“You want to open a shop?”
“An online shop,” Tara corrected.” And it doesn’t have to end at ‘Life is real, not ideal’. We can think up other slogans and sayings and stuff. I’m spitballing here, but I think we can really go somewhere.”
Catherine was shocked, wondering if her blood sugar was low or if Tara did in fact have a good idea.
“And I’m serious about the money. It’s all on the right side of the law.”
She looked back at her friend dubiously.
Tara sighed. “Look, my family is into Christmas displays,” she admitted, like that was a dirty little secret while the mob talk through the years had always been a point of pride.
“Come again?”
“That’s why I said that stuff at the mall the other day about inspecting their display. I actually do have ties to the largest special event exhibition house on the east coast. That’s why they set me free. It’s what my people do, Cat.”
“Lie?”
“No, we build and supply displays. Christmas is our biggest season.”
Catherine looked at her speculatively.
“God’s honest truth.” Tara crossed her heart. “Where do you think I got all the stuff for my own place?”
She didn’t answer, but must have looked guilty.
“You thought I stole it?”
“No. No. I didn’t think anything.”
“Listen, we are going to have to come to some sort of understanding if we are going to be going into business together. You have to trust me.”
“I didn’t agree to go into business together.”
“But you will. I know you will. I mean, seriously, what do you have to lose?”
“What about Jason, though? You guys seem to be getting along great. How does he feel about your new plans?”
“At least Minnesota is closer than New York.”
“So you’re sticking around?” Catherine asked carefully.
“Of course I’m sticking around. You need me here.”
She shook her head the slightest.
“After the way you showed up here today wanting to know where I’ve been and how come I haven’t been around, you’re seriously going to try to tell me you don’t need me here?”
Friday, December 22nd
-54-
“Is nobody else around here concerned that I haven’t had this baby yet? Because I’m pretty sure she’s deciding to go the distance in there. Live out her dreams in my uterus until she gradually eats away at me from the inside.” Catherine put aside the gifts she’d been boxing up, the last of the wrapping she had to do, pushing it over to Fynn’s side of the bed where it could be his problem.
“Are you calling our daughter a parasite?”
“If the name fits.” She stretched and yawned and thought about taking a nap since nothing else was happening.
“You heard the doctor. He said that you’re having a textbook pregnancy and he isn’t worried one bit.”
“I think if it was ‘textbook’ I’d have a baby in my arms right now.”
Fynn shut his mouth into a firm line, fighting against fighting her.
“I just don’t understand it. We’ve been having sex constantly. It’s supposed to work. Are we doing something wrong?” Catherine whined.
“I think the fact that we have a baby in there in the first place tells us we’re doing it right.”
“But there could be some special technique for induction sex.”
“Induction sex, really?”
“Maybe there’s such a thing. They say certain positions are better for conception, so why not induction?”
Fynn sighed, a dramatic heaving sound.
“Am I boring you?”
“I understand that you’re annoyed, but there’s nothing we can do except wait it out.” Levelheaded as always.
“And meanwhile complete idiots are having babies all the time. They create them, grow them, and deliver them without a problem. I’ve seen it on daytime talk shows. People who have no business having kids are having kids like nobody’s business, and here we are, a perfectly nice married couple with better-than-average intelligence and all our shit together and we’ve got nothing. No labor pains or contractions. Nothing.”
“I just wish you could look at the bright side. You’re healthy. The baby’s healthy—”
“Optimism is overrated.”
“Oh, wait, is that Cara’s Christmas present?” Fynn asked, attempting to distract her by pointing to the small box she’d just packaged up to wrap.
Catherine nodded sadly at what was yet another example of why optimism was overrated. She’d really believed that mind over matter would come through for her in the spirit of Christmas and giving and all that froufrou gobbledygook. What a chump.
“You finished it? Good for you! Can I see it?” His tone trying way too hard.
She begrudgingly opened the box and lifted out the little elephant. Yes, it was done. No, it was not a triumph.
“… It’s… ah… cute and… ah… furry… and kind of—”
“You don’t like it,” she growled, yanking it away from his critical view. She’d wanted to believe that the simple fact there was no stuffing bursting out of the seams was a boon, but that was where the positives ended. The legs weren’t the same length and the ears were lopsided and the trunk twisted to the right, not to mention how jagged those gap-free seams were.
“No, I do. I think you did a wonderful thing making it for Cara,” Fynn said diplomatically, spinning his answer so fast it was a surprise he didn’t get dizzy avoiding the truth.
“Do you think it looks like the picture?” she challenged, holding the picture on the front of the pattern aloft.
“It’s an elephant,” he whispered, like he was just figuring that out.
“Yes, Fynn. Just what she wanted.”
“With all that scraggly hair it’s kind of… you know… messy furry. But I see it. Right there. An elephant. A cute little—”
“It’s supposed to look like that, you know. It’s not messy fur; it’s called mohair.”
“More like hairball,” he joked.
“You’re telling me the gift I made for Cara looks like something a cat puked up?”
“No. It was just—I was just playing around.”
“Because I can’t fix this, Fynn. It is what it is. There’s nothing I can do with three days left until Christmas. Not to mention, I could go into labor at any moment.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. You yourself said you don’t think this kid ever wants out—”
“Seriously? You’re going to turn my words on me? That’s where you decide to go with this?”
Fynn softened his features like he was dealing with a crazy person threatening to jump. “It’s all going to work out, Catherine. Of course it will.”
“Like magic?” she challenged. “Tell me, how is it going to work out if I don’t work it out.”
“You’re putting way too much on yourself. You could have just asked your mom for help with it. She sews.” A no-brainer.
“I wanted to do this on my own, Fynn! For Cara. I wanted to be the—”
“Hero?”
“The mom. The one who can do anything. The one she can rely on.”
“She thinks it’s coming from Santa.”
“But someday she’ll find out. She’ll know. Even if she doesn’t ever call me Mom, she’ll know that I have always loved her that much. Like she’s my own daughter. That I’ll do it all. Anything. Everything.”
Fynn sighed, his eyes welling up just enough to show that he got it. That he finally understood why she was driving herself crazy to do something she had never done before. Why it was so important.
“Listen, you need a break. Why don’t you go out,” he offered.
“Clubbing? Barhopping? What can I do like this?” She pointed at her belly.
“No, I mean with the girls.”
“What girls?”
“Drew and Tara.”
/> “Tara’s been busy with Jason, and Drew has a full house of her own. Besides, I’m not in the mood to go out. And I should stay close to home anyway, just in case.”
“I don’t mean out. Just maybe to Tara’s house.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“I know Tara asked you to hang tonight to celebrate her lighting victory. In fact, she even kicked Jason out. And Drew is going to Tara’s, so Klein is having some guys over.”
“So you want to go out.”
“Klein has kid duty. Babysitting. We’re just going over to make it less painful. I think you and I could both use a breather. We’ve been cooped up for days.”
-55-
“He’s driving me bonkers. He doesn’t even have to say anything. Just being there. Hulking over me. Hopeful. Expectant,” Catherine said, sitting on one end of Tara’s living room couch that used to belong to dead people. Somehow that bothered her less, though, than her husband did right now. And on the list of things that creeped her out, the couch also ranked below Tara’s nutcracker collection. “God, how do you sit in here with all of them staring at you like that,” she muttered, “like they’re waiting for some kind of sign to attack. I’ll give you a sign.” She shot them the bird.
“Nice,” Tara said.
“They had it coming.”
“I know how you feel about Fynn. I was there with Klein,” Drew commiserated. “The second and third times around he was less anxious-daddy, but with Garret I could have punched his lights out just to stop him hovering. It’s the father’s job, though. He has nothing else to do. All nine months long for that matter. Just a bystander—provide some sperm and wait for the day he can start giving piggyback rides and teach the kid how to ride a bike. Believe me, the frustration doesn’t end at birth. You have a couple years’ worth still to come.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it,” Cat winced. “All I know is his job sounds like a dream job from here. Me, I can’t drink or smoke or have—”
“You’ve never smoked a day in your life,” Tara blurted.
“But that was a choice. Now I can’t take it up even if I wanted to. Not to mention, I could really use a drink right now and all I can do is watch you guys imbibe in the wine I brought.”
“Then why’d you bring it?” Tara challenged.
“So it would stop mocking me at home…. Oh, and did I even tell you that Cara dropped a bomb the other night? Told me that she asked Santa for something for Eve. Can you believe that?”
“Aw, isn’t that sweet,” Drew mewled. “Already a big sister.” But of course Drew was out of the loop on the whole Santa catastrophe that almost happened and might still now.
Catherine smiled her agreement that it was sweet, but then turned to Tara. “I read the letter again, though, and there’s nothing there. Not for Eve.”
Tara shrugged. “Maybe she sent another one. Kids change their minds all the time.” Like she was an expert.
“How am I supposed to cover all the bases if she sends a letter to Santa every five minutes?”
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Drew broke in. “Santa has screwed up big time more than once at my house and he’s still managed to have a magical hold on the kids.”
“Really?” Catherine asked.
“Sure. He’s messed up tagging gifts, wrapping gifts, buying gifts, building gifts. You name it, he’s done it or forgotten it. Get a few Christmases under your belt and lying about the mistakes will be second nature. You can explain pretty much anything away.” Drew was so chill about it that Catherine couldn’t help but cool down several degrees.
Okay, so long as you have that figured out, what about my problems?” Tara asked impatiently.
“What problems?” Catherine blurted. “Everything’s coming up roses for you.”
“As if,” Tara snarfed.
“Do you wake up in a cold sweat fearing that your baby will be born with Fynn’s toes? Not just miniature versions, but his actual toes?”
“That would just be weird. And possibly Freudian. Like maybe I subconsciously want to sleep with him. Which I don’t anymore,” she muttered under her breath.
“What?” Catherine demanded.
No worries, your whole married thing killed the dream.”
“Glad to hear that,” she said tightly.
“No problem whatsoever.” Tara downed the last of her wine. “So what is this nightmare you’re having? … Since obviously your problems are bigger than mine.”
“I just worry… what if our daughter gets all the worst from each of us? Fynn’s toes, my—”
“Personality,” Tara offered.
Catherine glowered at her. “I mean it. People always imagine their kids as the embodiment of all the best things between them, but what if things go south?”
“Like to Fynn’s feet?” Tara snorted.
“Yeah.” Completely serious, taking a swig of her no-fun eggnog. That was what Tara called it when she served it right out of the carton.
Tara looked from her to Drew. “Just what the hell is wrong with that fine man’s toes?”
Drew shook her head and leaned back like she didn’t want to touch it with a twenty foot pole.
“Well now you’ve got to tell me.” Tara rubbed her hands together in expectation.
Catherine started, “It’s too—”
“Out with it!”
“He has a warlock toe,” Drew blurted.
“A what?” Intrigued.
“That’s what it’s called?” Catherine asked.
“That’s what our uncle called it. He had the same thing.”
“What did he have? What did he have?” Tara asked, bouncing in her seat across from the couch.
“His second toe is longer than the first. Like a lot longer,” Drew clarified.
“Like a whole finger length,” Catherine shivered with a heebie-jeebie.
“Oh.” Even Tara took a moment before brushing it off. “It’s unusual.”
“And weird,” Drew added.
“And unique,” Tara finished.
“And ensures my daughter will never be able to wear open-toed shoes! Get me? She’ll be shoe-starved her whole life. A nightmare!” Catherine’s face had gone pale.
“You okay, Cat?” Tara asked, concerned.
She waved her away. “I think I probably should have stopped at just one piece of celebratory Kicked-Watts-Ass cake,” she admitted, leaning back into the cushions, trying to stretch her midsection and avoid eye contact with said cake that was still sitting on the coffee table, mutilated. She had taken to eating it with her hands, picking up bite-size chunks after already serving herself two pieces with dignity, on a plate with a fork. “I might need to lie down.”
“But I won the Nekoyah Nights of Lights contest! Me! I beat Sophie Watts hands down. And since you lost—”
“I didn’t even enter,” Catherine bleated.
“But you bet I couldn’t beat her, so now you have to go with me and do our victory dance in front of her house!”
“I didn’t bet you.”
“Come on, Cat, it’ll be fun. There’s a new top bitch in town and we need to rub Sophie Watts’s face in it.”
“You do what you want, I’m going to stay right here.” She rubbed her belly, self-soothing. “On second thought, I think I’m going to go to the bathroom.” She hauled herself off the couch and waddled away.
By the time she came back, the conversation had moved well past her.
“… I’m just sayin’ that a pearl necklace on the first date is a bit above the belt,” Tara chortled. “You need to know someone better before accepting a gift like that.”
“A guy tried to give you pearls on the first date?” Catherine asked in shock, standing in the doorway.
Drew guffawed.
“A pearl necklace,” Tara stressed.
“I heard you. It’s classic. I love mine.”
Tara rolled her eyes.
“What? I didn’t say it was right for a first date. Definitely t
oo pricey. Creepy even. Unless it’s fake, and then it’s a whole different problem,” Catherine noted.
Tara shook her head sadly. “I’m going to start from the beginning, so follow me very carefully, okay?”
She shot her a dark look.
“So, you give a guy a sausage sandwich,” speaking slowly and purposefully, “and you get a pearl necklace…. Get it? It’s the standard exchange in any country across the globe,” Tara assured her.
“I’ve given Fynn plenty of sausage sandwiches. Every weekend. He loves them. And I can assure you I’ve never gotten a pearl necklace in return before. Ever. What kind of guys are you dating?”
“I don’t think you’ve sandwiched the right sausage then,” Tara said breaking into hysterics.
“Why do you make a breakfast sandwich sound like something gross?”
“You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
Catherine looked askance.
“How did you ever get knocked up in the first place? Not that a pearl necklace ever got anyone knocked up before, but seriously, where’d you get your sex education? From nuns?”
“What does sex have to do with this?” Catherine had never been forthcoming about sex with her friends. She was Elizabeth Hemmings’ daughter and some amount of prude had been genetically transferred.
“Me thinks it has to do with a lot.”
“I don’t know what—” Catherine’s eyes bugged out and she crossed her legs in place. “I think I just peed myself a little,” she eked out, confused since she’d just gone.
“Well don’t just stand there, go to the bathroom!” Tara shrieked.
She took one step and a deluge released on the floor.
“What the—” But Tara was disgusted into silence.
“Oh my God, Cat. Oh my God. That was your water. Your water just broke,” Drew rushed out.
“My water—” It was nonsensical. The words, like this whole moment, were out of focus, and then suddenly the picture snapped into clarity. “I’m in labor. It’s not the cake; it’s the baby. I’m having a baby right now.”
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 32