Authors: Holly Chamberlin

Babyland (13 page)

BOOK: Babyland

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Three's a Crowd

“L
ovely,” a woman in head-to-toe couture murmured as I made my way down the carpeted hallway of the Ritz lobby. I blushedâI know I didâand smiled graciously at my admirer. Rather, at the admirer of the dozen Blue Moon roses I carried in my arms like a beauty queen's winning bouquet.

I spotted Alexandra the moment I passed into the bar. She's never hard to spot.

“Where did you get those?” she asked. “Here, put them on this chair.” She got up and pulled a third upholstered chair away from the small table. “Magnificent. Who's the florist?”

“Alfonzo's. They do beautiful work.”

Alexandra sat back down and peered at me. “You haven't answered my first question. But maybe I should rephrase it. Who gave you the bouquet? I've never seen roses so blue.”

“Jack gave them to me,” I said with a nonchalant toss of my head. “You know, because I'm having a baby. And maybe because he's sorry he wasn't more excited when I first told him I'm pregnant.”

Alexandra's expression remained neutral, but something in her tone was not. “That's a mighty big apology. And a bit personal from a colleague, don't you think?”

“Not at all,” I lied. “Lots of people have given me little gifts since they've learned I'm pregnant.”

“Gifts for you or for the baby?”

I considered. “Well, mostly for the baby. I've already gotten three packs of onesies, and I'm not even sure what they are. But Ross gave me a gold bracelet. See?” I held up my right arm to display the glittering bangle.

“That's appropriate,” Alexandra said, unimpressed. “He's your wealthy fiancÃ©.”

I looked at the stupendous bouquet propped in the chair like a third person at the table. A third, troublemaking person.

“Are you saying that Jack's gift is inappropriate?”

Alexandra laughed. “Everything about Jack Coltrane is inappropriate. That's only one of the reasons I like him.”

“That's only one of the reasons I find him infuriating.”

“Ah, so he does arouse some passion in your breast.”

“I wouldn't call it passion,” I protested.

“Strong feelings then,” Alexandra concluded. “That's a start.”

The conversation was not going at all as I'd hoped. Or was it?

“A start of what?”

Alexandra took a sip of her drink before answering. “I don't know. That's up to you.”

I let that remark sink in for a moment. And then I said, my voice low, “Are you suggesting I have an affair with Jack?”

“Absolutely not. What an imagination, Anna. Pass the cashews, please.”

Yes, I thought, what an imagination, Anna. I passed the dish of cashews.

“Well, what do you mean?” I asked.

“I just think it's good for you to know someone who makes you really feel your feelings. Someone who shakes you up, challenges you, someone who makes you think.”

I looked at my exotic friend. The style. The attitude. The intelligence.

“That someone is you,” I replied.

“I'm not a man.”

“Well, I've got Ross.”

I've got Ross. It sounded like I had a disease. I've got the flu, I've got eczema, I've got shingles.

Alexandra reached for her bag. “Yes, indeed, you have. And I've got to get going. You'd better put those flowers in water soon.”

“Each stem is in a little tube of water,” I said. And then I thought, That must have cost a pretty penny.

Alexandra leaned into the bouquet and breathed deeply. “Lovely fragrance. Are you sure you have a big enough vase?”

“Of course. Don't be silly. The bouquet isn't that monstrous.”

But I wondered, Did I have a large enough vase?

Our waiter appeared, and Alexandra asked for the check. Until then, he'd been entirely impersonal and professional. “Ma'am,” he said now, “that's the biggest bouquet I've ever seen. And working here, I've seen a lot of flowers given to a lot of women. Whoever he is, he knows he's got someone very special.”

The waiter walked off, and Alexandra grinned mightily.

“You look like the Cheshire cat,” I said. “That's not necessarily a compliment.”

“I think the Cheshire cat is quite fetching. Admit it, Anna. Flowers are a romantic gift.”

“Not always,” I said. “I send my mother flowers on Mother's Day.”

“Don't pretend to be obtuse, Anna. It's very annoying.”

The waiter reappeared. Alexandra grabbed the check and signed, and off went the waiter with a grin as wide as Alexandra's had been. Alexandra is a notoriously big tipper.

“Okay,” I admitted, “maybe Jack's gift is romantic. But this is a romantic occasion. I'm having a baby. I'm bringing a new life into the world.”

I knew how lame I sounded. I didn't need Alexandra to roll her eyes so dramatically.

“I need to leave,” she said.

“Do you really have to go?” I said suddenly wanting very much not to be alone.

“I do. I've got work to do.”

Alexandra headed off but was back within minutes.

“You changed your mind?” I asked hopefully.

“No. But I forgot to mention that I heard a name today you might want to consider. You know, for the kid.”

“Oh.”

“Wait, I wrote it down.” Alexandra flipped open her wallet and extracted a yellow Post-It note. “Here.”

She handed the note to me. It read: Mnuple.

“Um,” I said, handing the note back to her, “where did you hear it?”

“Some show on NPR. I don't know if I got the spelling right. Anyway, keep it.” She stuck the Post-It note to the table. “I'm off.”

You're off, all right, I thought, watching Alexandra negotiate her way past a table at which were crammed two beefy middle-aged men in gray suits.

I left the bar a few minutes later. The Post-It note remained stuck to the table.

Later that night I lay in bed and thought. The whole thing, which at first had made me feel oddly excited, now was beginning to make me uncomfortable.

Jack Coltrane might have feelings for me. And instead of being repulsed or unconcerned, I was enticed by the possibility. Enticed and now disturbed. The idea of Jack's having feelings for me was one thing, but the idea of my having feelings for him in return was quite another.

But I didn't have feelings for Jack; I wasn't interested in him romantically so there was no problem, was there? But there was a problem.

Be honest, Anna, I told myself. Jack's feelings alone have no power. What gives them power is your having feelings in return. For some horribly incomprehensible reason, you have feelings for Jack. Tiny feelings. Just the hint of feelings. But even those miniscule feelings are too much.

I remembered then something that Alexandra had said to me months earlier. I'd complained that I'd badly scuffed the toe of my pink suede pumps on the way back from Jack's studio that morning.

“I don't know why you spend so much time running over there,” she'd said, looking innocently at her new manicure and not at me. “Most of your correspondence with Jack can be done by e-mail or fax.”

I'd opened my mouth to respond and realized I had no response. No good one, anywayânothing that made sense. And now, alone in my darkened bedroom, I wondered, Why did I spend so much time face-to-face with Jack when it wasn't strictly necessary?

I shivered with embarrassment. It didn't matter that there was no one who knew what I was thinking; my own conscience was ashamed of itself.

Why, why, why, had Jack given me those flowers? And for one wild moment I wondered, Had Jack tried to outdo Ross's gift? But Jack didn't know about the gold bracelet, he couldn't; I'd never mentioned it to him. Of course, he might have assumed that Ross had given me an expensive bauble; men like Ross are very skilled givers of high-price-tag gifts. But would Jack stoop to such a macho tactic? And to what purpose? To impress me. To offer his sincere apologies. To get me into trouble with Ross.

With a loud groan I tossed back the covers. If I couldn't sleep at least I could do something productive like read a book, rather than obsess about Jack and his damned flowers. And about my having happily accepted them. Because accepting those flowers was the closest I'd ever come to doingâto feelingâanything illicit. I wasn't so hormonal that I failed to realize a woman engaged to one man ought not to be titillated by another man's gift of flowers.

Even if the flowers were given in apology of rude behavior. Even if they were given by someone who was nothing more than a friend.

Practice to Deceive

T
he following night Ross stopped by on his way home from a late meeting with his accountant. The meeting, I learned, had been held at Morton's. Ross loves their beefsteak tomatoes; he forgoes the football-sized baked potatoes and passes on the bread.

“Alfonzo's.”

I finished pouring hot water into my teacup before turning to him and saying, “Excuse me?”

Ross walked over to the bouquet of roses sitting on the dining table. “Those flowers must be from Alfonzo's. I recognize the style.”

“Oh.” It was all I could say. Please, please, please, I prayed, don't ask who gave them to me!

You've done nothing wrong, Anna, I told myself. But I didn't quite believe it.

Ross touched one of the blossoms with a perfectly manicured finger. “When did you get them?”

I felt faint. I didn't know if the truth was the best answer or the worst. I set the cup of tea on the countertop, afraid my hands would start to shake.

“What?”

“When did you buy them?” Ross looked from the flowers to me. “They're amazingly fresh. Alfonzo's has the freshest flowers. Of course, the prices are insane. But you know that. You've worked with Alfonzo's for a few events, haven't you?”

Was it possible I would be able to avoid both lying and telling the truth? Was it possible Ross didn't care to press me on the matter?

Was it possible I was such a coward?

“Um, yes,” I said. “I have.”

Ross looked at me with head cocked. Was it concern on his handsome face? Or suspicion?

“What's the matter, Anna? Do you feel sick? You look pale.”

I laughed lightly and crossed my arms. It was a gesture of defense, or maybe one of avoidance.

“No, no,” I said, “I'm fine. Just tired. I'm always tired these days.”

“Promise me you'll try to get some sleep. Your clients can wait. Your health is more important right now.”

I wondered, Only right now? Because I'm carrying your baby?

“I promise,” I said.

Ross gave me a kiss on the cheek and hugged me gently. “I can't say I particularly like the color of those roses,” he said, pulling away. “There's something strange about it.”

“Mmm,” I said, noncommittally.

When Ross left I fell onto the couch and breathed a troubled sigh.

A Rose by Any Other Name

W
hen it comes to names for a baby, everyone and her sister has an opinion. And no one is shy about voicing it.

My mother, not usually the type to interfere in my lifeâsome might say, in fact, that the day I moved out of the house and went off to college she heaved a huge sigh of relief at her newly empty nestâsuddenly had several interesting suggestions to make.

“I've always loved the name Myrtle,” she told me one afternoon during my weekly call to my parents. “You know, the myrtle has lovely fragrant flowers. Pink and white. Very pretty. I'll never forget the myrtle bushes I saw when your father and I took that package tour to Greece.”

I repressed a groan. My mother hadn't been able to offer any advice on recovering my sanity when my high school boyfriend left me for my so-called best friend, or when I was starting my own business, but she could serve up suggestions for naming my unborn child.

“Mom,” I said, quite calmly, “if I wanted to name my child after a plant I'd choose Rosemary. Or Sage. Or Fern, or even Daisy. Not Myrtle.”

“Now why do you just dismiss the idea of Myrtle?” my mother snapped. “Is it because you're thinking of one of those weird names, like, I don't know, Mergatroid or something?”

Mergatroid?

“No weird names, Mom,” I assured her. “Ross doesn't like out of the ordinary names, and neither do I. We're sticking with the classics. Like Elizabeth or Catherine. And if it's a boy, then Stephen or William.”

There was a moment of silence, and I dared to think my mother had dropped the subject.

“Mom?” I said, when the moment had gone on freakishly long.

My mother said, “Have you considered Hazel?”

That evening, I discovered that Ross had had an alarming change of heart.

After dinner we settled in my living room. I put on a Madelaine Peyroux CD and got comfortable with
Vogue
and a cup of tea. Ross stretched out on the couch and put his hands behind his head.

“I've been thinking,” he said, musingly. “I want my son to stand out. I want him to be a take-charge kind of guy so he's going to need a take-charge kind of name. You know?”

“And if she's a girl, well, I want the same thing. I want her to be a real standout. But not aggressive like a boy, of course. I want her to command attention but in a feminine way. I want her to be beautiful and strong but not bitchy. I see my daughter as a Bodecia or maybe an Anastasia.”

I choked and reached for a napkin with my free hand. Had I heard Ross correctly? “Sorry?” I said brightly, dabbing my lips.

“Wait a minute,” Ross replied, still more to himself than to me. “Didn't that Russian princess Anastasia wind up getting murdered? Or going insane? Something bad happened to her. No, I think a warrior princess makes a better role model after all.” Now Ross looked directly at me and smiled. “Bodecia Davis. That has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

“Um,” I said, closing the magazine, “yes. It has aâring. So, what names are you thinking about for a boy?”

“Caesar is my first choice,” he replied, looking back to the ceiling. “But I have considered Thor. Or Attila. Attila Davis. King seems a bit much, a bit obvious. I don't want to throw my son's superiority in the faces of the lesser kids. Besides, someone might make a comparison to Elvis, and I really don't want that happening. No son of mine will die fat and on the toilet.”

I thought I might be sick. Carefully, I took another sip of tea and wished it were a vodka tonic. What's next? I wondered. Famous historical battlegrounds? I could see it now: Meet little Waterloo and his sister Iwo Jima. Life isn't hard enough so we wanted to burden our offspring with provocative names that would hang around their wee necks like a big stinky albatross.

More important, we wanted everyone we meet to know how clever we are!

“Ross?” I said. “Maybe we should just wait on choosing a name, you know? I've heard stories of parents having a name all picked out, and then the baby is born and they take one look at her and realize the name is all wrong. And then they come up with another name. A brand-new name.”

A nice, normal name like Robert or Marianne.

Ross smiled indulgently and rose from the couch. “All right. We won't make any decisions yet. No use in your getting upset and upsetting the baby.”

I smiled faintly.

“But that doesn't mean I won't be thinking,” Ross promised, planting a kiss on my forehead like a daddy. “You know me. I'm always thinking.”

BOOK: Babyland

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