“I already told you, I’m not taking that money,” Jamie said. “You can have my share.”
“Mine, too,” Cait agreed.
“No, I can’t!” Anna cried. “Don’t you see? She wasn’t just giving us money, she was trying to give us an opportunity. Cait, you could take a sabbatical and finally pound out that novel. Think of it as the Arden Henley Literary Fellowship.”
“I can’t.” Cait fidgeted with the pearl pendant at the hollow of her throat. “I have a job. I have responsibilities.”
“I don’t have either, as of yesterday.” Jamie recounted the details of her termination.
Cait looked incredulous. “And you still refuse to accept an inheritance?”
“Do you have any idea how many overpriced bars there are in Los Angeles?” Jamie said. “I’ll be serving up shots to the black-AmEx crowd again by the end of the week. Or, you know, my apartment lease is up at the end of the month. I may just pack it in and move on. I’m sick of the Hollywood scene. I’ve been thinking about Santa Barbara or maybe Vegas.”
“Well.” Brooke had finished her phone call and was waiting patiently at the periphery of the discussion. “You could always come live with me.”
Jamie waved this away. “Thanks for the offer, hon, but I’ve seen your apartment. I’d have to sleep in the closet, and I wouldn’t want to displace all your shoes.”
“Don’t worry about space. I’ve got lots of problems, but space isn’t one of them anymore.” Brooke’s smile flickered, and Jamie couldn’t tell if she was excited or dismayed. “In two weeks, I’m going to have a spare room. Six spare rooms, actually.”
“You’re moving?”
Brooke nodded, her blue eyes huge. “That was my real estate agent on the phone. I just agreed to buy Henley House.”
“‘Home’ is any four walls that enclose the right person.”
—Helen Rowland, Reflections of a Bachelor Girl
Brooke Asplind had spent most of her life searching for home. Raised in a big white house by a creek in rural Alabama as the youngest of five sisters, she had been the bashful bookworm in a family of athletes and extroverts. As her mother frequently remarked, “Our little Brookie’s no Southern belle. She’s too busy daydreaming to date.”
Brooke had shocked everyone—herself most of all—when she turned down admission to Tulane and Ole Miss to attend Thurwell College, a tiny liberal arts school in upstate New York. Thurwell’s reputation for academic excellence held no sway with her family and friends. “Why on earth would you want to go so far away?” they asked. “You’ll drop out and come home crying before Thanksgiving.” At Thurwell, her accent relegated her to the role of a dainty hothouse flower who didn’t stand a chance amid the crush of cutthroat competitors from the finest prep schools in the Northeast.
The sweet, soft-spoken ’Bama blossom didn’t argue when other people tried to define her. She just smiled and daydreamed and graduated summa cum laude with a B.A. in English. Then she shocked everyone again when she chose to remain at Thurwell, working as a coordinator in the alumni affairs office.
All the people who had originally tried to talk her out of going to Thurwell were quick to let her know that she was wasting her potential by staying there. “You could be making beaucoup bucks in PR or advertising. What are you waiting for?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” she replied. “But I’ll know it when I see it.”
Home. That was what Henley House had been to Brooke, with the spindly white porch railing and the stained-glass panel over the stair landing and the newel post topped by a hideous bronze finial shaped like the Greek god Hermes, whom they’d dubbed “Mr. Wonderful.” She had shared a triple with Cait and Anna during senior year; Jamie and Arden had roomed just down the hall. Jamie had smuggled in a contraband air conditioner to get them through the stifling humidity at the beginning and the end of the school year. Anna sustained them through midterms and finals with her signature “caffeinated cupcakes.” Arden offered up her array of designer clothing and accessories as date night artillery. And Cait, with her gift for teaching and her love of poetry, had hunkered down with Brooke night after night and patiently talked her through the political machinations of Henry V. (When Brooke had twelve hours until deadline and a nervous breakdown over her inability to plow through Richard III, Jamie had stepped in with a stack of CliffsNotes and a six-pack of Red Bull, and together, they toiled through the night on the only English paper Brooke ever received less than an A on.)
At Henley House, Brooke became part of a group of girls who complemented one another without having to conform. And after graduation, when the five of them all went their separate ways, Brooke lingered in Thurwell, hoping to hang on to that sense of belonging.
It hadn’t worked. She became, once again, an outsider in the community in which she felt most familiar.
But now Henley House was going to be home again. Literally.
She tried to explain this to Anna, Cait, and Jamie as they slid into a booth at a cozy Irish pub near the church they’d just left. “I know this seems sudden.”
“‘Sudden’ is an understatement,” Cait said.
Jamie shook her head. “And you say I have impulse control problems.”
“We need a round of pints,” Anna called to the waiter. “Immediately, please.”
“When Arden mentioned the college was selling it, I couldn’t bear the thought of some developer bulldozing it. I kept daydreaming about how the house would make the perfect, quaint little inn. Patchwork quilts, hand-stitched throw pillows, baking-powder biscuits … So I used my contacts in administration to find out how much they were asking, but when I heard the listing price, I knew I’d never be able to swing it. Then Arden’s lawyer called me, and I called a realtor, and next thing you know, I was making what I was assured was a ridiculously lowball offer, and …” She gnawed her lip. “Oh dear Lord. What have I done?”
Anna put an arm around her and squeezed. “Exactly what Arden wanted. She loved the idea of turning Henley House into a B and B. I can’t think of a better way to honor her memory.”
“This is why we call you the Stealth Magnolia,” Cait said. “No talk and all action.”
Brooke let her head loll back against the back of the worn wooden booth. “I should call the realtor back. Maybe she can still rip up the sales contract. I didn’t think this through.”
“And that is exactly how you know you’re doing the right thing.” Anna wrestled Brooke’s cell phone away. “You’re following your heart. Turning your dreams into reality.”
“Yeah, but the reality is, I don’t know the first thing about running a bed-and-breakfast. I’ll need a bookkeeper and a contractor and, presumably, some sort of business license.”
“Okay, let’s just calm down and take this one step at a time,” Jamie said. “You’ll get all those details squared away. You’re organized. You’re diligent. You’re whip-smart.”
“I’m only selectively smart! I had to drop out of Intro to Physics sophomore year so I wouldn’t destroy my GPA. I had to fulfill my science and math requirements with Technology in American Culture and Statistics and the Media.”
“Who cares?” Jamie flipped back her hair. “You don’t need to be a physicist to open a bed-and-breakfast.”
The waiter approached their booth with a tray of frothy dark pints, and while he distributed the drinks, Brooke closed her eyes and commenced hyperventilating.
She heard the server ask, “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Cait assured him. “Just a touch of buyer’s remorse.”
“Brooke, look at me,” Jamie commanded. “You can do this. You’ve got all the necessary skills, and now you have the funding. Your only problem is an inexplicable lack of confidence.”
“Absolutely.” Cait and Anna nodded their encouragement.
The dull roar in Brooke’s ears finally started to subside. “You really think so? You’re not just saying that?”
“I’m not known for my tact,
” Jamie said. “When have I ever ‘just said’ anything?”
“All right.” Brooke pushed aside the silverware, reached across the table, and grabbed Jamie’s hand. “But you have to help me.”
“Me?” Jamie struggled to free herself but was no match for Brooke’s immaculately manicured death grip.
“Yes! You just said you lost your job and your lease is up.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Come back to Thurwell and help me.” Brooke beseeched Jamie with her eyes. “You have enough confidence for both of us.”
“Brooke.” Jamie winced and extricated her fingers. “I’m a bartender.”
“And I’m an alumni affairs coordinator who needs her bartending friend. Please. Please!”
Jamie opened her mouth, then closed it and shrugged one shoulder. “Fine, I’m in. What the hell.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Jame. The antithesis of a dream crusher. Here, take this as a signing bonus.” Brooke wrinkled her nose and pushed away her pint. “I don’t care for beer.”
Jamie jerked her thumb at Cait and Anna. “What about these two? How come they’re not getting roped into the B-and-B bonanza?”
Cait laughed. “You know I’d love to help, but classes start next week, and I’m teaching a senior seminar on the epistolary novel. Good old Samuel Richardson, a little Balzac, Laclos …”
Anna shuddered. “My condolences. Pamela and Clarissa were bad enough the first time around.”
“Oh, I’m excited. It’s my first self-designed upper-level course and I spent all summer compiling the syllabus.”
Jamie shook her head. “Tell those poor, impressionable kids to save their sanity and stock up on Henry Fielding and Laurence Sterne.” She turned to Anna. “What about you? Any reason why you can’t pitch in here? I thought you said your workload’s been pretty light lately.”
“More like nonexistent.” Anna, who had relocated three times during her six-year marriage due to her husband’s job, had managed to establish a freelance career, writing and editing technical operating manuals and corporate handbooks. “Now that we’ve finally bought a house and settled in for the long haul in Albany, all my business has dried up because of the economy. Which is unfortunate because it leaves me with way too much time to obsess over Operation: Ovulation.” Anna ticked off her to-do list on the fingers of her left hand. “Obsessively chart my basal body temperature, monitor my ovulation predictor tests, force my husband to perform on command—speaking of which, do you think there’s any place around here where I could score fresh pineapple?”
Jamie glanced up at the chalkboard hung over the bar. “I don’t see that on the specials menu. Should I be afraid to ask what pineapple has to do with procreation?”
“I read that pineapple is loaded with something called bromelain, which apparently helps to regulate the pH level of your cervical mucus.”
Brooke blushed crimson and ducked behind her menu but listened attentively when Cait asked, “How much pine apple are you supposed to eat?”
“Well, some people say the whole thing, and some people say just the core. But everyone agrees that you have to eat it for at least five days a month for it to work.”
“Who’s ‘everyone’?” Cait pressed.
“Oh, there’s this online chat room for women having trouble conceiving. My ob-gyn says I should stay off the Internet, but at least I feel like I’m doing something proactive, you know?”
“What else do you have to eat?” Jamie wanted to know.
“Lots of oily fish, kiwi, honey, garlic—”
“Garlic?”
“Vitamin B,” Anna explained. “I choke down a raw clove every morning with my tea.” The spark in her brown eyes dimmed. “And still nothing.”
Jamie pushed up her sleeve and offered up a salute. “Well, keep slugging back the garlic and pineapple, ’cause it’s going to happen for you very soon. I can feel it. This is the year we stop dreaming and start living. This is the year the English majors make good.”
“What a strange thing is the propagation of life!”
—Lord Byron, Detached Thoughts
Anna fumbled with the clasp on her skimpy black lace bra, applied a fresh coat of lipstick, and dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her wrists. She sashayed down the hallway to the den and purred, “Are you ready for dessert, darling? I’ve got something delicious waiting for you in the bedroom.”
Her husband was hunched over the desk in the corner, deeply absorbed in some online video game involving flamethrowers and aliens. Jonas spent his days working as a quality assurance engineer for a company that manufactured autopilots for commercial jet aircraft, and after a long day of implementing, documenting, and maintaining quality control systems at the office, he liked to unwind at home with a little virtual intergalactic warfare. “What’s up?”
Anna leaned against the doorframe and struck a pose. “It’s time.”
Jonas flinched and returned his gaze to the computer screen. “Again?”
“What do you mean, ‘again’? I only ovulate every thirty-three days! We’ve been waiting over a month for this!”
Jonas continued his alien annihilation without any sign of having heard her. Then finally, as she was preparing to repeat herself, he paused the game and stared up at the Edward Hopper print hanging above the desk. “Anna, I’m exhausted.”
“I can think of a few ways to reenergize you.” She smiled wider to hide her hurt feelings. “Come on, honey, we’ll have fun. And this time it’s gonna happen for us.”
His shoulders slumped. “It never happens. If IVF didn’t make it happen—three times—what makes you think that this one medically unassisted romp in the sack is gonna change anything?”
Anna closed her eyes and repeated what Jamie had said. “I can just feel it. This is our month.”
“You say that every month,” Jonas pointed out. “And I’m tired of spending all our time and money and energy on something that most people accomplish by accident.”
So much for sensual seduction. Anna grabbed the green chenille throw blanket off the couch and wrapped it around her torso. “I know, honey. This is frustrating for me, too.” She crossed the room and started kneading his shoulders. “And I really want to talk about it with you. But right now, can we please just go to the bedroom?”
His muscles tensed beneath her fingers. “Maybe later.”
She exhaled slowly and made a conscious effort not to let his negativity feed her own. “Maybe now.”
“I need to finish up here,” he said tightly.
“No, you don’t. The computer doesn’t need you.” She leaned over to whisper into his ear. “I do.”
She knew he could smell her perfume and feel her breath tickling his neck, and for a moment, she felt his defenses weaken. But then he shut down and pulled away.
“Can’t we do this tomorrow?”
“Jonas, come on!” The green blanket fell to the floor as she threw out her arms in exasperation. She didn’t even bother trying to suck in her stomach. “I’m offering up sex on a silver platter here! Most guys would be ecstatic.”
Finally, her husband snapped. “Most guys don’t have to wait for a surge in their wife’s luteinizing hormone to get lucky. Most guys don’t even know what luteinizing hormone is. You don’t want me. You only want my sperm!”
She gasped. “How can you—”
“Actually, you probably don’t even want my sperm.” His forehead gleamed with a sheen of perspiration. “You’d probably rather get it on with someone who has a chance in hell of getting you pregnant.”
Anna sat down hard on the sofa. “Jonas!”
“What?” His dark eyes flashed, but she saw pain underneath his anger. “Are you denying it?”
“Of course I am! I only want you. I love you. I married you.” Then she took a calming breath and added, “Besides, the doctors all said your sperm is totally fine. Why are you blaming yourself? It’s probably me. It’s because I’m overweight.”
He
furrowed his brow. “You’re not overweight.”
“Yes, I am. You heard the endocrinologist. My body mass index is on the high end.”
“The high end of normal.”
“Then what is it? Why aren’t I pregnant yet?”
He clenched the sides of his head with both hands. “What do I have to do to escape this conversation?”
“Get over here, rip off my panties, and have your way with me!” She knew she sounded more like a drill sergeant than a dominatrix, but she was too exasperated to care.
He paused, then muttered, “I can’t.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
His face was still buried in his hands. “I can’t. I won’t. I just … I’m sorry.” He abruptly turned back to his gaming and turned the volume way up.
She crossed her arms over her flimsy bra and listened to the juicy splat of alien flesh under fire. “You’re not attracted to me anymore.”
“Stop.” His clipped, authoritative tone now matched hers. “We’re tabling this for tonight.”
“NO! I’m ovulating! If we ‘table’ it, that’s one more month wasted. This is only going to get more difficult.”
“I’d say it’s difficult enough right now.”
“Meaning?”
Jonas shoved his chair back from the desk, stood up, and gave her his full attention. “Meaning which would you rather have: a happy marriage with no kids or a crappy marriage and a baby at any cost?”
He stared at her. She stared back.
Finally, she said, “Don’t ask me that unless you want an honest answer.”
He nodded, his expression grim.
“We’ve been planning this for years. We specifically chose this house because it’s in the best school district in Albany. All the money we’ve spent, all the doctors and the hormone injections and the medications and the time. And you want to just quit.”
“What I want is to start considering other options. We don’t have to keep going through this, month after month.”
Second Time Around Page 3