Return to the Beach House (21 page)

Carrie finished her call and put the phone on the table again. She yawned and ran her hands over her face.

Bridget turned the computer back toward Carrie, quickly scrolling through the sites. “Do you know any of these shops or the men who own them?”

Carrie took several minutes to study the unimpressive, poorly laid out websites before shaking her head. “Should I?”

“They’re considered the go-to experts in Chinese art in Hong Kong. I spent a year following their auctions and listening to them speak at private gatherings before I approached Liu Yang about volunteering at his gallery.”

“Doing what?” Carrie asked.

“Interpreting for his American customers. In exchange, I told him I wanted to learn how to spot what to him would be obvious forgeries.”

“You speak Cantonese?” Carrie asked, incredulous. “Isn’t that supposed to be one of the most difficult languages to learn?”

“What I know is very, very basic—on a level with a preschooler, but enough to get by. Some Arabic too. That was actually harder for me to pick up. Turns out I have an ‘ear’ for languages. Wish I’d known that in college. I just thought Spanish was easy.”

“How could I not know this about you? Can you read and write it too?” Carrie’s eyes danced with excitement.

Bridget laughed. “I’m good, but I’m not that good. I know enough not to order cow offal off a menu, but that’s about it.”

“You’re a heaving stomach farther away from that kind of mistake than I am.” Carrie leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and stared at the computer, a place to focus while her mind cataloged this new information. “What prompted you to get involved in Chinese collectibles?”

“For my thirty-fifth birthday, I bought what was supposed to be a rare porcelain vase from someone I was told had a top-tier reputation and then discovered a couple of months later that the vase was a knockoff—and not a very good one. When the dealer refused to let me return it, I had it encased in glass and put on my desk as a reminder.

Carrie pointed to the computer screen. “Tell me about this.”

Bridget smiled. “They’re the experts who taught me that the only way I can tell an exceptional fake from the real thing is to turn it over to one of them.”

“How do you know they can be trusted?”

“They’re the men the auction houses go to for authentication on anything that lacks credible provenance.”

Carrie picked up her cup and put it down again. “Why hide behind such cheesy-looking websites?”

“I don’t know. When I told Feng Kai that I’d rework his, I think I offended him. I never mentioned it again, to any of them.”

“Have you kept in contact?”

“Not so much this past year.”

“Would you mind introducing me?”

Carrie wouldn’t need caffeine to keep her awake the rest of the night. It was as if Bridget had dropped an entire roll of quarters into her adrenaline coin slot.

Bridget picked up her cup and looked at Carrie over the rim. “By phone—or in person?”

Carrie blinked. “You’d do that—go with me to Hong Kong?”

A smile radiated from Bridget’s eyes. “I’d even pay my own way.”

Carrie worked to control her excitement. “Are you sure? When my aunt had chemo, it took her over a year before she had any energy. All she wanted to do was sleep.”

Bridget intently focused on Carrie, forcing her to make eye contact. “Listen closely, or read my lips, or do whatever it takes to hear me. I need a reason to get up in the morning, not a reason to take a nap. I’m going to sound a little full of myself here, but you’re not going to find anyone better to do what you need done than me. And I can’t think of anyone I would want to work with more than you. I’ll give you some time to think it over, but—”

“I don’t need time. You’re hired.”

Bridget sat back in her chair. “I promise you won’t be sorry.”

“We were roommates for four years. There’s not much about you that I don’t know.”

Tears pooled in Bridget’s eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. In less than thirty seconds, she’d gone from smiling to crying. Carrie reached over to wipe the tears away with her napkin. “I have a seriously important question for you,” Carrie said. “Listen closely. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“What did the elephant say to the naked man?”

Bridget frowned.

“It’s cute, but can you pick up peanuts with it?”

What started as an indulgent smile morphed into roaring, choking laughter. Bridget covered her mouth to try to stifle the sound. Carrie grabbed the dishtowel and did the same.

A minute later Angie rushed into the room, followed closely by Danielle. “What the hell?” Danielle said.

“Sorry.” Bridget grabbed the dishtowel from Carrie and wiped her eyes, then started laughing again, holding her sides and rocking forward.

Danielle looked at Angie. “What do you suppose is in those coffee cups?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’m willing to bet you wouldn’t find it listed on a pregnant woman’s diet.”

Chapter 8

Carrie took a shower while Danielle, for the first time ever, accompanied Angie on her morning run. Instead of blow-drying her hair, Carrie twisted it into a knot and pinned it into a bun at the back of her head. One of these days, probably when she was closer to fifty and she’d found a way to live with the fact that it really wasn’t possible to look thirty forever, she was going to abandon her long hair and go with something short, sleek, and easy that she could blow-dry and be done with.

She hung her towel on the rack, wiped down the granite counter, opened the door, and actually took a step backward as she ran into a wall of cooking odors from the kitchen.

Carrie usually skipped breakfast. When she didn’t, it was an indulgence to have a container of low-calorie fruit yogurt. Add a banana and she was on a journey into hog heaven.

But that didn’t mean her senses had forgotten the smoky smell of bacon or the citrus bite of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Then there was the gentle aroma of fresh-brewed coffee weaving itself into the mix. Trailing, but not too far behind, came something sweet she couldn’t identify. Cinnamon maybe?

What was Bridget thinking, cooking a meal like that when she’d told them it was everything she could do to keep Cream of Wheat down in the morning?

Carrie tossed her robe on the bed and headed for the kitchen. She heard Bridget before she saw her, singing so far off-key that it was impossible to tell what song she was accompanying on her iPod.

As soon as Bridget saw Carrie she smiled and tugged the earbuds from her ears.

“What were you singing?” Carrie asked.

“ ‘Help Me’—it’s an Allison Krause song.”

“When did you become a country music fan?”

“My friend Melinda made up a playlist for me when I was going through chemo and sneaked a couple of country artists into the mix. I fell in love with the ballads. The singers aren’t bad either.”

“You’re always surprising me. First it was the Chinese art world, and now it’s country music and”—Carrie pointed to the griddle on the stove and the bowl of pancake batter beside it—“a lumberjack breakfast.”

Bridget looked around the kitchen. “Too much?”

This was one parade Carrie was not going to rain on. “Not for me. I can’t remember the last time I had bacon and pancakes.”

“And scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast.”

“You may have stepped over the line with the cinnamon toast. Especially with the pancakes.” Carrie folded her arms across her chest, her body language louder than the words that followed. “I’m going to pass.”

“I used to draw that line in the sand too,” Bridget said, returning the toast to the stove. “Then one day when I was sitting in my chemo chair, watching the poison drip into my arm, I thought of all the women on the
Titanic
who had refused dessert.”

Carrie’s jaw dropped in surprise. “Oh, my, God—you’re playing the cancer card.”

Bridget grinned. “Damn. Was I really that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously,” Bridget said. “What is it with you and food?” She held up her hand to stop Carrie from saying anything until she’d finished. “I know it’s none of my business, but it seems you’ve got some kind of food issue going on, and I’m worried about you. I’m no expert, but it seems to me that you’re going overboard on counting calories.”

“It’s the world I live in,” Carrie said, oddly relieved to be able to talk about it. “Being overweight is the one unforgivable sin. I don’t think there’s one woman in the entire company who wears a size 8. Certainly not one who makes more than minimum wage.”

“This is openly acknowledged?”

“Lord, no. We’d be buried in lawsuits.”

“And you like working there?”

“I used to. I’m not so sure anymore.”

Danielle burst through the front door before Bridget could comment.

“Where are the car keys?” she yelled.

“In my purse,” Bridget answered, her heart in her throat as she responded to the panic in Danielle’s voice. “I’ll get them for you.”

“What’s wrong?” Carrie followed Bridget into the living room. “Where’s Angie?”

“I left her at the park. She’s having stomach cramps.”

Bridget looked up from digging through her oversized purse. “Oh no”—she grabbed her sweater and scarf—“did you call 911?”

“I was going to, but Angie threw a fit. She insisted it wasn’t necessary.”

Carrie held her hand out for the keys. “I’ll drive.”

“Grab the binder the girl next door made for us,” Danielle told Carrie. “It has a list of hospitals with maps and instructions on how to get to them.”

Two hours later, having convinced the nurse in charge that they were Angie’s sisters, Danielle, Bridget, and Carrie were crowded into an ultrasound room, with Angie lying on an examining table waiting for a doctor.

“How are the cramps?” Danielle asked.

“Better,” Angie said.

“Do you want one of us to call Darren?”

“Don’t you dare. His entire family would be here on the next plane out of Anchorage.” Angie shifted position, trying to get comfortable, finally sitting up with her legs over the side. “I’ll call him when I know something.”

There was a discreet knock on the door seconds before it opened, and a woman wearing a white smock came into the room. She was followed by another woman wearing a smock covered in teddy bears and rainbows. “I’m Dr. Spurlock,” the woman in the white smock said, holding out her hand to Angie. “And this is the best ultrasound tech in the hospital, Mary Boehm.”

The doctor glanced at the three women pressed into the corner. “I take it these are your sisters?” she said with an indulgent smile. “I can see the strong family resemblance.”

After quick introductions, Mary helped Angie lie back against the pillows, then draped a sheet over her lap. The doctor peppered Angie with questions, everything from her history with previous pregnancies (none) to her diet (all healthy, organic food with no caffeine or unprescribed over-the-counter medicines).

Danielle was beginning to relax now that she saw that Angie was being taken care of. Then she looked at Bridget and saw how pale she looked. Her hands were balled into tight fists at her sides.

How could they not have realized what it would mean for Bridget to be back in a hospital? Danielle moved closer. “Are you okay?” she whispered into Bridget’s ear.

“No—but this isn’t about me.”

Danielle took her hand and, as discreetly as possible, unfolded Bridget’s fingers and pressed the palm between her own two hands. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Bridget leaned her head against Danielle’s shoulder.

Without saying a word or even glancing in her direction, Carrie reached for Bridget’s other hand.

Seconds later, the room was filled with rumbling, rhythmic sounds coming too close together to distinguish individually.

“What’s that?” Angie said, panicked.

“Give me a second,” the doctor said, before she broke into a huge grin.

“What?” Angie prodded.

“By any chance do twins run in your family?”

Angie took the question seriously, thinking before answering. “The baby’s father has—” Her eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? I’m having twins?”

“It’s too early to see the babies with any clarity—that will take another couple of weeks. But there’re two distinct shapes in there, and I’m hearing two distinct heartbeats.”

“And what about the cramping?”

The doctor chuckled. “It’s something you should pay attention to, of course. But my best guess is that you’ve gone a little overboard in the healthy eating department. Try cutting back a little on the high-fiber foods and I have a feeling the cramping will go away.”

It took a second for the information to sink in and for Angie to burst out laughing. “Please tell me I’m not the first person you’ve treated for gas pains.”

The doctor patted her arm. “And you won’t be the last.”

“And the jogging?” Angie added.

“For now just listen to your body. Later on your size will slow you down.”

“And flying?”

“It’s up to your own obstetrician of course, but with twins I wouldn’t push it past twenty weeks, and only in a plane that’s pressurized.”