Branching Out (11 page)

“I know you can make that happen.”

“We.
We
can make it happen,” he insisted. “You're as much a part of this as anyone.”

Am I, really?
she wondered.

“Seeing everyone here today, down by the lake, it reminds me a bit of home.”

“I hope that's a good thing.”

“It is,” she said, turning in his arms to face him. “And it also makes me miss that easygoing way of life. You remember, don't you? How you could have a productive day, but without the pressure that comes along with crowds and traffic and the attention? It's just you, your work, and the outdoors?”

“There's no question about it. Bayfield is a unique place. I miss it, too.”

“We should go back next weekend. Or early this week. We could surprise Gran. Just you and me, a road trip. The cottage is all ready. The fall colors must be gorgeous right now.” She grinned broadly, her enthusiasm radiating from her smile as she quickly put a plan together. “It's just what I need right now. Let's just go!”

He pulled away. “We'll go back someday. The holidays are coming up; we could visit then—”

“The holidays?” She was taken aback but tried to maintain her enthusiasm. “But that's still a ways off. Think about how nice it would be go get away for a while!”

“But that's just it, Shel. I don't feel the need to get away right now. In fact, it would be a terrible time for me to leave. It isn't the best time.”

She dropped her smile just as Adrien, his timing impeccable, approached them.

“Hey, you two, what a turnout!” he said, placing his hands squarely on each of their shoulders. “Looks like the crowds are settling down. If you want to head out, I can hold the fort.”

“Maybe now is a good time for us to pack it up,” Ryan said, looking at Shelby.

“Before you do, Ryan, would you mind heading down toward the water for a minute? I have an old colleague, an art curator from Miami, who has set up shop down at the edge of the park,” Adrien said before turning to address Shelby. “That is, of course, if it's okay with you, Shelby.”

“Go ahead,” she said flatly. She was frustrated with her husband and, to be honest, she would rather stay at the art fair than go back to the quiet of an empty apartment. “I don't mind at all.” And she meant it.

It was also good for Ryan to make contacts on his own, without using his family ties. Besides, Adrien had been good enough to bring two interns from his gallery to help with the art booth, so there wasn't much for her to do but talk to people and enjoy the community festival that reminded her of home.

“I won't be long,” Ryan promised her. “And I'll give it some more thought—your idea about going to Bayfield. Maybe I can rearrange some meetings, work remotely. I'll see what I can do.” He gave her a light kiss on the lips and then, just as quickly, disappeared into a group of passing fairgoers who moved in a throng of backpacks, strollers, and bags.

The two men hadn't been away for more than ten minutes when Shelby heard the sound of her name come from behind, followed by a gentle tap on her shoulder.

“Shelby Meyers?” the woman's voice repeated.

Shelby turned and recognized her immediately. The woman still had a wild mane of brown hair that she always had tried to tame by pulling it back tightly away from her face. The olive-colored skin that was always perfect, even back in their high school days when everyone was fighting off offending blemishes with creams, scrubs, and toning lotions. And the widest, brightest smile of anyone she had ever known.

“Lizzie!” Shelby exclaimed, immediately moving to hug the woman but stopping short, when she realized her old high school friend wasn't alone. “Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry! I didn't see you.” She looked from Lizzie Clark's face down to a child who was the spitting image of his mother.

“Shelby, this is my son, Ethan,” said her friend. “Ethan, this is an old friend of mine. Mrs. Chambers.”

“How 'bout you just call me Shelby?” she said, crouching down on one knee to greet the boy and shake his small hand. “I'm happy to meet you. Are you having fun with your mom today?” He smiled with that same big, broad smile. For a fleeting moment, Shelby wondered which features of hers and Ryan's would be passed on to her own son. She tried to imagine people seeing them as a family, comparing their features and seeing that they belonged together. She tried to imagine it, but nothing clear came to mind.

Shelby then stood back up and embraced Lizzie. They caught up quickly in halting sentences and outbursts of laughter, the way old friends do. Shelby learned that Lizzie Clark was now Lizzie Farrington and that she and Ethan lived in Oconomowoc with her husband, Ty. She worked as an aide in Ethan's preschool while her husband taught eighth-grade math. They lived a quiet but good life, Lizzie said, in a home that was “small, but just big enough” on Lac La Belle.

“Where is he?” Shelby asked about Ty, looking over Lizzie's shoulder, thinking he would be nearby. “I'd love to meet him.”

“He's with his cousin, Tony. Do you know Tony Dodd? He was a few years older than us.”

“Sure I do.”

“We're visiting the Dodds for a few days. Tony works at a special events company doing some of the AV work—the company that runs this art show. Anyway, Tony called Ty about twenty minutes ago, saying that they were having problems with some of the speakers. My husband is one of those guys who would much rather help tinker with electronics than walk around an art fair, so that's where he is right now. Ethan and I are on our own for a bit, aren't we, E.?” she said, ruffling the hair on the back of her son's head as he looked up at her.

“Small world,” Shelby said, looking again at Ethan's perfect face.

“How 'bout you?”

“Hmm?” Shelby asked, her mind elsewhere.

“You're quite the talk around Bayfield,” Lizzie said. “It's all Mom wants to chat about whenever I call—all of the updates about you, the wedding, which I heard was beautiful, your move to Chicago. It all sounds so
glamorous
compared to what I have going on down in Oconomowoc.”

“Believe me,” Shelby said, nodding toward Lizzie's son, “you have something much better than anything in my life. Really, Lizzie, I'm so happy for you.”

“Well, he makes it easy, don't you, Ethan?” she replied, bending down to kiss her son on the cheek. “But it looks like you're going to experience the same thing before long.”

“What?”

“Motherhood?” Lizzie said, nodding in the direction of Shelby's pregnant middle.

“Oh. Yes,” Shelby replied, her voice drifting off. “I suppose I will.”

As they continued to talk, fewer people passed by and Shelby noticed some of the neighboring vendors beginning to pack up their wares. The interns working Adrien's booth did the same, insisting that they could manage without her help. It was an entirely different experience for her, being there for support but without having a real job to do, unlike those many years when she helped her grandparents work the farm.

“Is Ryan here? I'd love to meet him,” Lizzie said.

A swift breeze blew through the park, causing tent flaps to rustle and loose artist brochures and leaflets to fly off of display tables. Shelby felt a sudden drop in air temperature. “That's strange; I didn't think we were going to have any bad weather this afternoon. . . .” Shelby commented as the two women looked to the sky. Shelby knew enough from living on Lake Superior to realize that storms on the Great Lakes had a way of blowing in quickly and causing unexpected chaos. “Sorry, Lizzie, I have to help these guys close up the tent. We're definitely going to get some rain.”

“Let me help.” Ethan was still in tow as the women moved to help the others in the tent load Adrien's and Ryan's work into secure boxes.

“So, you were asking about Ryan,” Shelby said as she and Lizzie worked side by side. “We were thinking of leaving, but then he decided to go meet an art curator with Adrien. I think he was feeling a bit cooped up in this tent—he's much happier moving about.”

“I have to confess—I might just faint. I've never met a
real
celebrity.”

“He'd be the first to tell you he's nothing close to being a celebrity.” Shelby laughed. “In fact, he's probably more down-to-earth and normal than I am.”

She was interrupted by one of the young interns. “Mrs. Chambers, we're ready to start bringing these to the truck. John went to get it—he just pulled around behind the tent.”

“Perfect, thanks, Molly.”

“He should be back any minute.”

Another gust blew across the park, this time forcing one end of the exhibit tent across the way from them to pull out of the ground and then collapse into the grass. Ethan drew closer to his mother and wrapped an arm around her leg for protection. Lizzie picked him up, settling him on her hip as she looked to the sky. “Shelby. We need to get out of here.”

Shelby stepped out of the tent and craned her neck just long enough to see a thundercloud moving in swiftly. In an instant the cloud blew across the sun and cast an ominous shadow over the park.

“Is everything on the truck?” Shelby called out to Molly and the others. They confirmed that all was secure. “You all head out in the truck; my friend and I are heading out in a minute,” Shelby said with urgency as others rushed past her to seek shelter before the cloud opened up.

“I just need to secure these clasps, Lizzie; then you and Ethan can come with me—we have a car waiting. It's not far from here.” As the two women worked quickly to secure the tent, the wind picked up strength, howling against the flimsy canvas walls.
Where is Ryan?
Shelby wondered nervously, looking at Ethan's frightened face and knowing they didn't have much time. She needed to make sure the child would be safe when the storm hit.

“I want Daddy!” Ethan cried out to his mother. Lizzie held him protectively while he wrapped his arms around her neck.

“Okay, let's run for the car,” Shelby announced just as a violent rapping sound bounced off of the tent roof and while people hurried off for cover.

“Shelby!” Ryan ran up beside her. While Lizzie was able to run swiftly, even with a child in her arms, Shelby was more comfortable with a swift jog, holding her hand firmly against her round middle—the bulk of which pressed up and down against her insides, making her breathless and slightly nauseous. “Wait up!” Shelby and Lizzie slowed their jog down to a swift walk until Ryan caught up with them.

“I had hoped you had already made it to the car,” he said, catching his breath and placing his hand on the small of her back to help her along.
I can hurry to the car on my own,
she thought, more upset that he had delayed his return than disdainful over being thought of as dependent.
I'm pregnant, not weak.

“I wanted to make sure your art was secure.”

“Screw the photographs, Shel. You're the one who has to be kept safe.”

She shook off her irritation by changing the subject as they continued quickly to the car. “Ryan, this is Lizzie and Ethan. From Bayfield.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, distracted as a pattering of rain hit the tents and splattered about them.

“I'm happy to—” Lizzie started to reply. But they were running out of breath and time. The sky opened up in an instant, turning the light rain into a full-blown downpour.

“Here, let me help. I can carry him,” Ryan said of Ethan. “We'll be able to move faster.”

There was no time for further introductions. Lizzie nodded as the four of them continued toward the car, rainwater streaming down their faces, their hair lying slick against their heads, and their clothes hanging wet and heavy over their bodies. Although Shelby should have felt distraught, she was exhilarated. Like the white vendor tents, the scent of popcorn in the air, the park crowds, and the lake nearby, an unexpected, bold thunderstorm capped off her nostalgic day, reminded her of who she was. Reminded her of her hometown roots.

C
HAPTER
16

I
n Chicago, winter snow and holiday lights had replaced the autumn leaves. Since Ryan and Shelby never had enough time to make the trip up to Bayfield in the fall, she was anxious to go back home for Christmas. Now in her eighth month, Shelby's pregnancy was progressing normally. At least that's what her obstetrician kept assuring her. But for Shelby, the growing presence inside her seemed anything but normal. As her body continued to grow, so did her anxiety over the new life inside of her and her ability to be a good mother.

Her restless nights continued. She spent her evenings either shifting positions in bed and adjusting her pillow to get comfortable, or she was to getting up to walk around the apartment until the baby's movements settled down. Ryan would offer to rub his hand over the baby's elbow jabs and kicks to try to coax him back to sleep, something that worked well enough on most nights; but usually, she was too upset to be touched.

On this day, Ryan had already left for Chambers Media by the time Shelby was awake on this morning. She now sat by the picture window in their den, staring out at the expanse of Lake Michigan and the ice that had formed along its edges to seal off the water for the winter. The screen on her laptop was open to an online news site and her thoughts were distracted by the sudden movements in her womb. She looked past the screen to the book that remained untouched, waiting for her, in the low bookshelf at her side. The book with its flowery pink spine. The one written by a renowned obstetrician. The one that would tell her all of the secrets of what was happening, month by month, inside her womb. The book that would tell her what she should be doing to care for her unborn child. But could it tell her how to feel, even a little bit, the way an expectant mother ought to feel?

She reached for the book, feeling its smooth cover. Ryan had given it to her months ago, as much for her as for his own anticipation. She reviewed each chapter dutifully, like a gardener reading the
Farmers' Almanac,
trying to forecast what was in store for the months and year ahead.

As she walked slowly to a leather chair in the adjacent room she felt a tug along her side. It shot pain across the underside of her protruding belly like a warning—
take this seriously, lady, because I'm coming one way or another!

Massaging the cramp in her side, she sat down and opened to Chapter 12: “Your Eighth Month.” She scanned the first few pages quickly, looking for advice on how to get some relief. Movements are distinct . . . baby's kicks, elbows, and jabs . . . stronger and more frequent . . . moving approximately thirty times each hour.

Tell me something I don't know,
Shelby thought to herself. She ran her finger over the page, skimming for something—anything—to give her hope. She flipped through the pages until she reached the chapter's end. She laid the open book upon her protruding belly and leaned her head back in the chair. A familiar wave of sorrow rolled outward from her womb, like the ripple of water that radiates away from a sunken stone.

She had tried to fight the emotion earlier on but now gave in to it. It rose in her throat and caused her chin to quiver and ache. She was a good person. She knew how to love and to be loved. Family meant everything to her. So why, when it came to her own unborn child, did she feel nothing but fear? And profound sadness for the absence of any natural maternal instinct?

There could only be one reason, she thought. Ryan instinctively curled up beside her in bed and laid his hand upon her skin, speaking in soft, loving tones to his unborn child—while she never seemed to know what to say.

Shelby pushed herself out of the chair with a heavy sigh and walked over to the desk near the window. Her phone lay upon papers that were strewn across the desktop. No messages. She picked up the phone to text Ryan.

 

 

 

She smiled when her phone lit up with his quick reply.

 

 

She happily pushed herself up from the couch and said aloud, “Come on, baby. Looks like we have ourselves a date.”

 

They enjoyed dinner together at one of their favorite restaurants, an intimate, family-owned place that they appreciated as much for its authentic Sicilian cuisine as for its seclusion tucked down below street level.

She had finally been open with him. Funny how it took a small restaurant in the heart of Chicago and a shared plate of simple spaghetti and meatballs for her to stop pretending and instead share her concerns and fears. Once she began talking, the words flowed out easily and she chided herself for not being honest with him earlier. For his part, he acknowledged her fear—he was worried, too, and said it was normal—but also expressed concern that she had been struggling with self-doubt for so long.

“You are going to be an incredible mom; don't you see that?” He adamantly dismissed her fear of turning into her mother. Instead, Shelby would be whatever kind of mother she chose to be. She had to believe it.

Ryan believed in her more than she believed in herself. And his actions, once more, reinforced her certainty that, of the two of them, he would be the far better parent. Their child would be blessed to have Ryan in his life.

After their meal, when Ryan opened the door for her as they left the restaurant, they were confronted by cold air. Shelby felt too good to care. She secured the ends of her scarf into a knot and pulled up her coat collar as she climbed up the stairs and onto the street with her arm threaded through Ryan's. The last time she had been this content was when they were in Zermatt; it was as if they were newlyweds once again instead of expectant parents. She was drunk on her husband's adoration and believed it when he promised that everything would work out. She had faith in him. Everything was bound to get better. It had to.

“I need to swing by my parents' place. My mother has something she needs me to sign, something about a change in the family's trust. It should only take a few minutes and then I'll come straight home, ” Ryan said.

“I can come with you.”

“I know you well enough to know that you'd be much happier at home than having to trudge across town only to have to sit and listen to Charlotte talk about family finances.”

“Well, she can tend to drone on,” Shelby agreed with a laugh.

They walked up to their waiting car with a quick wave to Peter, the driver, through the car window as Ryan opened the door for Shelby.

“It's okay; you take the car,” she said. “While we're here, I'm going to run into Saks. I want to pick up a couple of things quickly and then I'll catch a cab home.”

“I'll get a cab. Peter can wait for you.”

“Really, I feel like being on my own,” she insisted. “Besides, if you have to wait for a cab once you wrap things up at your parents' place, who knows how long it will take for you to get a ride back. You keep the car—I'm sure I'll beat you home.”

He stepped back onto the sidewalk beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to block out the cold. “What are you shopping for?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “With Christmas right around the corner, do you really think I'm going to tell you all of my secrets?”

“Fair enough,” he said, his voice now low as he leaned down to speak into her ear. “You pick up whatever it is you're picking up. And I'll meet you back at the apartment by five. And then I may just give you your gift a few days early.”

“Please. I'm a bloated whale.”

“You really have no idea, do you?”

“What?”

“You have never been more beautiful.” His lips brushed past her ear and kissed her cheek before his hand gently touched the other side of her face and he kissed her lips.

“Someone will see us,” she whispered back.

“So let them see,” he replied with another kiss that seemed to melt away the aches, the muscle tugs, the awkward stance, and her concerns. All that was left was the woman who had fallen in love with this man.

 

Shelby had intended to stop in the store to pick up a gift for Ryan, a garish Christmas sweater that reminded her of her grandfather and was bound to make him laugh, but she picked up a crowd instead.

It started with one woman standing in line beside Shelby at the cashier. The woman's persistent stare was unsettling and impossible to ignore. Shelby tipped her head down to return her wallet to her purse and gave a sideways glance at the woman. In doing so she had opened the window of opportunity a crack, and the woman grabbed hold and barged right in.

“I know you,” she said, taking a step closer with an overeager smile.

“Sorry, I don't think we've met,” Shelby replied, turning her attention back to the clerk who was working carefully to wrap the bright-green cardigan adorned with holiday lights that actually came with a battery pack and, once turned on, blinked to the tune of “Let It Snow.” It was so gaudy that it was perfect.

“No, I mean I recognize you from something,” the woman insisted. “Are you on TV?”

Shelby shook her head politely, willing the salesclerk to apply the tape more swiftly.

“You're not in the movies; I know that,” the woman continued, refusing to give up until she conjured a name. “The soaps?”

Shelby offered a polite smile.
Please leave. Please, please leave.

“Wait—wait! It's coming to me. . . .” The woman set her purchases down on the countertop and began tapping against it with her open hand, the cogs in her brain turning. She was grinning widely as if she were a contestant on a game show and Shelby was the question at hand.

“That's all right; you don't have to put a ribbon on it,” Shelby said to the salesclerk with a courteous smile. “I'm in a bit of a rush, so I can finish it up at home.”

The clerk looked up from her work at Shelby. “Are you sure, Mrs. Chambers?”

Damn it,
Shelby thought.
The credit card.

“Chambers! Yes, that's it!” the woman burst out. “Of course!”

Try as she might, Shelby still wasn't used to being recognized. In fact, she doubted that she'd ever become accustomed to it. At home in Bayfield, people regularly said hello on the streets. It was common to run into people you knew in town or down by the water. It was a tight-knit community, and being neighborly was part of the lifestyle.

But in Chicago? With absolute strangers? Walking in the city with Ryan, she admired the unassuming manner in which he carried himself. Always friendly, never arrogant, Ryan had an unassuming manner that allowed him privacy but rarely anonymity. “You'll get used to it, Shel,” he would say shortly after she moved to Chicago and received glances and outright stares when she walked with him arm in arm. “And by the time you do get used to it, it won't matter anymore.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

“Because this is all fleeting. I haven't done anything to garner the recognition. It's only a matter of time before this so-called fame will fade away. Face it, Shelby,” he teased. “Someday soon I'm going to be that guy who once looked like someone important. You may not want to stick around.”

“I wish that time was now,” she said. “But seriously, how do you get used to it?”

“Knowing that, for the most part, the attention comes from a good place,” he said. “Some people just feel like they know me, or they're familiar with my family. There's never a harm in ‘hello.'”

But back at the department store counter, with Shelby standing alone with her purse clutched in one hand, the “hellos” were becoming harmful. One woman became two. They made a fuss to the clerk, which captured the interest of others. Before Shelby was able to take hold of her shopping bag with Ryan's gift inside and quietly make her way out, a small gathering of curious people had surrounded her. They asked questions.

“Where is your husband?”

“How do you like Chicago?”

Like a swallow in a migratory flock, whichever way she turned the group followed.

“You're much prettier in person.”

“Would you mind signing this for my son?”

She looked over their shoulders for someone, anyone, who might be able to help. Store security. A familiar face. Anyone.

“Is Will Chambers here today?”

“Can you take a selfie with me?”

“I can't believe it's Shelby Chambers!”

“Excuse me,” Shelby said as she kept her head down, placed the shopping bag over her stomach, and she pushed her way through the small but aggressive crowd. She couldn't understand what the appeal was and, more than that, why they continued to push and crowd. Shelby raised her shoulders and held the shopping bag and her purse close. Using her elbows, she pushed through the throng of people. She was nudged roughly from the right and stumbled a bit on a twisted heel, then recovered.

“Excuse me,” she said again, louder this time, less courteous. She felt her heart beating rapidly in her chest. She kept her head down, seeing nothing but smooth department store flooring and a collection of boots and shoes. Feet and footprints, and snow clumps melting into small, dirty pools. It was like nothing she had ever experienced during her time in Chicago, and certainly never anything she had seen when she was with her husband.