French Roast (The French Twist Series Book 4)

by Glynis Astie

  I furrowed my brow until I remembered we were due for our quarterly teacher in-service day.

  Luc began to protest, but I put up a hand to silence him. “Your father and I have discussed it and we decided it would be okay if you left school early tomorrow afternoon to spend some alone time with Opa.”

  “Yesssssss!” It was as though I replayed Louis’ ultrasound episode in my head. Same fist pumps, same booty shaking, even the same gleeful grin on his face. It was absolutely uncanny.

  Louis laughed so hard, his voice entered high pitched territory—a clear sign he was highly amused. “Okay, Mr. Bootylicious, it’s time to get ready for bed.”

  He gathered his elated son into his arms and took off down the hall. I nearly choked when I heard two out-of-tune voices singing about not being ready for this “jelly” as they headed toward Luc’s room.

  I stared after them in wonder, amazed by how alike they were. Be it heredity, environment or some combination of the two, my boys were so similar in so many ways. And their numbers were about to increase.

  I quickly put aside any apprehension I was feeling about the idea of having another son. My dad would be here in less than twenty-four hours, ready to pontificate on the joys of a mostly male household. If anyone could put my concerns to rest, he could.

  “Come on, Duck, you’re not being fair.”

  “You must be joking!” I griped as I pulled into our driveway.

  My father continued to laugh, clutching his stomach as though he could take no more.

  “I was only trying to remind you of the benefits of having boys.”

  “Simply having a penis doesn’t mean you have good bladder control.”

  This statement sent him further into a spiral of hysterics, which lasted until we had made our way into the house.

  “So glad to be able to amuse you, Dad,” I tossed over my shoulder as I headed to the kitchen in search of sustenance.

  My father deposited his bag in the corner of the living room before following me.

  “Oh, sweetheart, you’re funniest when you aren’t trying to be. Your mother and I always agreed on that point.”

  Ignoring the exasperation I felt at being reminded of this rather irritating belief my parents held so dear, I focused on his ability to recall memories of my mother with fondness rather than pain.

  “I still maintain that particular incident to be your fault.”

  “How so?”

  “If you had stopped at a gas station like I’d asked or refrained from telling a joke when we were so close to home, nothing would have happened to your precious leather seats!”

  I began the familiar process of making his cup of tea—four tea bags in the largest mug we had. I put the kettle on to boil and waited for his rebuttal.

  “I had to go too, but I was able to stay dry.”

  Weak!

  “Dad! I didn’t have army training as to how to ‘hold it’ for hours on end.” I made emphatic air quotes with my hands. “And we had been in the car for an hour already.”

  I refrained from adding how lost we had been. Such a comment would surely send him on a lengthy tirade regarding the inability of “youngsters” to appreciate the view of the American countryside. (Never mind that we were driving through an industrial section of New Jersey in the dead of night.)

  “I’m just sayin’, boys can hold it for longer. You’ll have an easier time potty training your little one than your brother and sister had with their girls.”

  Remembering the hell we went through with Luc, as opposed to the relative ease of both Sam and Ginny’s experiences, I remarked, “You have the most faulty logic, old man.”

  He pursed his lips. “Well, if nothing else, you can find a container for him to pee in without worrying about the mess.”

  I chuckled. “You have very little experience with the bathroom habits of young boys. May I remind you Charlie was twelve when you moved in? He had much better control by then.”

  Dad smiled. “You remind me so much of her.”

  Tears began to pool in my eyes. Damn! I had been doing so well. I focused on the counter, hoping I could clear the tears before he would notice.

  “It’s okay to miss her.” He reached for my hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay to cry.”

  “I know.” I brought my eyes to his. “I miss her every single day. Sometimes it hurts more than I expect it to. I keep hoping it will get easier.”

  “Whether or not you’ve noticed, it has gotten easier.”

  Before I could question him further about his declaration, the front door flew open and Luc bellowed, “Opaaaaaaaa!”

  My father grinned wildly and started toward the sound of his grandson’s voice. “Luc! Where have you been? I was so lonely without you.” He added plenty of whine for effect.

  As he ran past me, Luc shouted, “Daddy went to the store. He’ll be back in a few minutes.” He then jumped into his grandfather’s arms and squealed with delight. “I wanted to come get you, but Mommy said no.”

  “And Daddy,” I added petulantly.

  Luc shook his head. “Daddy just goes along with what you want, so you won’t yell at him.”

  My father couldn’t contain his snort at his grandson’s assessment and the two of them dissolved into giggles like two school girls sharing a private joke.

  Affronted by his representation of his level-headed mother (that’s right! I said level-headed!), I replied, “I don’t yell at Daddy.”

  Luc examined me with his big blue eyes before asserting, “You yell a lot more now that you have a baby living in your belly.”

  My dad lost his composure once more, guffawing so hard, he had to seek assistance in the nearest chair. He sat down with a heavy thud and let his grandson’s astute observations wash over him with the greatest of glee.

  Suddenly, Luc’s face changed to one of shock.

  “Gotta go potty!” he exclaimed and whirled out of the room.

  I held my stance at the counter, trying to work out whether Luc’s remark had any basis in fact or if it were just a figment of his imagination. I remembered being even-tempered during my last pregnancy—other than during my minor hospital stay following passing out in the baby mega store…

  “Cat got your tongue, Duck?”

  Thankfully, the kettle began whistling and I had to engage my mind elsewhere for a few minutes.

  Once I had prepared our “nice cups of tea” just as we liked them (milk and two sweeteners for him, just milk for me), I brought them to the table and sat with my father.

  I took a sip of my tea before asking, “Have I been more unreasonable during this pregnancy?”

  My father smiled. “You do realize that you’re baiting me, right? You’re offering me all of your buttons to push to my heart’s delight.”

  “A rookie mistake, I realize, but I just wanted to know if you’ve noticed anything. I’ve been trying so hard to keep everything on an even keel for Luc, but pregnancy hormones combined with grief...it’s just a lot to handle.”

  “Syd, you have to stop being so hard on yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, have you just met me?” I scoffed at his apparent cluelessness.

  “You know what I mean.” He paused, staring at the ceiling while he organized his thoughts. “Grieving is one of the most difficult things you’ll ever go through. It’s like a test…to see if you have the strength of character to forge ahead despite unimaginable pain.”

  “How did you manage when your parents died?”

  He winced. “I’m afraid I didn’t manage as well as I should have. When my father died, I drank a little too much, and when my mother died, I yelled a little too much.”

  I stared up at him, recognition dawning with each passing second.

  He folded his hands together. “I focused a lot of my energy on a shy little girl who was only trying to help.”

  “By putting your tools away in the wrong place,” I whispered.

  “You were nine and you were worried about me.”
He sighed deeply. “The loss of a loved one often brings out the worst in people, Duck.”

  “I don’t want to take it out on anyone.”

  “First of all, you’re human—well, a human carrying another human inside you—which gives you special dispensation. Second, your boys love you and they know you’re doing the best you can.”

  Before I could protest, we heard Luc’s rallying cry,

  “Daddy’s home!”

  My dad chuckled. “Saved by the yell.”

  I smiled, knowing Luc’s exuberance—along with my father’s presence—would help carry me through this bout of uncertainty.

  Louis came into the room bearing a cardboard container and a very excited Luc.

  My father’s eyes lit up at the sight of the telltale pink box. “How’s my favorite son-in-law?”

  My husband grinned. “My change in status doesn’t have anything to do with the box in my hands, does it?”

  “It might,” my father deadpanned. “You should be so lucky to occupy this category for any length of time.”

  Louis deposited the box on the table, Luc in a chair, and leaned across to shake my father’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Teddy.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Louis. How—”

  Never one to wait for sugar, Luc shouted, “Doughnut time!”

  Louis smiled apologetically at my father. “I think he gets his love of sweets from you.”

  “I’ve got nothing on your wife, Louis.”

  I nearly choked on my tea. My father’s love of sweets knew no bounds. The man actually ate a pound of chocolate per day in his youth. His overzealous eating habits only changed in response to his faltering metabolism as he aged.

  “Going with your creative logic again, Dad?”

  Rather than answering, he opted for biting into a jelly doughnut and focusing his attention on his grandson. “How are things in kindergarten, Luc?”

  Since Mom no longer could, I made the obligatory comment. “Dad! Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  He shot me a look of innocence before turning questioning eyes back to Luc.

  His face coated in powdered sugar, Luc intoned, “Dennis stole my crayon again today.”

  Louis and I made eye contact. We thought the issues with Dennis had finally been resolved. It seemed it was time for another call to Ms. Nelson. I made a mental note to remind Louis to call. I was enough of a handful for her in my “normal state.” I could only imagine what would happen with my current rate of mood swings. I might end up being banned from the school entirely.

  My father’s voice brought me back to the present moment. “Did you ask him for it back?”

  “I did, but he said no, like he always does.”

  “He doesn’t sound like a very nice friend,” my father observed.

  “He’s not my friend,” Luc declared emphatically. “He’s my nem, my nem….my nempenis!”

  Three sets of shocked eyes stared at Luc. A split second later, we burst into raucous laughter, unable to form words for a full five minutes following his announcement.

  Louis was the first to recover. “I believe you meant to say ‘nemesis,’ my son.”

  Clearly his latest vocabulary lesson with Luc had gone slightly awry.

  Luc raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure, Daddy? Nempenis sounds much better.”

  “Precisely, Luc,” my father agreed. “Any good nemesis has a penis.”

  After he dropped this bomb, my father casually glanced my way. I knew he was taunting me and I refused to rise to the occasion. (Pun absolutely intended.)

  Instead I addressed the more pressing issue. “How about your father calls Ms. Nelson tomorrow and they figure out a way to fix the problem with Dennis, okay, Luc?”

  He climbed into my lap and gave me a powdered-sugar-covered kiss. “Okay, Mommy.”

  I pulled him close to me, savoring the feeling of his little head burrowing into my chest. It wouldn’t be long before he decided he was too old for cuddling with his mother. Thank goodness his younger brother was on the way. I wasn’t ready to give up my snuggle fix just yet.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Even if Daddy and Ms. Nelson get Dennis to behave, he’s still gonna be my nempenis.”

  “Nemesis, Luc.”

  “Right.” Luc grinned. “Sorry.”

  I chuckled softly as I pulled him close once more. It would seem the word “penis” (whether nor not it was used correctly) was going to have a dominating influence in my life. I might as well get used to it…

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the blink of an eye, months had passed and I was closing in on my last three weeks of pregnancy. My belly was huge, my back ached and my body no longer registered a difference between my calves and my ankles. (Whoever said pregnancy was a beautiful thing had clearly never met me.) Thankfully, my husband refrained from reviving the pet name he had thought up during my first pregnancy. It was quite apparent any reference to a whale—“little” or otherwise—would end up with dire consequences for him. We weren’t planning on having any other children, after all.

  The past few months had been difficult, but we had finally gotten into a rhythm. Luc had enjoyed his first experience with T-ball (no major injuries! Score!) and was beside himself with excitement to be a big brother. He and Louis had designed every aspect of the nursery themselves, right down to the hippo mobile and the Darth Vader nightlight. They had also planned every aspect of the first year of this poor boy’s life, which should be interesting to see play out. Being the face of “awesomeness” would be a challenge at any age. (Although, with Louis’ athletic abilities and my good looks, his mastery of this trait would be a given.)

  Louis had renewed his vigor in his martial arts interests, taking medal upon medal in the monthly competitions he attended. He also did his best to eat well and take care of his wife. While the first two tasks were fairly easy and enjoyable for him to accomplish, the last took strength of character few had ever achieved, for his wife had become dangerously close to living in the kingdom of Shrewdom forever.

  Kate and I had discussed how different pregnancies could be, but I wasn’t prepared for this particular experience. She, of course, had been an angel throughout both of hers. I had been relatively amiable through my first pregnancy—aside from the occasional hormone surge—but this pregnancy had taken on a life of its own. Something happened when I crossed over into my third trimester. Somehow I had awakened…the beast.

  I found myself in a constant state of discomfort. There were endless hours of indigestion, bloating, and many other unmentionable unpleasantries. My head was often throbbing, my joints constantly ached and my muscles screamed in pain if I made one wrong move. (It was anyone’s guess as to what a wrong move was, so life was never dull.) Mixed in with all of this were spirals of grief and deep regret that my mother would never meet my second child. In short, I was misery personified. (Thank goodness for the start of my maternity leave. Otherwise both Lyndsey and Paul would have had an excellent chance of meeting their makers.)

  I did my best to hide my wretched state from my son, as I had no desire to scar him for life. Louis was a grown man, he could take it. He was also far enough along in his life not to hold my behavior against me for the rest of our days together. Or so I hoped.

  I woke this morning in a particularly bad state, owing to the samba my little guy had decided to perform on each of my internal organs. (Luc had been more of a yoga guy. I really missed his gentle stretches.) After taking a long shower, I prepared for the performance of my life.

  Today was Luc’s sixth birthday and we had some serious partying to do. My brother and his family had made the trek, so we could also celebrate our two kindergarten graduates in style. (Ginny and Luc had been planning their speeches for weeks.) Luc had been quite disappointed that neither Opa nor Nana and Papé could make the trip, but was quickly consoled by the knowledge they would come out for the birth of his baby brother. (And throw hi
m a second birthday party to boot.)

  I took one last look in the mirror and made a noise of disgust. I really did look like a whale—and not even a little one. My refusal to buy any more maternity clothes meant the pale blue maternity t-shirt I was wearing kept riding up, revealing the frayed elastic waistline of my well-worn maternity jeans and some rather vicious-looking stretch marks. To add insult to injury, my hair was far too frizzy to wear down, so I wore it in a bun, which unfortunately accentuated my latest round of acne and hint of a double chin in equal measure.

  “Are you ready, Mommy?”

  Showtime!

  “Absolutely, my love! Lead the way.”

  Luc took my outstretched hand and promptly giggled. “Your hand is all squashy.”

  I did my best to grin at him. The expression on my face elicited further giggles, so I took that as a win.

  As we entered the kitchen, Maya drawled, “Well, well, well if it isn’t Louis’ little wh—”

  “I will cut you,” I hissed into her ear as I passed by.

  Kate bustled over in her usual bid to defuse the tension. “Syd! Don’t you look beautiful!”

  Her bald-faced lie made me smile in spite of myself. Of course, Maya’s snort of derision wiped said smile from my face in record time.

  Without missing a beat, Kate turned to Luc and said sweetly, “Your cousins are playing Twister. Do you want to join them?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Luc did a little happy dance and scampered toward the living room.

  Kate waited until Luc had safely exited the kitchen before giving Maya a sound shove. (As an added bonus, she spilled the lemonade she was holding down the front of her blouse.) This was why I truly loved my sister. She always had my back.

  “Was that really necessary?” Maya shrieked.

  Kate leveled a feisty gaze at her opponent. “I might ask you the same question.”

  Devon handed his wife a dish towel along with a disapproving look. “That was you six months ago. Have a little compassion.”

  “Kate has enough for both of us,” she spat.

  I laid my hand on Maya’s shoulder. “Bygones?”

  “Fine,” she grumbled. “Next time be brave enough to do your own dirty work.”