I slit the pretty red ribbon and opened the box. Underneath the tissue sat a book. An old book. Pride and Prejudice, in fact, with an 1894 publication date.
“I — I don’t know what to say — ” I began.
“Don’t you love it?” Tim said. “I know what a huge Austen fan you are. It’s not the original release of the novel, of course. There was no way I could find anything from that far back — 1813, right?”
I nodded, and Jane whispered smugly, My first novel was published a full two years earlier, though. Do not let Mr. Farthington forget that.
I ignored Jane’s authorial pride for the time being. I wasn’t about to conduct a lecture on her books’ publication dates (although, yes, Sense and Sensibility, the novel that launched her career, had been published in 1811).
Instead, I nodded at Tim again, fighting off a disappointment I wasn’t sure I had the right to feel.
“But this one’s still a collector’s copy,” Tim continued, running his finger down Pride and Prejudice’s dark green spine. “It’s called a Peacock Edition because of the gold peacock etched on the cover, and the book’s illustrator, Hugh Thomson, was pretty famous for his work, I guess.”
“It — it’s beautiful,” I said, and I meant this. It was an incredibly thoughtful gesture. But, goddammit, it wasn’t a marriage proposal. Why wasn’t it a proposal?
“Oh, it’s imported from London, naturally, and George Saints-bury wrote the preface. I don’t know who he was, but the book dealer seemed impressed by this,” Tim added. He concluded his oration by pointing to a description of the book on the inside cover flap, written in pencil above the price in British pounds.
Expensive gift, I couldn’t help but notice. A few thousand dollars less than a diamond, however, not that I was ungrateful or that I even cared about the money side of it.
But why didn’t he want to marry me?
I flipped through the first chapter, a little overwhelmed by the antique paper, which was still in surprisingly fine condition, and stared at the intricate pen-and-ink drawings that brought Elizabeth and Darcy to life on the fragile pages. The famous opening line, so familiar to me, seemed to laugh in my face as I read it again:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
In Tim’s case, though, I was beginning to have my doubts.
A delightful gift, Jane commented, Tim’s choice undoubtedly elevating his character in her estimation.
“Thank you,” I said to Tim, giving him a light peck on the cheek. “You have no idea how much sentimental value I’ve attached to this particular novel.”
Everyone in my family nodded pleasantly at our exchange except for Di, who shot me A Very Serious Look. Then she narrowed her eyes at my longtime boyfriend with such repugnance that it almost made me chuckle. Her irreverence gave me the courage to make it through the next few hours with a thread of patience.
But, like it or not, Tim Farthington III was going to have to deal with a confrontation soon.
I wanted some answers.
That night, at my two-year-old townhouse, I poured him a glass of Chardonnay and sat next to him on the loveseat. I, by contrast, opted for bottled spring water. My plan was to loosen him up a bit, but I needed to be 100 percent sober myself.
I waited until he was three-quarters through his second glass before saying, “So, what’s your plan for the next few days? Any good ideas for a nearby getaway?”
He smiled, propping his sock-covered feet on the edge of my coffee table, the very image of contentedness and relaxation as he swallowed another mouthful of vino. “Dunno. We could tell everyone we’re going to Galena or Milwaukee or somewhere, but just hang out at your place for a couple days instead. Order carryout for every meal. Turn on the answering machine and turn off the cell phone. Keep each other company.” He traced a pattern on my knee with his fingertip and his smile broadened.
“That sounds fun,” I said, aiming for bright and amicable. This was a vocal timbre I’d honed working with teens — pleasant but not sparkling, kind but with an edge of firmness. The appropriate lead-in tone to an inquisition.
“I’m gonna have another glass of wine, can I get you something?” Tim asked, standing up.
I shook my head, waited for him to return and plotted strategy.
When he sat down beside me again, this time noticeably closer, I covered his fingers with mine and said, “I love you, Tim.” Which was true. It wasn’t a fiery, passionate love or the kind of love that made me hyperventilate from the sheer massiveness of the emotion, but it was a calm, gentle, appreciative love, one that felt every bit as real in a more understated way.
“Love you, too, Ellie.” He kissed me lightly, his lips spiced with Chardonnay and the lingering flavor of my mom’s shortbread cookies.
“I need to know something,” I said to him, rubbing the pad of my thumb over his knuckles as if this were the promising start of a deep-tissue massage. “You’ve mentioned before that you see us getting married someday. That’s still true, right?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He closed his eyes as my fingers moved from his hand up his arm and across to his shoulder. I kneaded the tense muscles there and around his neck, marking time until I could ask the important follow-up question.
He moaned once. Twice. Three times. And that was my cue. “When?” I said.
“Huh?”
“When?” I repeated. “When do you see us getting married? This coming year? The year after?”
He shrugged and pointed toward a tight spot between his shoulder blades. I slid my fingers to it. “Oooh. Right there.” He paused. “I’m not in a rush, El. Are you?”
“Not in a rush as in next week or next month, but I am thirty-two. We’ve been together over three years, so it’s not as though we don’t know each other. And if we want to try for kids, we really can’t wait indefinitely on it, you know?”
He sighed.
“What’s that mean?” I said, still rubbing.
“I’m not so sure about the kid thing.”
My fingers stilled. “You’re not?”
He glanced over his shoulder at me and must’ve read something in my expression that made him put down his wineglass, turn fully around and take both my hands in his. “No. Not really.”
“But when we started dating, we talked about it! It was one of my first questions. I specifically asked you if you wanted to be a father someday, and you said, ‘Sure, I do.’ God, Tim, I remember.”
He nodded. “I remember, too. And I thought back then that by the time it’d happen, I’d really feel that way. That I’d be ready. That I’d want it.”
My jaw dropped. “But wait — you’re saying you don’t? That it hasn’t happened for you, this feeling of wanting to be a dad? A parent…with me?”
He looked down at where our hands were joined and slowly shook his head. “It’s not you,” he whispered. “I’m so — God, I’m so sorry, Ellie, I don’t want to do it. I just don’t. I look at babies, like Bryce, and I panic. They’re these little alien beings and I don’t get them.”
I inhaled, feeling relief flood my lungs. “That’s natural, though,” I told him. “Almost everybody feels that way around babies. I did, too, when — ”
“No, El. It’s not just the babies. Wyatt, he’s a cute kid and everything, but I wouldn’t want to deal with that age either. And before you tell me that they all grow up so fast and they’re more fun once they can really talk or once they’re in school or once they learn to play varsity sports, don’t. Save your breath. I’ve heard all these arguments before from my friends and colleagues, and I just don’t believe it. I know what I feel. And it’s not parental.”
I let go of his fingers and collapsed into the corner of the loveseat, my brain and body having turned to pulp.
“Ellie, I’m sorry,” he said again. “Maybe in another few years — ”
“Stop,” I commanded.
He stopped.
; I could hear my voice about to crack as I said, “I want the truth now. The whole truth, Tim. Is this really about having kids?”
He began to nod vehemently, but I put a stop to that, too.
“No,” I said. “I want to know everything. Is this really about being a dad or is it about something else? Like not wanting to settle down, maybe? Not wanting to commit? Not wanting to combine bank accounts or be tied to one woman forever or, more specifically, to me?”
“I told you, Ellie, it’s not you. I know you want kids and it’s not fair for me to keep you waiting. If I change my mind in five years or ten, I can still do the parenthood thing but, you’re right, you probably won’t be able to then. For women the window’s so much shorter. I’d marry you in a heartbeat if we didn’t have this difference between us but — ” He looked pained. “We do, and from what you’ve said you want, it’s not going away.”
Tears dripped down my face and it hurt to even take a breath. There was one more question I had to ask, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
I looked deep into his eyes and softly touched his cheek. “So, if I decided I didn’t want kids after all, we could get married soon. This spring, maybe?”
Genuine alarm registered in those eyes before he had a chance to mask it. “Well, yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
Lying bastard.
I now had a ready exhibit of Male Type #7: The Commitment-Phobe. And, of course, an equally compelling example of how I’d been a blooming idiot for three years.
“Perhaps we’d better say good night.” I jumped off the loveseat, the tears cascading faster now and the pain in my chest already leaving me gasping for air.
Oh, my God. It was going to be over between us. And I’d wasted all this time, energy, emotion, hope…I couldn’t stop that thought from racing through my brain as Tim gathered up his things.
He glanced repeatedly at me in a semi-worried, semi-relieved manner. I wasn’t sure what to make of that look as we stared at each other by my front door.
I was sure, though, I’d had way enough hurt in my romantic life. Every other time I’d responded by hardening my heart. Every other time when my soul felt crushed, I tied the protective shield more firmly around myself. And it was never enough.
This time, I’d try embracing the pain and letting everything go soft. Hell, it wasn’t like the heartache could get much worse, right?
“Thanks for telling me, Tim.” I hugged him and kissed his lips, getting teardrop splotches everywhere, but I didn’t care. “I — I need a few days, but maybe we can get together later in the week and…I don’t know, talk or something.”
“Okay,” he whispered. He seemed confused at having gotten off the hook so easily. “Can I call you?”
“Sure.” I sniffled. “Drive safe.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “I — um, I will.” He paused. “God, Ellie. Are you gonna be all right?”
I was openly sobbing. My nose was running, so I had to keep wiping it on my sleeve. My heart had broken, yes, but it had broken open. All this pain would eventually float away, and I’d come through it just fine.
Probably.
I nodded at Tim and gently shut the door.
Jane said, Oh, Ellie. I am sorry.
Thanks, Jane, I murmured. But don’t worry. I’ll be okay.
And — here was the really strange part — within a few minutes my tears dried up and my heart felt relief, along with a cleansing lightness I could barely recall experiencing. I vaguely remembered the sensation from long ago. From a time before my first heartache. From before high school, even.
I believe it was called innocence.
The next morning, I woke up early feeling empty, as if I’d been fasting, but I accepted the ache that came with memory, pushed past it and drove through the post-Christmas, back-to-work traffic to Di’s place.
“Ready to find out?” I asked her.
She held up a pregnancy test box. “Already got the kit. Just waiting for you to get your butt over here.”
I tossed my coat on a chair and marched her down to the bathroom. “You want me to come in with you, or should I just stand outside the door and twiddle my thumbs while the angels decide your fate?”
She rolled her eyes and pulled the directions out of the cardboard box. “You take these, geek, and read them to me. I can’t think straight today.” She pressed the brittle paper into my palm and squeezed my fingers with hers. Hard. It didn’t help. Both our hands still trembled. “Just tell me what to do from out in the hall, okay?”
“Okay.” I kissed her forehead, then I unfolded the paper and began scanning the tiny print.
She shut the bathroom door, listening to me as I read the instructions aloud. It wasn’t exactly rocket science — pee on the stick, wait two full minutes, see if you got a blue line — but we were sweating the details as if lives were at stake.
And, well, let’s face it, they were.
Di emerged from the bathroom after the proper time elapsed, holding the little plastic indicator thingy between her forefinger and her thumb. Her face was free of worry lines, but it was equally devoid of every other standard, I’m-taking-a-life-altering-pregnancy-test kind of emotion. She wore the blankest of expressions.
No apparent gut-twisting anxiety.
No praise-the-Lord elation.
No raging-at-the-world fury.
No nothing.
I couldn’t take the mystery of it any longer. “Well?” I asked her.
She meekly waved the stick at me, paused for a millennium and then broke into the brightest, most genuine grin I’d ever seen on her face.
“I’m gonna be a mom,” she announced.
Chapter 12
It is better to know as little as
possible of the defects of the person
with whom you are to pass your life.
— Pride and Prejudice
Why was it that when you finally decided you really, truly wanted something, it seemed as though everyone but you had it already or was on the verge of getting it?
Four months later, it was April. Di was five months pregnant, expecting a boy (or so said the ultrasound) and newly attuned to what was happening in the Wide World of Pregnancy.
“Guess who’s having triplets?” she said while we were sorting infant clothing at her place one morning.
WXRJ’s Wild Ted was spinning top hits of the 1980s, which brought back some memories. I cranked up the volume on Journey’s “Stone in Love,” tossed a fuzzy blue sack-like sleeper atop the pile of already-washed items and said, “Who?”
“You will never guess.”
“Spit it out, Di.”
She grinned. “Angelique.”
“No!”
“Yep. No one’s supposed to know yet because she isn’t telling Aunt Candice and Uncle Craig for another month, but she let it slip when I was talking to her on the phone yesterday. She made me promise to tell only you.” Di’s grin broadened. “Seems those fertility treatments of hers finally kicked in.”
Our cousin had experienced secondary infertility after Lyssa’s birth so, once she and Leo reached the five-year mark, they began experimenting with more-medical, less-natural conception strategies. This latest one must’ve proven fruitful.
“Wow,” I said. “I’m so happy for her.” And I really was. She’d gone through several years of heartache and trauma for this.
“I know.” Di gently rubbed her growing belly. Then she rolled her eyes. “But triplets? C’mon. Angelique was always such an overachiever.”
I laughed. “You never know, Di. Your son could be one of those go-getters, too. There’s no way to say what combination of genes a child will inherit.”
“Especially in my case,” she said, a hint of defiance in her voice. Di had staunchly refused to try to determine the baby’s exact paternal source and claimed to have no intention of doing so later. “All I can tell you for sure is that my kid’s not gonna grow up to be some loser man. I’m gonna teach him to tre
at women with respect. No sex before the first date. No belching or farting on purpose in the car. No jars of anchovies for Valentine’s Day.”
I looked at her. “Jars of anchovies?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I won’t.” I folded an outfit with yellow footies and added it to the ready-to-wear pile, then I watched Di inspect the tiny socks and T-shirts and hats. She touched each one with reverence, her love for this unborn baby palpable. “You’re going to be a terrific mom,” I told her. “No chance your little guy will turn out to be anything but a great man.”
She glanced up at me. “Thanks, El. He’s lucky to have you for an auntie, too.” She paused then said, “’Cuz you sure as hell won’t be anything like Aunt Candice.”
We giggled like teenagers at the thought. To this day that woman still didn’t like either of us. But Di and I had changed how we viewed each other. And more than marginally.
Although we remained fundamentally dissimilar in personality, we’d each gained an almost grudging admiration for the other and, more recently, we’d further bonded over our various dating trials and anxieties. She’d even suggested poisoning Tim’s morning latte when she heard what he’d done to me. And, though I turned her down, I appreciated the offer.
The phone rang.
Di stood and waddled over to pick it up, dancing the whole way to Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf.” I fell backward laughing.
“Yeah?” she said, grinning into the black plastic receiver.
There was a long pause. I turned my gaze toward her and saw the color drain from her face and the bright smile replaced with a scowl. I flipped off the radio.
“Uh-huh,” she mumbled.
Another extended pause.
“Well…maybe I could.” This time she looked to be on the verge of a panic attack, and I started to worry. Was someone hurt? Mom? Dad? Gregory? Dear God, had someone died?
“Um, okay,” Di said. “Bye.” Then she stood there, the phone still in her hand, staring at the receiver as if it might bite her.
According to Jane Page 21