Becoming the Talbot Sisters

by Rachel Linden

  “Waverly, Boss.” Beau laced his fingers and leaned forward. “We have to do better,” he said bluntly. “That’s all there is to it. We need to kick it up a notch or two, or this time next year they may not renew Simply Perfect.”

  His words slowly sank in. If the network chose not to renew the show, there would be no more Simply Perfect. It was as simple as that. Oh, they could maybe get picked up by a smaller cable channel somewhere, or go back to being regional. But it would be a slow slide from there into obscurity and eventual cancellation. The implosion of everything she had worked so hard for, had dreamed of and fought for and created from scratch with sheer grit and determination. Her mind flashed to the dozens and dozens of aprons hanging in her studio wardrobe. What in the world would she do with those if the show were canceled? Who would she be without Simply Perfect? It would be the end of everything.

  “Well then,” she said, her tone determined and calm, betraying none of her inner turmoil, “we have to do better. Let’s start today.” She picked up her hot chocolate and took another sip, her mind already working to solve the issue at hand. The problem was, she had no idea how.

  At one in the morning Waverly awoke, instantly alert. Her mind was racing, going over and over the conversation with Beau earlier that afternoon. Lying in the dark, she thought of a dozen compelling, articulate arguments for the decision makers at the Food Network channel, mouthing them soundlessly as Andrew snored softly beside her. At last, frustrated and nerves jangling, she got up and went down to the kitchen to putter.

  She didn’t turn on the overhead lights, preferring the soft under-the-cabinet lights by the sink. The room was quiet except for the gentle hum of the refrigerator. The backyard through the white french doors was dark and silent. Waverly tied on her mother’s apron over her pajamas. She had dozens and dozens of aprons for the show, but in her own kitchen she wore only one, Margaret Talbot’s cotton frilled apron, an ivory with peach-colored rosebud print. It was worn soft and supple, and stained in a few places, but Waverly wouldn’t think of wearing anything else. For those few minutes she was embraced by the spirit of Margaret Talbot. For those few minutes she could almost imagine her mother perched on a stool beside her, smiling approvingly and giving advice.

  Suitably clad, Waverly set to work. She was formulating a show centered on tapas that were a fusion of Spanish and Moroccan cuisine. At her spacious granite island she rubbed the spices between her fingers, reveling in the fragrant, exotic blend—cumin, ginger, cinnamon, coriander. She pictured Moroccan marinated chicken and olive tapenade in puff pastry bites. After working on the filling for a few minutes, she grew frustrated. She was too distracted. Nothing was coming together quite right. The flavors were a little bitter, just slightly off. At last she gave up.

  She made herself a cup of ginger root tea and sat down at the kitchen table with her laptop to check her e-mail, hoping for a message from Charlie. It had been almost a week since the last one. Her sister had most recently been sending funny anecdotes about second-trimester pregnancy symptoms, namely, bladder incontinence when she coughed and a strange penchant for paprika-flavored potato chips. Waverly read each e-mail several times, greedily scooping up the images and stories, trying to vicariously connect with the baby through the words and grainy black-and-white photos.

  There—a new message from Charlie. Subject line: Genetic ultrasound results—call me. Waverly’s heart skipped a beat. She reached for her phone.

  Charlie picked up after two rings. It was seven thirty in the morning in Budapest, Waverly realized belatedly. Perhaps a touch too early to be calling a pregnant woman.

  “Well, good morning to you. What are you doing up in the middle of the night?” Charlie asked.

  She sounded like she’d just woken up, her voice husky with sleep. She also sounded perfectly at ease. Waverly relaxed slightly. Nothing terrible had happened to the baby, then.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I just got your e-mail and called to make sure everything’s okay.” She sounded strained even to her own ears. She so desperately wanted this baby to be healthy and well.

  On the other end of the line, Charlie yawned. “Yep, Junior and I are all good here. I can’t button my pants anymore, so now I’m wearing those stretchy-topped ones you bought me. They’re actually really comfortable. I might never go back to regular pants again. I had the twenty-week ultrasound yesterday. Everything looks great. Baby has the right number of fingers and toes and lungs and other organs. Dr. Nagy says it’s a perfectly healthy baby.”

  Waverly closed her eyes, awash with relief. The baby was healthy and strong, a boy or a girl, her child. There was no cause for alarm. For a moment she thought she might burst into tears. Charlie sounded so close, as though she were in the next room and not a continent away with an ocean between them. She wished Charlie were sitting at the table with her, keeping her company. She would make Aunt Mae’s poached eggs in milk over buttered saltines for her sister. The protein and calcium would be good for the baby. She hoped Charlie was eating enough.

  Charlie was still talking, and Waverly tuned in to the conversation again.

  “The doctor couldn’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl. The baby seems to be very modest—had his or her legs crossed. I’m sending you some images now. Next time Dr. Nagy said they’ll do a 4-D ultrasound, whatever that means. Do you want to know the gender if they can tell us?”

  “Oh.” Waverly put her hand to her throat, feeling her pulse start to return to normal. Did she want to know the gender? What an amazing question. “Yes, yes, I’d love to know,” she clarified.

  “Okay, I’ll tell them at the next appointment and see if the baby will cooperate.” Charlie yawned again.

  “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” Waverly had to tamp down the intense urge to mother her sister, the mother of her child. “Are you eating enough? Getting enough good nutrients? Are you taking the fish oil supplements I sent with you?”

  She realized how desperate she sounded in her own ears and abruptly stopped talking. She wanted to control every last little detail, make sure that everything humanly possible had been done to ensure the safety, health, and well-being of the baby and Charlie. But as she’d learned so many times before, some things were out of her control. Some things happened despite your best efforts.

  Charlie laughed, assuring her gently, “This baby is going to be just fine. It will be mostly made out of strudel, but we’re both doing great.”

  “Okay.” Waverly blew out a breath. She had to let it go, had to trust the natural process of Charlie’s body and her sister’s good sense. Charlie had good sense. It was one of her strongest points.

  “Hey, I’ve got to get ready for work. I just sent you those ultrasound photos.” Charlie was rustling on the other end of the line.

  “Okay,” Waverly said, reluctant to end the call. “If you need anything at all . . .”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Charlie promised.

  “Well then . . .” Waverly didn’t know what else to say. “Thank you.” Those two little words encompassed so much she didn’t know how to express.

  “You’re welcome,” Charlie said, and Waverly sensed that her sister understood without the words being spoken.

  When they ended the call, Waverly immediately opened the new e-mail from Charlie, complete with attachments. She clicked on the ultrasound images one after another, tracing the baby’s profile—upturned nose, the egg-smooth curve of the skull, skinny arms with tiny fingers outstretched. In one the baby was sucking its thumb. In another it appeared to be reclining comfortably, as if poolside in a chaise lounge.

  Waverly studied the pictures greedily, her heart squeezing with both gratitude and longing. Her professional life might be unexpectedly teetering precariously, but at least this remarkable gift from her sister was still going right in her life.

  “Please, please, please,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut, saying a little prayer of health and safety for Charlie and baby so far away, not ev
en quite sure what she was asking for, but asking all the same.

  CHAPTER 13

  Late February

  Budapest

  Charlie almost believed they had gotten away with it. It had been more than five weeks since she and Monica had rescued the girls, and all had been quiet since then. The night of the rescue, they arrived in Belgrade in the dark early morning. After a few hours’ wait at the drop-in center, the girls had been transferred to the safe house on the outskirts of the city. They would stay there until they could be repatriated to their respective countries. Charlie and Monica had waited until daylight at the drop-in center and then headed back to Budapest. Before the girls left for the safe house, Charlie gave Kinga her cell phone number.

  “If you need anything . . .” She trailed off, not sure how to put into words her concern and care for the young woman. She pressed some crumpled euros into Kinga’s hand and made her promise to call if she needed anything at all.

  “Be careful,” she said. “Stay safe.” Charlie hated to leave her. A cell phone number and twenty euros felt like so little, but it was all she could think to do in that moment.

  Kinga had nodded, her eyes wide and frightened, and a few days later Charlie received a text from her, letting her know that all the girls were safe and doing well. Kinga said she was hoping to come home soon.

  Charlie found her mind returning again and again to that frigid black night. Something had changed in her when she’d opened the door of the transport van and seen the girls sitting there; it had broken open a place inside of her that had been long sealed off. She tried to return to her usual patterns—work, socializing with colleagues on Friday nights, reading in the evenings, or watching a documentary—but she felt unsettled, restless, the sensation stinging like nettles along the surface of her skin.

  Unsure what to do about this change, Charlie focused on the tasks at hand, specifically work and the baby. She was still keeping the pregnancy a secret at work, although it was becoming harder and harder. She had resorted to wearing baggy sweaters over the maternity skinny jeans Waverly had gotten for her. She just looked like she was getting a little chubby.

  Posing in front of her bathroom mirror one workday morning, Charlie snapped a quick photo of the bump to send to Waverly. She knew her sister loved any piece of information Charlie could give her. It was difficult with the distance and time difference and their busy schedules, but Charlie was doing the best she could. Without question the sisters had connected far more in the last few months than in the previous six years combined.

  When Charlie left for Africa the first time, Waverly had driven her to the airport. She would be leaving in a few days herself for the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park. The sisters had stood at the boarding gate as Charlie’s flight was called, facing one another, unsure how to say good-bye. Looking at Waverly, Charlie had suddenly realized what it meant to board that plane. She was heading across the ocean. Waverly was driving to New York. For the first time in their lives, they would be apart. She bit her lip, unsure that she wanted to leave. Since the death of their parents, they had been each other’s constant. It was destabilizing to think of waving good-bye to Waverly. Perhaps Africa could wait after all. They called her section of the plane and still she hesitated.

  “You should go,” Waverly said. “That’s your row.” She raised her chin and gave Charlie a tight smile that wobbled at the corners.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Charlie asked, wanting to say so much and yet unsure how to put any of it into words. “New York seems so far away.”

  Waverly laughed and sniffed back tears. “Not as far as Africa.” And then, “Of course I’ll be okay. This is what we both want, isn’t it?”

  Charlie nodded, but she wasn’t convinced. Something was about to change permanently. She could sense it. If she set foot on that plane, there would be no going back.

  They issued the final boarding call, and still she lingered.

  Waverly stepped forward and pulled her into a fierce hug, then propelled her toward the gate. “Go,” she said firmly, her eyes suspiciously pink. “It’s just a few weeks. I’ll see you when you get back. You can come visit me in New York.”

  Charlie had boarded the plane. When she looked back, Waverly was standing there alone, her hand raised in farewell. It’s just a few weeks, Charlie told herself, but she sensed the change even then, before the heartbreaking beauty of Africa captivated her, before she purposefully missed her flight home.

  In the ensuing years she and Waverly had kept in contact, at first almost daily, and then gradually a bit less as they both became absorbed in their separate lives. Charlie had visited Waverly in New York and then Paris. Waverly had never come to Johannesburg. There were a few visits back home together for Christmas, but the time between the twins’ calls and e-mails and visits lengthened with each passing year.

  When Charlie left Africa, her heart and her life in pieces, and took the job in Budapest, the silent spaces stretched even longer. In the midst of her brokenness, Charlie had no capacity for connection with her sister. She did not tell Waverly what had transpired in Johannesburg, why she had left, and her omission made the distance between them even greater. That was the turning point, the place where their relationship had stalled. Without honesty there had been no capacity for growth.

  Charlie shut herself away, and Waverly, newly married to Andrew and on the cusp of Simply Perfect stardom, seemed too busy to realize the gradual change. If she had noticed, she’d done nothing to remedy it. So they had continued in polite distance for six years until Aunt Mae’s death, until Charlie’s offer and the baby changed everything again.

  “Let’s send your mama this photo of you growing,” Charlie said to the baby, then sent the photo to Waverly, adding a few lines to let her know everything continued to be okay. Then on impulse she googled How to keep pregnancy secret? She knew it was just a matter of time until someone at work figured out the truth and her cover was blown.

  “Anyone have any fabulous suggestions?” she murmured, scanning the online articles and blogs for inspiration.

  Bring your own coffee to work so you can drink decaf instead, one article suggested. If anyone asks why, just tell them you’re trying to save money.

  If you go out for drinks with friends, order at the bar and just get a virgin drink. No one will ever know, another advised.

  Layers, layers, layers. You can get away with just looking like you’ve gained a few pounds if you strategically layer clothes, at least for the first couple of months.

  Bolstered by the ideas, Charlie decided to employ all the suggestions. She chose an outfit, then turned sideways and scrutinized her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She was wearing a pin-striped button-down man’s shirt over her skinny maternity jeans and a blazer she’d bought after watching Annie Hall but had never worn. If she squinted, she just looked a little thicker around the middle. Too much strudel, maybe? Because her natural frame was lean and wiry, even at twenty weeks her swelling belly was fairly small. Still, she would only be able to hide it for a limited time.

  She sighed and tried to suck in her tummy. “Well, pal, this will have to do. Hope it’s good enough.” That was how she thought of the baby—as a little pal, a sidekick along for the ride. They still did not know the gender, but Charlie had a strong feeling that the baby was a boy. She found herself talking to him more and more, feeling a little foolish but liking the companionship in some strange way. She was a solitary creature by nature. Since her broken engagement with Shane, she’d always lived alone. With her traveling lifestyle she could not even keep a houseplant, let alone a pet. But there was the baby now, bobbing along with her on trains and buses and in the Care Network van, a tiny traveler in a tummy suitcase. She found his presence strangely comforting.

  “Hat or no hat?” she asked him, slipping a fedora, also never worn, onto her head. “Too much? Draws too much attention? I think you’re right.” She abandoned the fedora and left the blazer unbuttoned,
hoping the loose lines would disguise the baby belly for a little longer.

  She was running late for work. The number 6 train where she got on idled mysteriously for more than ten minutes. Eventually a woman made an announcement through the intercom, and the passengers grumbled quietly in response. Charlie spoke only basic Hungarian, enough to catch a few key words. Delays due to maintenance on the tracks. She sighed. She was not going to make the morning meeting. Great, just what she needed. Something like this, even if it was just a missed meeting, begged Ursula’s scrutiny, which was the last thing she wanted right now. She was trying to fly below her boss’s radar, keep her head down and do her job. She tugged the blazer over the gently rounded swell of her belly.

  The passengers slowly filed off the train, streaming toward the sidecar. Apparently the number 6 was indefinitely delayed. She texted Duncan to let him know the situation and then joined the masses on the sidewalk, weighing the length of time it would take to walk to work or to find another means of transport. She decided to walk. The exercise would do her good.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Charlie said, hurrying into the main office room twenty minutes later. She sank down into one of the office chairs around the conference table, a little out of breath. A few of the other staff looked up from their laptops and mumbled greetings.

  “You look a bit done in,” Duncan observed, turning his chair and looking her up and down. “Busy weekend?” He grinned cheerfully and winked.

  Charlie laughed. “A little,” she said dismissively. “Nothing too exciting. What did I miss? Fill me in.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Not much, just a report on the new projects for the summer.” He leafed through a stack of papers.

  “I’ve got the kettle on. Anyone want a coffee or tea?” Kate asked, pausing on her way to the tiny cupboard that passed for a kitchen. She made the offer in general but was looking at Duncan as she spoke.