Some Women (7 page)

“You'll call me if you find out anything else about Henry?” She'd forgotten about him for a few blissful moments.

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Once Piper had left, Annabel sat for a while, gazing out the window at the passersby—a middle-aged mother with a triple stroller packed with two toddlers and a screaming baby; an elderly woman hobbling across the street, pushing a metal cart full of groceries; and a young couple with their arms linked and their sides fastened to each other's like Siamese twins. Without warning, the lump that had been residing in her throat erupted into a wretched howl she just managed to suppress in time. After throwing some cash down on the table, Annabel raced out of the café toward her car, where she hunched her body over the wheel and released a torrent of savage wails.

If this was what it felt like to be alone, she wasn't sure she'd survive it.

Everything felt different when there was life growing inside of you. Even if it was only an embryo, somehow Mackenzie knew she was no longer responsible for just herself. And each decision she made—even the ones that had seemed trivial before—suddenly necessitated the vigilance of an air-traffic controller.

She hadn't told anyone yet. Not her mother. Not her childhood best friend, Trish. Not even Trevor. She'd expected she'd want to scream the news from the rooftops, maybe issue a press release—she knew one would be forthcoming anyway, if CeCe had anything to say about it. Which, inevitably, she would. But, instead, she'd felt instinctively protective of the new life—a natural maternal impulse, she'd decided, allowing herself to keep her delicious secret for just a day. At most. Only one day had tumbled into a few, and eventually she'd started to feel guilty for depriving her loved ones of the joyous news.

She'd thought about telling Trevor the previous evening, until he'd announced that he was leaving first thing in the morning for a quick business trip to Boston—there and back by dinner.
Perfect
. She'd call her mother and get the recipe for the Southern fried chicken Trevor had swooned over last time she'd visited them. And those mashed potatoes. Had she used cream cheese and cheddar? If Mackenzie was feeling especially ambitious, she'd bake her famous peach cobbler, its aroma so potent it permeated every square foot of their home. Weeks later, she could swear she still smelled it, sunk deep into the fabric of their curtains and couch cushions.

When Trevor arrived home, she'd have their dining room table dressed in their finest linens with the elaborate china place settings, heavy silver flatware, and delicate crystal glasses they'd received as wedding gifts but had yet to have occasion to use. She'd pop a bottle of champagne and pour herself a full glass, so as not to let on at first, although she knew she'd barely take a sip, if that. Mackenzie had heard of women who drank their way through pregnancy, allowing themselves a conservative helping of wine here and there. It wasn't that she judged them or even begrudged them this small indulgence; it was that she'd waited for this for so long. And nothing—
nothing at all
—would stand in her way of carrying a full-term, healthy baby. At least not if she could help it.

She sat down at the kitchen table with a tall glass of orange juice and a plate of eggs. Typically, she craved coffee in the mornings. Strong, black coffee. Three cups by noon, accompanied by a bagel or muffin. Carbs and caffeine. But not anymore. Mackenzie needed sustenance, vitamins, protein. She grimaced at the whole-grain toast, smeared with avocado she'd prepared on the side. As soon as she was done eating, she'd set things up for dinner, call her
mom for a list of ingredients, and head to the supermarket, all before her late-afternoon appointment with her gynecologist. It was Friday, but she'd taken the whole day off, well aware that she wouldn't have been able to get anything done at work in advance of hearing her child's heartbeat for the very first time. Come to think of it, would she be able to hear the heartbeat yet? Probably not. She'd read somewhere that this milestone came later on, maybe seven or eight weeks in. There was so much to learn. A trip to the bookstore was definitely in order. She could already envision the thick parenting tomes splayed on her bed, while she scoured each chapter, absorbing as much useful knowledge as there was space in her head. She'd try to remember to pick up something for Trevor too. Weren't there whole books targeted toward fathers-to-be?

Mackenzie lifted a forkful of eggs to her mouth just as the phone rang.

“Hi, Mom.” She swallowed quickly. “I was just about to call you.”

“Oh, that's funny, sweetheart. Daddy and I were talking about plans for Thanksgiving, and I thought I'd give you a jingle. It's just a few weeks away.”

“Wow, I forgot it was so soon.” The truth was, between work and trying to conceive, she hadn't focused on much else in a while. “Do you think you guys want to come up here?” She knew the answer before she asked.

To say that Mackenzie's parents were out of their element in Eastport, Connecticut, was tantamount to declaring that Ozzy Osbourne had never used drugs. Their excursions into Manhattan were even worse. The first time she'd introduced them to Times Square, she'd thought her father was going to keel over in front of
the entrance to the St. James Theatre in the middle of Forty-fourth and Broadway. Of course, that had been nothing compared to the reverberating yelp her mother had released at the American Museum of Natural History, upon sighting the
Tyrannosaurus rex
, with its four-foot-long jaw, six-inch-long teeth, and hulking thigh bones.

“I don't think so, sweetheart. It's just”—she cleared her throat—“too much for us.”

“I understand.” She did. But it didn't make her want them there any less. For so long, Mackenzie had been focused on the prize of becoming pregnant that she hadn't given much consideration to how she'd feel—beyond being thrilled—when the time actually came. Now, though, she wished her mother lived closer. She wished she could hug her tight when she told her the news. And that she could be there to accompany her to doctor appointments and when she went shopping for maternity clothes.

Mackenzie didn't have many friends in Eastport. Initially it hadn't bothered her. She'd been so consumed by her new married life—new job, new husband, new world—and by the many events that they were not only invited to but expected to attend. She'd talked to Trish on the phone every day, convincing herself that that would be enough until she had kids in school and met all of the other mommies in town. Trish already had three kids. Three kids in four years. That was how they did it in Bowman, Georgia. Only eventually, she started to realize that she had little left in common with Trish, and while their phone calls were still filled with laughter, there wasn't much of substance left to discuss. Before long, their daily chat sessions had dwindled to once a week, then biweekly, and ultimately they'd resigned themselves to catching up whenever time permitted, which—as of late—seemed to be never. How was
it, Mackenzie had pondered, that the very person who had been able to read her mind from the smallest expression could abruptly become someone with whom she had to grapple for something to gossip about? She could tell Trish felt the same way, as was evidenced by her rush to “jump off” the phone every time Mackenzie spoke of a complication at work or another charity gala.

Sometimes she wondered how she'd ever lived in Bowman, a painstakingly rural city in Elbert County, Georgia. Although it was a stretch even to call it a city, with its 2.6 miles of land and population of fewer than one thousand people.

“Perhaps you and Trevor would like to come down for the holidays. Maybe stay through Christmas?” she asked hopefully.

“I wish we could, Mommy. But you know . . .” She didn't have to say any more than that. The chances of CeCe relinquishing either holiday were about as good as Santa Claus appearing in the flesh to roast the Thanksgiving bird. Of course, Mackenzie's parents were always invited, if not welcome, to join the festivities at the Mead estate.

“I know.” She detected the disappointment in her mother's wilted tone. And all at once she wanted to make it better.

“I have some great news, Mom.”

“What's that, sweetheart?” Her mother's attempt to sound buoyant fell flat. She was probably expecting word of another professional accolade—something that had never held intrinsic importance to her, even though she'd always been genuinely proud of Mackenzie's accomplishments.

“I'm pregnant!” It was the first time she'd said it aloud, and it surprised her almost as much as it had when she'd seen those two precious pink lines.

“Oh, Mackenzie. That
is
great news! Arthur! Arthuuuuuur!” Her mother bellowed. “Wait until I tell your father. He's probably out in the backyard. Well, this is just fantastic! When did you find out? When are you due? I'll have to plan a few trips up immediately. And then, of course, when the baby is born . . .”

“Mom.”

“It's a lot to think about, you know,” she continued. “You'll need a crib and bedding and lots of onesies, because infants spit up all the time, and . . . bibs . . . And what do they call those playthings you can travel with? There's so much more these days than back when I had you.”

“Mom, slow down.” She laughed. “I haven't even told Trevor yet.”

“Oh?” A nuance of concern crept into her voice.

“There's nothing to be worried about. I have something special planned for tonight. I just . . . I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“My lips are sealed. Except . . .”

“Yes, you can tell Daddy.”

“Thank goodness, because you know I'm not good at keeping secrets from him.”

“I know, Mom. And I love you for that. Minus the time you told him that I'd gotten my period in the middle of science lab at school.”

“I don't remember that.”

“Really? Because I'm pretty sure Uncle Joe does, since he was standing right there.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“I've let it go.” Mackenzie smiled to herself, aware that her mother's apology was both authentic and unnecessary. “Listen, I have to run, but can you please e-mail me your fried chicken and
mashed potato recipes? The ones you made last time you were here?”

“I'll do that right after I wash the breakfast dishes.”

“Thanks.”

“And, sweetheart.”

“Yeah?”

“You're going to make a wonderful mother.”

•   •   •

“Annabel, right?” Mackenzie pulled her jacket over her workout gear. The doctor had confirmed that exercising within reason while pregnant was not only safe, but encouraged. “Piper introduced us on Monday at Café Crunch next door.”

“Yes, of course, I remember you.” Annabel smiled tentatively.

“Are you going over there now? I'm starving and I'd love some company.” She couldn't quite figure out how old Annabel was, but her best guess was mid-thirties. She probably had kids in school already and a strictly defined clique of friends in place, but so what? Mackenzie could tell by her prowess in their exercise class, even though she wasn't the most athletic-looking person, that she had a strong personality. An attribute she appreciated in other women, since so many of them she'd met or worked with in Eastport tended to be riddled with insecurities. Never thin enough. Never rich enough. Simply never enough in any way. That wasn't Mackenzie's style.

“Sure, that sounds fine.” They walked over to the café together, bemoaning how tough the morning's class had been, and then took a seat by the window.

“I'm completely ravenous. You?” Mackenzie looked up from her menu.

“Oh, me? Unfortunately, I'm always hungry. But I'm trying to lose some weight.”

“Why? You look amazing.”

“No,
you
look amazing. I'm fifteen pounds from looking decent.” Mackenzie's mouth bent into a frown. “Don't worry, I'm not one of those psycho chicks with the juice cleanses and starvation diets. I'm just honest. I gained sixty pounds with my twins, and five years later I've still got a Goodyear around my waist and more junk in my trunk than there is at a yard sale.”

“Well, I think you should eat whatever you'd like. We must have just burned at least five hundred calories in there.” The waitress appeared beside the table, poised with pad and pen. “Can I have a ham and mushroom omelet, a side of sausage, and some fruit, please?”

“Wow, you don't mess around.” Annabel scanned the menu. “I'll have what she's having, minus the omelet and sausage.” The waitress twisted her face in confusion. “Just some fruit, please,” she clarified, handing her the menu.

“Just fruit? I thought you weren't one of those psycho chicks.” Mackenzie laughed.

“Don't worry. This is my second breakfast.”

“Let's call it a midmorning snack.”

“I like that.” Annabel looked down at Mackenzie's stomach. “So, when are you due?”

“Excuse me?”

“When's the baby coming?”

“I don't understand. How did you know?” Mackenzie shook her head.

Had her gynecologist leaked something to the press? She
thought she'd made it very clear to her the previous afternoon at her checkup that
no one
—with the exception of her mother, father, and Trevor—was to find out before they had the chance to tell CeCe in person. Could it have been the nosy nurse who'd peppered her with questions under the auspices of being kind? Or the receptionist who'd complimented an article in the recent issue of the
Journal
? She'd never fully adjusted to the concept that people followed her husband's life and that—by association, when they were in public together—it meant they occasionally cared about hers.

“I could tell the other day. Something in your demeanor.” Annabel smiled as the waitress placed their plates of fruit in front of them. “Don't stress. Your secret is safe with me.”

“What about Piper? Does she know too?” Mackenzie's head was spinning like a revolving door. “God, I'm such a blabbermouth.”

“She definitely doesn't
know
, but I did mention that I suspected it.”

“Shit.”

“You can trust Piper. I promise.”

“That's good to know.” She exhaled, feeling at least somewhat relieved. “You guys must be old friends.”

“Actually, no. We met a couple of months ago when the barre studio opened. We clicked immediately and made a habit of coming here after class. It's funny—I spend more time with Piper than any of the old friends I've had for much longer, not that I'd really call most of them true friends. She gets me.”