Three years ago, when she learned that Louis Belarge, her first husband and father of her daughters, had fathered a son with another woman, she immediately made arrangements to take the girls and leave. Louis had laughed at her, saying she wouldn't last two weeks on her own, but she'd fooled his cheating ass.
It hadn't been easy. She'd rented a large one-bedroom apartment and told the management that her husband had custody of their children so they wouldn't force her to spend more for a second bedroom. She set up the bedroom for the girls and slept on the couch. Precise Transcription had just instituted a work-at-home program, and she bought a computer and signed up.
It took time getting the kids to understand that Mommy was off limits while she was working unless it was really important, especially with her working out in the open, in a corner of the dining area. And sometimes, despite all of her best efforts, the bills for the computer, the new furniture, payments on her car, and other household expenses were too much, and they had to subsist on chicken, ground beef, and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, usually in the days immediately preceding payday. It was true her life was a lot more tranquil now that she'd remarried, but the memory of that scary time would be with her forever, and she decided it would never happen again.
Determined to increase her paycheck, she'd set about creating an extensive library of shorthandâsome people called them macrosâthat reduced the number of keystrokes she used and ultimately made her Precise Transcription's biggest producer, putting out ten thousand lines a week. Her paycheck increased dramatically and had stayed elevated ever since.
Even with a total of six kids between them, she and Michael managed just fine, in large part due to the low mortgage payment on Michael's house, which she and her girls had moved into after their marriage. The house, in an old, established neighborhood near the St. Johns River, had been comfortable when it was just Michael, Jonathan, Damon, and Monet; but now that the family had expanded it was awfully tight. Nothing had changed for the boys, but nine-year-old Monet now shared her bedroom with three stepsisters, and with two bunk beds and two dressers crammed in there, they literally couldn't turn around without bumping into something.
The biggest problem was lack of closets. Cécile had to store their less-used clothing in storage boxes in the detached garage. Run-ning out there every five minutes to get this or that had gotten old real fast.
The master suite wasn't much better. Only slightly larger than the other two bedrooms, it barely had space for their queen-size bed, chest, and highboy. The television had to go on top of her double-wide dresser because there was no place to put a TV stand, and the room's lone closet was inadequate. Fortunately, since she had been working at home, her wardrobe consisted largely of T-shirts and sweatpants. She supposed people today had larger wardrobes than they did back when this house was built, sometime between the two world wars. The room's only advantage was the attached full bath that the previous owners had added on.
Other than the small bedrooms, the house wasn't bad. It had an alcove that gave her both a place to work and a place to sew. The spacious kitchen had been modernized by the previous owners, as had the hall bath, and they had a full dining room and decent-sized yard. But those attributes couldn't make up for the lack of space in the bedrooms.
Cécile had treaded rather delicately regarding the topic of the house being too small, and although Michael initially showed enthusiasm about the idea of remodeling, that was as far as it had gotten. They'd been married over a year now, and it was still something he was “gonna” do.
She knew the reason for his reluctance. Each month he wrote a check for an amount less than what most people paid to rent a one-bedroom apartment. Michael Rivers was as close to the man of her dreams as she was going to get, but he did have a tendency to be a little tight with a dollar sometimes. The matter of household expenses had to be considered with such a large family, but sometimes she felt she couldn't get through another day living like this. She wanted to go outside, throw her arms up, look heavenward, and scream, “Give me space!”
Maybe she was being unreasonable, but it wasn't like they couldn't afford to pay two or three times as much as they were now. They had the income to do it, and surely that income would increase if she went into business with Dana and Norell.
She put away the vacuum and went to the phone. It was time to approach Michael about Dana's proposition.
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“I'm full,” Michael said, pressing his palms against his stomach, which had gotten a little rounder since they married. “Those stuffed peppers were good, Cécile.”
His sentiments were echoed by the others.
“The secret is Norell's fresh green peppers.”
“Seems to me that she gives away her whole vegetable garden,” Michael remarked.
“No, that's not really true, but she does grow too much for just her and Vic to eat.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Time for the news,” she announced. Her work was done for the night. The kids were responsible for clearing the table and cleaning the kitchen.
Cécile sat down to watch the news with Michael, a bag of gummi bears resting on her lap. That Brian Williams was awfully cute. She'd switched to NBC the moment Tom Brokaw retired.
Cécile rolled her eyes when the phone began to ring. Talk about lousy timing. She grabbed the kitchen extension. Probably one of those pushy eighth-grade girls calling Jonathan. She blew out her breath in annoyance. They wouldn't even let the boy do his homework in peace, and when he started high school in the fall, it would only get worse.
But it was her mother, calling from West Palm Beach. “Mama, is everything all right?” Cécile asked anxiously. Her mother, always conscious of long-distance rates, always called on weekends or in the morning before 8:00
A.M.
, not at 6:45 on a Wednesday night. Her mother clearly was not calling merely to say hello; something was up.
“Everything's okay,” Catherine replied. “I just wanted to let you know ... Well, you know Michie lost her job. The lawyers she worked for had to lay off a coupla people.”
“Yes, you told me a couple of weeks ago. She got a nice severance package, though, didn't she?”
“Well, not all in one piece. They go'n' keep payin' her for eight weeks. She'll get a check every other Friday, jus' like she was still workin'. Plus she'll get her vacation.”
“I don't understand, Mama. What's the problem?”
“There ain't one, well, not really. Michie said she was gonna call you, but in case she forgot to, I wanted to make sure you knew she's comin' up that way. I guess she did forget.”
“Michie's coming
here
? To Jacksonville? Why?”
“She got a job interview Tuesday. She checked the want ads in the Jacksonville papers on her computer. She's gonna drive up the day before.”
“How long will she be here?”
“She's movin' there. She put all her stuff in storage and gave up her apartment. She says she wants a change of scene.”
Cécile thought of her overcrowded house and instantly became alarmed. “She's not planning on staying here, is she?” That would be a difficult situation. She and Michael had no room for a houseguest, and it would be just like her sister to show up unannounced, expecting room and board. They were sisters, but they had never been friends.
“No, baby. She got a hotel room. But she'll be by to see you. She gave her job your address to mail her checks to. Now listen, Cécile,” Catherine said. “I know you and Michie don' always see eye to eye, but I hope you two can start gettin' along better. You're our only girls and you both grown; you should be close. Maybe livin' inna same city'll help.”
Cécile didn't answer. She and her younger sister didn't get along because somewhere along the line Micheline had gotten the idea that the world was supposed to grovel at her feet. It was a pretty lofty attitude for someone from their humble beginningsâtheir father worked as a landscaper, and their mother did office and house cleaningâbut what Micheline wanted, Micheline usually got, and that annoyed Cécile.
It was true that her little sister had done well. She had gotten her education with a combination of a partial scholarship, funds she raised by working part-time, and from a student loan. She now had a promising career as a paralegal and talked about going on to law school. She also had an active social life, including a half-dozen admirers vying for her affections. She zipped around town in a sporty new VW Bug convertible.
On the other hand, when Cécile was Micheline's age, she had been struggling to cope with a marriage that was already faltering, complicated by the existence of one small child and a nagging fear that she might be pregnant again, which turned out to be correct. She resented Micheline's carefree existence, feeling she could use a little responsibility in her life instead of gallivanting around between the mall and the manicurist to get ready for her dates. But the fact that Micheline could just pack up and come to a new town because she was bored suggested she was irresponsible as ever.
“Cécile? Are you listenin'?”
She blinked, abruptly halting her negative thoughts toward her sister. “Yes, Mama. I'll make a special effort to get along with Michie. I promise.”
“Everything all right?” Michael asked when she joined him in the living room.
“No, not really. My sister's moving to Jacksonville. She'll be here Friday.”
“You mean I'll finally get to meet the famous Micheline?”
“Whoop-de-doo,” she replied flatly.
He put an arm around her. “I know your sister isn't one of your favorite people, but this might be good for both of you. You two can have lunch together, like you do with Dana and Norell, and maybe in the process start to get along better.”
“I promised Mama I'd try. She's worried about Michie coming to a city where I'm the only one she knows. But it's not that I dislike her. I guess I'm just content to not see her very often.”
“Well, you can always use being a business owner as an excuse.”
She looked at him sharply. “Are you sure, Michael?”
“Of course there's some risk involved, but I think the three of you will do very well. I predict you'll recoup our investment in less than a year.”
“Oh, Michael, thank you!” She threw her arms around his neck, her palms tightly grasping the back of his head and neck to keep him close. He gently pushed her away, but his quick glance at the doorway told her it was out of concern that one of the children might walk in on them.
Cécile felt almost giddy as she clumsily moved away from him, nearly losing her balance in the process. Damn it, she had to lose those thirty pounds. The future looked too bright to be clouded by the health problems from dragging around extra weight. She and Dana and Norell were going to be successful and make a lot of money. She'd keep her current job and put every penny their new venture brought in toward having the house remodeled. Once that was done, everything would be perfect and she could deal with anything.
Even Micheline.
Chapter 4
N
orell applied full makeup and slipped into one of her numerous lounging outfits, this one a sea blue gauzy creation with a V-neck blouse and matching wide-legged pants. She tried several looks with her just-below-the-shoulder tresses, a flattering reddish-gold color courtesy of a skilled beautician, before deciding that an upsweep worked best. It made the most of her impressive bustline. It was important that she look especially good tonight. She needed Vic's support now more than ever.
She surveyed herself in the full-length oval standing mirror in her bedroom. She had to admit she looked pretty doggone good for thirty-seven. Hell, if it weren't for that space between her front teeth she'd be flawless, at least on the outside.
Sometimes Norell could hardly believe the changes that had occurred in her life. Less than two years before she'd been struggling to pay her bills, two steps ahead of collection, and now she presided over a spacious villa near the Intracoastal Waterway, with nothing much to worry about other than looking good for her husband when he came home from work.
Keeping the house clean didn't take much effort. They had a maid service come in every other week, and since neither she nor Vic were particularly messy people, it usually stayed neat between visits. She transcribed part time in the afternoons, between one-thirty and five-thirty. Norell didn't really have to work, but it gave her something to do. Between her work, her gardening, and her domestic responsibilities, Norell managed to stay busy. Having no financial burdens was a marvelous a state of affairs, but an emptiness gnawed at her incessantlyâand it became strongest whenever she got close to the beautifully decorated bedroom Vic kept for his two teenage daughters.
Norell had been told by her gynecologist years before that she would have a difficult time conceiving because her uterus was extremely tilted. She hadn't worried too much about it at the time; she'd only been twenty-one, and back then having children was a plan for the distant future. Later, while working night and day to pay her bills, she hadn't even had time to date, and she chalked up the idea of having a family of her own as simply not meant for her. She even mentioned that she would probably not be having children to an examiner at the women's center where she went for her health care, and the woman promptly suggested that she consider a hysterectomy. It would prevent the possibility of reproductive organ malignancy developing in the future, she said. It made sense, because of Norell's family historyâboth her parents had succumbed to cancer at relatively young agesâbut it had also been a turning point, for at that precise moment Norell realized she wasn't ready to give up hope.
After she married Vic she was glad she hadn't. It looked like all her dreams were going to come true, even though it was a tad late. But as the months went by and her period showed up every four weeks just like the full moon, Norell found herself growing more and more anxious. The words she'd heard so many years ago came back. But she was no longer twenty-one, with her entire adulthood still in front of her; she was thirty-seven and thinking about things like retirement savings and how to avoid osteoporosis.
Vic arrived home a shade before seven-thirty. He usually left the house in the morning a few minutes before nine, arriving at his bail bonds office in time to receive the anxious friends and family of prisoners whose bail amounts had been set at the nine
A.M.
court session. Commuting later than most people helped him get back and forth without encountering the considerable traffic on the roads leading to and from the Beaches area.
He came up behind her in the kitchen, wrapped his arms around her waist, and planted a loud, wet kiss on the side of her neck.
“That you, honey?” she asked innocently.
“Better be. What're you making?”
“Steak. It's marinated; that's why it smells so good. The potatoes are in the microwave, and the salad is in the fridge.” She turned around and slipped her arms around his neck. As she kissed his mouth, Vic grabbed her buttocks, pulling her into his groin.
“Mmm ... I see you brought me a little something,” she said, wiggling her hips into his erection. “When do I get it?”
Vic chuckled deep in his throat. “Not now; I gotta eat first.”
Norell had a spark in her step as she lit the candles on the table. Vic Bellamy might be fifty years old, but he was a fabulous lover who could leave her exhausted and drenched in sweat. Her reproductive equipment might not work properly, but there was nothing wrong with the part of her that reached sexual gratification.
“I had a doctor's appointment today,” she remarked as they ate. She had decorated the table with inexpensive fresh flowers, black-eyed Susans and violets, from Wal-Mart. She hesitated lighting candles, fearing that would be overkill, before going ahead with it.
“Oh? Anything wrong?”
“No. I went to see an infertility specialist. I told you about it.” The fact that he'd forgotten couldn't be taken as a good sign, but Norell wasn't surprised. Vic already had three children and didn't seem too eager to start a second family, even though before they got married he said they could start trying after six months. She sensed he experienced secret relief as each subsequent month proved no baby was on the way.
“Oh yeah, I remember now. So what'd he say?”
“He wants to do some tests. He thinks it's something more than just a tilted uterus, and he wants to determine if there's any damage to my tubes. While I was there he told me about different options we can consider. He also wants you to come in.”
“Me? What for?”
“To test your, uh, little squiggies.”
Vic put down his wineglass. “There's nothing wrong with my sperm count, Norell. I have three children, remember?”
“Yes, a twenty-six-year-old son, and two teenage daughters. He wants to test you because it's been so long since you fathered a child. Even though he says he's pretty sure the problem is all with me,” she added quickly.
“Yeah, well if he's so sure, let him treat you and leave me out of it.”
Norell chose her words carefully on what was a delicate topic. She knew the ability to make babies was as important, if not more important, to a man as the ability to conceive and carry was to women, and to have that ability questioned was like questioning his manhood. “It's purely a precautionary measure, Vic. It would be a waste of time to treat me if it turns out there's something wrong with you. It's unlikely, but not impossible.”
“So what am I supposed to do, go down to his office and jack off in a cup?”
“I wish you wouldn't be so crass about it. This is important to me, Vic. Why don't you think about it for a while?”
But don't take too long,
she silently implored. While the physician pointed out that thirty-seven was much better than thirty-eight, which in turn was much better than thirty-nine, he had stressed that time was not on her side.
She decided the topic had been discussed sufficiently for one evening. “How was work today?” she asked to change the subject.
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After dinner, Norell relaxed in the living room with a book while Vic watched TV. A jangling phone suddenly broke into the relative quiet. She put a hand on the receiver and waited, as was her habit, for it to ring two complete times before picking it up. “Hello.”
“Norell, it's Dana.”
“Hi! What's up?”
“I called so you can wish me luck. I'm going to the bank tomorrow. Brittany's friend's father is branch manager at the same bank where we, where I have my mortgage, so I figured I'd start with him, see if he can influence the loan officer in my favor.” Dana paused. “But there's something else I need to talk to you about.”
“What's that?” The commercial that had been playing ended, and Norell caught sight of Vic gesturing at her to keep quiet so he could watch the program. “Hold on, Dana, I'm going to switch phones.”
When she was settled in the master bedroom she resumed the conversation. “Sorry about that. Vic's really into some documentary about Alcatraz prison. It's the bail bondsman in him, I guess. What's on your mind?”
“I want to know if you'll be Brittany's guardian in case anything happens to me.”
Norell's mouth dropped open. “Dana! I thought you were going to ask me to go with you to the bank for moral support or something. This is serious.”
“Yes, it is. If anything happens to me, Brittany will have no one. I guess I shouldn't write off Kenny's parents, but they live in a different country, they're older, and they've had their hearts broken by the fates of their two sons. Brittany would be a lot happier here in Jacksonville, and of course Cécile already has a huge family.”
“I'd be happy to take care of her, Dana.”
“Norell, not so fast. Think about it. Talk to Vic. I'd also like you to be the executrix of my estate. I'm putting in a clause saying that Brittany won't have full control over whatever money there is until she's thirty, so if I die before that, you'd have to make the determination about what she should get and when. I don't want her selling the house and blowing the proceeds on silly things like clothes and cars.”
Norell found Dana's planning impressive. She reasoned it was all part of being a responsible parent. Hopefully one day she, too, would have a child to look out for. “You're really getting your house in order, aren't you? Setting up a business, looking for a renter, and now Brittany's guardianship.”
“You'd be surprised at what comes to mind when you've been forbidden to put any stress on your right hand. I wish I'd thought of trying to rent that room last year instead of wishing the building didn't exist.”
“Any luck yet finding a tenant?”
“No, but the semester is just about over. I might have to wait until the kids come back in August, unless I can find someone who's taking summer classes.” Dana yawned. “Excuse me.”
“Sounds like you'd better get a good night's sleep. You've got a big day tomorrow.”
“I can't go to bed. I'm getting ready to mow the lawn. Well, Brittany has to help me push the mower because of my hand.”
“But Dana, it's after eight o'clock. It'll be dark soon.”
“That's the best time, when the sun's gone in and it's still light. It's much cooler.”
Once again Norell found herself at a loss for words. Before Dana cut her hand she had literally worked from sunup to sundown. Even now she spent most of her time assembling a business plan, struggling to peck at the keyboard with only her left hand.
Norell suddenly felt guilty for the easy life that allowed her to work just part-time, and fill the rest of the days with light housework, books, old movies on the classic movie channel, and gardening. After dinner each night she relaxed with her husband until it was time to go to bed, while poor Dana was outside pushing a lawn mower. Suddenly embarrassed, she changed the subject. “Did you want me to sign something to make your wishes official? Not that anything is going to happen to you, Dana.”
Dana chuckled. “Thanks for your optimism. Sometimes I feel like I won't last another five minutes. And yes, it does need to be official. I've got a software program that helps complete simple legal documents. I'll get the form printed out, and we can bring it to the bank and have our signatures notarized. But I mean it when I say think about it, Norell. Vic, too.”
“Vic won't mind. He's okay with older kids, like his daughters. It's babies he objects to.” A note of bitterness crept into Norell's voice.
“Uh, do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” Norell said quickly. Dana had enough problems. She didn't need to be burdened with someone else's. “Just a temporary roadblock. We'll get past it.”