Christy and I spent the rest of the afternoon at the quarry. I only teased her once, when I realized she was admiring the ring over my shoulder while we were having sex. Then she turned it into a game—could we find a position where she couldn’t see it if she tried hard enough? I stopped complaining at that point, especially when she got creative.
We eventually returned to the Retreat and celebrated with our friends. The girls oohed and aahed over the ring, while the guys shook my hand and congratulated me. Christy and I were a little worn out from a full day of sex, but we still had fun with the others. We went to bed well after midnight, completely drained.
The next day we said goodbye to Erin, Leah, Mark, and our families. Erin and my parents had to spend a few days packing before she moved to Gainesville and the University of Florida. I felt a little guilty that I wouldn’t be there to help, but the three of them wanted to do it alone. My parents were alumni, so the trip was a kind of homecoming for them.
Leah and Mark were moving to New York City. She was going to Columbia, while he planned to spend a year at City College before he applied for a transfer. He was incredibly laid-back about it. He didn’t even know what he wanted to study, although I was sure he’d do well wherever he ended up. We promised to keep in touch.
A couple of days later, Christy and I drove Brooke to the Charlotte airport. She’d found her niche with us and seemed to be a full-fledged member of the group. She was already making plans to meet us over the Christmas break and then to join us for a couple of weeks the following summer.
On Monday I went back to work with Granville, and we continued our meetings twice a week for the rest of the summer. We never had another session like the one where we’d worked the whole time, but he was helpful in his own way. He also kept tabs with his crony in the Building and Zoning office. Our cabin permits were on schedule to be approved, and Trip had the crews already lined up to begin construction in the fall.
We submitted permit applications the week before we left. We needed them for the clubhouse, convenience store, and RV mini-clubhouse. The house renovations were extensive enough to need permits as well, so we applied for them too.
When I wasn’t drafting or working with Granville, I helped Trip finish the cabin demolition and cleanup. We also fixed a bunch of little things around camp that were code violations, fire hazards, or both. Finally, we drained the pool and made sure the empty bungalows were ready for the winter.
We had a long business meeting with Susan—a real one, not the “I need an update, wink, wink” kind—where we submitted our final invoices, discussed the schedule for the next year, and made plans for site visits when the crews began work on the new cabins.
Then we packed our belongings. We had far more than I’d realized—clothes, food, alcohol, hand tools, power tools, drafting tools, the computer, a printer, and everything else we’d used over the course of the summer. We loaded both cars and barely had room to sit, but we managed to pack it all for the trip back to Knoxville.
Finally, on a cool morning in September, we closed and locked the last two bungalows and the clubhouse. Susan drove up to say goodbye. She wore jeans and a faded Navy sweatshirt in deference to the weather.
“I already have ads in several papers for an assistant,” she said to Wren. “You’ll be a hard act to follow.”
“Thank you. It was a pleasure to work with you. I learned a lot.”
“Likewise,” Susan said graciously. “The boys have offered to help. And then there’s Granville.” She compressed her lips to show what she thought of that.
He’d made a similar offer to me, to stop by the camp and check on progress. He was still looking for a legacy.
“We’ll see,” Susan said. She wasn’t one for long goodbyes, so she hugged each of us in turn. “Drive safely,” she added, “and do well in school. Good luck with the restaurant and your job search,” she added to Wren. “I’ve already started writing a letter of recommendation. I’ll mail it to you.”
“Wow, thanks!”
She turned to me. “See you in a month.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s the plan.”
“Well, then… I’d better let you get on the road.”
We spent several days getting the house in Knoxville into livable condition. We aired it out, fixed a small leak in the basement (not the Decrapifier 2000, thank you very much), and basically returned to normal life.
Classes began a week later, and our lives fell into a routine fairly quickly. Christy started her MFA program with Siobhan, while Wren tried to resurrect her plans for a restaurant in Knoxville. Unfortunately, the chef partner backed out, and her father put the plans on hold indefinitely.
She looked for a regular job instead and found one quickly, as PR and marketing director with a local steakhouse whose owner wanted to grow. She was young for the job but ambitious, and she knew the restaurant business. It didn’t hurt that she reminded the owner of his own daughter, who was still a teenager but wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps.
The Building and Zoning office approved the cabin permits, and the construction crews arrived right on schedule. The foreman on site knew his business, and I didn’t have any problems working with him. We encountered the usual minor setbacks and delays over the next few months, but we kept things on track.
Susan ran into her own problems that started in early 1985, but we didn’t find out about them until later, when they became our problems too. The events played out over many months, but it all started when the new sheriff came to town. Literally.
Back in November, the county had elected a crusader who believed the Moral Majority were a bunch of softies. He wanted law and order, and the way to achieve that was obvious, a healthy dose of good ol’ Christian family values.
The sheriff started with the usual crackdowns but eventually decided that “moral decay” was the real problem in society. He probably had bigger ambitions in the long run, like the State House, but his short-term goal was clear. He set his sights on the local Jezebel, a certain nudist camp owner.
Since he was the sheriff (and a man), he tried to bully Susan personally. He used bolt cutters on the gate and simply drove into camp. Then he confronted her in her own house. He threatened her with multiple citations, possible arrest, and even deportation. She laughed about the last one for a week.
Then he started making good on his threats. A deputy set up a speed trap where the camp road met the main one, and Susan received a ticket every time she left and again when she returned. She received a summons in the mail for a bunch of bogus parking tickets. She was cited more than a dozen times—for littering.
At that point she dispatched a small pack of lawyers to visit the county supervisor. “Only six,” she said with a straight face. They threatened the county with several very real lawsuits. The supervisor promised to resolve the situation.
The sheriff wasn’t about to be cowed by a woman, so he went after her businesses and the construction project. We received our first official visit in March. The inspector from codes enforcement wanted to see everything. Our crews sat idle for three days while the man found dozens of made-up infractions. The same thing happened a week later with the fire marshal. The tax assessor arrived a week after that.
Susan finally told Trip and me about the harassment she’d been dealing with. I personally wanted to kill the sheriff, but that was illegal. Dangerous too. He was the sheriff, after all. At least I was smart enough to figure it out, although I was fairly sure Rich would help if I asked. The sheriff was a disgrace, to men in general and public servants in particular. At the very least, I wanted to report him to the state government.
Susan convinced me not to do anything, official or otherwise. She’d dealt with his brand of harassment before. She said it would all blow over once he realized he couldn’t intimidate her.
Over the next few months, we fielded at least a dozen inspections and had to endure constant bureaucratic nitpicking. Trip and I handled most of it over the phone, but I still had to make several unscheduled visits to deal with some inspection or another.
Granville was so incensed that he raised a ruckus with his crony in the Building and Zoning office. They were messing with his legacy, after all. Besides, he hadn’t voted for the sheriff in the first place.
“Why, the man’s a scoundrel!”
I just called him an asshole.
The inspections dwindled and eventually stopped over the summer, and we thought the sheriff might have finally admitted defeat. Unfortunately, he’d simply gone away to lick his wounds and plot revenge. A prominent Baptist preacher joined forces with him, and they hatched a scheme to “strike down the harlot of Chester.” They went after her women.
In addition to the camp and her other business interests, Susan funded several nonprofit groups in the county. The largest one ran a women’s shelter, a job training center, and a day-care center. They all received visits from the health department, animal control, and anyone else the sheriff could think of.
The preacher railed that the women were being held hostage by a “coven of feminists.” They needed to be freed immediately and returned to their husbands or fathers.
At that point Susan took off the gloves and stopped playing nice. She hired security guards for the shelter and day-care center. She summoned a large pack of lawyers from Columbia, more than a dozen, plus private investigators. She called in favors, twisted arms, and used her political influence.
Once her lawyers and investigators had dug up enough dirt, she made a phone call to the governor. He ordered the state equivalent of the FBI to investigate the sheriff’s alleged ties to prostitution and money laundering. The private investigators turned over the evidence they’d found—the ties weren’t so alleged after all—and the actual FBI showed up.
In December they arrested the sheriff on a dozen state and federal charges. The evidence implicated the preacher as well. He was a regular visitor at the brothel, a ramshackle mobile home near the county line. He claimed he was “ministering to those poor women’s souls,” which earned some serious chuckles from everyone but the most pious and blindly credulous churchgoers.
The scandal ended several other careers as well. The fire marshal resigned under a cloud of suspicion, the tax assessor announced his early retirement, and the county council demanded the supervisor’s resignation. The news made the national headlines, although Susan kept a low profile throughout.
When the dust finally settled, the new county supervisor and the acting sheriff visited her in person to apologize.
“Let bygones be bygones. It’s a new day. We promise, Ms. MacLean—”
“Mrs. MacLean.”
“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. MacLean. Anything you say, ma’am. We’ve cleaned house. It’s a new day. Let bygones be bygones. Ma’am.”
Translation: Please don’t run us out of the county. Our families are here and we like our jobs.
I laughed for nearly a week when she told me that one.
“Out of curiosity,” I asked, “how much do you think you spent to get rid of him?”
“Sheriff Pharisee? Who knows. I may add it up one day… or I may not.”
She never told me if she did, but she considered it money well spent. She even gave all her managers a bonus for doing our jobs and weathering the harassment.
That included Trip and me. We hadn’t received a single legitimate fine or citation. Trip gave me all the credit, but Granville was the real reason. He was a narcissist and a windbag, a racist and a sexist, but he was a stickler for details.
I gave him my share of the bonus. It was a tidy little sum. And it was the only time he ever touched me other than to shake my hand. He grew misty-eyed and hugged me.
“Oh, my boy, my boy, you’re my proudest achievement.”
Even Beatrice looked happy. And she gave me a kiss on the cheek. I must have turned crimson, because she actually laughed.
“Serves you right,” she said in her soft contralto, “fo’ surprisin’ me that time.”
When we weren’t dealing with corrupt local officials, our lives went through the usual ups and downs, and time passed like it always does.
Trip and I graduated in the summer of 1986. He was eighth in the class, the only student in the top ten who wasn’t Joska’s, and the only one with a minor in another subject (Business). Rosemary was right behind him at ninth. And, to no one’s surprise but his own, Freddie graduated in the top twenty.
Gracie and I had competed for the top spot since our first year, but Christy changed everything. She was my muse and biggest critic. She saw the world from a different perspective. She asked weird questions, and the answers took me in new and creative directions. She made every single one of my designs better.
Gracie complained bitterly to Professor Joska—every quarter for two years—but he told her the same thing every time.
“Architecture is a collaborative business, Miss Fisher. Mr. Hughes does the work himself. The source of his inspiration doesn’t matter. In fact, you are free to collaborate for your own designs, as long as you do the work yourself.”
She was too much of a loner and never did. Joska even began to gripe about it during our fifth year. He only did it in private, and he seemed to regret it each time, but he was fed up with her too.
Gracie was talented, creative, and hard-working, but she was convinced that the world was out to get her. In a way, it was. She created her own self-fulfilling prophecy with her complaints and accusations.
At least I learned a valuable lesson from her, that tearing down another person’s building wasn’t the way to make my own look better by comparison.
I also graduated first in the class, which came with plenty of prestige, almost no envy, and an attractive crystal paperweight.
At that point Trip and I had to make some decisions about the future. We needed to find jobs in an architecture firm, where we could start earning credit in the Intern Development Program and study for our licensing exams. We both wanted to move to a bigger city, but Christy still had another year before she finished her master’s degree, and Wren was enjoying her job with the fledgling restaurant group.
So we decided to stay in Knoxville. Trip and I interviewed with several companies, including the one with the female architect from the boarding house renovation a few years earlier.
Her name was Diana Lamberton, and she’d been one of Professor Joska’s students at MIT. She was still fairly young, but she was already a full associate at the company. They were a small firm that had taken on several new jobs, and they needed all the help they could get.
“So, you’re the one Laszlo told me about?” Ms. Lamberton said.
I’d started calling Professor Joska by his first name too, but only in private. It was a courtesy he’d insisted on sometime in my fifth year.
“He said you’re almost as good as I was,” she continued.
I cocked an eyebrow at the implicit challenge but kept my ego in check.
“Well, that was school,” I said. “This is the real world.” Then my pride got the better of me. “But I was first in my class.”
“Mmm. So was I.” She gestured at the credenza behind her. MIT gave out plaques instead of paperweights.
“So… I’d have my work cut out for me,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And I’d probably learn a lot.”
“Do you think you can handle it? The IDP isn’t like school. Architecture’s a serious business—”
“—for serious people. Yes, ma’am.”
“Call me Diana.”
“Thank you, Diana.”
“I mean it about the program,” she added. “It isn’t like school at all.”
“I know. But school was easy. I need something new, a challenge.”
“So you’re cocky, too?”
“Let’s say I’m confident. But I also know how much I don’t know.”
She nodded. “And you think you’ll learn it here?”
“I do.”
“I’m not like Laszlo,” she warned. “I don’t have favorites.”
“You will if you hire me.”
She grinned in spite of herself. “When can you start?”
Freddie and Rosemary were married in a modest ceremony about a month after we graduated. He asked me to be his best man, and I was proud to stand with him. His New York relatives descended on Knoxville and increased the volume level for the entire state. They were a fun bunch, though, and very friendly.
Rosemary’s family didn’t know what to make of them at first, especially since normal New York conversations took place at a volume that sounded like an argument to southerners. That changed once they started drinking and dancing at the reception. The two families were good friends by the time the happy couple retired for the night.
Being married suited Freddie, and Rosemary blossomed in her new life. They were good for each other. He went to work for a large architecture and engineering company, while she returned to UT for her Master of Architecture in Conservation and Stewardship.
These days, they live in Knoxville and are still married. Rosemary quit working for nearly a decade to raise their children, two sons, but she recently joined the Tennessee Historical Commission as a consultant. Freddie is a successful architect, one of the principals in his company. He and I occasionally catch up over the phone or in email, and we always visit when we’re in town.
We lived in Knoxville for another year while Christy finished her MFA.
Trip and I were happy working with and learning from Diana, but she’d grown up in a small town in Kentucky, so a city like Knoxville suited her just fine. Trip and I had bigger ambitions, and we’d learned enough about local politics to make us wary of the good ol’ boy network.
The mayor of Knoxville and his cronies controlled things for their own benefit. Developers had to grease the right palms if they wanted their projects approved, which meant that large corporations looked for other cities. The graft affected their bottom lines, after all, but the good ol’ boys didn’t care. They just wanted to get paid, and to hell with the consequences for the city. Civic construction was practically nonexistent for the same reason.
Our experiences with the small-town sheriff had shown us what kind of trouble we could expect if we fought the system, and we didn’t have the resources and connections that Susan could bring to bear. So we weren’t exactly thrilled with the idea of working in Knoxville long-term.
Wren had grown disillusioned with her job as well. She’d realized that she didn’t have a future with the company. The owner had never said so, but he clearly wanted his daughter to learn the business and take over Wren’s job.
So the four of us sat down one night and discussed our options, although we made a decision before Christy even finished her first glass of wine.
“Atlanta,” Wren said. “It has to be.”
I nodded slowly. “Our families’re there.”
“And my father has the connections to help us right away.”
Trip was the practical one, as always. “What about money? None of us have jobs there.”
“I can work for my father. Just until I find something in PR or marketing,” she added before he could object. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to become ‘daddy’s little princess’ again.” She curled her lip when she said it, but she seemed sincere.
Trip nodded.
“As far as you and me,” I said to him, “Diana’s known this was coming for a couple of months. She… um… might’ve given me a list of contacts in Atlanta, friends and people she went to school with.”
“Teacher’s pet,” Trip laughed, friendly instead of a jab.
I shrugged, and Christy shot me a grin. Then she turned serious.
“What about me?” she said. “I want a job too. Only, I don’t want to teach kindergarten.”
“Your job is to help me plan the wedding,” Wren said.
“Will we have time?” Trip asked. “I mean… we’ll be kinda busy if we move.”
“Oh, no,” Wren said, “you’ve dragged your feet long enough. We’re doing it this time.”
“I’m just saying, what if we get busy with other things?”
“That’s what you said last time!”
“Hey, Sheriff Dickhead wasn’t my fault.”
“Maybe not, but we’ve paid deposits this time. My father’ll have a heart attack if he has to forfeit any of ’em.”
“Babe, all I’m saying is that we may have to postpone—”
“Franklin Davis, I’m warning you…” She was serious when she used his real name.
“Yes, dear,” he said, faux-meekly. Then he grinned at me. “Women, huh?”
“Whoa, leave me out of it,” I said. “I’m on her side. Besides, she bites.”
“Damn right I do!”
Christy and I shared a grin, which dissipated the tension for good.
“Okay,” Trip said into the silence, “so it’s settled. We’re moving to Atlanta. Wren and I’ll get married in August, just like we planned.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Then it’s your turn, dude.”
“Hey, I’m looking forward to it.”
“He is,” Christy agreed.
“He has to!” Trip scoffed. “Your brothers’ll kill him if he doesn’t.”
“No, only Rich.”
“Yeah, but… isn’t he the dangerous one?”
“They’re all dangerous,” she said sweetly. “Mr. Bridegroom.”
He laughed. “Did she just threaten me?”
“Yep,” I said. “Although she probably didn’t expect you to figure it out so quickly.”
She shook her head with cheerful malice.
“Better you than me,” Trip laughed. “I’m marrying the nice one.”
“Hey,” Christy squawked, “I’m nice!”
“Yeah, to Paul,” he said, still laughing.
“I’ll be nice to you too, but only after you marry Wren.”
“Thank you, my love.”
“Sounds good,” Trip said. “In the meantime, let’s figure out how to make this work.”
We sold the Victorian house in July 1987, less than a week after we put it on the market. Wren’s father gave the money to her and Trip as an early wedding present, and they in turn used it to buy a new condo in a development in Alpharetta, just up the road from where she and I had grown up.
I only had enough money for a down payment, but Christy hated to lose, even when it wasn’t a competition. She called her nana and asked for her own early wedding present. We received an eye-popping wire transfer the next day. It was enough to buy the condo and a new car, a little red Honda CRX for Christy.
“Exactly how much money does your nana have?” I asked her one night.
Christy shrugged. “I don’t know. Like, a lot.”
“‘A lot’ like Bill Gates or ‘a lot’ like… I dunno… Marianne’s family.”
“Oh, way more than Marianne. I don’t know how much, though. I’ve never asked.” She shrugged again and finished her lotions and potions. Then she turned and grinned at me, although she quickly grew thoughtful.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Only, I was just wondering…”
“About…?” I prompted.
“If she has more money than all the little sperms in semen.”
“Ha! Okay.”
“I don’t think I’d like to swallow that much money,” she continued, still thoughtful. Then her eyes flashed. “Semen, on the other hand…”
I chuckled. “Never thought I’d meet a girl as horny as I am.”
“And don’t you forget it, mister! Now, about the semen you promised me…”
Trip went through with the wedding, and they were married in August. They kept the ceremony small, only family and close friends, but the reception was a lavish affair. Wren’s father presided over it like a lord, although he also suffered as the butt of jokes behind his back.
His girlfriend du jour wasn’t actually younger than Wren, but she looked, dressed, and acted like a teenager. By contrast, Wren’s mother and her special friend were a quiet, loving, dignified couple, even if only a few people realized they were a couple.
Trip and Wren left the next day for their honeymoon, a couple of weeks in the Cayman Islands. They learned to scuba dive and did the usual touristy things, although they had a lot of sex, too. They returned to Atlanta with nice tans, huge smiles, and plenty of stories.
Christy had started planning our own wedding back in December. She wanted to have it in San Diego, and I knew better than to argue. Our families were spread out anyway, and most of them would have to travel to wherever we held it. Besides, the weather in San Diego was perfect almost year-round.
Wren was the matron of honor and shared the duties with Brooke as the maid of honor. They worked surprisingly well together, probably because they each cared about different things. Wren focused on menus and venues, while Brooke helped pick out dresses and flowers. I suspected that Christy’s mother kept the peace as well. She’d raised five competitive sons, after all, plus one Christy. She didn’t put up with any bickering or fights.
Christy went a little bit overboard with the wedding party at first. She wanted all her sisters-in-law as bridesmaids and her brothers as groomsmen, plus Erin and several of our couple friends. She wanted all her nieces and nephews in the ceremony as well, as flower girls and ring bearers. The whole party would have been a crowd, more than twenty people, but Marianne and her mother convinced her that fewer was better.
She eventually pared down the bridesmaids to Wren and Brooke, plus Erin, Leah, and Sabrina. Trip was my best man, of course, with Mark, Rich, and Danny as groomsmen. Christy’s oldest brothers and several cousins served as ushers. Her three youngest nieces were flower girls, and Harry’s three-year-old son was our ring bearer.
We were married on a beautiful day in October. The weather was sunny and mild, with a gentle breeze from the Pacific. The wedding itself was a cozy little affair in a local parish church—except that in this case the “local parish church” was the Immaculata, the main chapel for the University of San Diego, and “cozy” meant several hundred people.
So the church was gorgeous and the crowd was impressive. Christy’s extended family occupied five pews. My relatively small one took up two. We’d sent invitations to all of our friends as well, from Carter and Kim to Sara and Tasha. Christy’s parents had invited so many of their own friends that the ushers didn’t bother with a bride’s side and a groom’s side—hers would’ve been full and mine nearly empty. Instead, they simply invited people to sit wherever they wanted.
The groomsmen and I waited in a little room before the ceremony. Trip joked with Mark that we were underdressed in our tuxedos, especially compared to Christy’s brothers in their formal dress uniforms.
“Be glad we aren’t wearing our sabers,” Danny said. “Rich might decide he doesn’t like Paul after all.”
“Oh, I like the kid just fine,” Rich said. “You, on the other hand…”
Harry thrust his head into the room. “They’re ready for you.”
The others filed out, but Harry stayed behind and brushed microscopic lint from my shoulders. Then he straightened my tie. Finally, he looked me in the eye.
“Gut check. How’re you doing? Nervous?”
“A little.”
“You’ll do fine.” He grinned. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but… Birdy looks beautiful. I’ve never seen her this happy. Our mom too. We all are, even Rich.” He chuckled. “No, especially Rich. He knows you’ll take care of her.”
“I will.”
“I know. He’s the most vocal about it, but we all watch out for her. You woudn’t’ve made it this far if we didn’t like you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll make us proud.”
The door opened and Jim appeared.
“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed. “Birdy’s waiting. Chop-chop.”
“Relax,” Harry said. “I’m just giving him some last-minute advice.”
“Last-minute grandstanding, you mean. You’re worse than Dad.”
Harry grinned but didn’t deny it. Jim looked me over and nodded.
“Everything’s shipshape. Let’s go.” He glanced at his older brother. “Unless you wanna explain to Mom why we’re late.”
“Oh, no,” Harry chuckled. “Not me.”
“I didn’t think so,” Jim said dryly.
“All right. Let’s go,” Harry said. “I’ll go get Mom. You tell the organist.”
We filed out, and they headed to the back of the church. I joined Trip at the side door.
He grinned. “You ready?”
“Of course I’m ready. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Nervous?”
“What do you think?” I snapped.
“Relax. Remember to breathe. Don’t lock your knees.”
“I know. They told me.”
“The rest is easy. A few songs, a couple of prayers, one ‘I do.’ Then you’re good.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Dude, I know,” he chuckled. “I was here for the rehearsal, remember?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
He snuck a peek into the church. “Last chance…?”
The organist played the first notes of the processional song, Bach’s “Arioso.”
“Oops, too late.”
I rolled my eyes and did my best not to grin. Trip wasn’t Freddie, but he’d made me forget how nervous I was.
He kept an eye on the ceremony, and we entered the sanctuary right on cue. The priest gave me a solemn nod as we joined him at the altar. The processional continued, and the wedding party began their stately march toward us.
Sabrina smiled demurely as Jim escorted her into position, and Leah did the same on the arm of Christy’s cousin. Then Erin and Mark drew close. Together they gave me a flamboyant wink. The poor altar boys struggled not to laugh, and even the priest had to smile.
Brooke was acutely conscious of her role, but she gave me a quick smile as Danny escorted her into position. Wren, on the other hand, couldn’t resist an I-told-you-so smirk. Rich saw out of the corner of his eye and silently chuckled. Then he glanced toward Brooke.
At first I thought he was simply looking for Wren’s spot in the line, but he caught Brooke’s eye. She blushed and smiled at him from under her lashes. That wasn’t the reaction I’d been expecting, but I didn’t have time to wonder about it before the organist began the bride’s processional.
The first notes of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” filled the church. Christy and her father appeared at the end of the nave, and my breath caught in my throat. She was radiant, my own little princess in a hand-beaded silk dress that had been her nana’s. The train was longer than she was tall, but she practically floated down the aisle on her father’s arm.
The church grew dim at the edges of my vision. I swallowed hard. Someone had removed all the oxygen from the air. Someone else cleared his throat. He wanted me to remember something, something I was supposed to do. I swayed a little drunkenly before I remembered what it was.
I closed my eyes, and my nostrils flared. The dizziness went away, and my pulse steadied. I rose on the balls of my feet and rocked back on my heels.
“Take your time,” the priest said, and the little microphone on his chasuble carried his words to the church. A ripple of good-natured laughter spread through the crowd.
I opened my eyes. Christy was smiling and calm, the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. I gazed into her bright blue eyes and forgot about everything else.
The ceremony was a blur after that. It was a long blur, but the priest and Christy’s brothers had coached me well. I said everything I was supposed to and made it through without fainting.
Afterward, a limousine took us to the reception at the U.S. Grant Hotel. The Presidential Ballroom was the only one big enough to hold us. Harold and Anne had pulled out all the stops for their little girl (and yours truly). We had a full orchestra, an open bar, and enough food for a small army. Harold never mentioned the cost, but I suspected he could’ve bought a Porsche instead.
Christy and I spent our wedding night in a suite in the hotel. She was as drunk as I’d ever seen her, and I was little better. We barely made it out of our clothes and into bed before we fell asleep. And, like so many newlyweds before us, we didn’t have sex. We made up for it the next day, but I still tease her about our first night of celibacy.
We left a day later, bound for Bora Bora and three weeks in a thatched bungalow perched over a crystal clear lagoon. We arrived at the same time as the French couple in the neighboring bungalow. Christy struck up a conversation with the wife, while I chatted with the husband as we followed in their wake.
Olivier was tall and ridiculously handsome, like a young Laurence Olivier. Renée was a Gallic beauty, a blue-eyed brunette with amazing breasts, long legs, and possibly the nicest ass I’d ever seen. I had to remind myself not to stare at least a dozen times. Individually, they were very, very attractive. Together, they were almost intimidating.
They turned out to be friendly and unpretentious. Christy hadn’t spoken French since she was a girl, but she and Renée easily switched between it and English. Fortunately, Olivier’s English was excellent. He was a diplomat, he explained, and they were in Bora Bora for a vacation between visits to Vietnam and Canada.
We spent nearly every waking hour with them for several days. Renée had an adventurous personality and zero taboos about nudity. She and Christy swam or sunbathed topless, while Olivier and I passed the time in easy conversation and kept the ladies happy with a steady supply of cool, fruity drinks.
We started spending evenings with them as well. We didn’t bother with swimsuits or false modesty after the sun went down, and one thing eventually led to another. They weren’t exactly swingers, but they had an open relationship and very little jealousy.
Christy and I thoroughly enjoyed their company, but they eventually had to say adieu. Olivier was scheduled to give a speech at a conference in Montreal before they returned home to France. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and promised to get together again soon.
We kept in touch with them for several years after that, and we spent the weekend with them whenever Olivier’s work brought them to Canada or the States. They seemed happy enough when we saw them, but they eventually split and filed for divorce.
We lost touch with Olivier after that, although we’re still close with Renée. We exchange Christmas cards and emails, and we visit as often as we can. She’s as sexy as ever, and she doesn’t seem inclined to marry again.
“Men are not like horses,” she said when I asked about it. “They are like handbags. You keep one until you grow tired of it. Then you find another that suits you.”
“And what about me,” I teased, “am I a horse or a handbag?”
“A handbag, of course! But you are an Hermès. You will never go out of fashion. And you do not make demands.”
Christy snorted playfully. “Speak for yourself.”
“But they are demands that you enjoy, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oh, I suppose,” Christy said with a theatrically winsome sigh. Then she grinned. “We should make our own demands!”
“But of course! A horse is for riding.”
“I thought I was a handbag,” I laughed.
“You are both. Now, please hold still. Ahh, oui, un bon cheval.” She settled her hips and clicked her tongue. “Allez.”
Trip had already started a new a job by the time Christy and I returned from our honeymoon in the South Pacific. He had one lined up for me with the same company, a large A&E firm. He was excited and couldn’t wait for me to start. I, on the other hand, was thoroughly annoyed. First, that he hadn’t asked what I wanted. But second, that we hadn’t interviewed with anyone on Diana’s list. I told myself that we didn’t have to work at the same company, but he eventually talked me into it. Still, I had serious reservations.
At least the new job paid well, even for interns. Unfortunately, it also came with several layers of management. The department heads and team leaders were bad enough for normal projects, but the vice presidents were involved with the multimillion-dollar ones, and they were a constant source of frustration and delays. I missed the days of Diana and quick decisions.
The company had a different vibe too, far more formal. I had to wear a suit or coat and tie every day, and I had to fill out a detailed time sheet with the jobs I worked on. Worse, the people above me didn’t care about my ideas. With Diana, I’d always felt like a part of the team, like my opinion mattered. Not so with the big company. I was just another cog, and no one even asked my opinion.
Trip thrived in the new environment, while I simmered. I had to remind myself why I went to work some days. I still enjoyed the projects and designs, even if they weren’t my own, but the rigid hierarchy and rules-over-results attitude killed any spark of creativity I might’ve had. Worst of all, nothing I did mattered.
Christy tried her best to keep my spirits up, but it was a losing battle. I eventually called Laszlo to complain, although I should’ve expected his response.
“Do you think Michelangelo started with St. Peter’s? No, he was an apprentice first.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Did Frank Lloyd Wright start with the Guggenheim? No, he was a draftsman first.”
“I know, but—”
“Do you think I started where I am today? No, I was a teaching assistant first. And, like you, I sniveled and complained.”
“I’m not sniveling,” I muttered.
“Are you not?”
“Okay, maybe a little. But still… any of the other interns could do my job and no one would know the difference.”
“Ah, but here is where you are wrong. You would know the difference.”
“So?” I said, a little petulantly.
“Do you remember the quote from Michelangelo?”
“Which one?”
“If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery…?”
“…it wouldn’t seem so wonderful at all,” I finished.
“Mmm, just so.”
“Yeah, I know. Only… right now I’m wondering if all the hard work is worth it.”
“Imagine what the world would have lost if Michelangelo had thought the same thing.”
“But I’m no Michelangelo,” I said heavily.
“And you never will be if you do not try.”
I snorted, part admission, part dejection.
“The hard work is sometimes not so wonderful,” Laszlo added in a soft, compassionate tone. “I know. But the satisfaction that comes from mastery is worth it.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said at last.
“Of course I am,” he said, almost flippantly. “I am the master. And you, my young friend, are still the student. But I will tell you a secret—I am a student too. We are alike in this.” He paused to let his words sink in. Then he said, “We are alike in another way. You do not quit.”
“No.”
“I wish we were not alike in keeping late hours,” he added with a quiet laugh. “I must finish grading papers. I am terrorizing third-year students tonight.”
“Ha!”
“They are not as tender as first-year students, so I must work harder.”
“Good luck with that,” I chuckled. “And Professor…?”
“Laszlo, please.”
“Laszlo… thanks for putting things into perspective for me.”
“My pleasure. Now, if you don’t mind, I must finish my work. And you must get a good night’s rest. You have your own work in the morning.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
Wren had started a new job as well, as a junior account executive with a midsized marketing company. She was assigned to a senior exec who handled PR and advertising for a local sporting goods chain. She thoroughly enjoyed it and was already in line for a promotion. Then she found out she was pregnant. Trip was thrilled. She wasn’t.
“How did this happen?”
“Probably the usual way,” he chuckled. He was trying to lighten the mood, but she wasn’t having it.
She glared at him instead. “It was Valentine’s Day. I knew we should’ve used a condom! Fuck! Shit! Hell!”
“Hey, babe, calm down.”
“Oh, baby, I wanna come inside you,” she mocked. “It’ll be fine. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“We talked about this,” he said in placating tones. “Remember? We both want kids.”
“Yeah, when I’m ready! Not now!”
Christy and I tried to fade into the background. I thought Wren had been on the pill, but Christy replied with a headshake to my silent question.
I’ll tell you later, she added.
I folded my napkin and set it beside my plate. “Thanks for dinner,” I told Wren. “It was delicious, as usual, but we should go.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, although she was just being a good hostess. “Please stay.”
“You two need to talk.” I stood and bent to kiss her cheek.
She touched my hand on her shoulder and sighed.
“Good luck,” I whispered. “And congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me know if you want me to explain it to him,” I added, loud enough for Trip to hear.
“What? What’d I do?” he complained. “How’m I the bad guy here?”
“You aren’t,” I said calmly. “You’re just… you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you have a plan—”
“Yeah, so?”
“And things are going fine, according to your plan.”
“Well, duh.”
“But there are other people on your team. We have plans too. And your decisions affect us. You need to talk to us before you just make them.”
“Is this about the job? I—”
“It isn’t about the goddamn job!” Wren snapped. “It’s about you. Paul’s right, this is fine for you. But what about me? What about my plan?”
“What do you mean?” Trip said defensively. “This is your plan.”
She inhaled a deep, calming breath. Then she smiled at Christy and me. “Thanks for coming.”
I returned the smile, but I still felt sorry for her. “Dinner at our place tomorrow?”
She nodded.
“Dude, you’re a natural leader,” I said to Trip, “and we’re happy to follow you. But you need to listen to us sometimes.”
He responded to my tone more than my words. “Yeah, all right.” Then he took a deep breath. “Pick you up tomorrow?”
“Of course. Till then…” I glanced at Wren. “We love you both. Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”
“I don’t know if there’s anything anyone can do,” she said, “but thanks.”
I nodded to Trip. “See you in the morning.”
“Yeah, g’night.”
Christy and I left, but the door had hardly closed behind us before Trip and Wren started arguing. Christy shivered, and I put my arm around her. The day had been warm, but the evening had turned cool.
We walked to our condo in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. I poured a couple of stiff drinks when we arrived. Christy drained hers and extended the glass for a refill.
“Slow down after this one,” I cautioned.
“Yes, sir.”
“So… what happened?” I asked as I poured. “I thought Wren was on the pill. I mean, she didn’t warn me or say anything at New Year’s.”
“Oh, she was. But then we had to change doctors, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right! When we changed over to the family plans at mega-corp.”
“I suppose,” Christy said. “I let you handle all that. Anyway, the new doctor put us on a new pill.”
I vaguely recalled the change, but it hadn’t affected us, so I hadn’t thought about it since.
“I was fine,” Christy continued, “but Wren had really bad headaches and couldn’t concentrate at work.”
“So he took her off it?”
“Yeah. He wanted her to go a couple of months without anything, to get her hormones back to normal. They were supposed to use condoms or the rhythm method.”
“Ah. But then Valentine’s Day happened.”
Christy nodded. “She’s been worried ever since, especially when she missed her first period. Then she missed again.”
“When did she find out? For sure, I mean.”
“This morning. She wanted to cancel dinner with us, but Trip was a jerk about it, so…”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked. “To me, I mean.”
“She asked me not to.”
I paused and thought about what I wanted to say next. “What’re they gonna do?”
“What else can they do?”
“They can… you know.”
“Oh my gosh, no! Paul, that’s murder!”
“It’s a medical procedure,” I said patiently, although I held up a hand before she could reply. We’d had this argument before. “Let’s agree to disagree.”
She nodded.
“Besides, it doesn’t matter what you and I think. What does Wren want to do?”
“She… isn’t sure.” Christy sighed and lowered her eyes. “She might… do what you said.”
I snorted. “Trip’ll talk her out of it.”
Christy agreed silently. “This is perfect for him.”
“And, as usual, he didn’t think of anyone else.”
“He means well,” Christy said, and my eyebrows rose. “I know,” she said, “it’s usually the other way around. I complain about Trip and you defend him.”
“Yeah, well,” I admitted, “I’m still annoyed about the job.”
“If you hate it that much, just quit and get a new one.”
“I don’t hate it. And I’m learning a lot. I just… don’t like it very much.”
“How do you think I feel?” she asked. “I don’t even have a job.”
“Your job is taking care of me.”
She snorted softly.
“You have your art.”
“But no studio. I miss it, Paul. I don’t think you understand… I need to make things. Big things, I mean, not knickknacks and little statuettes.”
I gathered her into my arms. “I know. We’ll figure something out.”
“Soon, please. I’m going crazy.”
I nodded, and we held each other in silence.
“Promise me one thing,” I said at last.
“Anything.”
“We won’t get pregnant until we’re both ready. Okay?”
“Oh my gosh, no. I’d never do anything like that. My mother’d kill me.”
“Your husband wouldn’t be too happy either,” I chuckled.
“Yeah, but I can bribe him. He’s easy.”
“Oh, he is, is he?”
“Of course. He’ll do almost anything if I promise him a blowjob.”
“Speaking of which…,” I said.
“Do I need to swallow some of our children?” She grinned, although it immediately turned to a frown when she listened to what she’d said.
“Yeah,” I chuckled, “it kinda takes on a different meaning when you think about Wren and what she’s going through.”
“You can say that again. Besides, it’s a bit too much like Cronus. Or that painting by Goya.” She shivered in revulsion. “That one always scares me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
“But who’ll protect me from you?”
“No one, I’m afraid. I’m going to do unspeakably naughty things to you.”
“Help, help,” she said with a grin.
I drained my whiskey and set the glass aside. “C’mon, my lovely little nymph, let’s go practice for when we do want kids.”
Wren gave birth to a healthy baby boy in November. And then she and Trip blessed him with a completely original name, Franklin Davis Whitman IV.
“You can call him Quad,” I joked.
Trip thought it was funny, but Wren wasn’t in the mood.
“Over my dead body. We’re going to call him Davis.”
Be nice, Christy warned. Then she took out her sketchbook and began drawing mother and child. He was asleep on her breast after his ordeal.
“I think he looks like me,” Wren said, but Christy shook her head.
“He favors Trip.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “How can you tell?”
“His eyes,” Christy said without looking up. “And his cheekbones. His nose is hers, though.”
“His nose is smushed,” Trip laughed.
“His whole head is smushed,” I said.
“Out!” Wren snapped.
“Yeah, out,” Trip said, mock-stern.
“You too!”
“What? What’d I do?”
“C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go call your dad and stepmom.”
They’d gone back to the hotel for dinner.
“Yeah, you’re right. He’ll wanna know he’s a granddad.”
“And the boys’re uncles,” I added.
“They aren’t really boys anymore,” Trip said as he held the door for me. “Josh’s the same age I was when my mom died.”
“Wow, crazy.”
“No kidding. Anyway, let’s tell Helen and Lydia they can go back in. Then we’ll call Wren’s dad and let him know.” All of a sudden he stopped, right in the middle of the hallway.
I turned to him. “What?”
Trip laughed, soft and full of disbelief.
“What?” I repeated. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I just can’t believe it. I’m someone’s dad.”
“Pretty cool, huh?”
He thought about it, and his eyes glistened. Then he pulled himself together and clapped me on the shoulder.
“You’re next, dude. Better get started. Let me know if you need any pointers.”
I grinned. “Way ahead of you.”
“For real?”
“Yep. She stopped taking the pill last month.”
Christy missed her first period right before Christmas. Then she missed January too. She’d missed them before, usually when she was under a lot of stress or hadn’t been eating, but never two in a row. She scheduled an appointment with her doctor, who gave us the good news—she was due in late August or early September.
We told Wren and Trip first. We called our mothers next. Then we called Brooke, Leah, and Erin, who were all thrilled at the news. We spent the rest of the evening on the phone, talking to sisters-in-law and grandmothers.
Mine were excited, especially since none of my cousins had had children yet. Granny Carmichael was happy for us too, although she’d been a great-grandmother for years. Nana Choate was a more recent great-grandmother, but Christy was her only granddaughter and held a special place in her heart.
Wren liked being a mother, but she was still upset that she’d had to put her career on hold. Trip had no clue, of course, although I heard plenty through Christy.
“I’ve been thinking…,” she said one night during her lotions and potions.
“About what?”
“What if… um…? What if I watch Davis during the day?”
I didn’t lower my book. “Tomorrow? Sure.”
“And… maybe the day after that.”
“I guess.”
“What if… I watch him all the time?”
I stuck a finger in my book and looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Please don’t say no until you hear me out,” she said quickly.
“Why would I say no?”
“Because… um…”
The penny finally dropped. “Hold on,” I said, “are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”
“I don’t know. What do you think I’m talking about?”
“Watching Davis every day. Being his nanny. His babysitter. His… whatever.”
She pursed her lips and struggled not to cry. Her hormones had been a little crazy lately, but she wasn’t normally that emotional.
I set my book on the nightstand, drew my hand back, and realized too late that I hadn’t saved my place with the bookmark. It didn’t matter.
“You really want to do this?” I asked. “Be Davis’s nanny?”
“More than anything in the world. I don’t have a job. What else’m I gonna do? I’m going crazy at home every day. I hate watching TV. I hate drawing and never sculpting. Never anything big, I mean. And stop trying to change the subject.”
I held up my hands in a show of innocence.
“I want to take care of Davis, to be his nanny,” she continued without a pause. “Please, please, can I? I promise it won’t change anything with us. You and me, I mean.”
“The hell it won’t,” I muttered.
“It won’t. I promise.”
I took a deep breath and thought about it, really thought about it. Wren could go back to work if she had full-time childcare. And who could she trust more than Christy? Besides, our condo was practically next door to theirs. She wouldn’t even have to drive to drop him off in the morning. Or Christy could spend the day at their place instead.
“I really, really want a baby,” Christy said into the silence.
“Why?”
“I… don’t know. I can’t explain it. I just do.”
“Have you talked to Wren about it?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
I nodded. “What happens when our baby’s born?”
“I’ll take care of them both. Davis will be, like, practice. Don’t look at me like that! I know he isn’t a toy or something. He’s a baby, a person. But you know what I mean. I can learn with him. And when Laurie comes—”
We hadn’t really discussed it, but our baby was going to be named Laurie no matter what—Laurence if he was a boy, Lauren if she was a girl. My life wasn’t worth the argument that would ensue if I had a problem with it. Fortunately, I didn’t.
“—I’ll already know what to do.” She paused and drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I want this, Paul. More than anything.”
“Well, then… let’s talk to Wren and Trip.”
Christy loved being pregnant. It also suited her. She had to stop drinking, but she could eat all she wanted without people muttering about “starving children in Africa” when she ordered two entrées in a restaurant, or two entrées and two desserts. She also gained weight. The doctor was still worried about her, but her mother assured her that everything would be fine.
“Christine, dear, I gave birth to six healthy children. I never weighed more than a hundred and thirty pounds, and that was with Daniel. I was a hundred and twenty with you. You’ll be fine, dear. The baby will be fine. Tell the doctor to call me if he has any questions.”
The doctor did not have any questions, although he forced a smile and said he appreciated the offer. Then he encouraged Christy to eat more.
So our grocery bill doubled, and I lost count of how many times I ran to the store in the middle of the night for some weird craving. They weren’t the usual “pickles and ice cream” kind, either. They all started with peanut butter. Christy ate jars of the stuff. Sometimes I’d find her simply eating it with a spoon.
“Confessions of a teenage peanut butter freak,” she muttered one night, although I never got a good explanation of that one. She sent me to the store instead. She wanted egg noodles with her peanut butter.
Another time she wanted peanut butter and green beans.
“The fresh kind, not the canned!” she called as I headed for the door, car keys in hand. “Haricots verts, sautéed in butter, like Wren does them!”
I didn’t understand the first part, but the last was enough to give me a clue.
“You got it!” I called back.
She ate chicken and peanut butter on a fairly regular basis. I thought she was kidding one day when she wanted me to pick up a fresh jar and some graham crackers on my way home after work. That at least made sense.
One night I jokingly offered to let her try peanut butter and semen. She took me up on it, although she wrinkled her nose when she tried it.
“Um… maybe just semen by itself from now on. Don’t get me wrong,” she added quickly, “it tastes fine. But the texture…?” She grimaced and scraped her tongue against her teeth. “No. Just… no.”
“No problem,” I said. “It was just a thought.”
“Thank you. But… now I need something to get the taste of peanut butter out of my mouth.”
My eyebrows rose with amusement. “Semen?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
She also ate nearly every fruit and vegetable she could lay her hands on. She lost her taste for apples—the texture again—but our refrigerator was full of things like kiwi fruit and kumquats. It was also full of lettuce, and not the boring iceberg stuff.
She ate Bibb lettuce in place of her usual carrots, and Belgian endive instead of celery. She ate it like a normal person ate potato chips, plus enough spinach to make Popeye sick. I sometimes wondered how she didn’t turn green from the stuff.
Being a nanny to Davis suited her as well. She loved the boy like her own child. She took him to the park in his stroller or on long walks. She danced with him and sang to him in the bath. She played with toys and colored with him. Her life had a purpose again.
She usually told me about her day while she went through her beauty routine in the evening. It took longer because she’d added several steps. She didn’t want stretch marks, so she rubbed lotion on her belly, which was the size of a soccer ball. Her breasts were larger too, and she used the same lotion on them. Her body had changed in other ways, but they were all minor.
Her libido had changed the most. It had kicked into overdrive along with her metabolism. We had sex all the time, usually three or four times a day, sometimes more. We’d had to adapt to her growing belly, but it hadn’t slowed us down in the least. So I loved her being pregnant as much as she did.
“The doctor says I need to make sure I get enough iron,” she said as she closed her bottle of lotion.
I wondered where she was going until she used her pinky to apply a generous coat of lip balm.
“I wonder if I can find out what vitamins and minerals are in semen. Do you think I can ask at the library? Oh my gosh, can you imagine their faces? They’re worse than Sister Prune. They’d be mortified!”
“Probably,” I chuckled.
“Oh, well. Maybe I need to start reading women’s magazines instead. You know the ones I’m talking about. I saw one the other day with an article about ‘Girls who are addicted to sex.’ Can you believe it? That’s me all right!” she laughed.
“Sex, sex, sex, that’s all I think about. Well, not really. I think about blowjobs, but you know what I mean. And I don’t care what you or anyone else says, I still don’t think they’re sex. Not sex-sex, I mean, penis in vagina. Speaking of which, I need it again. I wanna suck you off first, though. Then we can do it on the side of the bed.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” I slid my bookmark into place and set the book on the nightstand.
“Mmm, you said twice.”
I chuckled and upped the ante. “You don’t have to ask me three times.”
“Three—?” Her eyes flashed. “Do you think we can?”
“I’m willing to try if you are.”
“Oh my gosh, yes! I’m totally addicted.”
The phone rang one evening in the middle of August.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Yes,” a man’s voice said, “I’d like to speak to Paul Hughes.”
“This is he.”
“Hi, Paul, it’s Glen.”
I couldn’t place the voice.
“Glen Otis, from UT.”
We’d kept in touch through letters for about a year after he’d left school, but I hadn’t heard from him since.
“Glen! Hey, it’s great to hear from you! How’re you?”
“I’m well, thanks. And you?”
“I’m good, I’m good.”
“I’m sorry to bother you at home,” he said. “Your mother gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. I’m glad you called. What’ve you been up to?”
He was as laconic as ever and told me in a few sentences, “I’m still in the Army. A sergeant now. Still an MP.”
“Very cool.”
“I’d like to see you,” he finished. “And… I want you to meet someone.”
I chuckled. “Someone special?”
“Very.”
“Of course! When? Where?”
“I’ve been transferred to Fort Knox—”
“Gonna guard the gold?” I joked.
“No. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”
I blinked when I realized he’d spoken Latin. I didn’t know what he’d said, but he’d certainly changed since I’d talked to him last. He’d always been quiet and philosophical, but never a scholar.
“Who watches the watchers?” he said into the silence.
“Right. Of course.”
“Anyway, we’ll be driving through Atlanta. I’d like to get together. And introduce you to my lady.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “We’d like that. Christy and I are married.”
“And expecting your first child. Your mother told me. I hope you don’t mind—” A beeper sounded in the background. He silenced it, paused, and then said, “Sorry, I need to go. I’m on duty.”
“No problem. When do you want to get together?”
“We’re leaving Benning on Saturday…”
We arranged the time and place and said goodbye.
Christy appeared from the bedroom. She didn’t exactly waddle, but she moved with the deliberate gait of a woman who was very, very pregnant.
“Who was on the phone, honey?”
“A long-lost friend.”
“Oh? Someone I know?”
We met Glen and his girlfriend at a Cracker Barrel near Kennesaw, just north of Atlanta. He looked good, professional and fit. He was also leaner than I remembered. He’d been a defensive end in high school and a beefy guy in our judo days, but he’d lost weight since then.
His girlfriend was the bigger change, although I shouldn’t have been surprised. Glen had always been an iconoclast.
Robin was a pretty, quiet Black woman, a few years younger than us. She had intelligent brown eyes, a dusting of dark freckles, and a shy smile. I liked her immediately, and Glen relaxed when he saw it in my expression.
“Knew I could count on you,” he said.
“Love is love,” I said simply.
“See?” he said to Robin. “I told you, honey. He’s one of the good ones.”
We ate lunch with them and caught up for a couple of hours. He wanted to hear about my life first, so I told him everything that had happened since he’d left to join the Army.
“What about you?” I asked. “You’re clearly doing well.”
He’d been in Alabama for basic training and then Military Police school. After that, he’d been transferred to Georgia. He enjoyed life in the Army and enjoyed being a cop. He and Robin had met about a year before. She was a civilian employee in the PX, the post exchange.
“She never dated a white guy before,” Glen said, a bit bashfully. “Which is good, ’cause I never thought I’d fall for a Black girl.” He smiled at her with a look of such devotion that I caught myself smiling along with them. “You know what I mean,” he added.
“I do.” I glanced at my own source of devotion, who was industriously devouring a second order of pancakes. (In addition to the plate of chicken and dumplings she’d already eaten.)
She realized we were all looking at her. She finished chewing and swallowed.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but…” She gestured at her stomach, currently the size of a basketball. “Oh, sorry. Hold on.” She stopped our waitress. “Excuse me. May I have some peanut butter with this? Please?”
“Of course, sweetie. Can I bring you anything else?”
“Maybe a glass of milk? And… um… some green beans?”
“It was pumpkin pie for me,” the woman laughed. “And chocolate. Couldn’t get enough. When’re you due?”
“Not soon enough,” Christy muttered.
“About two weeks,” I said over her head.
The waitress smiled and nodded. “Can I bring the rest of y’all anything?”
“Just the check, please,” Glen said.
“Together or separate?”
“Together,” he and I said at the same time.
“Let me get it,” I said. “I won’t fight you for it—”
He smiled.
“—but I’m not going to argue, either.”
“Besides,” Christy added, “I’ve eaten more than both of you. Sorry,” she said again. “I’m usually not this rude. Only, I’m starving.”
“I’ll be right back with that peanut butter,” the waitress said. Then she nodded at me. “And the check.”
“Let’s not lose touch again,” I said to Glen. Then I pulled out my wallet and handed him a business card. “It’s a glorified title,” I added. “I’m basically slave labor—”
That was a preview of Beyond Happily Ever After: Special Edition Epilogue. To read the rest purchase the book.
