“You got us. No good,” Tara interjected.
“She’s kidding,” Catherine said quickly.
“Eravamo compagni di merende,” Tara said, hand over her heart.
“What is that?” Fynn asked, and Catherine was just as lost.
“An oath that we’re on the up-and-up. Nothing illegal or immoral or otherwise distasteful on the schedule.”
“But something just the same,” he noted.
“It’s a little ass-holic to presume we’re going to get into trouble, isn’t it?” Tara challenged.
His look said he didn’t agree, considering the track record of the people in question.
She shook her head. “Eravamo compagni di merende. We’re just picnicking friends, as my people say.”
“Your people?” he wanted to know.
“Yes, my people.”
“That can’t be good,” Catherine muttered, choosing to stay out of the active volley.
“Italians,” Tara clarified. “They’re not all in the mob, you know.”
“Italians or your family?”
“Either way it applies.”
“I thought it was too cold for a picnic,” Fynn asserted, eyeing Catherine who’d said as much to Cara just the other night.
She shrugged. It was all she could do. This was Tara’s fight. She didn’t even know what the heck was going on herself. They were supposed to finish the shopping they’d started the other day, so why Tara was playing hard to get with the information was beyond her. The fabric store was hardly a covert operation. Although, on second thought, Catherine didn’t need Fynn to burst out laughing at her decision to attempt a solo sewing mission for Cara’s Gingermelon elephant. She didn’t want her mother to hear. This was something she needed to do for Cara herself.
“It’s just a saying,” Tara sighed. “We’re not up to no good. Just grabbing some lunch and doing some Christmas shopping, then home again, home again, jiggity-jig.”
“Shopping at a store, right?” A challenge he enunciated carefully. “Not dropping in on some poor unsuspecting bastard who’s just minding his own business, living his life in peace, and trying to buy his possessions out from under him.”
“Hey, that’s your wife’s deal, not mine,” she reminded him.
“So, are you stepping out on me?” Fynn asked Catherine, blocking her way as she tried to jockey past.
“I’m trying to make Cara’s first Christmas here special. Whatever it takes.” She tucked her purse under her arm and led with her shoulder like a running back pushing through a tackle.
“Fine,” he relented. “But if I get divorce papers for Christmas, I’m pointing to this pattern of yours and taking everything.”
They headed down the steps to the car as he closed the door behind them.
“Where to?” Tara asked, rounding to the driver’s side.
Catherine settled into the passenger seat. “Let’s see, I have the plans right here.”
“I’m hoping you mean blueprints.”
“Blueprints?”
“A diagram of Sophie Watts’s house,” Tara prodded.
“You thought we were breaking into Sophie Watts’ house?” Disbelief.
“That’s why you wanted me to come isn’t it? You and me. A team. Back out there together.”
“No,” she said carefully, like Tara had her finger on a detonator. “I just wanted you to help me get the stuff I need from the store.”
“So you mean we actually are just picnicking friends?” Tara humphed.
“Whatever you want to call it.”
“I can’t believe I cased the joint for nothing.”
“You checked out Sophie’s house?”
“Well, yeah. Two birds; one stone. I wanted to see her lighting display anyway and I figured it would be less obvious if I came by during the day. Nobody’s home right now, by the way, in case you change your mind.”
“I’m not changing my mind,” Catherine growled, though a niggling part of her thought, Yes. Do it. Now.
“But you heard that bitch,” Tara reminded her, “she has Gingermelons to spare.”
“I’m not stealing gifts from her daughter.”
“They’re under the tree. That’s no-man’s land if anything at all. A gray area.”
Catherine shook her head. “We’ve tried the whole burglary route before. It never ends well.”
“You got a husband out of it!”
“I got a husband in spite of it.”
“Tomato, tomäto.” Pausing. Waiting. Relenting. “Okay, so what are you going to do then? You can’t even sew.”
“I already bought the pattern and the supply list. It explains the whole thing. Every step.”
“That’s how a pattern works, you see,” Tara said with a smirk.
“It says you don’t have to be an expert. That it makes sewing mohair easy.”
“I don’t think it means that any non-sewer can do it. You have to have some experience with a needle and thread.” She snatched the pattern out of Catherine’s hand. “Look at this. I’m surprised it isn’t telling you to weave your own fabric first.”
“It isn’t going to be that bad,” Catherine pshawed, trying to exude relaxed, cool confidence.
“What about a sewing machine? You don’t even have one of those. And I certainly don’t have one.”
“My mom probably packed one in her suitcase,” Catherine giggled.
“You should have her help you,” Tara said, grasping onto the wrong point.
“I want to do this. Me. And Drew has a sewing machine if I need it. Besides, it looks like it is pretty much hand-stitched anyway.”
“I was just trying to make this easy.” Tara relinquished the pattern.
“Stealing would be easier?”
“I was talking about your mom, but yes, stealing would be much easier. Though getting caught could pose a problem,” she admitted.
“Let’s just go,” Catherine snapped, folding the papers and shoving them inside her purse.
Tara put the car in gear and headed up the drive. “I’m just sayin’ you’re going to need a whole bunch of thimbles. Like ten. Plus a few extra in case you lose any along the way when you throw them across the room and can’t get down on your hands and knees to find them. Because you’re angry. And fat,” she added, like Catherine couldn’t well enough catch her drift.
“You are just the sweetest person I’ve ever met.”
“Hey, tough love is hard, but I’m committed to it.”
-48-
Catherine gritted her teeth. “I think it’s happening.”
“I think so too,” Tara said, head down, rooting through the bin of fabric remnants. “At least we’re getting close; there’s got to be some mohair in here.” Because of course the store would be out of stock of mohair by the yard, seeing as how this was the year of Gingermelon animals. They’d sold more mohair through the fall than any year on record, the store associate had shared. Like it helped in any way. The best they could hope for was to find a remnant to use.
“Tara, I have some bigger concerns right now,” she panted.
“What could possibly be more important?”
“Well, for one thing, having a baby,” She steadied herself against a roll of upholstery fabric hanging across the rack next to her, thankful that it didn’t unravel under her weight like toilet paper off its holder.
“A baby? Now?” Tara looked up, stricken.
Catherine nodded, mirroring the same stricken look. So much for her doctor’s professional opinion just a couple days ago that she was locked up tight as a drum. No siree. Eve was making her way. Early. And inconveniently.
Life is real, not ideal, as usual.
“Now what?” Tara demanded.
“Now you take me to the hospital.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!”
“But what about an ambulance?” she offered.
“This isn’t an emergency. It’s just labor. Normal labor. It c
an take hours before the baby comes.” I hope. She did not want to give birth here in Jo-Ann’s on a pile of remnants.
“Or it could be minutes like those women on TV who think they need to take a shit, cop a squat, and voila! a baby. I don’t even want to know how that happens,” Tara shuddered.
“That’s not going to happen. I don’t even need to go to the bathroom,” Catherine assured her.
“Should I call Fynn? He’s more prepared for this than I am.”
“I will call Fynn. He can meet us there.”
“It’s on his way, can’t he come by and pick you up?”
“Tara, you are going to drive me to the hospital. I’m not waiting here for him to come when you have a perfectly nice, reliable car right outside.”
“A perfectly nice new car. With new upholstery.”
“I’m not going to explode. I’m just having a baby.”
“Women explode in labor all the time. Waters break. Shit happens—as in real shit, Cat, like unintended bowl movements. And I’ve heard an ugly rumor about a mucous plug,” she gacked.
Catherine was offended and disgusted all at once. Was this really about to get that gross? No wonder some guys lost their sex drive after seeing their baby born. They talk about mothers getting PPD, but the thing no one ever talked about was how many fathers got PTSD. It sounded like war was about to wage down there.
“Fine. I’ll take you. Just let me finish searching through this—”
“Now, Tara.” Catherine’s need for mohair was already a distant concern. She just wanted to waddle on out of here before anything gross did happen.
She waited until they were in the car before calling Fynn. It was simply too much to walk and breathe and dial all at once. “Hey, honey… um… it’s happening. Now.” She held the phone away from her ear as the response was deafening on the other end. It seemed her parents were right there in the room with him. “Tara is taking me to the hospital, so if you could grab a few things for me and meet us there, that would be great. And quickly, please. She doesn’t have the best bedside manner.”
“As if!” Tara exclaimed. “I’m doing all the heavy lifting here, so you better show some appreciation.”
“I do appreciate you—ou—ou,” she said, breathing out the last in puffs, trying to find her center. No matter what position she tried, in the limited range of motion she had, she was still uncomfortable.
“You doing okay?”
“I’ll be better when they epidural my ass, but I’m hanging in.”
“I’ll let that one go,” Tara said of the unsavory word.
“Of course you will,” Catherine snapped back.
Muffled music suddenly filled the car.
She focused her attention on her phone. It was Georgia. Who she’d never called back the other day not because she wasn’t ready to patch things up, but because she’d completely forgotten. “Hi, Georgia!” she said as brightly as she could. “I am so sorry I didn’t call you back. I got caught up. But it was wonderful to hear—”
“Are you really in labor? On the way to the hospital?” Georgia exclaimed, cutting her off.
“Well, yeah, how do you already know?”
“I heard from Lacey who heard from your mom. I can’t believe it! You’re about to have a baby!”
“I can’t believe it either,” she admitted carefully, waiting for the other shoe to drop—the angry one.
“It’s the best thing ever, Cat. The most wonderful experience of my life,” Georgia gushed.
“Labor?”
“All of it. It was truly a miracle. I would have ten more if I could.”
While she seemed to be wearing rose-colored glasses or maybe she had a case of labor amnesia, it was still better than listening to Tara extoll the worst of the worst possibilities.
“Are you going to go natural?”
“No. Not at all. Knock me out and wake me up when it’s over.”
“That’s not the way it works, you know,” she cautioned.
“Of course I know. I’m just saying that I don’t want to feel what I don’t have to feel.”
“To each his own, I guess.”
Catherine sneered on her end. “So is everything okay with you?” Trying to mend fences all the way around even in her condition, pain and pressure slicing through her midsection.
“You’re the one with all the big news. I have nothing here. I won’t keep you. But I expect a call as soon as that little baby is born. And don’t forget me this time.”
As she hung up her side, she saw Tara blah, blah, blahing the conversation. Still not terribly thrilled with Georgia and her superiority complex.
They pulled up to the emergency entrance and Fynn arrived seconds later. Catherine knew he couldn’t have accomplished that within the law, but she was thankful. Tara looked thankful as well, to have Catherine out of her car without a drop of bodily fluid hitting any of her interior.
“I’m going to park and I’ll be right in,” Tara said. “Leave your keys, Fynn, and I’ll park your truck too.”
“Great. Thanks,” he called over his shoulder, already guiding Catherine through the automatic doors.
“Where are my parents?” Catherine asked in a panic.
“They stayed at the house to wait for Cara to get off the bus and offered to feed her dinner and bring her by later to see you and hopefully the baby too.”
Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. This was ideal. It was so nice not to have to worry about Cara. If her parents hadn’t been here they would have had Drew taking care of things, but it was good that Cara could stay at her own house while all of the new-baby madness ensued.
An orderly came at them fast with a wheelchair, guiding her into it and wheeling her toward the nurse behind the desk while Fynn followed behind.
“My wife is in labor,” he said in a controlled breathlessness.
“How far apart are the contractions?” the nurse asked.
Fynn looked to Catherine.
“I—I forgot to keep count,” she admitted. That part had been lost in her shock.
“Can you give me an approximate?”
“Actually, I don’t think there’s much if any time in between. I’ve been feeling a constant pressure all through my midsection.”
“Tell you what, Dad,” the nurse said to Fynn, making his face light up with a smile, “you fill out some paperwork and we will just wheel Mommy into the back and have a look.” Nice, but almost patronizing, Catherine noted.
***
She puffed short breaths through the pain.
“Are you okay?” Fynn asked, coming straight to her bedside and lovingly brushing loose hairs away from her face.
“Do I look okay?” She wanted to swat his hand away like the hovering gnat it felt like.
“Well, I finished the paperwork, so I guess you’re officially a patient.”
“Does that mean they can give me some drugs now?” she asked wryly, though she meant it. An epidural. Now.
“What did they say when they examined you.”
“They didn’t. Examine me, that is. Not yet.”
“Oh, I just thought that they would have done that. Or at least taken you up to labor and delivery.”
Fynn was right. She’d been too busy moaning and breathing to think about why she hadn’t been put on an elevator to the third floor like they had been told would happen in the birthing class they’d taken from this very same hospital. At least she had a room though. It could be worse, one large space with fabric curtains separating the beds.
“Can I get you anything?” he offered, pulling his hand away suddenly, like maybe the fact that she was considering biting it was obvious on her face.
She shook her head, asking between breaths, “Did… Tara… leave?”
“She’s out in the waiting room, I think. I was kind of preoccupied,” he admitted.
“If she is, could you get her to come in here?”
“Are you sure?” he asked, knowing how she felt about having p
eople witness her giving birth.
“It seems like it’s going to be a while before anything… happens, so I want her… to be here… too.”
“Okay,” he said with a shrug that more or less agreed with the old adage that it was a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.
In all honesty, she wanted Tara here instead of Fynn right now. For some reason his expectations and the excitement he was exuding, with none of the downside she was dealing with, was borderline infuriating. She kind of wanted to punch his face in, actually. Tara, on the other hand, seemed completely nonplused by the whole event, and that was much easier to take. Besides, if Tara pissed her off she felt free to unleash her fury, while with Fynn she didn’t have that latitude without tainting the momentous occasion of their child’s birth by becoming a mean shrew of a woman he couldn’t help but to wonder why he married.
“Mrs. Trager, how are we feeling today?” A booming voice out of a small man with a clipboard and white coat. “I see you are complaining of pains through your abdomen.”
Complaining? Is that really the right word for a woman in labor? “It started at the store about an hour ago. Midway and high in my stomach.”
“Around your diaphragm?” He pointed at his own just in case she was too stupid to know basic anatomy.
She nodded, biting the inside of her lip and holding a firm set line, trying not to freak out at this man who was here to help no matter how badly he went about doing it.
“Let me see here.” He laid his hands upon her stomach and felt around, then said he would step outside while she disrobed and put on the smock a nurse had laid out on the counter for her.
As the doctor and nurse left the room, Fynn stuck around like he owned the place, and Catherine had to swallow the desire to kick him out too. What was she supposed to say? I know you’re my husband, but it feels weird and creepy to strip in front of you here.
Tara came bursting through the door as if catapulted. “You rang?” she asked, looking to Fynn, who must have texted rather than going to get her like Catherine would have preferred.
“You know what, I could use some ice chips, honey,” Catherine decided suddenly.
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 28