Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel
Page 11
"Why do we have to go to Mrs. DeRosa's?"
"Oh, sorry. You weren't here yet. After my sister and I checked out every bridal shop in the entire Chicago Metropolitan area, we still couldn't find any bridesmaid dresses we like, so Lucy, uh, Mrs. DeRosa, offered to design whatever we want and make them. We just have to get the fabric and stuff. Whatever we want. Isn't that fantastic?"
"Wow. She can make—what—five dresses by then?"
Mattie nodded. "Well, just four. Nancy has a conflict."
Nancy put her phone down. "Yeah. My mom's getting married again. Same day. What are the chances?"
After a moment, Mattie continued, "You know, I know mothers-in-law are supposed to be awful, but I'm really kinda crazy about mine."
Sara was about to ask what time they were meeting at Lucy's when Chez Doug himself appeared at their table, holding a small pad of paper. "Ladies. What can I get you this morning?"
"Hi, Doug," they said in unison to the middle-aged former parochial school teacher who owned and operated his namesake establishment.
Sara noticed Nancy suck in her cheeks as her eyes raked over the man who, with his overgrown hair, thick mustache, and gold-rimmed aviator glasses, looked rather like he stepped right out of 1975.
"I'll have the daily brew, Doug, with just a pinch of sugar and…" putting her hand on his hairy forearm, asked, "What did you say the specials were today?"
Sara and Mattie exchanged amused glances while Aubrey just rolled her eyes.
Still, Nancy's touch seemed to spellbind Doug. "Lemon poppy seed scones and asparagus Swiss cheese quiche."
"Oh, the quiche sounds delicious," Nancy gasped. "I'll have that."
With a wink, he said, "You got it."
Turning his attention to Aubrey, she said, "Hot green tea and a lemon scone, please."
Mattie said, "The same," and Sara, pointing to Nancy, said, "I'll have what she's having."
"Thanks, ladies."
As soon as he was out of earshot, Sara leaned across the table to Nancy and said, "There goes your wedding date."
Watching as the not-unattractive coffee shop owner made his way to the kitchen, the food editor shrugged. "We'll see."
Aubrey spread her white cloth napkin across her lap and whispered, "You're terrible. It's so obvious he likes you. You have to ask him to your mom's wedding."
"I will if you ask Malcolm to Mattie's," Nancy teased, being sure to overenunciate the name of her friend's crush.
When the young widow fell silent, Sara was reminded of one of the many reasons why Claire did not think highly of Nancy. Noticing her absence, she asked, "Where's Claire?"
Just then, Doug appeared with a large tray that he set on the adjacent table. Moving her silverware to make room for her scone, Mattie whispered, "Ultrasound."
A spark of alarm prompted to Sara to whisper back, "Is everything OK?"
With a nod, Mattie assured her. "Oh, yeah. At least I think so. It's just routine, given her age and everything." Addressing Doug, she asked, "Hey, I've been meaning to ask, do you do wedding cakes or sweet tables?"
On their way to the office, Mattie deliberately hung back with Sara while the other two rushed off to meetings. Just as they were about to enter the Gazette Building, Mattie asked, "OK, so what's going on?"
Sara turned on her before pushing through the lobby's revolving door. "What do you mean?"
When they emerged from the other side, Mattie gave her a knowing look. "You're really going to make me pull it out of you? OK, first of all, you hate Monday mornings more than anything on the planet, yet here you are, bright and early, oozing sunshine and butterflies."
"I am not," the music critic whispered as her eyes darted around the lobby, hoping no one she knew heard Mattie's sunshine and butterflies remark.
"You are too," Mattie pressed with a smile. "Who is he?"
Sara pressed the Up button. "OK, let's say, hypothetically, I do seem uncharacteristically happy for a Monday morning. Why does it have to involve a guy?"
Mattie held up her hand and gave her a disparaging look. "Don't insult me. Come on, dish."
Turning away from the elevator that had just arrived for them, the pair walked over to an empty bench against a far wall of the lobby and sat down.
"Well, for starters," Sara confessed under her breath as her eyes scanned the lobby, "Jer ditched me and moved back to the UK while I was on the road."
Hearing Mattie gasp, she continued, "So the owner of the building sublet our apartment."
She felt the blush rise in her cheeks and her mouth pull into a smirk as she concluded, "And I have a new roommate."
Several seconds passed as she let the announcement sink in.
"And…" Mattie prodded with a face-splitting grin.
Looking into her face, it dawned on Sara that Andrew's place of employment and the venue for Mattie's wedding ceremony were one and the same. Out of an abundance of caution, she was careful not to divulge too many details.
"And what?" Sara hedged.
"What's he like?" Mattie gasped.
"Why are you assuming it's a he?"
"Because you're blushing, and your eyes are all sparkly. In all the time I've known you, I've never seen you like this. What's he like? Is he cute? What does he do?"
With that morning's stained-towel incident still very fresh in her mind, she blurted, "He's another musician, and, so far, he's a pain the ass."
Then she pictured him bundling her up in the afghan the night before when she was frozen to the core and imagined him carrying her sleeping self to bed and tucking her in, two nights in a row.
After a heavy sigh, she admitted, "And I could definitely fall for him."
Ten minutes later, her investigative reporter pal had extracted the full scoop behind Sara's sunshine and butterflies.
With a wink, Mattie nudged her shoulder into her much-taller friend's arm. "Well, whether he's gay or not, it sounds like you've got yourself a wedding date."
Sara pictured herself dancing cheek-to-cheek with Andrew on the dance floor during the reception at their publisher's swanky country club.
Without any further prodding from Mattie, she was prone to agree.
* * *
Across town, Claire gasped as the ultrasound technician squirted cold gel onto her warm belly. "Can't you guys warm that up first?"
Ignoring her, the technician asked if they wanted to know the sex of the baby.
"You can tell this early?"
"We should be able to, depending on the baby's position."
Claire and her husband, Paul, exchanged glances in the dark of the diagnostic imaging room at Chicago General. After a minute of reading each other's minds like long-married couples do, they both made a face and shook their heads, "Nah."
"It'll give us something to look forward to," Paul explained.
"Exactly," Claire echoed.
The technician nodded and then began moving the sensor over Claire's skin like she was using a game controller on some exciting new prenatal video game. She half expected to see a score pop up on the monitor.
Instead, as the technician continued to take image after image, Claire saw what looked to be a teeny tiny foot appear on the screen. Tears springing to her eyes, she squeezed Paul's hand. "Oh my God."
Through a broad grin, Paul sighed at the emerging image of his fifth child. "Never gets old."
A quick knock sounded on the door, and a nurse popped her head in. "Excuse me, Denise, you've got a call. It's your husband. He said it's an emergency." With a sigh, the technician set the sensor down. "I'm so sorry. I'll be right back."
"Oh, sure thing," Paul said, watching as she left them alone in the dark room. Then, leaning over his wife with a dangerous grin, he kissed her and whispered, "Wanna make out?"
With a laugh, Claire pushed him away. "That's what got us here in the first place." Looking toward the door, she flung an arm under her head and added, "I hope everything's OK."
A few minutes later, another knock sounded.
Propping up on her elbows, she asked, "Nothing serious, I hope?"
"Oh no. Her husband locked his keys in the car, and she needs to run home and get the extra set."
Claire eased back down on the table, unable to shake the feeling of impending doom. "Oh, good. Glad it wasn't anything serious."
Reaching his hand across to Paul, the doctor said, "Good to see you again."
"How are ya?" Paul asked as he shook the hand of the man who delivered their first four children.
"OK, so what do we have here?" the doctor murmured, staring at the screen as he pressed the sensor over Claire's lower abdomen while punching a bunch of buttons on the console in front of him. "Looking good…"
The unmistakable image of a hand appeared to wave at them. "Aw, hi, sweetie," she cried.
"Would ya look at that," Paul whispered. "I don't remember the older guys' scans being so clear."
The doctor didn't seem to hear him. Instead, his attention was locked on the screen. "What do we have here?"
Clenching Paul's hand, she asked, "What's the matter? Is something wrong?"
The doctor, looking a little stunned, turned to look at them. "In all my years…well, it's really quite rare."
Feeling her heart thud to a stop in her chest, Claire squeaked, "Tell us."
"In all my years," he started again before breaking into a smile. "I've never delivered five boys to the same family."
Claire fell back against the pillow. And you never will.
Flopping an arm over her face, she moaned. "We didn't want to know."
"Oh. I'm so sorry. I thought I saw a note in your file that you wanted to know," said the man who had referred to her as being "of advanced maternal age" not one month before.
"Hey, well, as long as he's healthy, right?" Paul grinned as he watched Clare wipe the gel off of her belly with a paper towel the doctor had given her.
"Right," she growled back.
"OK. I'll see you in another month. Have a good one," said the worst OB ever before exiting with his stethoscope between his legs.
As soon as she was upright, Paul held Claire's face in his warm hands and looked in her eyes, nearly blinding her with the gleam in his. "It's a boy. And he's healthy. How lucky are we, huh?"
Wrapping her arms around him, she smushed her face against the lapel of his black suit coat and mumbled, "Very, very."
He planted a kiss on her head and gave her a quick squeeze. "Come on. We've got to get to work."
A short cab ride later, the two were at the Gazette Building. Before Paul ascended to his job on the 24th floor, he kissed Claire good-bye on the 7th. On her way to her cube, she stopped by her editor's office to inform Dianne that she had a better idea for that week's column and would get it to her within the hour. Forty-five minutes later, she read the new submission, entitled "Looking on the Blue Side," before sending it:
It's official. This Plate Spinner has just learned that her fifth little saucer, due to arrive later this summer, is decidedly blue. And I'm just not sure how I feel about that.
Maybe it's the way I found out. During a recent routine ultrasound, the technician had to step away. Her replacement? None other than my well-degreed (former) obstetrician who made the erroneous assumption that my husband and I wanted to learn the sex of our child.
Seeing that I'm on the cusp of entering my second trimester—otherwise known as that blissful phase when morning sickness ceases and unbridled use of the "but-I'm eating-for-two" card commences, my immediate reaction was anger.
"I thought you wanted to know," was his hapless defense.
How dare he rob me of the daydreams I had been counting on to get me through the next six months? The ones in which it was still possible that our impending arrival might indeed be of the female persuasion. Not likely after already bringing four boys into the world, I know, but come on.
The star of my daydreams was, of course, my potential baby girl. Immediately upon her arrival, I would dress her in every shade of pink on the planet. Bonding instantly, we would become fast friends—besties even, enjoying tea parties, Disney chick flicks, and, as soon as she was old enough, mani-pedis.
It was everything I could do to not strangle him with his stethoscope while demanding, "But who's going to wear my wedding dress?"
Instead, I gave my (did I mention former) OB the death glare that works so well on my sons when they have the misfortune of reaching for the last piece of pizza (or cake). Lucky for him, the familiar swoosh-swoosh of a tiny heartbeat filled the darkened room, and I was faced with the stark realization that I have another human being growing inside of me.
How could I be angry in the presence of a miracle?
Well played, doctor. Well played indeed.
Then I saw my son's teeny little hand wave at me. That simple, exquisite gesture was all it took to remind me that I don't even like tea, am not a fan of Disney's princess propaganda campaign, and have not gotten a mani-pedi since my wedding day.
I glanced teary-eyed at my husband who evidently had not gotten a ticket on the same emotional rollercoaster I did. If he was harboring any dashed daddy-daughter fantasies, he hid them well. In fact, by all appearances, he was nothing short of ebullient, spouting things like, "Yes! We have a basketball team" and, crazier still, "two more and we've got a cross-country team."
Uh, no.
Still, his euphoria was contagious, prompting me to ponder the blessings of boys. If I really concentrate, I can almost see beyond the left-up toilet seats, the smelly clothes, the ever-present sophomoric humor at the dinner table, and all manner of sports equipment cluttering my house like it's a big-box athletic store. I see instead their sweet smiles, remember the warmth of their hugs, and cherish the thought that, no matter what, boys will always love their mothers.
It's no small responsibility transforming boys into bright, caring, responsible young men who will, one day, bring me the daughters (in-law) for which I long. I just hope my boys know that at least one of their fiancées had better be willing and able to wear my wedding dress. Perhaps I should write them a note.
Dianne responded with her trademark brevity via their interoffice instant messaging system: Brilliant.
Claire noted this with no small degree of satisfaction.
But when Diane IM'd again not a moment later with: Next week: ltr to future DILs. Thx, she closed her eyes and smiled, certain that she had to be the happiest working mom in the Windy City, if not the entire Midwest.
* * *
Sitting in the chair facing her editor's desk, Sara wished that Mike Teegan preferred instant messaging to in-person meetings.
"So what did you want to see me about?" she asked, biting the inside of her cheek as she watched him get up from and close the door to his office behind her.
After the weekend she'd had, she had a whole new appreciation for the fact that her job was the only stabilizing factor in her life. Once she was given an assignment, she was all over it. Knew exactly what to do and how to make it work. When she was on the job, she felt in control. When she wasn't, not so much. Especially lately.
"I read your Krypto Blight piece."
"Yeah?" She gripped the arms of the chair she was sitting in, thinking of all she had given up for the feature—her boyfriend, seventy-five percent of her wardrobe, her passive agnostic lifestyle. He'd better as hell like it. 'Cause if he didn't—well, she had no idea what she'd do if he didn't, but it wouldn't be pretty.
Images of overturned office furniture filled her head as did the subject line of an email emblazoned with the words, Letter of Resignation.
The former Woodstock attendee turned successful editorial executive smiled at her.
"You've really outdone yourself. It'll post Friday as part of the Grammy preview feature."
Oh, thank God.
Through an uncharacteristic gush of a grin, she replied, "I'm so glad y
ou liked it."
Mike did a double take at her smiling face. "You feeling ok?"
"Yeah, why?"
After assessing her for several long seconds, he ventured, "I don't know. Your makeup is different. And you seem…cheerful."
Must stop smiling at people.
Unable to force a frown, she waved him off. "What about my write up on Ellie Klein? What did you think?"
He sat back in his chair, "Yeah, about that."
Sara felt her grin disappear faster than Ellie's fanbase after she declared her move from country to pop.
Edging forward in her seat, she started, "I know you didn't ask for it, Mike, and let me assure you, I worked on it on my own time, but I really feel like it had to be said, ya know? And I thought if we could get it out there before, say, Rolling Stone, it might go a long way toward bolstering the paper's credibility."
At this, his face slowly morphed into a scowl. "You think the Gazette has credibility issues?"
"What? No! That's not what I meant."
As she tried yanking her foot from her big mouth, she started having an out-of-body experience. Even though she felt like a big bad gainfully employed music critic, looking down on herself, she saw an insecure kid from Wisconsin whose lack of a college degree, a mother, and a clean conscience made her come off like a blithering idiot in the eyes of her editor.
Me replace Daryl Swerl. Right.
Her mouth finally stopped moving, and she looked down at her hands. "You know what? I'm just gonna stop talking."
Mike's confused expression broke into a smile. With a chuckle, he replied, "Good, 'cause I wanted to let you know that it's posting tomorrow." Leaning forwarded, he added, "I wanted to tell you in person."
Sara, having a hard time getting her cool back on, gave him a quick nod. "That's great. Thanks."
Patting the top of his desk with his hand, her editor surprised her again. "Listen. Why don't you take the rest of the day off, huh?"
Expecting to be given her next assignment, not be sent home, she blurted, "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Take a day off. It's what people do when they've been on the road for almost two weeks and, I see," he said, pointing to his laptop screen, "working on the weekend again. You need a break."