Wanted: Wife (31 page)

“You have to let him know, Julie,” Terri said. “It’s his child, too. That is . . .” Her face grew stern. “If you decide to keep it. If you think he’ll take that choice away from you, then maybe you—”

“Terri, I love him. And I miss him so much I don’t know how I make it through the day.” I blew my nose. “I want to go ahead with this pregnancy, but he needs to want me in spite of it. I don’t want him back if he feels obligated. I want him to love me
because
of me and not because of this baby.”

“Which sounds like a tall order, from this end.” She sat back in her chair, looking as non-committal as I’d ever seen her. “So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Right now he’s in France, and since I threatened to disappear if he tried to see me again, I don’t think he’ll come unless I call him. So I’ll just go on with work until I figure it out.”

“Or you start showing,” Terri said. “With some bulky clothes—and you thank your lucky stars it’s going on winter—you could probably stall out anyone knowing through your fifth month. Unless he’s got you with twins or you start blowing up like a Macy’s balloon. I’d watch the salt if I were you, keep a light exercise schedule, and just try to eat healthy. Does Richard know?”

“No, just you. By the way, once everything’s set I’m blowing Richard off.”

“Good luck with that. From everything I’ve seen he looks like he wants back in.”

I got up. “Then bet on the two-headed cat. That’s got a better chance of happening.”

M
Y
G
RAND
R
ETURN
came and went, and I was firmly back in the saddle. I moved into my new digs, and with the aid of my new salary, declined Richard’s offer of paying my first six months’ rent. My first spot premiered on “Morning Joe” the second week of December, and by the third I had appeared live on the panel as a guest. My star was rising unabated, and with the station ratings shooting up, Gil was more than happy, even hiring Denny back with a solid, five-year contract. I felt responsible for him losing his job, so I took some solace in the fact that, whatever I decided to do, he was taken care of. While all this was going on, I quietly passed my ten week mark, now starting each morning with my head in the crapper. With my gynecologist’s Seal of Approval, I was officially pregnant, and although healthy as a horse, I’d never been more miserable.

Every week my belly grew I missed Andy more and more. Over and over I debated calling him, especially when I was in the studio and I had unlimited access to overseas calls. But I also wondered why he hadn’t called me, why he hadn’t pushed past Brent when he had the chance, busting down the door if he had to. Then I got to thinking maybe he would’ve if he truly loved me, which only got me more depressed. Christmas came and so did New Year’s, which I spent with my parents in Florida, wanting family around me even if it was the detached facsimile that was my own. But my parents were warmer to me than they’d been in years, and I thought maybe they could somehow sense their line continuing inside me. I truly wanted to tell them, but it almost seemed traitorous to Andy, and truth be told, way too sticky. Odd, wasn’t it? That for me, telling strangers was easy, but telling those closest to me was impossible. I pondered that on long walks in the Florida sun, thinking maybe that’s why I’d always been drawn to the peculiar, feeling out of place with anything cutting too close to home. Maybe it was the distance that attracted me, polar opposite to someone knowing me too well. Maybe I, like my parents, found a measure of emotional security in that detachment. Maybe only now we were discovering it didn’t work.

The holidays over, I was back on the street, the winter rewarding me with a wealth of outdoor crazies, allowing me to bundle up in a thick coat and hide my growing girth. Thank God for Denny, as he always knew how to shoot me at perfect angles, my scarves and jackets leaving no one the wiser. Yet I was well aware it was only a matter of time as by mid-February I was closing in on fourteen weeks, my thickening waistline and bulging breasts were getting more and more difficult to camouflage.

“This is going to be one big baby,” the doctor said, prodding me. “Get up. You’re going to the ultrasound room.”

I instantly panicked; I’ve been trying to get out of it for weeks. Although I had long become accustomed to being pregnant, I still hadn’t fully accepted the fact there was a real baby inside me. And I knew a sonogram would put an end to that right quick.

She poked me up. “Go.
Now
.”

A half hour later, with my bladder ready to burst, my doctor stood behind the technician as she moved the wand over my jelly-slathered belly. My head was turned to the wall, my mouth so dry I couldn’t swallow.

“Ah now—see that?” my doctor said. “Everything looks terrific. And not a twin in sight, just one big baby. Come on, Julie, take a look.”

My heart pounded out of my chest, which only kicked up the fetal heartbeat. “I don’t know if I—can.” The words clumped in my throat like chunks of bile.

The doctor took my hand. “Julie, it’s okay, she’s beautiful. That’s if she
is
a she, it’s too early to tell.” She tilted the monitor toward me. “Come on. Look.”

I couldn’t hold out any longer; if anything, curiosity took over and then something even stronger: the need to make whatever inside me real. I turned my head.

“There now,” the doctor said, “see?”

I couldn’t breathe, my hand flying to my mouth. Up on the screen an arm moved, floating in the amniotic air, and suddenly I wasn’t alone in this anymore. There were two of us in it now, me and this child Andy and I had put together. And both of us wanted him now more than ever.

“He’s—perfect,” I said, my eyes clouding.

The doctor squeezed my hand. “He sure is. Now, no more worries. You’re doing great inside there, okay?”

Perhaps, but as I got dressed, I knew that wasn’t the
inside
I was worried about. My heart wanted to call Andy, but my head still cautioned me to wait. I was never more confused. Then my phone
dinged
! for a text. It was Terri.

A woman staying at the Ritz-Carlton left a message; says her story’ll beat anything you’ve ever done; wants to see you ASAP; leaving tonight. I called to verify; you’re expected; Presidential Suite Viviane Mercier. Good luck.

“Jesus Christ.” I grabbed my purse.

I ran from the medical building to the street, throwing up my arm. In less than a minute, a cab pulled to the curb, just as a blue Bentley passed us on the other side of the street. I slunk back.
Oh God, please don’t let that be Richard
.

“Ritz-Carlton,” I said to the driver, “and hurry.”

I
SOON FOUND
out that the marble-columned façade of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, as well as the drop-dead gorgeous Presidential Suite, perfectly suited the penchant for drama that was Viviane Mercier. I was let in by a distinguished-looking man in a jacket and tie, who I took as the butler.

“Ms. Knott?” he said in his very British accent.

“Yes,” I said and he opened the door wide. “I believe I’m expected.”

“You are. Please come in.” He led me to one of two sofas in the living room, a coffee table set with high tea between them. “Mrs. Mercier will be right with you,” he said, then promptly disappeared through the dining room. And true enough, less than a minute later, a door to the next room opened and out walked, in the most basic of terms, my mother-in-law.

A similar scene flashed through my head from over a year ago, when Richard had taken me to meet his parents in blue-collar Bristol, PA. We had met at an Olive Garden because they thought the unlimited salad and bread such a good deal. This from a man who had made millions on Comcast stock, which he had started buying years earlier when he was cable box installer.

But where Richard’s working-class roots had only made me snicker at his champagne affectations, I instantly knew I was in another league altogether when Mother Mercier entered the room. Medium height, dark hair gathered into a chignon, attired in a tastefully fitted white blouse and fluted black skirt, a string of pearls at her neck, she was elegance enshrined. At least sixty years old, she was stunningly beautiful with a quietly voluptuous figure, porcelain skin, and startling blue eyes, every inch her son’s mother, yet singularly her own woman. Instinctively I stood up, my heart kicking up considerably as she glided toward me, hand extended, a most cordial smile on her face.

“
Bon après-midi,
Ms. Knott,” she said. “So good of you to come.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, her handshake surprisingly firm for all her airs of gentility.
“Ravie de faire votre connaissance.”

She tilted her head, clearly surprised.
“Parlez-vous français?”

“Well, I can greet you, bid you goodnight, offer you some gourmet dishes and utter a few words not suitable for children, that’s about the extent of it. But I’m hoping to learn more in the future.”

“Really,” she said pleasantly, her gaze washing over me. “I expect lately there hasn’t been time.” She swept her hand to the sofa. “Won’t you please have a seat? I’ve ordered us tea.”

I tried not to take her former aside as a dis. “It looks lovely. Thank you ma’am.” She sat on the sofa opposite, and poured from the china teapot.

“I’m leaving for Bermuda in just a little while,” she said, handing me a cup, “and I always find it hard to eat the first night. So I try to have at least a little bit before I go.”

“First night, ma’am?”

“I’m sailing on the
Madeleine
. A freighter, but the accommodations are quite luxurious, a little-known secret of which many world travelers take advantage.” She swept her hand again. “Please, help yourself.”

“Thank you.” I took a plate, placing a single strawberry atop it. I had absolutely no appetite, my stomach so jumpy, mostly from wondering when she’d cut the chit-chat and get to it.

My answer came when she leveled her gaze into mine. “My son
will
divorce you, Ms. Knott. You should expect it.”

It was as abrupt a shift of gears as flicking off the light switch. I set the plate to the table with a
clank
. “Oh? Did Andy tell you that? Did he send you to find me?”

She settled her own cup noiselessly. “I haven’t seen nor spoken to André in over six months, and then only briefly when he received the news his father died. I found
you
by simply turning on the television. The observation about my son comes from knowing him very well. And although, you, Ms. Knott . . .” she observed me, her eyes hooded, “. . . appear to satisfy his physical preferences, it can never be more than that.”

Boy if she didn’t come out swinging. “How could you possibly know what we were like together?”

“Because I know my son. I know you’ve served your purpose as an able playmate while he bided his time. But now that he’s finished, I’m afraid, so are you.”

I sprang to my feet. “What are you talking about? How can you—“

“Please sit, Ms. Knott,” she said calmly. “Honestly, it’s not my intention to be cruel. I’m just trying to give you a bit of enlightenment to save us all any more pain.” But I couldn’t move; I could only stand there, staring, my fists clenched. “Please, Ms. Knott,” she said, inclining her head, “I do have more to tell you.”

I don’t know why I did, but I sat, fool that I was.

“Thank you.” She placed a tiny quiche on her plate, brushing her hands over the table. “Mercier Shipping has been a family business for over two hundred years, but five years ago another shipper threatened a buyout when market changes left us most vulnerable. André was then quite content working as a ship’s engineer, even though everyone knew he was capable of bigger things. So when his stepfather fell ill he agreed to step in temporarily, even though it soon became apparent he’d never work again. But he proved such an excellent manager, he turned the company around. Even so, he remained adamant he’d only stay until Marcel was able to take over.”

“Andy did mention Marcel has a
brilliant
mind.”

“Which he stores in his
pènis
,” she said wryly, either ignoring my sarcasm or adding to it. “He falls in love like other people brush their teeth. In any event, I believe the purpose of André’s sabbatical was to force Marcel to face up to his responsibilities, and in the two months while he was in America, he not only ran the company, he proved he was born to do it, which, in fact, he was. Because of this, André has been turning over operations to his brother and very soon now—if not already, he will leave.” She glanced over the rim of her teacup, her eyes like ice chips. “And when he does, he’ll go back to the sea.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I said.

“Hm, that’s very interesting.” She took a sip of her tea. “Why is that, do you think?”

Pure speculation, I knew, but . . . “Because I believe he loves me.”

“Really,” she said, leaning forward. “Has he told you this?”

“No, but—”

“And he never will.” Which she said with such certainty I was nearly inclined to believe her. But I couldn’t.

“I think you’re wrong.” I looked to my clenched hands; my knuckles were nearly white. “He’s told me he wants to make a life with me. He married me, after all.”

“Yes, he has. But tell me, Ms. Knott—where is he now?”

Any other woman with an ounce of self-respect would’ve refused to answer and stormed out. So why didn’t I? Maybe the need to defend what we had made the possibility of a future a little more tangible, and that spurred me on. “We argued, those months back and I asked him to stay away. He’s respecting my wishes, that’s all.”

She waved dismissively. “Too simplistic, don’t you think? We French are a passionate people. If he loved you, if he truly wanted you, he would break down walls to get to you.” She demurely crossed her hands atop her lap. “So again, where is he now?”

Why she was taunting me, I had no idea, but I’d had enough. “You know damn well where he is, so why this cat-and-mouse? Tell me what you really got me here for.”