Bombshell (9 page)

I will admit, that over the course of that brief conversation, in which he inquired about my life, I fell victim to the belief that maybe he cared about me more than I had imagined. Perhaps I had misjudged him.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

“So, Grace, I was wondering,” he said, once he had politely answered my inquiries into his own life. “Did you, uh, that is—did you ever get your period after that, uh, you know…incident?”

I felt the blood drain from my face, right along with any warm, fuzzy feelings about Ethan I might have conjured up during the cozy little conversation we'd just had. “Right on schedule,” I lied, not wanting to share with him the mixture of fear and hope that had filled me in those two weeks when my cycle had gone awry.

Clearly, he was still the same self-absorbed jerk he always was.

And I was a damn fool for thinking otherwise.

Then, before I could give him the satisfaction of knowing he could still evoke boiling anger in me, I made some excuse about a meeting I had to prepare for, and hung up the phone.

Cursing the rush of emotion that clogged my throat, I swallowed it down and bent my head over the marketing plan I had been working on.

 

“Fuck them all,” Claudia said as I shared the details of my latest Ethan fiasco with her over a cocktail later that evening. We had headed to Monkey Bar after work, a veritable haven for good-looking men, which was pretty ironic considering the reason we had found ourselves pouring down martinis like they were going out of style. Moments after I had hung up with Ethan, Claudia had appeared in my doorway, her face radiating the same fury I was feeling in that moment. Apparently, Larry Bennett of the Sterling Agency had canceled his dinner plans with Claudia for that evening and hadn't even bothered to reschedule, making some vague comment about being “busy” for the next few weeks. And why should he make room in his schedule for Claudia? He had just received the countersigned contract from Roxanne Dubrow, securing a big fat profit for his agency this year—and the contempt of at least one VP at Roxanne Dubrow.

“They're all bastards, every last one of them,” Claudia continued, swallowing down the last of her martini and immediately signaling the bartender for another.

I had felt a certain camaraderie with her in light of my own recent man disaster, which was why I had agreed to her
demand (she hadn't exactly asked) that I join her for drinks after work. Now, as I sat on the receiving end of all of Claudia's bitterness about the male species, I was starting to regret it.

“Did you know that Roger called me the other day to see if I was ready to sell him back the living room set his mother had given us when we got married? He claimed Heidi had admired it once before and wondered if I cared to part with it. Do you believe the fucking nerve of that idiot?”

Roger was Claudia's ex-husband. Heidi was half Claudia's age and had twice her bustline.

“I'll bet she admired it,” Claudia muttered. “Do you know I found them fucking on that sofa?”

My eyes widened. “Maybe you don't want to keep it around then, Claudia.”

She snorted with dissatisfaction, dismissing the subject as her hands reached for the sixth time in as many minutes, for the cigarettes she had tossed on the bar. Never mind that smoking was now banned from all bars and restaurants in New York City. “A woman can't have any vices in this city anymore.”

Well, there was one vice she had left at her disposal, I thought after we had downed another cocktail and paid the tab. If she was smart enough to keep a man around who wasn't too egotistical, too self-absorbed, to make himself available for a woman's pleasure.

With my mind and body soft and achy with drink, it was the only vice I wanted to indulge in that evening.

I dialed Billy in the cab on the way back to my apartment. Delighted that he was not only available but eager to partake of whatever pleasures an evening together had to offer.

I had just enough time to slip out of my work clothes and
into a silky lavender negligee when my buzzer rang, and Malakai, with the resignation I always sensed in his voice whenever I resorted to what I was sure he recognized to be my booty call, announced Billy's arrival.

Once I threw the door open to Billy, I didn't give a damn what Malakai thought. Dressed in faded jeans, a baby blue T-shirt that outlined his v-shape and made his blue eyes sparkle, and a black leather jacket that looked just as sexy as his tousled dark hair, Billy was irresistible.

So I didn't resist when he pressed me up against the wall of my foyer and allowed me to feel the real reason he was the first number I called when the hour grew late and I found myself in need of a ready partner. His hands slid over my ass, dragging the negligee up. “So sweet,” he said, grabbing hard and pressing his groin more firmly against me. His mouth hovered over mine, and I felt the scrape of stubble against my skin as our lips met.

We kissed like the old lovers we were, tongues tangling in a dance we'd been through over and over, teeth nipping playfully, teasingly, as if we still, despite the years, could not get enough of one another.

This probably was because we never did get too much of each other.

In fact, I might have taken him right there in the foyer and sent him on his merry way if it weren't for the draft that drifted over my bare feet, chilling them and distracting me from what was an otherwise drugging encounter.

“The bed,” I whispered against his mouth, dragging him with me as I stumbled toward my bedroom.

Once I was on my back, gazing up at Billy as he stripped off his jacket, his jeans, his sweater and finally, his briefs, something changed for me. Suddenly I wanted to take every
thing slow and rather than allow him to do the honor of plunging that beautiful equipment of his inside, I coaxed him to kiss my breasts, watching lazily as he slid the straps of my negligee down and grazed each nipple with his lips and tongue. He caught on quickly to my new demand, moving his mouth slowly over my abdomen, then grabbing my hips as he placed his head between my thighs….

Really, what more did a woman need? I asked myself as I surrendered to his skilled tongue, crying out in warning as I neared climax.

Billy responded by lifting his head and, aware that I preferred him inside me for the climax, he slid up my body, a knowing look in those beautiful blue eyes as he gazed at me.

A smile graced his lips as he touched the tip of himself against me, teasing me. It wasn't like he had never done this before, but suddenly I found myself quivering with a need to have him inside immediately—and without barriers. In fact, the thought of having Billy that close, of his coming inside me, nearly caused me to come myself.

I shifted, bringing his shaft in alignment and maneuvering myself down on to him when his eyes widened, his smile broadened with surprise. “Whoa, gorgeous,” he said, leaning away from me to grab his pants were they lay beside the bed. “Let me suit up first….”

“No,” I said, surprising myself and pulling him back into position. “Let's do it in the raw, Billy.”

“Grace—”

“Come on,” I found myself pleading in earnest, driven hard by a desire I had yet to articulate to myself. “It would be amazing, Billy.”

He smiled then, planted a soft kiss on my mouth. “I'm sure it would be, Gracie, but it would also be dangerous.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him: his blue, blue eyes surrounded by sooty lashes, his fine nose and solid jaw. “We'd make a beautiful baby, don't you think?” I said, feeling a sense of déjà vu as I said the words.

He laughed. “And terrible parents.”

I frowned at him. “I'm not so sure about that.”

“Gracie, a baby? Come on. You're kidding me, right?”

Maybe it was the way he was staring at me in utter disbelief. Or maybe it was the sense I suddenly felt that I was fighting a losing battle—mostly with myself—but suddenly I found myself saying, “I had you going there for a minute, didn't I?”

“Shit, Grace,” he said, shaking his head at me as he stood to retrieve his pants, pulling the ever-present packet of condoms out of one the pockets. “You sure did have me going.” He laughed out loud. “A baby.” He shook his head again. Then, once he had securely covered himself in latex, killing some little stab of hope that still gleamed inside me, his face turned mischievous. “Now you're gonna have to pay for that.” And with one fast, hard thrust he was inside me.

But I was gone by then. So far gone I felt like my body was numb.

And I wondered if I'd ever experience the rush of pleasure the thought of that child—Billy's child, my child—had brought.

Wondered if I'd ever feel anything ever again.

 

I woke the next morning alone. Another side effect of my relationship with Billy, who never stayed the night.

Billy…

The memory of our little tussle the night before weighed me down and suddenly I felt very, very old.

I slid the sheet down, sat up in all my naked glory.

Well, my nakedness had felt glorious last night. While this morning…

This morning I felt an ache in my bones that I feared had little to do with the acrobatics of the night before.

Before I gave in to the urge to slide back under the covers for the day, I stood up, heading for the bathroom. On autopilot, I turned on the shower, adjusting it so that the spray was as hot as my body could bear, then stepped under the spray.

Only to discover nothing could wash away the sadness that had penetrated me.

Had it been there all along, waiting to swallow me up? My breakup with Ethan. The glow I had once seen in Michael's eyes…

Irritated, I shook my head and doused myself under the spray again as a memory filled me.

Of me and Michael making love on the beach. Well, not on the beach, but in the guest house at the Dubrow property in South Hampton. Not that we needed to stay in the guest house. It had been late September and the Dubrows had long since given up their weekly foray to the family vacation home. Yet Michael had opted for the little cottage closer to the shore, rather than staying in the main house. “We can hear the ocean better,” he had said, though now I wondered if it was because he didn't want to muck up the pristine family home with our tawdry little affair. But that was just it. It wasn't tawdry. I had been in love and had thought he had been, too. So much so that we had taken other risks together, foregoing all methods of birth control aside from the pull-out method. Suddenly I remembered that feeling I had had—that same crazy wish that had washed over me last
night. That Michael would let loose inside me, that we might possibly bring a child into this world together.

I realized that this longing that seemed to drive me now, with Billy, and yes, possibly even with Ethan, had originated then. In fact, I was so overcome by it that I had, while wrapped in Michael's arms in the cozy afterglow, admitted as much to him.

He had smiled softly, rubbed his nose into mine and run a hand possessively over my hips as he said, “You and I would make a beautiful baby.”

Now I knew why I had felt that sense of déjà vu last night. Where I had heard those words I had uttered before. From Michael. I had taken it as a promise, I supposed. So much so, I realized now, that I had, on some level, been waiting for each man since to fulfill it.

I turned off the taps, stepped out of the shower and studied my reflection in the steamy mirror as realization dawned. Maybe that was what I had been doing wrong. Waiting. Waiting for some man to make me happy, I thought, my hand roaming to my gently rounded abs. Maybe I could have what I clearly wanted…on my terms.

“S
o you're going to have a child on your own then,” Shelley said, when I informed her of my decision, which seemed to grow even firmer in my mind after a harrowing few days in the office. On Monday, Claudia received her assistant's resignation. Apparently Jeannie had decided life at home with her baby boy was more rewarding than being Claudia's personal slave. I couldn't blame her, especially after listening to Claudia rail against the injustice of her assistant leaving her in the middle of the biggest campaign this company had seen in a long time—you know, the campaign I was not even a real part of?

I decided to take it as a sign that perhaps my own happiness was to be found somewhere far from Claudia's clutching command. Somewhere free of the disappointments the
men in my life had brought. Who needed a man nowadays, with all the new fertility technology? And with that thought I realized I had made another decision: I would not go the adoption route. Besides the hassles sure to be involved in single parent adoptions—my own happily married parents had had enough trouble securing me—I was certain that what I craved was the kind of motherhood bond that only could be made in blood.

And as I explained this part of my plan to Shelley, a stab of anxiety filled me—who even knew what really was involved in a donor search after all?—followed by a sense of anticipation. I could do this if I wanted to. The way I wanted to. That thought gave me pleasure.

Even Shelley was taking her own pleasure in my chattiness tonight. “Tell me, Grace, what having a child means to you.”

For once, her question felt like an easy one. “It means having someone to love.” I hesitated, searching for words to shape the longing—and the hope—that filled me. “It means always having someone there for you.”

I saw Shelley's lips purse. “What?” I asked, suddenly fearful that she was about to burst this happy little bubble I had found myself living in.

“Think about what you just said.”

“What did I say?” Now I felt defensive. And confused. What
had
I said? “That I want someone to love and be there for me?”

“Grace, you are talking about a child. Someone
you
must be there for. A child
you
must care for and love.”

“I realize that.” Did she think I was taking parenthood lightly? “I am perfectly capable of caring for a child.” I certainly had enough experience mothering, I thought, remembering all the years I had helped Angie through the
rough patches of her life, and even sometimes Lori. Hell, you might even call all that pandering Claudia required a kind of mothering. At least if I had a child on my own, I would get something in return. I'd even have someone to spend Saturday night with, I thought, realizing that despite all the mothering I had done in my life, I still was, essentially, alone, when it came right down to things. Angie was going to marry and live happily ever after. Lori would move on with Dennis, or move on, eventually. And Claudia…well I'd like to move her on…to the home for wayward adults.

“I think I would make a good parent,” I said finally.

“I don't doubt that,” Shelley said. “I'm just questioning what it is you want from parenthood.”

Despite how embarrassingly needy it made me feel, I found myself blurting out. “I want someone to love me. Un-conditionally. What the hell is wrong with that?”

I saw her shift in her chair, and I couldn't help but see this as impatience, as if I were some child who just didn't get it. I felt my old resentment toward Shelley rear its ugly head. “I deserve it, don't I?” I cried, surprised at the emotion behind my words.

Her face softened, and I nearly wept at the pure sympathy I saw there. Though I wanted to resent her for not giving me the guidance I sought, I realized that I needed something else from her now. And that something was the genuine caring I saw in her features just then. But it was only momentary. For Shelley folded that flickering emotion back behind her therapist facade just as easily as she smoothed the wrinkle that creased her pants as she crossed her legs once more, composing herself.

Ignoring my question, she said, “You can't hope to get from a child everything your mother didn't give you. And
in this case I mean your biological mother,” she said carefully. “I think that's who we're talking about here, considering the importance you seem to place on giving birth to this child you long for.”

I felt the familiar resistance brewing in me. Now I knew why she had seemed so happy with my little sperm-donor plan. Probably because it validated that stupid psychological paradigm she had dreamed up ever since I had started coming to see her.

“Yes, the child will love you, but a child isn't a caregiver,” she continued. “Your very language suggests that you are looking for a parent, Grace, not a child. You are trying to replace your lost mother.”

Whatever tears had threatened quickly died inside me, replaced by mind-bending anger. I hated the idea that Kristina Morova—a woman who hadn't given me more than the nine months it had taken to form me—could have such power over my emotions. And I hated Shelley even more for suggesting it. “You know what, I'm tired of this,” I said, folding my arms stiffly across my chest, whether to shield Shelley or myself from the wave of feeling shaking through me, I wasn't sure. “Why does everything I think, everything I feel, have to be about…about
her?
” I practically shouted. “Can't it just be that I want to have a fucking baby, for chrissakes? I'm almost thirty-five years old!”

Shelley remained nonplussed, responding once more in that smooth, well-modulated voice. “Of course, a desire to have a child is common, especially among women your age,” she said. “But you need to ask yourself why you are choosing to have a child alone, Grace.”

Then, with a glance, I was sure, at the clock that ticked
ominously above my head, she said, “We're out of time for now. Let's pick up with this same topic next week, shall we?”

 

I decided to take up the topic the very next morning at work. And though I had made my decision to have a child out of the wisdom and, yes, the disappointments, only a thirty-four-year-old woman could have, I realized that when it came to modern-day babymaking, I would rely on the overused resource of the 18-to-24-year-old set, at least according to our recent focus group research.

The Internet.

It was amazing what a little search on “sperm donor” could yield.

Nearly 17,000 entries, the top results containing actual search engines where I could search for donors by race, education and most desirable physical attributes.

I was amazed at how easy it all seemed.

And how daunting.

Still, I downloaded some information from a few Web sites that seemed reputable—though that was quickly becoming a relative term—and tucked them into my bag to read at home, comforted by the idea that at least I had…options.

And I didn't need anyone else to pursue them.

The phone rang, startling me out my thoughts. “Grace Noonan,” I said, picking up on the first ring.

“Gracie, it's Dad.”

I froze, quickly shoving the last download into my bag, as if my father had just stepped into the room and caught me in the horizontal with a man. Ironic, yes, but the fact was, my father never called me at work. My father never called
me period. It was my mother who did all the communicating for both of them. Which was why this little phone call coming in the midst of my little quest seemed stranger still.

“Is Mom okay?” I asked, grasping for the first reason I could come up with for why he was on the other end of the line and not her.

He chuckled. “What, a father can't call his daughter once in a while?” he replied.

I smiled, heartened by the idea that maybe my father did call just to say hi, though I was absolutely certain that wasn't the case. “What's up?”

“Well, now that you ask,” he began, “as you know, your mother and I have a big wedding anniversary coming up.”

Ah, it was all coming together now. The gift. He needed a little shopping inspiration for this momentous purchase he was about to make for my mom. My smile deepened. “Let me guess—you have no idea what to get her?”

“No, no, not at all. In fact, I have the perfect gift. And, as it turns out, it's just coming up for sale. Do you remember that painting your mother and I argued over when we met?
Mariella in the Afternoon
by Chevalier?”

I had never seen the painting, but the story had been told to me so often I could practically picture it. The painting featured a woman in the foreground, standing in her garden and gazing out, seemingly toward the road, where a figure approached in the distance. A figure so small it was difficult to know who the woman waited for. When my mother and father had found themselves standing before it at an art opening over forty years earlier, they had barely introduced themselves before their first argument began over whether it was a lover, a child or a friend the woman waited for, each basing their reasons on the enigmatic expression
in the woman's eyes and a somewhat quixotic turn of her lips. My mother thought it was a child. My father, a lover. According to my father, the date on the painting was no help, as Chevalier often painted from a mixture of memory and photographs and didn't always adhere to historical veracity when it came to the subject matter.
Mariella in the Afternoon
was a modern-day Mona Lisa, though with a bit more scenery and narrative detail, painted by an up-and-coming French painter of the time, and now, according to my father, it was being shown at the Wingate Gallery down in SoHo.

“Wow,” I said. “How did you manage to track it down?” I asked. I mean, it wasn't like we were talking about a Picasso here.

“I kept my eye on that painting,” my father replied. “Knew that if I had the good fortune to make your mother my wife, I would one day buy it for her. That day has come. The painting came to New York through a private sale twenty years ago. To a collector—R.J. Sutherland, I think his name was. Anyway, Sutherland has passed on, and the painting was moved to the Wingate Gallery by his estate, to be sold on consignment. I had thought I might be able to fly in myself, make the arrangements, but with your mother and me preparing for our trip, I don't think I can get away. I wondered if perhaps you could go in my stead….”

“Dad, I don't know much about art…”

“Yes, you do, darling,” he said, reminding me of the fact that I had studied fine arts before switching to business administration in my sophomore year of college. Not only had I discovered that I had more of an eye for art than a talent for it, I had decided I needed to get practical in my coursework if I hoped to get a job once I graduated.

“Besides,” my father continued, “you don't need to know anything, as long as you have the asking price,” he said, naming a figure that made my jaw drop.

“Dad, that's really generous of you, but can you and Mom afford that?”

“Of course we can. I've been keeping my own little nest egg for just this moment. I know your mother is going to throw a fit at first, but once she remembers that beautiful moment we stood before that painting, she'll understand why I did it.”

I felt a fluttering in my stomach at the pure love I heard in his voice. “When is it, Dad?” I asked, feeling foolish for thinking, even momentarily, that I would not fulfill this romantic request for him. He gave me the date and time and the address for the opening of the show, and after I hung up, I felt a stab of longing so deep, I feared those downloads I planned to tote home could never satisfy.

 

“Have you set a date yet?” I said to Angie as we tried on clothes at Bloomingdale's that night. We were sharing a dressing room, partly because the early evening crowd prevented us from getting separate ones, but mostly because Angie was trying on bathing suits for the upcoming trip to L.A. she was taking Thanksgiving weekend with Justin and was anxious about it. And though angst was Angie's natural state, tonight she seemed even worse than usual.

“No, we
haven't,
okay?” she barked at me, stepping into the third pair of bikini bottoms she had brought in with her.

“Touchy, touchy,” I said, holding a dress up against me to contemplate the color.

“I'm sorry.” Angie stood up to look at me. “It's just that
my mother has been harping on that very same question ever since we told her about the engagement.”

I looked at her. “Well, isn't that usually what happens? You get engaged, you plan a wedding.”

“That's just it. Ever since Justin and I got engaged, this wedding has taken on a life of its own. My mother's got me schlepping out to Brooklyn every weekend, looking at halls. And you should see some of the places she's lined up—perfect settings for
Saturday Night Fever.
In fact, Justin should bring a film crew and we could do a remake.”

“I didn't know you were getting married in Brooklyn.”

She placed the bikini top against her chest. “
I
didn't know I was getting married in Brooklyn, until next thing you know, I'm packed in a car with my mother, Justin, Nonnie and Artie Matarrazzo—you know, my Nonnie's beau? He's become the family chauffeur ever since he started dating my grandmother, and now my mother's got him dragging us around from one horrifying wedding venue to another. Then my mother has the nerve—the nerve!—to yell at me for being too picky! Too picky! She's the one who insists I get married within a stone's throw of her house.”

“What does Justin say?”

“You know Justin. He's happy with whatever makes me happy. I don't think he realizes that my mother is slowly driving me insane,” she finished, her face flushed with frustration as she fastened the bikini top.

“Well, if you don't want to get married in Brooklyn, you need to tell your mother that.”