Scarlett was the first to respond. She came over to Kate and hugged her with such painstaking gentleness that it brought tears to Kate’s eyes. “I’m keeping everything crossed,” she said into Kate’s ear.
Beside them, Jake hugged David. As he moved to give Kate a peck on the cheek, she noticed a cautious smile on his face.
Kate shot a furtive glance at her father. He was yet to react, but that was his way, always measured.
“Pregnant?” he said finally. “Again?”
Kate nodded, conscientiously ignoring the again part. Her stomach reached new levels of activity—clamping, stretching, churning. Waiting. “Twelve weeks tomorrow.”
He weighed that up for a moment, frowning. “Tomorrow? But … aren’t you supposed to wait until twelve weeks to announce?”
The silence in the room carried for a beat. Kate was about to laugh nervously, to make a joke, to do something, but David beat her to it.
“The expectant mother can tell her family any time she likes, William,” David said, the cheeriness of his voice notably absent. “And the correct response, I believe, is ‘Congratulations.’”
David’s mouth set in a thin line. Scarlett’s and Jake’s eyes flew back and forth between David and her dad. The low, dragging feeling in Kate’s belly became heavier.
“Yes,” her father said quickly. “I’m sorry. Congratulations.”
“I’ll get dinner,” Kate said, standing.
*
An hour later Kate squirted a long line of liquid soap into the sink and watched the water turn to bubbles. Dinner hadn’t lasted long. The atmosphere had been tense and eventually her father had excused himself, before even dessert had been served. Kate felt the tears come to her eyes but she chased them away with a steely thought. Who cares? she told herself. What did it matter?
Anyway, what had she expected? That her awkward old dad would suddenly become Pa Ingalls upon hearing he was going to become a grandfather? No, she hadn’t expected that. Hoped, but not expected.
“What are you doing, Kate?” David said, appearing behind her. He entered the kitchen slowly, as though with each step he might chance upon a rogue grenade.
“What does it look like?” she said tonelessly. “The dishes.”
“I already stacked the dishwasher.”
“I know.” She kept her eyes on the dishes. “Thank you. I just wanted to give them a quick wash before they go through the cycle. Otherwise they never come out clean.”
David looked perplexed. “You’re washing the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher? With soap and everything? That’s nuts, even for you.”
Kate exhaled, exhausted. “So let me be nuts.”
On the word “nuts” her voice broke. She felt David move in close behind her and she wanted to fall against him—feel the warmth of his chest against her back. But she remained straight-backed—scrubbing an already clean dish with new vigor.
“Kate—”
“I’m fine.”
She picked up a new dish and wiped the pastry crumbs from one side. She’d spent hours making the beef and burgundy pie which her father had barely touched, because he’d once commented how much he enjoyed the beef and burgundy pie he had at the club on Fridays after golf. Why did she try so hard with him? Why didn’t she, like David suggested, order a pizza when her father came to dinner and call it a night?
“Why don’t you head up to bed?” David said.
“I have to finish this.”
“I’ll finish it,” he said. “I will,” he insisted at her skeptical look. “I’ll wash the dishes and then put them in the dishwasher. And when they’re finished, I’ll drive them down to the car wash and give them a run-through there, make sure they’re really shipshape.”
Kate felt a small smile pull at her lips.
“You know what, to hell with it,” he continued. “Let’s just throw out these dishes and buy new, clean ones. What kind of peasants are we, anyway, eating off these filthy old things?”
She smiled, properly now, and let herself rest against him. He was warm and, as always, a tremendous comfort.
“Don’t let him get to you, Katie,” he said into her hair. “I won’t have anyone upsetting the mother of my baby.”
He reached her belly, gave it a little rub.
“All right,” she said. “I won’t. Just let me finish up here and I’ll come to bed.”
David kissed her forehead again, then headed upstairs while Kate finished the dishes. But just as Kate had convinced herself that it didn’t matter what her dad thought, she went to the bathroom and noticed the streak in her underwear. Red-brown.
9
In a small circle of people, Sonja was pretending to follow a conversation with an impressively chatty thirty-something woman when she felt George’s lips against her temple and the coolness of a glass against her fingertips. His sudden presence made her jump.
“Oh.” She accepted the champagne and took a sip. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
George stood next to her and smiled at the small group. They all smiled back with considerably more enthusiasm. George wore a gray suit and had a name badge pinned to his right pocket, bearing the logo of the organization that was putting on this event and his name above the words KEYNOTE SPEAKER.
“I’ve just been chewing your wife’s ear off about you,” said the chatty woman. “I’m Laurel, a social worker for the county of San Francisco.” Laurel wore a tight black skirt suit and stiletto heels. “One of our directives this year is to address the mental illness problem in homeless teens, so I’m really looking forward to your speech.”
Laurel was young enough to be George’s daughter, but her body language—legs slightly parted, leaning inward—made it clear that she thought of him as anything but fatherly.
“Sonja’s a social worker too,” George said, reading the situation accurately. After ten minutes of small talk, Sonja knew about Laurel’s rescue dog (Roger), her root canal gone wrong, and the family rift created over her grandmother’s inheritance, yet Laurel hadn’t even bothered to ask Sonja what she did for a living.
“You don’t say?” Laurel said. She eyed Sonja’s black shift dress, her pearls, her gold bangle. Her hair, pale blond and bobbed. You don’t look like a social worker, Laurel wanted to say (Sonja could tell). And you don’t look like you belong with George.