Next to Jack stood a woman no older than thirty. She was tall and statuesque with long brown hair I can only describe—begrudgingly—as flowing. At first glance it seemed as though she was swathed in an unwound bolt of gauzy fabric. At second glance I saw she wore a chiffon gown similar to something the female characters in The Lord of the Rings trilogy wear. Around her head was a thin circlet of what looked like gold but what was, I was sure, gold-plated silver.
My mood was not generous.
I had no desire to be introduced to this creature, but perversity won out over mature restraint. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” I asked, sweetly.
Jack eyed me with some amusement. It annoyed me. “Anna, this is Rowena. Rowena is an artist. She shows at JAW Gallery. Rowena, Anna.”
I stuck out my hand. “And I’m an event planner.”
Rowena stared at my outstretched hand for a full fifteen seconds—it felt like an hour—before giving it a limp little shake. I noticed she wore a chunky ring on every finger.
“Oh,” she said, with barely a flicker of interest. Then she turned to Jack. “Darling, there’s someone at the bar to whom I just must give greetings. I shan’t be but a moment.”
Shan’t?
Rowena glided off toward the open bar, her dress flowing in her wake.
“Does she have a last name?” I asked. I didn’t really want to know that bit of information either, but the woman’s affectations must have rattled my brain.
Jack took a slow sip of his drink before answering. “Not that I know of.”
Not, then, a serious relationship. And not a friend. Friends know each other’s last names.
“You,” I said, “are on a date with a woman and you don’t know her last name?”
“That’s right. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know if she has a last name. You know how artists can be. And by the way, what makes you think I’m on a date? Rowena could be my cousin for all you know. My out-of-town-visiting-for-the-weekend cousin. From Milwaukee. Or Timbuktu.”
“I know how artists can be,” I shot back. “I’m dealing with one right now. And I think—no, I know—you’re on a date because of the way Rowena—” I hesitated, suddenly embarrassed.
“Yes?”
“The way she touched your arm,” I blurted. Please, I prayed, don’t let me be blushing.
“Excellent observation.” Jack’s tone was laconic. “But why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. Anna Traulsen never lies. Not even to herself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped, although suddenly I knew exactly what he meant.
“Hmm. Maybe I should join my date at the bar. My drink could use some freshening.”
I just couldn’t let it go. I just couldn’t let him go.
“She looks like an actress in a cheesy summer Renaissance fair,” I blurted. “Is she really an artist? What does she create? Mock-medieval pottery shards?” The moment the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. Were the hormones, I wondered wildly, making me regress to childhood? Not that I’d ever spoken nastily about anyone when I was a child. I was far too shy and repressed for that.
“That’s not very nice,” Jack said, although clearly he was half-amused.
“Well, you say mean things about Ross all the time.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Jack’s bantering tone changed instantaneously; suddenly, he sounded impatient, almost angry. “Do I really need to explain it to you? I hardly know Rowena. She’s just my fairly amusing date for this fairly amusing party. But you’re marrying Ross. You’re having his baby.”
Rowena chose that mortifying moment to return, a glass of champagne in each hand. She smiled at Jack seductively. I scurried away.
I found Ross staring up at a three-dimensional piece made of paint and found objects on canvas, mounted on the wall. His face was a mask of incomprehension. Or maybe fear.
I took a deep, steadying breath and tapped his shoulder.
Ross turned and smiled. “There you are,” he said. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me.” I slipped my hand into his.
“Where were you?”
“Talking to Jack. And his date.”
“Jack Coltrane?”
“Yes.” I heard an unanticipated note of defensiveness in my voice. Did Ross hear it, too? “Why?” I asked.
Ross’s small frown indicated distaste. “I don’t know how you tolerate working with that guy. He’s just another pitiful wannabe. A whining artist. Who does he think he is?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I let go of Ross’s hand. Ross was being unfair. He was making himself feel superior by cutting down someone different from him. Someone not as fastidiously dressed or as neatly coiffed. Someone he couldn’t understand.
Someone he considered a rival? The thought flickered across my mind and was gone.
I kept my mouth shut. I was mad at Jack. I certainly wasn’t going to defend him to my fiancé, the man who was the father of my child.
Father. Mother. Parents. Adults.
What a pair Ross and I are, I thought, suddenly ashamed of our immature behavior. Were we really such emotional idiots?
A sudden screech followed by a prolonged wail caused Ross and I—and every other guest—to turn. In the dead center of the room, a little boy was wrangling with a well-dressed woman in her early forties. The little boy was throwing what my mother used to call a temper tantrum but what is now generally referred to as a meltdown.
“I can’t believe the Geils brought their two-year-old to this event,” I whispered to Ross self-righteously. “What were they thinking?”
Ross shrugg
ed. “Maybe they couldn’t get a sitter.”
Then, I thought, one of the Geils should have stayed home. I watched in horror as Johnston Geils, the now recovered heir to the Geils impressive car dealership fortune, dashed across the living room and hurdled into the legs of a waiter bearing a tray of drinks. Miraculously the waiter kept his balance and his tray. Johnston continued on his way, deftly avoiding the outstretched hands of well-meaning guests, and tore off into the hallway.
“That child is a disaster waiting to happen,” I said, sotto voce.
Why, I thought, isn’t he better behaved? Why aren’t his parents better disciplinarians? And, I thought, it’s an insult to the hostess to unleash a hellcat in her well-ordered home.
Where had Mrs. Geils disappeared to, anyway?
Ross shrugged. “I think it’s fine. We’re going to bring little Chestnut or Badger everywhere. Parties, vacations, concerts.”
My stomach sank. We were? And it occurred to me then that Ross and I had never discussed parenting styles. Why would we have? We had decided we weren’t going to be parents. As a consequence I knew absolutely nothing about my fiancé’s views on, for example, corporal punishment or breast-feeding or homeschooling. And he knew absolutely nothing about mine. Ross and I were virtual strangers when it came to the basics. And when it came to choice of names. Chestnut? Badger?
“So,” I said, oh-so-casually, “you’ll watch the baby while you’re talking business with a major broker?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Ross,” I asked, struggling to keep the panic out of my voice. “Have you ever even held a baby?”
“No, but what’s to learn?”
I didn’t know. Maybe there really wasn’t much to learn. I tried to remember the times I had held a baby. The number wasn’t impressive. We were both so inexperienced.
Ross’s voice called me back to the moment. “Anna,” he said, “I have to talk to this guy. He’s a friend of my dad’s.”
Ross strode off. I watched as he shook hands with a man about fifty dressed in a lightweight, pale gray, suede blazer; within a minute they were deep in conversation.
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