A New Lu

by Laura Castoro

  I’m certainly not feeling like a party anymore, so I’ll assume he means other people.

  I sit down on Davin’s bed and lean slightly forward, bracing my hands on my thighs to relieve the stiffness in my lower back. “I was a sensible middle-aged person until my husband walked out. I don’t mean he held things together. Far from it. But that’s another story. Still, people never came and went in my house without warning. Well, Davin had that pack of friends who set up in the TV room his senior year and played Dungeons and Dragons pretty much full-time, when they weren’t in school. And, of course, before that Dallas went through the stage where there were two or three guys hanging out all the time they weren’t in school, either. But for me, basically, I’ve been a normal, relatively sane wife and mother, and journalist. Pretty much.”

  “I want to believe you.” William comes up and sits down beside me. “But if that’s true, perhaps you were sitting on a part of yourself you’ve never had a chance to know.”

  I give him a look. “No license to practice here. Remember?”

  He smiles. “Okay. So what do you want to do now?”

  “Go to bed.”

  “Now?” He looks alarmed, not lusty.

  “Not sex. Sleep. I need my rest. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He chuckles. “Because I’m bushed, too.”

  And just like that, we set a pattern that will last the rest of the weekend. We don’t answer the dead-bolted door. We don’t go out. He takes some medical calls, and a few to Jolie. She and Jon seem to be managing to keep it together under one roof. On Sunday, William and I sit and read the paper, eat occasionally, make love when the mood strikes mid-afternoon, and I tell him each time I feel Sweet Tum within flutter. He’s remarkably good at looking quite pleased about that, each and every time.

  When Cy calls, he sneezes, bless his heart, and I put off his offer to visit with a “Not until you’re sure it’s just pollen. I have a baby to consider. Call me Monday.”

  27

  There’s one thing about drama. It juices the imagination. I’ve been typing like a fiend since William took a cab to the rail station an hour ago. I click the print button and smile. I have two hours left before I’m due at work. How I love deadlines!

  In under forty-five minutes, I’m showered, dressed and out the door, a miracle of second-trimester tranquility.

  The sight of Curran standing just outside my door, clicking away on the camera, leaves me unruffled. We made an agreement yesterday, by phone. From 6:00 p.m. Fridays until 8:00 a.m. Mondays, I’m a free agent. If anything really cinematic comes up, I will call. Otherwise, we all need time off from work, and one another.

  “Hey, Lu!”

  I smile and nod. “You look like a lobster.”

  Curran shrugs. “They say if you wear an SPF of 15, even a very white person can tan.”

  “They lied, Curran.”

  I slide behind the wheel of my car and he gets in on the passenger side. I didn’t volunteer to pick him up or take him home, but it seemed a bit much to expect him to pay an extra fare every day just so he can catch sight of me opening my door. This way, I know he knows he’ll see me first thing. No scouting out my backyard, or surprise jumps from bushes. He gets his picture, and I get to drink coffee without closing all the blinds.

  “Fun weekend?”

  “The shore was stupid!” Since Curran’s grinning, I assume he means he had a good time. “Your weekend see any excitement?”

  I grin, too. “I have a secret lover. We had sex on every piece of furniture in the house.”

  Curran shakes his head. “Old movies and popcorn, huh?”

  I shrug. Am I that dull?

  We arrive at work a whopping fifteen minutes early. By now I’m almost accustomed to the fact that people I know will gawk at the sight of me. I suppose it’s because I’m wearing maternity clothes more or less full-time. Various members of the staff catch my eye and wave, or give me a victory or thumbs-up sign. Well, not everyone.

  KaZi is standing at the reception desk. When she notices Curran and me approaching, her eyes, rimmed in thick bands of black eyeliner, narrow into equal signs. Then she throws up a hand, palm out, and looks away.

  I turn to Curran. “What was that about?”

  Curran wheels around and, mumbling under his breath, “I gotta be somewhere,” heads back out the door.

  Evidently, the lovebirds are fighting. No need for me to take sides. “Hey, KaZi.”

  She gives me an I-don’t-think-you-want-to-talk-to-me stare, then turns and walks away.

  I shrug and look at Babs. “Hi. Please see that Tai gets this.”

  It’s my revised column for “The Pregnant Pause.” Before the day is over I’ll know whether this is officially my first day back with a new column or my official last day at the old job.

  “…wanted you to know.” William’s voice is low and soft with relief.

  “I’m so glad.” I shift the phone to my other ear as I reach to pause one of my favorite movies, Dark Victory, on my computer screen. “How soon will they perform the amnio?”

  “A week. Jolie and Jon didn’t exactly reconcile, but she agreed to go home until the time for the test.”

  “Which means you’re released from parenting up close and personally.” I hit the stop button to turn the movie off. Bette Davis’s eyes are distracting even on Pause.

  “I’m on call this weekend. So I was thinking that, if you’re not busy…” The hesitation in his voice surprises me. “Come out here.”

  “Sunday’s my birthday.”

  “What about your children?”

  I fish a dried apricot out of my bowl of healthy snacks and pop it into my mouth. “Davin can’t get away and Dallas probably won’t try.”

  “Now, that’s not right. What about your dwarfs and the FBI?”

  “There is a small party planned for Saturday. I…er, how about you come help us celebrate?”

  “You’re not obligated to include me.”

  Damn! He heard the hesitation in my voice. Frankly, I am thinking about the repercussions. Even if Andrea has had an up-close and much-too-personal encounter with him, meeting Cy and Curran will be another thing altogether. I’d like to keep William to myself a little longer.

  “Oh, then, forget it. You try to be nice to some people…”

  His laughter, sharp as ever, cuts across the line and into my frustrated day, laying open a sunshine center. “If I can switch part of my on-call weekend duty, I’ll be there midday on Sunday. You stay put. I’ll catch a cab from the station.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I look up and my voice changes. “Got to go.”

  Tai is in my doorway.

  “Come in.”

  I know how it must look, curtains drawn, lights down, a DVD playing an old movie while I’m on the phone talking sweet and low—and I don’t care. She’s made me wait until three-thirty to give me the verdict on my column. Sweet Tum needed me to mellow out.

  Tai’s carrying my latest column copy between two fingers. “I read ‘Knocked-Up But Not Out.’”

  She practically purrs as she lays it on my desk. Is this a dead-rodent trophy or am I trapped like a rat? “I love it. It’s got everything. Smarts. Sass. Controversy!”

  I frown. “What’s controversial?”

  “The fact you say you will not name the father of your child. I’ve been thinking about that. Our readers are going to devour that tidbit. Absolutely devour it. And scour future issues for clues to his identity in your columns.”

  I sit back and smile. “There won’t be any.”

  “There needn’t be. You’ve flung down the gauntlet.”

  Tai folds her arms and leans her whippetlike body against my door frame. “Frankly, I wouldn’t have believed a woman in your position could resist pointing the finger of accusation. Revenge is sweet, believe me. The possibilities of why you are resisting the opportunity to make the man squirm are too delish to ignore! Are you too noble? Too ashamed? Or won’t say because you don’t k
now?”

  If she’s waiting for me to offer up the real explanation, she can just go fish. “Always happy to make a positive contribution at Five-O.”

  Tai feigns disappointment that I didn’t bite. “Got to hand it to you, Lu. It’s positively genius PR.”

  “Thanks.” I glance at my clock. It’s still naptime. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, actually. I’ve decided we won’t be needing Marc’s services any longer.” She frowns slightly but it disappears in a microsecond. “He is not at all what I’d been led to expect.” Her gaze comes back to me. “You, on the other hand, have unexpected depths, Lu Nichols.”

  So my job is secure because either I’m an example of nobility ne plus ultra, a fool or a slut. I can live with that.

  28

  My feelings are a surprise to me. Forty whizzed by on the tail of a comet so bright I didn’t ponder it. I don’t remember thirty. Seriously. But here I am, staring at the big 5-0 on the calendar of my birth date, appalled by where I am in my life.

  The Five-O staff took me to lunch yesterday. I was ready for the usual gagfest of black balloons, tubes of Preparation H and denture cream. Instead, I got a “You Go, Girl” bash.

  At Tai’s behest, we took a train into lower Manhattan and celebrated at one of those no-oven, drinks-centric bars with an incredibly imaginative menu. Should have been a winner. But reality bites. Everyone happily drank themselves into stupors with Incredible Hulks and Tequinis while I sipped mineral water, scarfed down outrageously priced hors d’oeuvres and tried not to pout.

  There were plenty of well-wishers in my corner. Tai had handed out copies of my first column for all to read as they came in the door. “A quick spot poll,” she assured me. It quickly became a Rorschach test of the staff.

  “My She-ro!” Babs trilled in delight when she had perused it. Then she gave me a raised-fist salute. “You go, girl!”

  I’m amused that she knew this gesture.

  Rhonda’s voice was hollow with admiration. “I want you to know that we all think what you’re doing is so brave. That takes such class, shielding a man who doesn’t deserve it. Men can be such selfish bastards!” Then she slammed a fist into the palm of her other hand with the conviction of a veteran of the battle of the sexes.

  A little later a combative-looking Brenda waylaid me. “Don’t let him get away with it. He has legal responsibilities. And financial ones! My advice, get yourself a good attorney.” When I suggested that there just are some mistakes a person doesn’t want to deal with twice, she patted me on the back and said, “That ‘mistake’ has a bank account. This is your future he’s messed with. Make him pay.”

  Curran just sort of stared slack-jawed at me, as if he had thought this protruding belly really was a spontaneous miracle of life. KaZi just glared—at both of us.

  Yet for the first time, I’ve begun to wonder what kind of bargain I’ve made. Maybe I’ve let a seed be planted that I had not altogether thought through. Out there in the ether now is the persona of a despicable, dishonest and cowardly mystery man who got me in the family way then deserted the mother ship. As a result, I’m seen as the dupe left holding the maternity bag.

  Even so, I smiled really hard when presented with a carved crystal Five-O logo to place on my mantel.

  “Your survival trophy,” Tai said as she presented it. “God! I can’t imagine how it must feel to be you.”

  Me, neither. So then, I’m not as brave or blasé as I thought I would be.

  That’s why at half past ten on a Saturday morning, I’m lying in bed leafing through albums of Dallas and Davin as tykes, and wondering for the first time since my teen years, why me?

  William seems to think I’ve kept a part of me hidden. If something was missing, I’m not certain I’ve yet found it. This new me feels a lot like the old me—only pregnant…and now fifty.

  This is not how I envisioned this day. Where’s my cruise on the Aegean Sea? My African safari? My getaway with gal pals for a shop till we drop on the floor of Van Cleef & Arpels? Not happening.

  Dallas won’t be coming home, after all. She has planned a weekend at Cape Cod. She swears it’s a business boondoggle that she can’t wriggle out of. I’m sure that’s the truth. Yet she called a second time to explain, so I know we are still at odds. She did send flowers, a gorgeous bouquet.

  Davin has to work parents weekend at summer camp. He sent me a picture of himself and the kids framed in a collection of twigs, nuts, seeds, pods and so forth, gathered and glued together by his “tribe.”

  I tell myself I’m not sad about this. It’s to be expected that grown children would have lives of their own. To celebrate, Andrea, Cy, Curran and I are going to do lunch. A nice square number.

  The sound of the doorbell drags me reluctantly out of bed. I look out the window and see a courier van parked on the curb.

  I truck downstairs, wishing it were Fed Ex with some wonderfully elaborate birthday present from some smitten—

  “Cy.” Oh no, not from Cy.

  No matter how wonderful, extravagant, perfect-forme, delightful it is, it wouldn’t be right to accept pure joy and bliss in a box from a man whose marriage proposal I rejected. I failed gold-digger class in fourth grade when conscience made me give back the Day-Glo eraser Jason Hadley had offered me in exchange for a kiss, which I then refused to deliver.

  When I’ve signed for the box, I realize the guy will expect a tip. “Just a sec.”

  “No need.” The courier waves me off.

  That’s when I see Cy standing on his porch.

  He gives me that old-fashioned tip-of-the-hat salute and calls, “Happy birthday, Lu!”

  “Thank you,” I call back. Why bother to say that he shouldn’t have. Or even, what’s in the box? He will just answer, “Don’t deny an old man these small joys.”

  “See you later!” I shut my door, turning the dead bolt just in case he decides to come over to watch me unwrap something I suspect I’m really going to hate giving back.

  When I’ve opened the outer box I discover a gift wrapped in heavy foil-embossed paper good enough to set with china. The silver-and-plum ribbon is a real silk scarf. Even before I open the card I’m smiling because I know this too-pretty-to-open gift could only come from one source.

  The card reads, “Welcome to the best years of your life! Love, Aunt Marvelle.”

  It takes a few minutes to unwrap the wide flat box without spoiling the paper. Then I realize what I’m holding.

  Still in its Cartier box, circa 1950, is a circlet of diamonds. I don’t mean tennis bracelet chain-store type diamonds. These are individually chosen stones for the same color and clarity, graduated in size for artistic arrangement, and set in handcrafted platinum.

  I know all of this because Aunt Marvelle first showed this necklace to me when I was six years old. Uncle Harvey was a U.S. attaché to some minor European country where embassy balls and state dinners and weekends on the Côte d’Azur were de rigueur. She sat me before a mirror and dangled the necklace before me, so I could see what I might look like in it. Even then I knew I was outclassed. All these years later, I’ve yet to attend a function worthy of this necklace.

  After washing my hands, I take the necklace out of the box and lay it very carefully around my neck. It even makes a cotton robe look good.

  “Tallulah?” Aunt Marvelle sounds as if I’ve awakened her with my call.

  “Aunt Marvelle. I don’t know what to say. I’m overwhelmed!” I’m preening in the mirror even as I speak. “Are you sure you’re ready to let go of them?”

  “Wear them to your birthday party,” she says matter-of-factly, but I hear the satisfaction of my joy in her voice.

  “There’s no party worthy of this.”

  “Diamonds are the party! I wouldn’t have thought I’d have to say that to you, Tallulah. When you’re my age, waiting for a proper occasion is a waste of a good time. Now, you just put on impossibly high heels, a flirty skirt, and drink champagne until you can’
t stand upright without a man’s arm about you!”

  “You’re absolutely right, Aunt Marvelle.” Except about the champagne, and possibly the heels. I’m going to have to tell her about Sweet Tum soon. Tomorrow. “Thank you!”

  My Pity Party is over! I’ve got my health, my work, my home and now a neckful of envy-me diamonds. And, if he can get away, my lover will be here tomorrow.

  Not bad for the middle of the journey.

  29

  Andrea is driving me home from my birthday lunch because, despite my sober state, I’m feeling that sudden exhaustion that occasionally comes over pregnant women. She has a nephew following closely behind in my car. Not that the occasion was any big blast that I hated to leave.

  “Curran and Cy didn’t say why they couldn’t come when they called? And why did they call you and not me?”

  Andrea is dancing in her seat to an OutKast tune on the radio. “You don’t tell me everything. I don’t tell you everything. Okay?”

  The suspense of wondering what she could possibly mean is brief. As we pull up, Curran and Cy are sitting on my front steps. Pinned between their shoulders is William.

  I don’t feel surprise or even alarm. Instead of wondering how the hell I’ll explain him to everybody, I’m thinking, thank you, thank you, thank you, heavens!

  “This looks like fun.” Andrea pops out of her low-slung vehicle while I extract myself more slowly. Way ahead of me, she hurries over to greet William with a big hug.

  “You know this guy?” I hear Cy ask her.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve seen quite a lot of him.” Andrea winks at William, who shifts uneasily.

  “Who is this guy?” Cy demands, as I reach the grouping.

  I notice Cy’s shirt collar is a bit askew and pat it back down. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

  Curran pops up, his dreads wobbling. “It is when we almost hadda bust a move on him for trying break into your crib!”

  “I was just trying to surprise Lu.” I follow William’s glance to his feet, where a large gift-wrapped package looks a little the worse for wear. “I tried your back door. It was open so I thought I’d wait inside. Then these two goons—guys jumped me.”