She walked along the water’s edge, one kid in her arms, two by her feet. She was wearing the black pants she never seemed to take off. And she was on the phone—with Ryan?—laughing loudly.
I tried to catch my breath. There was something about seeing her there. It brought it all back. Ryan and New York. The night of the party. That look—that horrible look she had given me—as she raced out the door.
The pie did a hurdle in my stomach.
I tried to ignore it. And to ignore what I was feeling. Something I hadn’t felt, at least in terms of her. Guilt. I felt awful about Danny. And I was sorry I ever touched Ryan. But looking at Meredith with her kids now—even as she rudely talked two decibels too loudly—I was overcome with guilt. It was all I could do not to walk over and apologize to her.
I threw up instead.
“Seriously?” Rain said, jumping back. “That is so gross!”
It was too late. My sticky throw-up landed right on the edge of her dress. A little extra goo dripped down her legs.
“That’s disgusting,” she said.
“Sorry.”
She started patting herself down with paper napkins. “You’re not forgiven.”
I pointed down to the water. “Meredith is here.”
She kept patting, following my eyes to Meredith. “Is that the wife? Or the scorned girlfriend?”
“The wife.”
She put down the napkins and moved farther away from the small puddle of vomit. “Serious overreaction.”
Then I looked closer. It wasn’t Meredith. The hair was more red than blond. The legs were thicker than Meredith’s had ever been. And whereas Ryan had two boys and a girl, this woman had only girls, towheaded beauties following the fake Meredith around.
“Never mind. It’s not her.”
“So definitely an overreaction!” Rain said. Then she looked at me, handed over a paper napkin. “What’s going on with you?”
“I just don’t feel very well. I ate fennel at the restaurant the other night, which didn’t agree with me. I haven’t felt great since.”
“That would be your fault, not the fennel’s.” She paused. “Maybe you’re allergic to Montauk.”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she said.
I started to tell her I’d had that exact thought when my thermos of coffee hadn’t agreed with me.
Then I threw up again.
32
There is something that people don’t tell you about trying (and failing) to get pregnant. That every time you take a pregnancy test you get the same result. The NO shining at you, a condemnation that you dared to hope for a different result. So you stop trying. Stop counting days. Not interested in even knowing when you should have taken the test. Not interested in more of that hateful condemnation.
So when my sister suggested that maybe the reason I had thrown up three times in an hour was that I was pregnant, I thought she was wrong.
I argued with her on the car ride home when she insisted I take a test, just to be on the safe side, spelling the implicating words for Sammy’s benefit.
Then gave in when Sammy spelled back, A cousin!
Of course, when I got back to the guesthouse and was sitting on my sister’s bathroom floor and I actually got a YES, it was surreal. It was like there was a mistake of nature or something.
I looked at the box, unsurprised to see that it was expired.
Rain went to the store and got another test, not expired, and it also said YES. It said it without equivocation. It said there was going to be a baby.
“Now what’s the excuse?” she asked.
“It’s just . . . we had been trying for a while. Like, really trying.”
“And nothing good?”
I shook my head. Pregnant.
The nausea these last several weeks, the dizzy feeling that I’d attributed to the upheaval in my life. It hadn’t been that—or hadn’t been entirely that—it had been a little baby, trying to make herself known.
How had I missed it? My strong reaction to the fennel, to Ethan’s smell. I had missed it because it hadn’t even occurred to me as a possibility. Danny and I hadn’t been particularly active recently. We’d put the trying on hold until we got to Italy. We’d put a lot of alone time on hold—and for once that had been his choice more than mine. He’d been so busy prepping the Upper West Side job, he was almost never home.
Though, apparently, he had been there at least one time.
I could figure out when. It was either the night he came home and found me in an old University of Oregon sweatshirt in my egg chair watching When Harry Met Sally. Or the night when he came home and found me in his sweats on the bed, half-asleep. Despite all of my stylish work dinners over the last few months—meeting the players at the Food Network, prepping for the new cookbook—the times he was actually up for having sex were probably the times I looked the worst. A weird guy, my husband.
My sister stood up. “This is Danny’s, right?”
I drilled her with a look. “Yes,” I said.
She raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, just checking as to what level of tragedy we are looking at here.”
33
Pregnant. I couldn’t believe it. I carried the news around for nearly a week—trying to get used to it. But I knew it wouldn’t feel real until I told the one person who would make it real. Except how was I going to tell him? I was tempted to drive to New York and tell him in person, but I didn’t even know where he was staying. And the thought of ambushing him at work again—even with happy news—seemed like the wrong tack to take.
Danny had wanted a kid so badly, even more than I did. Regardless of what was going on between us, he’d be thrilled to know he was going to be a father. So why was it that I was so scared to pick up the phone? Why did it feel like if I picked the right time—or the right way—to tell him we were going to be parents, he’d forgive me? That he’d do more than forgive me?
Finally, I gave up on finding the right time, or even a reasonable time. I called Danny from the restaurant, a little before midnight. It wasn’t smart for several reasons—not the least of which was that the dining room was still full, the second seating finishing up dessert. I had most of my trash report ready from the previous courses, but I never knew when Chef Z would come over, wanting a rundown.
The losers of the night were the heirloom peaches. They had been diced up and served with a roasted lamb and mint chutney.
The lamb was a hit—as was the chutney—though some of the small peaches were left behind. I had the plates lined up and prepared to show Chef Z, before I snuck off to talk with Danny. Still, if I heard him shout my name, I’d have to hang up on my erstwhile husband, even if I was in the middle of telling him he was going to be a father.
There was also the issue that at nearly midnight, there was a very good chance Danny would be sleeping.
But as soon as his cell phone rang, my heart started racing, and I couldn’t wait to get the words out of my mouth. Even if I was greeted by his sleepy voice. Even if I was greeted by his voice mail.
Pregnant.
Except it wasn’t his voice on the other end of the line. It was a female’s voice—one that I recognized—though it took a second to place who had answered.