CHAPTER THREE
“I’m Rose Calabrone,” the woman across the threshold announces in a friendly tone that almost puts Derry at ease.
Almost.
Standing there beside her husband, facing the stranger who holds their parental fate in her hands, Derry can’t help but fret. She clenches her fists in the pockets of the new corduroy pants she found on final markdown at Strawberry’s during yesterday’s emergency shopping trip.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, as she scurried around the city on her fashion mission, it was sleeting, reducing the remnants of a late snowfall into ugly gray slush in the gutters.
Today, the April breeze is so unseasonably balmy that Derry could conceivably be wearing shorts instead of corduroy and this polyester-blend sweater she bought to go with the pants. She bought a couple of new blouses that would have been better. A ruffled blue one, and a peach one with a broad collar.
But she chose the sweater because she was going for an upscale, suburban housewife look. Very classic, very together. Hopefully, Rose Calabrone won’t notice that her hair-spray-tamed bangs are dampened with sweat.
“Come on in,” Linden says cordially, stepping back and holding the door open. He looks awkward in the suit and tie Derry insisted he wear. Maybe his regular clothes would have been better, she thinks, noting that the suit doesn’t fit right and the tie’s shape is outdated. The powder blue dress shirt beneath the jacket has short sleeves. Like the suit, it’s the only one he owns. Linden is under strict orders not to remove the coat, no matter how hot it is.
“Why not?” he asked sourly just before the buzzer rang.
“Because nobody wears short sleeves with a suit. And because sweaty armpits will show up on that light blue.”
As the visitor steps into their home at last, Derry sweeps the freshly scrubbed living room with the same critical eye that found grievous fault in her husband.
Is it obvious that the “coffee table” is really a piano bench long ago scavenged from the curb? Or that the peach-colored drapes in the room’s lone window are homemade? Or that the throw pillows are as frayed as her nerves?
At least the throw rug is new, and you can’t see the worn spots on the couch slipcover. Thank God for Odd Lot, and for the dimmer switch on the overhead light.
“Can I get you some coffee, Ms. Calabrone?” Derry asks, wishing she had thought of making a pot in advance. The scent of brewing coffee would make any house more homey.
“It’s
Mrs.
Calabrone, actually, but you can call me Rose.”
Derry can’t help thinking that bodes well for a long-term relationship. You don’t encourage a first-name basis with people you don’t expect to see again.
Or maybe Derry’s just grasping at straws, looking for signs that this, at last, is the answer to their prayers for a child.
“Coffee, Rose?” she asks again, and the woman hesitates, then politely declines.
Perhaps she would have accepted a cup if she thought it were no trouble. If she had stepped in and the apartment smelled like fresh coffee.
Yes, and Derry should have baked cookies, too, rather than buying those Easter-themed Oreos with the pastel-tinted cream. Now they’re sitting on a plastic-wrapped plate in front of the couch, ready to serve. What was she thinking?
You were thinking that fancy-colored Oreos were a step up from the generic-brand sandwich cookies you and Linden usually buy. You were thinking that a child should grow up in a home with plenty of Oreos on hand.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Calabrone—Rose—probably thinks that a child should grow up some place where homemade treats are the norm.
Well, it’s too late for cookie-baking and coffee-brewing now. It’s sink or swim time for the Cordells.
At least I’m not working anymore,
Derry tells herself optimistically.
They probably don’t like working mothers.
Linden has led Rose to the couch, having completely forgotten—or ignored—Derry’s adamant previsit instructions.
She hastily sidesteps the makeshift coffee table and says, with a pointed glare at her husband, “I think you’ll be more comfortable in this chair, Rose.”
Yes, because the chair, though threadbare, doesn’t squeak or sag or smell like cat pee.
Hopefully the lilac-scented candle flickering beside the plate of cookies masks the odor, because the woman has already seated herself on the couch, saying, “This is fine, thanks.”
There’s nothing for Derry to do but sit in the chair herself, with Linden perched on the arm. He rests a loving hand on her shoulder, as though the two of them haven’t been at each other’s throats all day in the frenzy to prepare for the adoption agency representative’s arrival.
“Tell me a little about yourselves,” Rose suggests, her pink-lipsticked mouth curving into a pleasant smile.
Derry would much rather she told them about the unwed Iowa teenager who, miracle of miracles, selected their profile from the dozens the agency sent her.
Who would ever have expected that to happen so quickly after Derry responded to the initial e-mail? She’s heard nightmarish stories about all the red tape, high costs, delays, and false starts that go along with the adoption process, but this was easy.
Almost too easy.
And, remarkably, affordable. The fee is much lower than the tens of thousands she anticipated. Even better, it can be paid in small monthly installments that will commence only when the adoption is complete.
At this rate, Derry could be a mother in just a few months.
“. . . and then we realized we can’t afford infertility treatments,” Linden is saying, having conveniently forgotten that Derry’s case was so futile Dr. Lombardo didn’t even present that option, “so we sort of knew that we probably aren’t going to be parents.”
Sort of knew?
There was a time when Derry was charmed by his poor grammar. She used to be drawn to that rough-around-the-edges quality of his.
Not anymore. She has to get him to shut up, or he’s going to ruin this. No adoption agency wants to give a child to a father who says
ain’t
. Of that, she’s certain.
“But then, just when we figured it wasn’t gonna happen, Derry got that e-mail,” Linden goes on, oblivious of her disgust, “and she was so happy when she heard back from you. You should have seen her face. I don’t think she’s stopped smiling since that day.”
Derry melts a little, touched by the glance her husband sends in her direction. His grammar stinks, but anyone can see that he loves her. Surely two happily married parents meet the most important adoption criteria.
“I’m happy to hear that, because your future as parents looks very bright.” Rose includes them both in her pleasant smile, revealing a row of perfect, ultrawhite teeth. Still, there’s a slight air of detachment about her expression. The smile doesn’t quite reach her brown eyes.
That’s because she’s the epitome of professional decorum, Derry tells herself, relaxing a bit despite her anxiety. This isn’t as scary as she expected. Everything is more casual than she expected, almost as though the slim blonde on the couch is a new neighbor from down the hall, dropping by to introduce herself.
Not that she can quite picture Rose living here in Co-op City. There’s a vaguely upscale air about her. Her hair is styled in a country club pageboy, and she’s wearing a trim black suit and a pair of leather pumps that look as expensive as her perfume smells. And if that square-cut diamond ring on the fourth finger of her left hand is real, it’s worth almost as much as this apartment.
Derry always pictured adoption agency employees as nuns, or social worker types. In a way, that might be easier. She wouldn’t feel as self-consciously inferior.
Shifting her gaze away from the woman’s huge ring, she notices that at least her nails aren’t long and perfectly polished, as one might expect in a city where weekly manicures are requisite. Derry unclenches her own ravaged fingertips a little, no longer quite as desperate to hide them in the folds of her sweater.
There’s nothing critical in Rose’s mascara-fringed eyes as she says, “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. Why don’t you go ahead and ask them?”
Linden, who has been skeptical about this process from the start, promptly opens his mouth.
Before he can throw a wrench—or a dangling participle—into the precarious proceedings, Derry blurts, “Tell us about the mother in Iowa.”
A shadow crosses Rose’s attractive face.
Uh-oh. Clearly, Derry said the wrong thing. She should have let Linden do the talking after all.
Rose seems to be choosing her words with care.
Finally, she says, “At Cradle to Cradle, we prefer to call expectant clients ‘donors.’ If everything works out the way we expect it to, Mrs. Cordell,
you
will be the mother. Not her.”
Derry grins, the last of her reservations melting away like ugly late-winter slush.
Rita’s cell phone rings just as it’s her turn to be waited on.
“Can I help you?” the deli counterman is asking impatiently.
She holds up a finger, motioning him to stand by while she answers her phone. “Hello?”
“Rita. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Where have you been?”
“Delivering twins,” she tells Nancy wearily. “And I worked up one hell of an appetite, so hang on a second.”
To the impatient counterman, she says, “I’ll have a turkey sandwich on whole grain bread with lettuce and mustard.”
“Cheese?”
“ No.”
“Tomatoes?”
“No. Just lettuce and mustard,” she repeats with forced politeness, wondering why New York deli men always seem bent on making things more complicated. She orders the same exact sandwich every time she comes in here. Which is at least once or twice a week.
Rita isn’t crazy about complications these days. Or ever. No, sirree.
Into the phone, she says, “The second twin was breech. What a nightmare for the mother.”
“And for you.”
“She did all the work.”
“Not all the work. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Rita smiles, shaking her head.
Leave it to Nancy to turn her into the hero. The woman’s specialty, aside from gossip and perpetually feeling sorry for herself, is definitely stroking egos. No wonder Bill Lombardo hired her years ago. Nancy always knows just what to say to flatter him.
It’s a God-given gift, as far as Rita’s concerned.
“You know how I feel about my work, Nancy. It isn’t brain surgery. I just make sure I’m there, and I let nature take its course.”
“Most midwives would beg to differ.”
“Listen, sugar pie, you and I both know that women have been giving birth for quite some time and anyone is capable of doing what I do,” says Rita, who frequently points out that it wasn’t so long ago that most women acted as midwives for their daughters and sisters and friends.
“You’d better not say that in front of your patients, or they won’t be willing to pay you,” Nancy warns her. “Anyway, listen, I was wondering if we could set up another home-birth seminar here in the office for sometime next month.”
“You don’t think I’m busy enough?” Rita asks with a laugh, plucking a bottle of sweetened iced tea from the refrigerated case adjacent to the counter. “I’ve already got my hands full with patients and support groups—which reminds me, I’ve got to reschedule that Pregnant and Single meeting. I’ve had to cancel on them twice at the last minute.”
“Nature of the business,” Nancy says lightly. “And they’ve been meeting anyway. I think they just like bonding with other women who are in the same boat. So can we set something up for the office?”
“I’ll call you later, from home,” Rita promises. “I don’t have my appointment book with me.”
“Turkey on whole grain with lettuce, onion, and mustard,” the counterman bellows, thrusting a wrapped sandwich in her direction.
Rita sighs. “I’ve got to go, Nancy. I’ve got to take care of a problem here.”
“Patient complications?”
“No,” Rita says with a smile, shaking her head. “Sandwich complications. Talk to you later.”
“You were right. This is a great restaurant, Peyton,” Allison announces around a mouthful of Tequila Moon’s famous refried beans. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Pretty much every day lately, the way I’ve been craving cilantro.” Peyton dips another tortilla chip into the restaurant’s addictive salsa. “Good thing it’s only a block from my apartment. Then again, I’d be more than willing to take two subways and a bus to get here if I had to.”
“That’s pretty much what I have to do to get my Indian food fix. Only it’s one subway and two buses.”
As they share a laugh, Peyton marvels at how quickly she and Allison have bonded over cravings and nausea, layettes and maternity catalogs, even a mutual hobby of collecting classic children’s books.