Christmas Bliss (6 page)

“I didn’t until I got knocked up. Isn’t this gross? I have to put a Band-Aid over it if I want to wear anything the least bit stretchy.”

“It’s not gross at all. It’s kind of cool, I think. Especially the boobs. You used to just barely be an A-cup, right? Now you’re what, a C?”

“You sound just like Harry,” BeBe said, sliding the dress over her head. “He seems to think my body is some fascinating new amusement park. You’d think he’d be turned off, but not old Harry.” She rolled her eyes meaningfully, then turned back to the mirror, to appraise her appearance.

“It fits all right, I guess, but doesn’t it make me look like a Hershey’s Kiss?”

“No it does not. Stop running yourself down. You look great. The dress is chic and flattering. Being pregnant totally suits you. Your hair and skin look great.”

“If you tell me I’m glowing I’m going to barf,” she warned.

I handed her a wastebasket. “Be my guest. I’ll tell you something else, BeBe Loudermilk. Even if you don’t want to hear it. Harry Sorrentino is the best thing that ever happened to you. He is the real deal. He’s smart and kind and sexy as hell. And he’s an honest-to-goodness grown-up adult—which we both know are an endangered species as far as men are concerned. Also? He happens to adore you. So you need to stop all this bitchin’ and moaning about being pregnant and do the right thing for your child and for yourself and Harry. You need to marry your baby daddy, BeBe.”

She got a funny look on her face. Then she slumped down, buried her head in her hands, and began to sob.

“I can’t,” she said, her shoulders shaking with emotion.

“Sure you can,” I said, stroking her back in an attempt to comfort her. “It’s easy. You get a marriage license and a ring, and find yourself a justice of the peace and bingo—instant respectability.”

That made her cry even harder.

“Okay, I didn’t mean to insinuate you’re not already respectable,” I said, backpedaling as fast as I could.

She sat up and dabbed at her eyes with the hem of one of her discarded dresses. “You don’t understand,” she said, sniffling louder. “I mean I really can’t marry Harry. Even if I wanted to.”

“Why not?”

A fresh round of tears welled up in her eyes. “Because … because I just found out I’m probably still married.”

She was as serious as a heart attack. “Married? To who? I mean, whom?”

“To Richard!” she cried. “Oh my God, Weezie. It’s my worst nightmare come true.”

*   *   *

When she had calmed down a little, she told me the whole ugly story.

“You have to promise not to tell a soul,” she cautioned.

I gave her a look.

“I know you wouldn’t, but still, if Harry finds out about this, it’ll just kill him.”

“You’re not going to tell him?”

“That the mother of his unborn child is apparently still married to a sex freak and convicted criminal, who, I pray to God, is still locked up in prison? That I’m probably a bigamist, because I married Sandy Thayer while I was still married to Richard? Are you nuts?”

“Harry knows your backstory, and he obviously doesn’t care,” Weezie said. “Think how hurt he’d be if he found out you’d been keeping this a secret. I just don’t want you to mess this up, BeBe.”

Chapter 6

BeBe

I didn’t want me to mess this up either. It had taken me years, but I’d finally managed to find Mr. Right. And I didn’t intend to let anything or anybody spoil my hard-won happiness.

Of course, our relationship got off to a pretty bumpy start.

A little over two years ago, I woke up one morning and discovered that a charming snake in the grass named Reddy Millbanks III had managed to cheat me out of literally everything except the clothes on my back.

I’d met Reddy on the rebound from yet another doomed romance—at the Telfair Ball, of all places, an annual charity benefit attended by the cream of Savannah society. How could I know he’d weaseled his way into that party the same way he later weaseled his way into my bed and my bank accounts?

When the dust settled from that fiasco, I was homeless and forced to move into the manager’s unit of the broken-down tourist court on Tybee Island that Reddy had bought with my money—and without my knowledge—with the intention of selling it off quickly to make another fast buck.

Imagine my surprise to find said manager’s unit already occupied by an irascible charter fishing boat captain named Harry Sorrentino. Imagine my further surprise to find myself quickly falling in love with Harry—and his little dog Jeeves. The baby had been a surprise too. At thirty-seven, I’d figured I wouldn’t ever have children. But when I discovered I was pregnant and hesitantly shared the news, his reaction was one I never could have predicted.

He’d wept! And then he asked me to marry him. But I’d resisted, and considering this unwelcome latest development, it was a good thing I had.

Now, in the meantime, I still had to make an appearance at that dreaded baby shower. Weezie was determined to make that happen.

She held up a pair of brown suede pumps. “Here. Put these on.”

“Can’t,” I said, sticking out my bare legs so she could see the pitiful condition of my puffy ankles and feet.

“All these gorgeous shoes. Can’t you wear any of them?”

“Nope.” I pointed at a pair of plain black flats by the closet doors. “Those nun’s shoes are the only ones that fit. Unless you count flip-flops. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to wear flip-flops in December.”

Weezie handed me the shoes and I managed to wedge my feet into the flats.

“You look nice,” she said, ever the loyal best friend.

“Liar.”

“What does your grandmama have to say about your refusal to get married?”

I rolled my eyes. “About what you’d expect. She’s scandalized, disappointed. She says the least I can do is lie to people and say we’re engaged. And of course, she says my mama is rolling over in her grave.”

“Which she probably is,” Weezie pointed out. “We’ll get my uncle James to straighten out this mess. And after he does, I still think you need to marry Harry.”

“You can talk till you’re blue in the face, but you won’t change my mind. Marriage is fine for some people—I think it’s absolutely right for you and Daniel—but Harry and I don’t need a piece of paper to prove our commitment to each other.”

“Whatever.” Weezie knew it was pointless to keep arguing. She gave me a critical once-over. “Okay, so we’re good here, right? You’ve got a cute outfit and some, uh, semi-cute shoes. Now, slap on some makeup and your big girl jewelry and let’s hit the road. Merijoy gave me strict instructions that I was to get you to her house half an hour early.”

“Do I have to?”

“Don’t make me come over there and whomp you upside the head with an eye-shadow brush,” she said, handing me my cosmetic bag.

I sat down at my dressing table and did as I was told, smoothing foundation over my face, followed by a quick sweep of eyeliner, mascara, and coral lip gloss, while Weezie roamed around the room, putting it back just the way she designed it all those months ago after Harry and I formally moved in together.

I glanced over my shoulder at her. “Speaking of weddings, how are the plans coming along? Did your mama get your dress fixed? How did the tasting go at the restaurant?”

“Mama’s working on the dress. It’ll be fine. It’s Daddy I’m worried about.”

“How so?”

“He’s just not himself. He forgets things—and not just little things. I asked Mama about it, and she about bit my head off. She’s in denial.”

“That’s a tough one,” I agreed. “What about the food for the reception? Has Julio got something fabulous planned?”

She nodded. “Wait’ll you see. It’s gonna be amazing. Julio and Daniel have outdone themselves. Tiny little crab cakes and lobster bisque and on and on.”

“Which reminds me. Wasn’t Friday night the big night at Cucina Carlotta? How did it go? Is Daniel the toast of the town?”

Weezie’s usually cheerful face clouded over. She bit the side of her lip and wrinkled her nose.

“What? He burned the biscuits? Overcooked the shrimp?”

“You know better than that,” Weezie scoffed. “It went great, from what I can tell. He says the restaurant has been totally slammed.”

“You don’t look too happy about it,” I pointed out. “What’s going on, Weez?”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Tell me,” I ordered. “I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s wrong.”

She busied herself straightening my room, putting shoes back in boxes, hanging clothes in the closet. “I’m being silly. I know I am, but I can’t help the way I feel.”

“What is it you’re being silly about? Something with Daniel?” A hideous thought occurred to me. “Oh my God. Tell me you’re not having second thoughts. Just because marriage isn’t right for me, that doesn’t mean it isn’t right for you. You and Daniel are perfect together. I knew you would be, the first time I laid eyes on him.”

“It’s not that,” Weezie said. “It’s the dumbest thing. When I was at Guale yesterday, one of the waitresses had tacked up a photo of Daniel and Mrs. Donatello—Carlotta, on the bulletin board.”

“What kind of photo?”

“It was from one of those New York tabloids—taken at this swanky party Carlotta threw in his honor.”

“And?”

Weezie was standing in front of the closet, her back to me. I heard a muttered stream of words, only a few of which I could make out. But the words and phrases “bombshell,” “cleavage,” “dinner jacket,” and “shit-eating-grin” seemed fairly distinct.

I managed to heave myself up from my perch. I gently placed my hands on my best friend’s shoulders and turned her around to face me. Her eyes were red. She sniffed loudly.

“So. I gather the photo was of Daniel and some tramp named Carlotta and her boobs. He was wearing a dinner jacket and a stupid smile. And this is making you insane with jealousy. Is that about the gist of it?”

She nodded and gulped. “I
told
you it was crazy. I’m ashamed of myself. But I can’t stop thinking about it. I thought he was going up there to work for some big fat Italian lady with a white bun and fallen arches. You know, some sweet old
nonna
type. And Daniel never said anything to let me think otherwise. Then I see this picture of her—swear to God, BeBe, she looks like a young Sophia Loren, and she’s got herself wrapped around Daniel … pasted to him!

“And the thing that gets me? The worst part? He was wearing a dinner jacket. Daniel Stipanek—in a dinner jacket!”

I patted her shoulder. “You’re right. The dinner jacket thing is unforgivable. The man is totally not to be trusted and you should definitely cancel the wedding.”

She gave me a baleful look. “He didn’t call me for two days. Not even a text. And he never mentioned the party she gave him or the fact that his boss looks like a supermodel.”

“So you’re saying you don’t trust him?”

“No! I trust him completely. Utterly. It’s that woman I don’t trust.”

“Have you discussed this with him?”

She nodded. “He finally called last night. And he did say he hasn’t had a spare minute. He claims he didn’t mention the party because he didn’t think it was important. Because he hates big crowds.”

“Which he does,” I pointed out. “What does he say about this Carlotta hag?”

Weezie shrugged. “You know how Daniel is. He claims he doesn’t have any idea how old she is or that she was planning that party. And he says he’s lonely. And he misses me.”

“All of this sounds exactly like the Daniel I know,” I told her. “When I owned Guale and he was single and available—every gorgeous woman in Savannah made a run at him. And he never even noticed them. Daniel’s no player, Weezie. He’s in love with you.”

“The rational me knows all that,” Weezie said miserably. “The rational me knows he’ll be home in a week, and we’ll get married and it’ll all be good. But the crazy-pants Bridezilla me cannot get rid of the image of that woman with her boobs all pushed up in Daniel’s grille.”

Her eyes were starting to tear up again.

“I thought I was the one with raging hormones.” I gave her shoulder a final pat. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think the only way you’re going to get through this next week with your sanity intact is to go up there.”

She looked startled. “New York? Are you crazy? I’m getting married in a week. It’s Christmas. My busiest time of the year at the shop. I can’t just drop everything and go to New York.”

“Okay. It was just a thought.” I grabbed my pocketbook and my keys and headed for the front door. As soon as I walked into the living room, Jeeves hopped down from his chair and trotted over to the door. With effort, I managed to lean over far enough to scratch his chin.

“Sorry, sport. This is a baby shower. It’s strictly chicks. No boys, no dogs allowed.” I tossed him a treat from the jar by the door, and he caught it in midair, then trotted back to his chair to savor.

Weezie followed me out the door and stood by while I locked up.

“Anyway, I don’t need to go to New York,” she continued. “Yes, he’s lonely. And I’ve never been there, and even Daniel, who hates Christmas, says it’s pretty cool to be in New York during the holidays, but there’s no way I could go. I’m getting married next Sunday.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I agreed. “Besides, I need you to take a look at the new kitchen cabinets and give me your opinion on the paint color. I’m thinking maybe it’s too dark.”

Weezie turned and pointed in the direction of our latest construction project. “How’s the house coming?”

Living in the charming but cramped manager’s unit at the Breeze Inn was always supposed to be a temporary solution to our housing situation, but with the baby coming, Harry had the bright idea to buy a dilapidated old 1920s-era wood-frame house located on the north end of the island and have it moved to a vacant lot beside the motel. That was six months ago.

The house, which had once been the commissary for Fort Screven, a decommissioned World War I army post on Tybee, had been partially disassembled, jacked up, and loaded onto a flatbed tractor-trailer for the mile-and-a-half trip down Butler Avenue to our property on the south end of the island. The plan was for the commissary to be reassembled on a new raised foundation, and transformed into a period-perfect three-bedroom, three-bath nest for our new family. But plans have a tendency to go awry. Especially on Tybee, where everybody and everything runs on island time.