Yet Helen could not be happy in her marriage if she had half a brain. Monty’s recent behavior alone demonstrated meanness and cynicism. One didn’t write such emails and leave such voicemail messages and then go home to romance one’s wife. Helen must be living a nightmare with that miscreant.
Did a woman’s chance of finding a good mate—someone who was honest, faithful, and a good provider—depend solely on her looks? David possessed those qualities, and his wife Ellen was beautiful. Their daughter, Olivia, was almost ten years old and very pretty, resembling her mother. Olivia’s future husband would have to be worthy of her—David would make sure of that. He and Ellen had wanted another child, but it was not to be. Her fertility had been affected after she had survived non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. But her spirit never faltered, and David admired her strength. She was his better half, by far.
Helen Carawan, by contrast, seemed weak enough to be blown over by Monty’s shouting. Perhaps she had been rather beaten down by life. Candace had said that Helen was estranged from both her parents, who split up when she was young, though her mother remarried. Helen had worked as a waitress and put herself through art school. Then one day in her twenties, she’d walked away from a stable job and moved to Atlanta, where she knew no one, to accept a new position.
Maybe life had been going well for her at that point, but once she became entangled with Monty—well, David could only guess what she might have gone through. He glanced at the recent photo of Ellen and Olivia that he kept on his desk. He would protect the women in his life—he couldn’t imagine losing either one.
Candace walked up to her assistant’s desk. “Jess, get Paula and Amanda. Immediately.”
Jess nodded as Candace entered her private office. It was eight-thirty. Jess deduced that her boss had risen early to work out before coming in. The heads of design and sales and marketing should be at their desks, though Jess had seen neither of them this morning. The entire company was humming with Candace present—a collective sigh of relief would escape once she was on the plane to New York and safely out of town.
Paula rushed past Jess’s desk and knocked on Candace’s office door before entering. Jess’s eyes shifted the other direction. Amanda was approaching, ten steps behind her department head counterpart.
Jess looked back at her computer screen and focused on her agenda. Candace hadn’t exhibited a worse temper than normal, but things would probably be tense in there. Design and Sales were often at odds, no matter what the project, and now that the new swimwear line was being developed, everyone at the company was a little more stressed. Of course, all employees were under very strict orders not to divulge anything about the line—not even to hint about it—before the unveiling to buyers in New York this September. Secrecy was imperative.
Jess glanced at Candace’s door just as Amanda was about to turn the knob. Amanda was wearing a fitted, short orange top and tight, dark brown pants. Jess’s eye caught on something white poking out of the back of Amanda’s pants at the waist. A tag? No, it was the top of her underwear. Her thong underwear! It was a whale tail. Jess raised her eyebrows and turned back to her computer. Didn’t Amanda know about the unspoken company-wide ban on thongs? Or didn’t she care? Worse than panty lines, Candace hated thongs—they were a product competitor and unladylike (translation: skanky). More than once, Jess had heard her boss say with disdain that wearing a thong was like saying, “Here’s my butt—deal with it!” whereas wearing a SlimZ garment was like saying, “I think enough of my ass to shape and contour it.”
Whatever. Jess was young enough not to have to worry about it. She was slender but not without curves. No issues with underwear choices, thank you. Not all the women who worked at SlimZ were trim, but each one of them had either a pear or an hourglass figure—no one was an apple, with stick legs and a nonexistent ass. Could that be due to a subconscious discrimination policy? Surely some woman with that body shape had applied for a job here. But that type of woman probably didn’t buy SlimZ.
Jess’s phone vibrated. It was Beau Warren. Her “beau.”
“How’s your day so far?” he asked.
She glanced at Candace’s closed door. “Fine, and getting better. She’s off to New York this afternoon. But no one’s leaving early or anything. How about you?”
“So-so.” Beau was employed by Coca-Cola, working in the international distribution area. They had met during senior year at the University of Georgia. “Counting the hours until I see you tonight.”
Jess smiled. Beau was taking her out to dinner at a new hot spot in Buckhead to celebrate their two-year anniversary. Then, most likely they’d hit a bar. “Me, too.”
“How does eight o’clock sound? Is that cool?”
“Perfect.”
“So, are you wearing underwear?”
Jess giggled. “See you at eight,” she said. “I’ve gotta go!”
Just as she clicked off her phone, she heard Amanda’s voice rising, coming from inside the nearby room. Oh, shit. Working in a virtually all-female office had its tensions, but all things considered, it was probably better than one with mostly men. Not that she knew what that was like—this was her first real job.
Now she heard Candace raising her voice, which was unusual. “This project is too big for the kind of quarreling I’ve witnessed here,” came the boss’s voice through the door. Jess bit her lip and shook her head. Using the word quarreling was just like Candace, who continued: “Amanda, you’ve heard Paula’s issues. I’d like an email response to both her and myself by . . .” Her voice trailed off, the decibel level falling back to normal.
Ten seconds later, Paula left the room with a smile on her face, closing Candace’s door behind her. Amanda stayed in the room.
“Helen Carawan?” the nurse announced to the waiting room. Helen rose from her seat, Monty at her side. They had driven together to Helen’s obstetrician Dr. Joanna Russell’s office, depositing Adele at school on the way over.
Helen felt faint and weak. Over an hour ago, she had awakened to find bloodstains. She woke Monty and told him—he surprised her with his attentiveness and evident concern, but he said few words. She called the doctor and was told to come right in. At eight weeks pregnant, Helen had only been to one appointment so far—the next one was scheduled for over a month from now. But the bleeding meant she was in danger of losing the baby. Monty had fed and dressed Adele while Helen showered and got ready. Now he was next to her, his countenance somber.
After weighing Helen in, a nurse ushered her and Monty into an examination room. Then a brief visit from another nurse who explained that, while the loss of blood was a very troubling sign, it didn’t necessarily mean the end.
“Have you had intercourse in the last twenty-four hours?” she demanded of Helen.
Helen nodded and glanced at Monty. His face was stone cold.
The nurse scribbled down notes on a pad. “Well, before you see Dr. Russell, we’ll do an ultrasound. The technician won’t discuss it with you, but Dr. Russell will. Okay?”
Helen swallowed. “Thank you.” She and Monty followed the nurse out of the small room and down the corridor to another room equipped with machinery.
Moments later, Helen was lying on a hard table between the technician and her husband. A swirly, fluidlike picture appeared on the monitor, but even though she had had a sonogram with Adele, Helen couldn’t figure out what it meant right now or whether her baby was okay.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carawan. Mr. Carawan,” the doctor said upon entering. “Let’s see what’s going on.” She walked over to the screen, focusing on the image. “I’m happy to tell you, first of all, that we don’t have a problem.”
“You mean . . .” Helen began, then stopped, relief taking hold.
“I mean, you’re not suffering a miscarriage. It’s good that you called and came in, because the bleeding you experienced may well have indicated one. However,
that’s not the case.”
Monty forced a smile. “That’s great,” he said, his voice wooden.
“But that’s not all,” Dr. Russell said. She smiled and looked from husband to wife and back again. “Helen, you’re carrying twins.”
Helen gasped. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Three children? “Are you sure?”
“Most definitely. Here are the heartbeats.” She motioned to one, then the other. “Here’s one baby, let’s call him ‘Baby A,’ Danielle.” She looked at the technician. “This one, we’ll call ‘Baby B.’ ”
“Did you say ‘him?’ ” asked Monty. “I mean, can we find out if they’re boys or girls?”
“Not yet. At least, not from this ultrasound. In another eight weeks or so, however, we should be able to—if you like. We’ll probably do a second set of pictures at that point.”
“Another sonogram?” Helen asked.
Dr. Russell nodded, taking Helen’s hand. “Are you okay?” she asked the patient. “I know it’s a surprise. I’m sure you’re happy to know that the babies are doing fine, though.”
“Yes,” said Helen. “But what caused the blood?”
“It’s more common than you think. Danielle’s going to get some measurements, then she’ll send you back over to see me. We have a few things to talk about: what to do about the bleeding, for one. Also, the fact that a multiple birth is a high-risk pregnancy. I’ll see you back in the exam room in a few minutes.” She left the room.
In twenty minutes, the couple was on their way home. Helen was to take the day off from work to rest, and the bleeding, which had subsided, should disappear. She could go back to work on Monday, providing that she experienced no more problems, and they were to take a week or two off from having sex.
They drove in silence for the first five minutes. Then Monty glanced over at his wife. “You look like you’re still in shock.”
“I don’t know how we’re going to manage.”
“Well, it would have been a lot better if you’d had a miscarriage. Who knows? You still could.”
She turned away and stared out the window. The future looked as bleak as the raw spring morning. Clouds had moved in and were threatening rain. She looked back at Monty, her eyes moist. “What a horrible thing to say.”
He shrugged.
Helen took a deep breath and turned straight ahead. “Do you remember what you said last night? The promises you made?”
Monty glanced at her again. “What promises?”
Did he really not remember, maybe because he’d been drinking? Helen shut her eyes for a second, then spoke in an even tone. “You promised we’d go over our budget twice a week, do the bills together—”
“What budget? What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious, Monty. If you want a joint checking account, with access to my money—”
Monty pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “Your money? Damn it, Helen! Stop trying to control me! You know I need to access that money! Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything to you. You said last night, we’re a team. We’re about to have two more children. We have to start communicating about money—not just about our living expenses, which are gonna go up, but about the house! We need to manage everything together, Monty.”
“You’re at work all day, so I have to do that. Remember?”
Bullshit. “We can sit down together and go over everything on the weekends, once a week,” said Helen, undeterred. “You also promised you’d start looking for a job today.”
“Today’s Friday,” Monty said in calmer voice, his eyes cold. They approached the neighborhood entrance. “I’ll start looking on Monday. Let’s go to that bank this afternoon so you can change it to a joint account.”
“You heard the doctor. I’m supposed to stay home and rest. You’ll have to pick up Adele today.”
Monty set his jaw. “Then, Monday. Speaking of which, when you go in to meet with Shepherd that morning, tell him we’re having twins. He’ll relay that to Candace. I’m not going to contact her.” After a moment, he added, “You could email her again, of course.”
“I’ll tell him. But we’re only going to change the bank account if we sit down this weekend and go over all the financial stuff together.”
Monty puffed as he pulled the car into the driveway and parked. “Don’t you realize that the money we’re getting from Candace and the money we’re gonna make when we sell the house is a helluva lot more than what you make at Vreden? And that I’m her connection to us? Me and Adele, but not you?” He looked over and down at her abdomen. “Now we’re gonna have two more connections.”
Helen turned away and looked out her window.
Monty stared out the windshield. “I was upset earlier when I said that about having a miscarriage. We’ll go over the financials this weekend if you want. But you need to respect me, and you need to stop pressuring me. You need to trust me. I can’t deal with all of this if you don’t.” He got out of the car and headed to the cottage without a backward glance.
Helen let out a deep sigh. She had to steel herself emotionally to get through what lay ahead. She had spoken to Dawn on the way to the doctor, but decided not to call again. She texted: False alarm, not a miscarriage. Twins.
Then she set her phone on silent and went into the bedroom to lie down.
Alone in her office, Candace opened the financial report she’d received this morning from Courtney, the company’s CFO. Despite the economy’s continuing poor performance, revenues at SlimZ were up from a year ago. Courtney attributed the higher earnings to the company’s ability to cut production expenses across the board. Larger orders of the mainstay garment at the Brooklyn factories meant lower wholesale costs, and a slightly cheaper fabric blend in some of the newer product lines yielded a higher profit margin without affecting sales. Though less expensive, the new blend had a sleeker feel and was a genuine improvement. It was a win-win.
However, sales of the newer lines had plateaued rather than continued to rise. Candace believed that the marketing team, responsible for promotion and advertising, was only partially to blame. SlimZ enjoyed high brand recognition, but were consumers familiar with all of its products? The high-waisted shaper, the footless leggings, the contouring tights, the slimming camisoles—these were just a few of its many shapewear garments. And each product line came in multiple varieties.
But perhaps there were too many lines and too many choices for the customer. Candace had eavesdropped on shoppers in department stores thumbing through SlimZ packages, and more than once she had heard expressions of confusion and frustration. Tired of trying to make sense of all the choices, some women had just given up and kept their money. Discontinuing a product line wouldn’t be easy. However, fewer rather than greater options might be the solution.
Simplicity had been key in the beginning. Psychology was a major ingredient in successful marketing; Candace knew that emotion was very important. A recent study she saw had proved what her instincts told her: when faced with fewer than five choices, a customer decides more quickly and feels more satisfied than when presented with more than ten. It was just too much information to gather in one’s head, and most often baffling. The study was one of the reasons Candace had been adamant about limiting the design choices in the new swimwear line. Paula and her team were in agreement, but Amanda had resisted the philosophy, saying that department store buyers were always asking her salespeople for more options and more color selections rather than less.
But Candace was convinced she should offer only a small selection of swimwear. Each design must be appealing, flattering, and attractive. After years of planning, launching the line in a few short months was exciting but risky. However, Candace had never been risk averse when it came to business. Her decisions were fueled by her gut, refined by the feedback of others, and perfected by her wi
llingness to adapt. Low barriers to entry existed in the industry, and competition surfaced often—all one needed was a sewing machine and a spare bedroom. The challenge was to create and sell a standout product that was worth the risk, that would sell, and that would last.
She opened another document from the marketing team. The report identified the target retail customer for the swimwear line: she was between 28 and 53, married, with 2.5 children. Her education level was a bachelor’s degree or higher and her family income was in the top 7 percent. Each year, she shopped for new clothing 4.7 times and vacationed at a resort or beach 1.9 times.
Candace’s inbox signaled a new email from David. She opened it and read his short message asking if she’d had time to proof the final draft email to Monty. Did she want David to send it by the end of the day, before the start of the weekend? Yes, she did, since the meeting in David’s office was scheduled for Monday morning. In the draft, per her instructions, David had not requested but had instructed Monty to attend with Helen.
The fact that Helen was pregnant had nothing to do with anything—Candace had gotten over that small detail. Millions of couples all over the world were expecting babies, living up to their commitments and within their income, and there was no reason why her brother and his wife could not do the same thing. She was not going to enable him—them—by signing the new loan he had arranged with Whitney Jamison. The couple would have to catch up on their mortgage themselves and keep it current. She’d have to think about what she might be willing to do on the HELOC—once she decided, they could take that or leave it. She had many other, more important things on her mind right now.
Six hours later, Candace sat next to Rob in a first-class seat on a jet about to take off for LaGuardia. The extra legroom was a necessity for her six-foot-three fiancé, and she herself couldn’t abide having to fold herself into a coach seat, though she had done it innumerable times, years ago. She glanced out the window, thankful that the skies were now clear of the day’s early clouds.
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