“Dad knows him. His company, Adam AdVentures, has contracted Dunhill Electrical on some jobs. Adam’s a friend of mine. In fact, I’m staying at his house while I’m in town.”
“I see.” She gestured toward an arrangement by the window and said, “Gwendy and the Stephenson family? Who is that?”
I felt my throat constrict. It would be so nice to have a mother like Adam’s. To drop my head on the bed next to her and bawl over Daniel, knowing she’d smooth my hair down and tell me everything was going to be okay.
“It’s Daniel Stephenson’s family. Daniel is a close friend of Sheila’s and mine. He lives in New York, too. Maybe Sheila told him about your surgery. Gwendy’s his sister.”
“It’s nice of them to send flowers. The Meyers sent the basket by the door. They signed Sheila’s and Jake’s names, too. Jake was by this morning, right after they moved me into my room. That large arrangement in the corner. Will you give me the card?” When I did, she opened the envelope and handed me the card.
So sorry to hear you’ve been ill. Hope to see you up and about when I get home from Italy.
Love,
Sydney
I might have known that my mother, even after heart surgery, would be eager to fire the first salvo in our ongoing war about my divorce.
“Nice of her,” I said, refusing to fight back.
“She’s always had the most impeccable manners,” my mother said. “Could you find some paper and start making a list for me? I’ll be writing a lot of thank-you notes if I get out of here.”
“When you get out of here,” I corrected.
“There are always so many complications that can set in after surgery,” she said. “I’m sure they moved me out of intensive care too soon. I suppose I should be grateful they aren’t sending me home. With health plans being what they are, no one is allowed to recover properly anymore. It’s amazing that they don’t drive you straight from the hospital to the mortuary. These days, after a woman has a baby, they send her home the next day!”
I indulged myself in a fantasy of bringing a new grandchild to Eau Claire.
Mom, Dad, this is my baby, little Civil Liberty. Liberty’s mommy, Gretchen Schmidt, of the Pennsylvania Schmidts, and her lesbian lover, Susan B. Hillary Rodham Roosevelt. And this is my longtime companion, Todd. What does Todd do? He’s in currency exchange.
I knew I had to get back to New York before I lost my mind.
I saw proof of the old maxim that there’s a first time for everything when Violet’s mouth dropped open in shock after I finished a Monday morning meeting with a final request.
“Blaine—”
“I don’t care how you do it,” I said. “But after Wednesday, I have to be out of the office for a week.”
“You just took a trip to Wisconsin!” She leaned over and tapped one perfectly manicured nail on my computer screen. “Look at your calendar. You have meetings with Gavin Lewis, an apartment locator, the real estate people for Lillith Allure, Lillith herself, Frank, and a whole set of West Coast distributors who are expecting to be wined and dined with Sheila on Friday. Blaine, do you hate me? Did I give Dexter the wrong cat food? Was your coffee too cold? Your office too hot? Why are you doing this to me?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can make the decision about Gavin. Make sure he’s not allergic to cats. Find out what I should be paying, draw up some kind of privacy agreement for him to sign, and hire him. The apartment locator can wait until I get back, unless you want to meet with him. You know what I’m looking for. In fact, you pretty much manage the Allure account in spite of me. You could probably take the meetings with the real estate people, Lillith, and Frank. As for the West Coast—”
“Is that it? I’m too efficient? You feel useless? Blaine, nobody reschedules Lillith Parker. You know how meticulously her people chart her every move.” She stopped, as if struck by a thought. She came around my desk and toggled the screen from my calendar to a search engine, her fingers flying over the keys. I sat back, waiting, as her eyes darted over one site after another. Finally she breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Solar flares.”
“Excuse me?”
“Over the next few days, we’re having solar flares.”
“Was it something we ate?”
“Some people think solar flares can affect—oh, you don’t care, do you? It’s a good thing for you that Barbara owes me one.”
“Barbara?”
“Lillith’s assistant,” she said impatiently. “Don’t ask questions. You’re better off not knowing.”
“You two conspire against us all the time, don’t you?” I asked suspiciously.
“Blaine, if I pull this off and reschedule everything for next week, and you flake on me again—”
“Remind me, which one of us is the boss here?”
“Can you put off Lillith and the West Coast?” she asked.
“All right. Thank you for working miracles for me.”
“Where are you going? Where can I reach you?” she asked, picking up her ever-present PalmPilot.
“You can reach my cell phone. And I’ll take a laptop with me to check e-mail.”
She left my office with an air of surrender.
Surrender: the new fragrance from Lillith Allure Cosmetics, I thought and laughed, then dialed Gretchen’s office number.
“I have Thursday free,” I said, knowing better than to waste her time with small talk.
“Great. Our first appointment is at two. Then we go back at two on Friday.”
“Isn’t it fortunate for us that you ovulate in time to take a four-day weekend, since you’re supposed to stay in bed?”
“In bed, yes. But my god, you wouldn’t believe the amount of work I have to do. Why are we doing this during tax season?”
“It’s worse than you know,” I said. “I don’t want to hear any objections. Farm out your work however you have to. From Thursday until next Wednesday, you won’t be available.”
She laughed and asked, “Are you crazy? I can work from home over the weekend, but Monday morning—”
“Gretchen, I’m putting my foot down. Thursday night, I’m staying at your place with you. Friday evening, I’m taking you to Happy Hollow. We’ll be back Wednesday night.”
“There’s no way I can leave now!”
“Remember what you said? That you’ve gotten to a point in your life where you have time for motherhood? Motherhood begins at two o’clock on Thursday. If you get yourself exhausted and stressed out trying to save financial empires, we may have to go through this again in a month, which will be April. You know you’ll be up to your neck in tax laws and receipts scribbled on napkins by then. This is our only window of ovulation opportunity until May. Besides, if you think you’re busy now, wait until the baby comes. From what little I know of kids, they’ll change your definition of busy.”
“Seven days without working?”
“Consider it a rehearsal for maternity leave,” I said.
“What about you? Your schedule can’t be any easier to rearrange than mine. Besides, you don’t really have to do all this with me. Your lab is sending the sample to my clinic; your work was done the day you spilled your seed into a cup. Or whatever you used.”
I laughed and said, “We’ve already been over this. Years from now, I want to be able to tell, er, whoever, that this wasn’t as clinical and impersonal as it could have been.”
“Fine. You win,” she said, and I envisioned her looking a little like Violet had when she left my office.
On Thursday, while we waited, Gretchen placed a clammy hand over mine, and we exchanged a sympathetic glance. She looked as daunted as I was by the clinical surroundings.
“It’s not too late to back out,” she said in a small voice. “If you’re having second thoughts.”
“Are you?”
“No.” She paused, then said, “Maybe. I’ve read so much about this. I know it’s going to hurt more than the nurse implied when she described the procedure. I
f they use benign words like ‘discomfort’ for ‘pain,’ what else aren’t they telling us? And what if it doesn’t work? What if we have to keep coming back?”
“Then we’ll keep coming back,” I assured her, sounding more matter-of-fact than I felt. “Just remember, we’re not one of those desperate couples struggling to balance marriage with infertility issues. This could be the only time we have to go through this part of it.”
“Which takes me back to what I said. This maybe your last chance to back out.”
“I don’t want to back out.”
They let me stay with her through the entire procedure, which was done by a dyke who reminded me of one of the Gibb brothers. I wasn’t sure if I was thinking of Maurice or Robin, but thankfully it was the one without a beard. As Gretchen was maneuvered into a position that I assumed had been perfected during the Spanish Inquisition, I kept hearing the tune to “How Deep Is Your Love” in my head.
Smiling, the doctor held up the sperm sample and said, “I feel very good about this.”
“So did I, when I . . .” I trailed off when I realized they were both looking at me with revulsion. “That’s all you use?”
“Honey, this little cc contains twenty million sperm. You just know one of them is planning to get lucky. And if not, there’ll be a scrappier one tomorrow afternoon.”
I liked thinking of my sperm as scrappy, and I began to feel downright giddy. Gretchen, on the other hand, looked very pale and had a death grip on my hand.
“Don’t let go, Rose,” I said. She laughed and eased up.
“You’ve already heard all the statistics and scary facts,” the doctor said. “So I’m only going to give you one warning.”
“Another one?” Gretchen asked from between clenched teeth.
The doctor winked at me and said, “There are no refunds if my aim is off and you get a straight kid. All I can promise you is a male or female who’s happy, healthy, and will keep you awake every night for the rest of your lives.”
I totally loved her, even if I knew that for as long as I would remember her, I’d never be able to call her anything but “Dr. Gibb.” Ten minutes later she was gone, and Gretchen spent the next half-hour with her hips elevated as we tried to remember the words to Bee Gees’ songs.
“You really don’t have to stay,” Gretchen said as I tucked her into bed that night.
“I’ll be fine on your sofa.”
“Blaine?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could sleep with me? I’m sorry. I’m feeling very vulnerable all of a sudden. It’s a new sensation for me.”
I undressed and crawled in next to her. It had been a long time since I’d shared a bed with a woman, but I’d never felt as relaxed with Sydney as I did with Gretchen.
I left her the next morning to pick up our rental car. I’d chosen a Ford Excursion so she could lie down in the backseat when we drove upstate. After our second rendezvous with “Dr. Gibb,” we were on our way, since I’d loaded our luggage before we went to the clinic. I kept the radio low and checked in with Violet on my cell phone while Gretchen dozed behind me. As I’d expected, Violet had everything under control at the office. Lillith had been particularly grateful about dodging the solar flare issue.
As I started up the winding road to the old Victorian hotel that Gretchen and her colleagues had transformed into a cozy resort, I heard Gretchen yawn and sit up.
“We’re almost there,” I said.
“There’s something I forgot to tell you,” she said. “This past week, a group used Happy Hollow for a retreat. Something about healing through the colors of nature.”
I shuddered and said, “Please don’t tell me I’m going to be stuck with a bunch of New Age nuts over the weekend. I thought I’d escaped that by rescheduling my meeting with Lillith.”
“Only one,” she said. “You know him. Ethan Whitecrow. He led the retreat and wanted to stay a few days by himself after the others left.”
I felt a sinking sensation. Though I barely knew Ethan, and he’d always seemed like a nice person, we had one disturbing connection. For a time, he’d dated Martin Blount, and they were still friends. The last thing I wanted was for Gretchen and me to become fodder for Martin’s wicked tongue. We might as well call Lola Listeria at the Manhattan Star-Gazette and give her the whole story.
“We’ll just have to be careful what we say around him,” I commented. “Or you know—”
“It will get back to Martin?” she interrupted. “I don’t think so. Ethan’s a stand-up guy.”
“Umm,” I said noncommittally.
At the very least, he was an invisible guy. It felt like we were all alone as I unloaded the SUV. Gretchen had directed her housekeeping staff to prepare the room next to hers for me, which was a relief. It meant I didn’t have a fireplace, but at least I wouldn’t be moping around the room I’d always shared with Daniel.
“Are you hungry?” I asked Gretchen after getting her settled in her room.
“Not really. I’m sleepy. I don’t know why I can’t hold my eyes open.”
“Because you rarely ever stop,” I said. “That’s why I knew I had to get you out of the city. I’ll leave you alone so you can rest. If you want anything later, just let me know. I don’t want you running up and down the stairs.”
She grinned and said, “I’ve always wanted to say this. I’m not an invalid, Blaine. I’m just pregnant.”
“Wow, you’re psychic, too, huh? You always knew that a man named Blaine would come along and—”
“Get out of my room before I had to throw something at him, yes,” she said.
“Sweet dreams, Mommie dearest.”
“You’re evil.”
I laughed and went downstairs. I was starving, and no kitchen was as well stocked as the one at Happy Hollow. Gretchen always made sure her guests could eat anything their appetites demanded. I was just finishing a huge omelet and two slices of ham when Ethan joined me in the kitchen.
“Hi,” he said, brushing back his long black hair with one hand as he looked at me with surprise. “I didn’t realize that you and Daniel were spending the weekend here.”
I was astounded that Martin had missed a page in his address book when he spread the news about the big breakup. “Actually, it’s just Gretchen and me. It was sort of a last-minute idea to come here. She was tired and went to bed. How was your retreat?”
He cast a sideways look at me from the refrigerator and said, “Please. I know what you think about my sorcery.”
“Martin talks too much,” I muttered. After a pause, I added, “Actually, sometimes he doesn’t talk enough. Daniel and I broke up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And surprised, to tell you the truth. The last time I saw Daniel, on the set of Secret Splendor, we talked about you. Was it a sudden thing?”
I’d forgotten that Ethan was a favored spiritual advisor to Bonnie Seaforth-Wilkes. No doubt she’d had him smudge the soap’s set with cedar and sage incense because the ratings had dropped, or some such nonsense.
“Somewhat,” I said tersely. “It was a mutual decision. I’m really tired of it being a delicious drama for people like Martin to savor.”
Ethan set down a container of orange juice and said, “Look, I know you don’t think highly of what I do. And I realize you’re not a big fan of Martin’s. But could you lower the volume on your hostility? I’ve done nothing to you.”
“I’m just hoping to head off any well-intentioned advice about my love life. Or lack thereof,” I said.
“I wouldn’t presume,” Ethan said. He poured a glass of orange juice and drank it without dropping his eyes from mine. He walked past me to put his glass in the sink. “If you tell me what room you’re in, I’ll build your fire while you clean up your mess. It’s supposed to drop into the twenties tonight.”
“I don’t have a fireplace in my room,” I said.
He stopped a few inches from me and said, “I have one in mine. And the fire’s already bu
rning.”
I abandoned the dishes and followed Ethan up the stairs. As soon as he closed the door behind us, I reached for him.
“No,” he said. “I don’t do angry sex.”
“I don’t need spiritual counseling.”
“What you need is to stop thinking you call all the shots.” He slid a couple of fingers under the waist of my jeans and pulled me toward the fire. “In fact, what you need is to stop thinking and follow your instincts. Isn’t that your usual style?”
“What’s your usual style?”
“You’re about to find out,” he said.
I tried to unbutton Ethan’s jeans, but he stepped away from me with a reproachful stare, yet smiled at the same time. Keeping me at arm’s length, he slowly undressed in front of me. Even when he pulled his shirt over his head, his eyes never left mine. I stood in place, watching him and drinking in the sight of his body as, bit by bit, it was teasingly revealed to me. He was sinewy and toned, most likely from hours of yoga. The firelight danced over his bronze skin. I was aroused just looking at him.
After he’d undressed, he stepped toward me and lightly ran his hand over my cheek. “Your skin is so soft,” he said.
I brushed his hair over his shoulder and traced a line from his collarbone to his hand. He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed my palm. My breath caught for a moment as I became aware of a charge of energy running down my arm.
Ethan folded his arms around me and pressed his body into mine. He kissed my neck while I ran my hand down his back, enjoying the warmth of his skin and the feeling of his naked body through my clothes. Still kissing my neck, Ethan tugged my shirt free from my jeans and ran his hands over my back.
I let go of his waist and tried to unbutton my shirt, but Ethan took my hands away and began to do it himself. “Let me undress you,” he said. “Relax.”
“I trust you,” I said.
Ethan tossed my shirt aside and looked into my eyes while he lightly ran his fingers over my chest. “Good,” he whispered. “I get off on giving pleasure, Blaine. If you enjoy it, I’ll enjoy it. It’s as simple as that.”
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