Magnolia Wednesdays (29 page)

“Thanks,” Vivi said, though she knew from personal experience that a little thing like office policy was unlikely to stop Matt Glazer any more than it had ever stopped her.

“Now then,” Dr. Gilbert said as he consulted his chart and then her stomach. “You’re right around thirty weeks. We shouldn’t be too far off of that mid-April due date.”

Only a little over two months to go, Vivi thought, still unable to imagine actually giving birth. Or any of what would come afterward. “Where are we fruitwise?” Vivi asked as he palpitated her stomach.

“Zooming in on that watermelon,” he teased. “You’ve got a big’un in here.”

“Football player or cheerleader?” Melanie asked.

“Your sister said she wanted to be surprised,” Dr. Gilbert said. “I think that was the visit where she likened her uterus to a Cracker Jack box.” He chuckled again.

“So,” he said as he helped Vivien into a sitting position. “Tell me about your birth plan.”

“Birth plan?”

“Yes, what are you planning for the birth of your child?” he asked. “Have you been taking Lamaze classes? Do you have a birth partner? You need to think about whether you want to do this ‘naturally’ or you’re open to drugs. We do everything we can to do things the way you want.”

Vivien almost laughed. She’d done pretty much no planning up until now and it seemed a little late to start.

“My plan is to show up at the hospital, get an epidural, preferably in the parking lot. And then let you remove the baby from its resting place as quickly and painlessly as possible. I am not leaving pain management up to my ability to breathe.

“As to a birth partner . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked at Melanie. “I’m sort of hoping Serena here might be willing to help me out.”

“Of course I will,” Melanie said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“All right then,” Dr. Gilbert said. “I’ll see you two four weeks from now. After that we’ll be in the home stretch and I’ll see you every two weeks.”

After the doctor left, Vivien got dressed and shrugged into her disguise. Melanie gave her some shit about that as they walked toward the checkout desk.

“Melanie?”

Both of them turned as the male voice reached them. A white-coated stethoscope-wearing doctor approached with a big smile on his handsome face. “I thought that was you. How are you?”

While Melanie blushed at the obvious delight on the doctor’s face, Vivien read the name embroidered on the pocket. His name was Dr. Summers, and every bit of his attention was focused on Melanie. “Fine,” her sister said as her hand was swallowed up in the doctor’s larger one. “Vivi, this is Dr. Summers. He delivered Shelby and Trip.”

Vivi extended her hand to the doctor, noting the salt-and-pepper hair and intelligent blue eyes that would have enabled him to play a doctor on television if he weren’t already so busy being one. She looked down at their hands as they shook hello and noted the absence of a wedding ring. Not definitive, of course, of marital status, but promising.

“I was so sorry to hear about J.J.,” he was saying now to Melanie. “I meant to call but I hated to intrude.”

“Thank you,” Melanie said. “How are Barbara and the kids?”

“Good.” He hesitated. “I mean they are good, but Barb and I aren’t married anymore. We got divorced about a year ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Melanie said. “That’s too bad.” Vivien could tell just how sorry Melanie wasn’t. “Actually, it’s better for everybody. It was long overdue.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good then,” Melanie said, leaving the ball squarely in the doctor’s court. There was a long pause while Vivien held her breath waiting to see whether Dr. Summers was as interested as he seemed.

“Maybe we should get together and, um, catch up sometime.”

Melanie had apparently been rendered speechless, so Vivien took a turn at charades, jabbing Melanie softly in the side to get her attention and then nodding her head up and down as subtly as she could. “Oh!” Melanie said as Vivien’s second jab helped her locate her voice. “Oh! That would be, um, great.” She nodded her head vigorously. “I’d, um, really like that.”

The head nodding continued with both Melanie and the doctor smiling somewhat inanely. When Vivien couldn’t take it anymore, she withdrew a slip of paper from her purse, wrote Melanie’s home and cell numbers on it, and handed it to the doctor. Then she grasped Melanie by the arm and dragged her sister down the corridor and out of the office, her trench coat flapping out behind her.

29

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING about being in the final two-month countdown that made the fact of her impending motherhood impossible for Vivi to ignore. Of course, the bulging stomach and gargantuan breasts, along with the swelling hands and feet, were even more unavoidable reminders than the winnowing number of days on the calendar. The fact that the lethargy had returned didn’t help, either. Any last vestiges of denial had been brutally ripped away by the unavoidable changes in her body.

In many ways, she wanted this all to be some horrible dream. Wanted to wake up in her apartment in New York with Stone beside her and be able to laugh with him at the horrific nightmare she had conjured: shot in the butt on national television, out of her network job, humiliated on YouTube, pregnant and unmarried at forty-one, writing a rant of a column that she couldn’t even admit to. And that didn’t even include the cold war with Caroline or the fact that she suspected Clay Alexander of withholding information about J.J.’s death, although she still had no idea in what way. Or why.

Which made it even more difficult to admit just how gifted the man was when it came to fashion. Vivien refused to acknowledge this even to herself until they’d been through three of Atlanta’s finest boutiques where the saleswomen had drooled all over him and by extension Shelby, and paraded some of the most delectable clothing she’d ever seen outside of New York or Paris in front of them.

“No,” he was saying now to a sophisticated blonde in a form-fitting black dress, “she needs something more tailored and sophisticated. Something Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn might have worn. Not Madonna or Britney.”

“But . . .” Shelby, who at first had been simply ecstatic at all the attention, the Cokes and snacks, the private showings, was starting to lose patience. “That color is perfect on me,” she said, pointing to the red satin gown the saleswoman held out for their inspection. “And you promised I could get something strapless.”

Vivien sat back in her chair and folded her arms on top of her bulging stomach, eager to hear Clay wiggle out of that one. But the man was not even slightly deterred.

“That
is
a good color on you,” he acknowledged reasonably, “though I think white or black would be even better. But there’s strapless, Shelby, and there’s strapless. You don’t want to be too obvious. Men like to wonder. It’s better to leave something to the imagination. Your mother always understood that and knew how to pull it off. And we don’t want to forget that you’re barely seventeen.”

Shelby didn’t appreciate the reference to her mother or the reminder of her age, especially since they weren’t the first of the afternoon.

The more Vivi observed Clay, the more contradictory he seemed. He held Melanie in extremely high regard and spent a lot of time with her, but didn’t actually date her. Again, she wondered if he were more interested in besting J.J., even posthumously, than winning Mellie. It was as if he were trying out for the role of J.J., but wasn’t positive he wanted the part.

They moved on to the designer departments of Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus, where, yet again, the saleswomen fawned all over Clay and Shelby and pretty much ignored Vivien for the lump of non-designer-wearing flesh that she’d become. Vivien saw several gowns that she would have put Shelby in in a heartbeat, but she’d promised herself she’d remain an observer. So far all she’d learned about Clay Alexander was that he could have been working in haute couture rather than politics and women of all shapes and sizes seemed unable to resist him. Even Shelby, who alternately flirted with him and huffed at him as if he were her parent, was anything but immune.

“Did you used to dress your wife, too?” Vivi asked Clay as they waited for Shelby to appear in the first of the gowns Clay had selected for her to try on at a small shop not far from Lenox Square mall.

He paused momentarily as if trying to gauge the intent behind the question. “Yes,” he said. “Actually I did.”

Vivien tried to keep any sign of judgment off her face and out of her voice, but she could tell she hadn’t succeeded.

“It’s just something I happen to be good at. Do you find that surprising?”

“Don’t you?” she countered. “I mean you don’t look like you belong on
What Not to Wear
or
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
.”

He shook his head; for a moment she thought he might roll his eyes. “I’m sure they’re making better money than I am. But I was born with an affinity for color and design. I instinctively know what will work and what won’t. And I know which clothing will enhance a woman’s physical assets and camouflage her flaws. I didn’t ask for this talent, but I’ve got it. Just like I’ve got a natural top spin on my backhand in tennis and the ability to estimate the check at a restaurant in my head.” He shrugged his broad shoulders for emphasis. “I enjoy using this talent on my friends’ behalf.”

“What did J.J. think of you dressing his wife?” she asked, darting closer to what interested her most.

He flashed the pearly whites. “J.J.? He asked me to help Melanie with her wardrobe.” He saw the expression on Vivien’s face and hastened to add. “Not because she didn’t have excellent taste, but because she didn’t trust her own judgment. You aren’t the only one your mother did a number on.” Both of their lips compressed as they thought about Caroline. “Melanie’s clothing was a legitimate business concern. Having a wife who looked good on his arm was key for J.J.” An expression Vivien couldn’t read passed over Clay’s face. “It’s hard to get elected even today without an attractive and well-turned-out family around you. It was just one of the many things I took care of for him.”

They were interrupted by a squeal of delight from the dressing room. “It sounds like we may have a contender,” Clay said. “Happily, everything she took back with her is entirely suitable. I’m betting it’s the white chiffon with the dropped waist and the handkerchief-style hem.”

Vivien was glad she hadn’t argued when Shelby made her entrance with a long-strided walk of a model on a cat-walk wearing the very dress Clay had just laid money on. Even Vivien, who was not inclined to give Clay Alexander an inch more than his due, had to admit the dress was perfect. The strapless bodice showed off Shelby’s creamy shoulders and clung to her breasts without being too revealing or too low cut. The fabric nipped in, hugging her tiny waist and slim hips then flared down in uneven lengths around her calves. The longest lengths brushed her ankles.

“Oh,” Vivien breathed as Shelby twirled in a delighted circle. “It is perfect. And you do look exactly like your mother.”

Shelby was too thrilled with her reflection in the mirror and the sparkly high-heeled sandals and jewelry Clay paired with the dress to take exception to the comparison.

Clay just smiled as he added a delicately woven shawl in beige, cream, and white to the ensemble then showed her how to drape it artfully around her shoulders and hold it in place at the elbows. As they watched Shelby primp and twirl in front of the triangle of mirrors Vivien had the sense that Clay was seeing something other than the teenager in front of them. She was contemplating asking him about it when he said, “This dress reminds me of the one Melanie wore to that first Sigma Sigma formal.” He looked into Vivien’s eyes and there were too many emotions in his for her to catalogue them successfully. “The one I invited her to and where I introduced her to J.J.”

RUTH SAT AT the kitchen table waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. It was cold outside, a raw February morning with a projected high somewhere in the forties. The Sunday morning paper was spread out in front of her; a bag of still-warm bagels sat on the counter.

“Good morning. Coffee smells good.”

Her head jerked up at the unexpected sound of Ira’s voice. He was wearing his pajamas and robe, but he’d already washed up and shaved. A faint whiff of the lemony aftershave he favored teased at her nostrils.

“Can I pour you a cup?” he asked as he moved toward the coffeemaker.

She nodded, surprised. “Thanks.”

Turning her attention back to the newspaper, Ruth followed his movements from the corner of one eye.

“Bagel?” he asked as he removed two from the brown paper bag with the Bagel Baron logo.

“Sure,” she said, although she wasn’t. “Thanks.”

She gave up pretending to read as he sliced them each a bagel and then made forays into the refrigerator to retrieve cream cheese and lox, then went back for a tomato and red onion. A few minutes later he brought a plate to the table and placed it in front of her. Before she could comment he’d returned with the pot of coffee and refilled her cup. All of a sudden she was in a full-service establishment.

“Thanks,” she said, eyeing him with suspicion. Trying to figure out what he was up to, she waited for him to carry his own plate into his office as he’d taken to doing lately. But he brought it to his old spot across the table from her and sat down as if this were just any other Sunday that had taken place during the fifty years of their marriage. Before the commencement of hostilities had begun.

He was after something; she just didn’t know what. “Are you finished with the business section?” he asked politely.

“Sure.” She passed it over, but he didn’t open it right away.

They ate for a few moments, eyeing each other tentatively.

“So,” he finally said. “I was, um, wondering if you might like to go to a movie this afternoon—maybe that new De Niro film. We could go out for dinner after.” His gaze flicked over her, then away as if it had just occurred to him that she might say no. “Or we can see something else. Whatever you want.”

Her eyes narrowed in surprise at the unexpected invitation. “You’re not planning to go into the office? You don’t have something you need to work on?” she asked. “Or a golf game?”

“Nope.” He took a bite of his bagel and lox and chewed it thoughtfully. “I’m taking the day off.” He looked her in the eye. “So I can spend it with my wife.”

She blinked and looked at him more closely. “Is there a punch line to this? Because if there is, I’m not laughing.”

“No joke.” He took another bite of his food.

She watched him chew and swallow. After he wiped his mouth with his napkin, he said. “Seriously, Ruthie. I’m yours for the day.” He smiled and his brown eyes twinkled at her, the old goat. “If you want me.”

She dropped her gaze for a moment, not wanting him to see the sudden rush of pleasure she felt. Or the uncertainty that followed so fast on its heels. She hadn’t realized how completely she’d given up hope until she felt it flutter back to life.

“Okay,” she said, afraid to make too much of the gesture. Showing up at dance class and an afternoon out did not a restored marriage make. “I’ll get out the movie schedule and see what time it’s playing.”

“Great,” he said, then hesitated for a moment before adding, “While you’re at it, why don’t you get out the travel section, too? I was thinking maybe we could take a little cruise.” He swallowed as he sought out and held her gaze. “Or fly down to that place in Mexico the kids told us about. You know, just for a long weekend.”

For one of the first times in her life Ruth Melnick was completely speechless. She looked at her husband and could see that he was waiting for a response, but she simply couldn’t form a coherent thought let alone words and sentences. She waited for the other shoe to drop, for some ulterior motive to show through, but he seemed completely sincere.

“Would you like that, Ruthie? Do you want to go away with me?”

In the end he had to settle for a nod and a smile. Because even after she thought of the words she might say, she couldn’t seem to force them out past the lump that seemed to be stuck in her throat.