by Lynn Harris
Lola peered at the page.
No way.
Could I possibly be the only one to notice this?
Lola thought for a minute.
She took out her cell and dialed the main number for the Day.
Maybe I’m not the least cool detective in the world.
“Wally Seaport, please.”
Eighteen
“Seaport.”
“Uh, Wally?”
Who else, Somerville? Get a grip.
“Yep.”
“Wally, this is Lola Somerville.”
“Regarding?”
Jeez.
“We spoke at Daphne Duplex’s murder?”
Silence.
“And Mimi McKee’s?”
Pause. Lola heard him take a sip of something.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, for starters, you can tell me why you keep writing bizarre, inaccurate things about me on your blog.”
“Miss—I’m sorry, was it Somerville?”
“Yes.” And it’s Ms., but whatever.
“Two women were murdered in cold blood,” said Wally. “I’m not really sure why this is about you.”
“Actually, I am,” said Lola.
“I’m sorry?”
“C’mon, Wally.” She waited.
Lola heard a metallic creak as he leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath. “How come you never called me back?”
Aha.
“Wally, I—”
“I mean, I thought we had a really nice time.”
“We did!”
“So why didn’t you call me back?”
“I—look, Wally. I enjoyed meeting you. You’re a great guy. But I just wasn’t up for taking things any further.”
Amazing how easily the it’s over phrases still assembled themselves. But my God. Am I breaking up with someone I never went out with? Six months after my wedding?
“Fine. Whatever. But that absolves you from returning a phone call?”
“Well, I—You seemed noncommittal about a second date in your message. I figured you were being polite—”
“That makes one of us. And I thought your online advice column—sorry, former online advice column—was all about manners,” Wally, said.
Ow. Double ow.
“Look, Wally, I’m sorry. I guess I should have called you back. I messed up. I—I’m sorry.”
Wally swallowed. “Apology accepted.”
“Thanks,” said Lola. “Now, here’s how you can help me clear my name.”
“What?”
“That, or here’s how I can tell your boss all about how you bragged that night that you’d actually written that whole ‘exclusive from the top-secret undisclosed-location Kabbalah initiation’ story from your apartment.”
Wally took another sip of something, possibly from a flask in a file drawer.
“What can I do for you?”
Nineteen
At this time of so much death, that an opportunity would present itself to celebrate new life seemed cosmically fitting. Still, Lola had almost forgotten about her friend Oona’s baby shower. Good thing Annabel had called her with hungover regret.
But ack, she still needed to buy a gift! So much for her plans to give her poor garden a little love. Doug was heading out to play Ultimate Frisbee. Lola threw on a sundress and kissed him good-bye.
On her way into Manhattan, Lola stopped at the more up-and-came neighborhood nearby, which on a Saturday, with all the sport-utility strollers and darling hats and joyful multi-culti families, was like the Act I finale of Heather Has Two Mommies: The Musical. Earlier, she had turned the poor bassets over to an exceedingly charming male cousin of Daphne’s—someone who, it had occurred to Lola, might be good for Annabel if by some cruel twist of fate she never saw the Leo light. Now leashless and Snugli-less, in this neighborhood, Lola felt both smugly unencumbered and slightly, sadly, expendable.
At a store called gaga, or googoo, or something equally adorable and lowercase, Lola scored a hypoallergenic cotton elephant woven by the women of a village in Lesotho, spending an extra five dollars to have it gift wrapped in linen because the store didn’t “use paper.” Except for credit card receipts, thought Lola.
While she was there, she dropped Daphne’s cell phone, wiped of fingerprints, into a postage-paid, return-address-free envelope addressed to Wally Seaport.
The timing of the shower is actually excellent, Lola told herself once back on the subway. I’ll see everyone cooing and aahing, and I’ll get the urge that all those smug ladies who say “You’ll see” are talking about. I’ll bet I just need to be sprinkled with baby dust or something—and today is my day.
Of course, Lola knew plenty of people with babies, or at least one, or two, on the way. It’s just that before she got married—even though she assumed, abstractly, that she would “have kids one day”—it had always seemed like something that would happen, not something she’d do. Having children, for that matter, seemed like something other people—people with dens—did. Parents were the people who might be described in the Day as “the thirty-two-year-old father of four,” which always made Lola think that those people were living in some form of dog years, at least two or three for every one of hers. They were not people who, like Lola, still sat with their legs curled up underneath them or wore plastic butterflies in their hair.
Lola also thought of the people she knew who’d had kids and then completely lost their minds. Like those random friends of hers in Chelsea who had tried to prove that they were still cool by having a dinner party when their twins Logan and Caden—one was a girl, but Lola couldn’t remember which—were still infants. Lola, brilliantly, suspecting that their apartment was one of those we-take-off-our-shoes-at-the-door apartments, had traded her outfit-making turquoise and green cowboy boots for clogs and deliberately created a simple, almost bland look that was all about her dangly, multicolored, show-stopping earrings. Which, when she arrived at the door clutching a bottle of sweating Sancerre, she was asked to take off and leave in the designated “guests’ earrings” box. “We’re doing this for your earlobes,” a defeated Lola was told in the foyer. “The twins are real grabbers,” said her hostess with a tinkly laugh, “and we don’t want to interrupt their experience of curiosity by saying no.”
See? Lola thought. I need to solidify my own sense of self before I replicate. Plus, I love being married. But don’t I really need to get the hang of that before we take it to the next level? Plus, I simply can’t give my life over to a child till I’ve reached my “potential” on my own. Otherwise, it—my seminal work, my me-defining next big thing—will never happen. And I’ll never be completely satisfied. And—
Hang on, Somerville. Open mind. Remember: just use the baby shower as this-could-be-you research. See how it feels. No harm, no foul. You don’t have to get pregnant tomorrow. That’s all.
Her gaze wandered around the subway car, whose air-conditioned cool was welcome even though the summer heat hadn’t fully hit. Someone facing her was reading the celebu-baby magazine Bump Weekly. Lola stared at the cover. “Exclusive photos—IN UTERO!”
On second thought, maybe if I get pregnant I’ll get some goddamn ink, she thought, her imagination sprinting ahead. “Middling Novelist Accepts True Calling. ‘I realized that it wasn’t my relative, and may I say, undeserved, obscurity that was making me feel unfulfilled,’ says Lola Somerville, author of the novel Pink Slip, gazing adoringly at her most recent creative project. ‘It was just the fact that I hadn’t met this little fella.’ ”
See, I’m nurturing. Of my career.
Oona’s apartment was what Manhattan rental agents called “cozy,” or “sweet.” She and her husband, Mick, had shared the studio for years: it contained a bedroom and a living room, which were the same. The baby would fit as long as Oona never actually gave birth.
“Hi, Lo!” As it was, Lola could hardly fit her arms around her friend for a hug. Oona, with spiky hair and clunky shoes tha
t weighed more than she did—or used to—was one of those people who didn’t “fill out” when they got knocked up, but rather, who seemed to gain only the exact weight of the baby, and only exactly where the baby was. Lola thought she looked pretty hilarious, like the picture in The Little Prince of the snake who swallowed the elephant.
As Oona drew her in, she whispered in Lola’s ear. “I’m apologizing in advance for my sister-in-law.”
“Wha—?”
“Hi! Welcome!” An ash-blond woman in stirrup pants bounded up to Lola. Her knit sweater featured a pattern of beribboned pacifiers. She handed Lola a balloon filled with water.
“Here you go!”
“Thanks,” said Lola. “Is this to drink?”
“She’s funny!” the woman said to Oona. “I’m Heidi,” she said to Lola. “And that’s for later,” she winked.
“One game, Heidi,” hissed Oona. “One game.”
“I know,” Heidi smiled gaily. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready!” she told Lola. She excuse-me’d her way across the apartment and busied herself with a wayward streamer.
“Can I get you a drink?” Oona asked.
“Can you get you a drink?” Lola said.
“I wish.”
Huh. Maybe it would be good for me not to drink for nine months, Lola thought.
She sipped her punch, feeling the sweet buzz after a single swallow.
Nah.
“So jeez, Lola, how are you holding up?” asked Oona. “These murders—I mean, so scary!” She patted her belly. “It’s like, what kind of world am I bringing Quetzalcoatl into?”
“Queztalcoatl?”
“Yeah,” said Oona. “Feathered serpent god of ancient Mexico.”
“Ah. Well. Beats Owen and Milo,” said Lola. “I mean, specifically, beats up Owen and Milo at recess.”
Oona laughed. “We know it’s a boy, but we haven’t settled for sure on a name. I just feel like it’s too jinxy until he’s actually born and living and breathing. I mean, I’m not even really comfortable having a baby shower! But we felt weird just ducking the issue and saying ‘he’ all the time. So for the meantime, we just picked a name we were sure we’d never ever in a million years actually use.”
“Gotcha,” said Lola. “Anyway, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Freaked out, obviously, but fine. It’s good to be at a happy occasion.” She patted her friend’s arm just as Oona was swarmed by an arriving group of guests.
Waving and mouthing “Bye,” Lola walked over to greet the other guests, vaguely wondering why there was plastic sheeting covering the floor. She was always happy to see Honey Porter, yet another fellow writer. They’d met when Lola had tripped over Honey’s laptop cord at Starbucks. Lola was mortified to have been such a klutz, and Honey was mortified to have been caught writing at Starbucks. They bonded.
Honey now had triplets. And she was a single mom. Lola hadn’t seen her in forever. Honey had never been spotted commuting between prenatal yogilates and prenatal massage in adorable ensembles from Bun in the Oven. More like Grace Kelly, she had simply vanished for nine months and then reappeared, glowing. Lola imagined this was because Honey was old-school, but realized it was likelier because she’d been too pregnant to move.
“Lola, what a total and complete nightmare!” said Honey. “Mimi, Daphne …”
“I know,” said Lola. “What say we talk about happier things?” She meant it.
Honey smiled. “No problem, believe me.”
“So what’s going on?” Lola asked, setting her water balloon carefully on a coaster. “You look amazing, by the way.”
She did. As good as ever, in fact. Rested, even. How did she do that? Honey was like a dark, downtown Anna Nicole Smith at the late icon’s most pinup fabulous. Her thick ink-black hair was pulled into a French twist; she wore red lipstick and—day or night—black, black, black. Motherhood clearly suited her. While not one for clichés, Honey positively glowed.
“Aw, thanks,” said Honey. “Well, the babies are, you know, insane but great.”
Lola, forcing herself to do her fieldwork, was listening closely. Both insane and great. Hmm. Plus, nice rack.
“Have they started blogging yet?” Lola asked.
Honey laughed.
“Anyway, I’m impressed you’re even out,” said Lola.
“Well, the neighbors have been a godsend. And the lil’ devils still sleep a lot. I think they wear each other out,” said Honey. “Also, those mommy movies keep me sane—you know, those morning showings where you can bring your babies? Last week the babies slept through 2 Fast 2 Furious from beginning to end. It was great.”
“Lucky you!” said Lola. “That one always makes me cry.”
They laughed. “So are you back working and stuff?” Lola asked. Honey did roughly what Lola did these days: some reported essays, which editors call think pieces, and some dumb stuff for money, which Lola called I don’t have to think pieces. Lola was sure the work question was a safe one, sure to not raise any rivalry; after all, the woman had just had triplets.
“Actually?” said Honey. “My book just came out.”
Book? What book? How did I not know about this?
“That’s great! Forgive me, I had no idea!” said Lola. “What’s it about?” Maybe it’s about parenting, or something else I don’t care about. I mean, will care about someday soon.
“It’s the story of a slightly dizzy but ultimately smart gal who works in the media industry and has to decide which suitor is Mr. Right—while, all along, learning about life, love, and ultimately, about herself,” said Honey.
Lola laughed.
“No, I’m serious,” said Honey.
“You’re incredible,” said Lola. “What’s it called?”
“Eenie Meenie Minie Man,” said Honey. “I’m sure it won’t sell. They were going to send me on this big media tour, but you know: triplets. And no husband. So I’ll have to rely on the kindness of Amazon reviews. I’ll send you a copy. But I promise, you don’t have to actually read it.”
“Of course I’ll read it, Hon,” said Lola. “Congratulations.” They clinked glasses. “Listen,” said Lola, hand on Honey’s arm, “Let me go say hi to Sylvie.”
“Sure,” Honey said. “And I’ll go take care of her.” She nodded toward Blanca Palette, who was sitting on a chair in the corner, glowering as usual.
Sylvie, whom Lola had known vaguely in high school and had re-met through Oona, had just come in. Unlike Honey, she was looking rattled.
Lola had just taken two steps toward her, plastic sheeting crackling, when she was interrupted by three sharp claps from Heidi.
“Okay, everyone, balloons between your legs!” she exclaimed. “Time to play My Water Broke!”
Twenty
After the largest display of good sport-itude in history, in which Lola and all of Oona’s friends consented to shuffle around the apartment, water balloons between their thighs, to see who could keep hers there the longest (Honey won), they filled their plates with pasta salad and settled in to watch Oona unwrap gifts. (Apparently Oona had wanted to have a no-gifts shower, but Heidi wouldn’t hear of it. Since Heidi’s family was in the process of buying a major Manhattan real estate management company, Oona—knowing full well her soul was at stake—had chosen to tiptoe around any risk of alienating her sister-in-law. The one major battle Oona had dared fight—and she won—was her veto of Heidi’s other proposed activity: making, and painting, a plaster cast of her pregnant belly.)
Lola swallowed some pesto penne. She looked up at Sylvie, who was leaning on the stove, and patted the three inches next to her on the couch, but Sylvie shook her head. She smiled and cocked her head toward the punch bowl. Lola took this to be the international symbol for “I need to stay close to the drinks.”
I’ll talk to her as soon as we’re done with the gift derby, thought Lola. She turned her attention to Oona and her spoils.
Crib bumpers?
Nipple shields?
Wipes warmers?
Activity Spirals?
My Brest Friend?
Babies need all these things?
Lola’s elephant, while well received, seemed positively quaint.
“Okay, everyone who’s not pregnant, stand in the middle of the room!”
“Heidi?” Oona was smiling one of those not-really-a-smile smiles.
“It’s not a game!”
Lola and a handful of other guests allowed themselves be ushered into the corner of the room that was still covered by the plastic sheet.
Please don’t tell me there’s a bouquet, thought Lola. The whole point of getting married is never having to catch one again.
“Ready?” giggled Heidi, reaching into a bag.
Glittering confetti cascaded over Lola and the others.
“Baby dust!”
Lola picked a sparkle from her tongue and excused herself to go to the bathroom. As she entered and fumbled for the light, a hand reached out from behind the door and closed around her wrist. A voice came from the darkness. “You’re going to have to come with me.”
Twenty-one
“Sylvie?”
“Lola, I really can’t take another minute of this shower. Will you please come out and get a drink or something with me?”
Hoo boy. I really need to go home and get something done, not to mention spend time with my husband.
Then again, I so never want to be the kind of person who can’t help a friend in need because she has to “spend time with her husband.”
“How about Mooney’s or Looney’s or whatever it’s called, around the corner?”
“Anywhere that doesn’t attract a pregnant-woman kind of crowd works for me,” said Sylvie.
Ah. Say no more.
“Done. Let’s go.”
As it turned out, the party was ending anyway. Oona’s water had just broken for real.
Mooney’s/Looney’s was a dying breed, but not only because its hard-drinking regulars were slowly killing themselves. More because most downtown “dive” bars had been built three years ago, deliberately trashed by the designer, and then given names like Dive. One had graffiti in its bathroom the night it opened. It was unusual for young women like Lola and Sylvie to come into one of the older joints, especially during the afternoon, but the ancient, pink-faced bartender didn’t give them a second glance, likely because he appeared not to move his head very much in the first place.