Vera shook her head. “
You
’
re not the bad guy.”
Silence. Mags and Bev gave me looks that said in no
uncertain terms that I was, indeed, the bad guy.
I shook my head. “
I don
’
t believe this.”
Mags sighed and put the cards down. “
I really don
’
t see what the problem is, Portia. Just the other night you were telling me that all
you wanted was a man who would stick.”
“
Excuse me?”
I shook my head as the whole obvious scenario began to sink in. I stared at Mags. “
You orchestrated this whole thing, didn
’
t you?”
She answered with one raised eyebrow, and then went on. “
And now a perfe
ctly good and might I say easy-on-the-eyes young gentleman comes to town and proposes.”
She shook her head and picked up the cards again. “
I thought you
’
d be happy.”
I swallowed. There was more to this story, I just knew it. “
Mags, what have you done?”
She
looked at Vera and Bev and smiled, then batted her eyes at me. “
Peter didn
’
t tell you?”
I felt like I was going to throw up.
“
Well, darlin
’,”
she said. “
We
’
ve hired ourselves a new business manager.”
My stomach heaved. “
Oh, my god.”
Mags rearranged her ha
nd of cards. “
He
’
ll be staying with us for a while until the apartment over the Page opens up.”
She glanced up at me. “
Or someone finds room for him.”
“
Are you kidding? Are you
kidding
me? You
hired
me a husband?”
“
Why not?”
Bev asked, her mouth tight. “
We
had intended for you to be the business manager when you finally decided to return from your endless schooling, but you
’
re not interested,
so…”
My mouth dropped open. “
Are you
kidding
me?”
“
Shhh, you
’
ll wake him, poor boy. He
’
s had such a rough day. He di
dn
’
t say exactly what happened when he saw you, but based on the look on his face, I think you could have been nicer to him.”
Mags glanced toward the empty seat at the table, then back up at me. “
Well, Portia. Are you in or not?”
I stared at them for a min
ute. Vera looked appropriately contrite. On the opposite end of the scale, I
’
d never seen Bev so pleased. And Mags just smiled, like it was no big deal.
“
Good night, ladies,”
I said. I went back into the house, slamming the screen door behind me. I was mak
ing my way down the front steps when I heard Mags
’
s voice calling after me. “
Portia?”
I turned around to face her. She closed the distance between us.
“
He
’
s a nice boy. And he loves you.”
“
Are you crazy? You
’
re crazy. You cannot run my life any way you see
fit, Mags. Things don
’
t work this way.”
She smoothed her hand over one silk sleeve and then raised her eyes to meet mine. “
Well, darlin
’
, things don
’
t seem to be working the way you
’
ve been doing them, either, now have they?”
I turned around and trudged t
he six blocks back to the Page, stepping on every sidewalk crack I could find along the way.
Chapter Eight
“
So,”
Beauji asked as we power-walked, “
have you talked to them yet?”
I shook my head. “
No.”
“
What about Peter?”
“
He
’
s with the Mizzes. I avoid them all.”
“
It
’
s been a week,”
she said. “
Not that I don
’
t like having company for these morning walks, but you
’
re a bit of a downer, you know.”
“
Am I?”
I said, kicking a large pebble into a ditch. “
I thought I was being pretty c
heerful. Considering.”
“
Hmmm,”
Beauji said. “
What about Ian?”
I shrugged. “
I haven
’
t seen him, either. You
’
re officially the only person in my life with whom I have any contact, aside from my faculty adviser, who was nice enough to pretend to believe me wh
en I told her I was almost done with my dissertation.”
Beauji gave me a sideways glance but didn
’
t break her stride. “
You
’
re not almost done?”
I shrugged and looked toward the east, where the sun was in full bloom. “
What time is it, do you think?”
Beauji g
lanced at her watch. “
Seven-eighteen. So, when is the dissertation due?”
“
December.”
“
Are you at least mostly done?”
“
Define mostly.”
She sighed and shook her head, picking up the pace. “
For Christ
’
s sake, Portia, if you throw twelve years of school down t
he drain
—”
“
I
’
m not throwing twelve years of school down the drain. I
’
m just delaying it. Maybe. I only wanted it done by December so they could consider me for the new faculty position opening up in the spring. But now
…”
“
But now what?”
“
I don
’
t know.”
We
started again, in the direction of the Babb farm. “
Do we have to walk on this road every day? Couldn
’
t we go through town and down River Road? I really don
’
t want to bump into Ian.”
A big fat lie, that. But still. A girl
’
s got to keep up appearances.
“
Ian
writes in the mornings,”
Beauji said, arms pumping. “
But we can go another way tomorrow. If we do it tomorrow.”
She grinned at me. “
I have a feeling today
’
s the day.”
“
You have a feeling every day
’
s the day.”
I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice
. Every morning we walked. And walked. And walked. Still no baby. I had my suspicions that she wasn
’
t even pregnant, just fat in a highly abnormal way.
“
But today
’
s my due date,”
she said, taking a swig of her water.
“
Yeah, and yesterday was supposed to be
the day because no one ever gives birth on their due date. And the day before that was supposed to be the day because it was a full moon, and birth rates climb during a full moon. And
—”
“
Hey, are you trying to alienate the last friend you got left, or wha
t?”
I didn
’
t say anything. Beauji slowed down a little more.
“
We
’
re almost to the farm,”
she said. “
Ready to turn around?”
We stopped and stared northward, silent for a moment. I considered going farther, visiting with Ian, having coffee, chatting, trying
to mend that busted-up fence. I
’
d bet dollars to doughnuts Beauji considered dragging me screaming by my hair to do that very thing. We each sighed on the same note. Nobody beats old friends for clairvoyance and timing.
“
I
’
m sorry,”
she said. “
I didn
’
t mea
n that about me being your last friend.”
I shrugged. “
Truth hurts, right?”
She put her hand on my shoulder. I thought it was a comfort gesture, until I saw her face, which was contorted in pain.
“
Beauji?”
She bent over
, grabbing her thigh with one hand and my shoulder with the other.
“
My cell phone,”
she gasped. “
It
’
s in the pack. Call Davey.”
“
Are you in labor?”
“
Call Davey!”
She sucked in a breath. I zipped open the fanny pack we
’
d assembled for just such an occasion,
pulled out the cell phone, and hit the power button.
Nothing. I hit it again.
Crap.
“
Beauji?”
She whooshed out a breath and straightened up.
“
Oh, holy Mother of God, that fucker hurt.”
“
Are you okay?”
She shook her head. Her eyes were glistening. “
I think
this is it, Portia.”
“
Sit down,”
I said. She looked down at the dirty road under her feet.
“
I
’
m not sitting down here. I
’
ll never get up again. What did Davey say? Is he on his way?”
I sighed. “
Have you charged this phone recently?”
She grabbed the phone
and punched the power button a few times. Her eyes welled up in tears.
“
Oh, my god,”
she wailed, her voice high-pitched and squeaky, “
I
’
m going to have my baby on the side of the road!”
I put both my hands on her shoulders.
“
Beauji, look at me.”
She did. I
put my palms on her face. “
You
’
re going to be fine. I
’
m right here and I will not let you give birth on the side of the road. Do you understand me?”
She nodded slowly Her expression calmed. Then she bent over again and let go with a stream of obscenities.
I put my arm around her, supporting her until the contraction passed.
“
Beau?”
I asked, when I felt the muscles in her shoulders relax under my hand. “
You okay?”
She whimpered. I ran my hand over her hair.
“
You might not even be in labor right now. You sai
d yourself that you
’
ve been having false contractions.”
“
No,”
she said, gasping. “
This is different.”
As if to make her point, her water broke, gushing over our feet and dribbling down the road. She began to cry. I closed my eyes. We were three miles from
town, two miles from the farm, and she wasn
’
t going to budge. I heard what sounded like a car and looked over my shoulder.
“
Beau?”
I said into her ear. “
I
’
m going to flag down that car, okay?”
Her hand tightened on my arm. “
I
’
m scared.”
I kissed the top of her head. “
You
’
re gonna be fine, baby.
Don
’
t you worry about a thing. I
’
ve got it under control, but I need to step into the road and wave that car down, okay?”
Beauji gave a small nod and put both her hands on her thighs for support. I
stepped out into the road and waved. A familiar blue pickup truck came up around the bend. I didn
’
t have to read the lettering on the side to know the familiar logo: WILKINS CONSTRUCTION.