Heartwood (5 page)

THE CAKE SAMPLES were delicious, but I could actually feel my ass getting fatter the entire time we were sampling them. Joe and I immediately agreed that the lemon cream was our favorite. It was a light yellow cake with lemon curd layers and a perfect lemon buttercream icing. Joe cocked an eyebrow at the whimsical cake design I chose. He asked why I hadn’t picked the elegant fondant covered towers versus my small, three-tiered jaggedly frosted selection. I told him fondant was pretty, but it tasted gross and after all, cake was simply a delivery system for frosting anyway. Besides, I needed my buttercream!

Joe selected the Pennsylvania Dutch Chocolate (dark chocolate cake and fudge icing) for his groom’s cake. The actual design of his cake was top secret. Madeline, the head cake designer for Sweetish Hill Bakery, and I were the only ones who knew what it would look like. I giggled when I thought about how perfectly his carpenter-themed cake suited him. The first time Joe had asked me out was at Sweetish Hill, which was just down the block from his shop. When it was time to plan our wedding, we both agreed that including them was a no-brainer.

Days after the cake tasting, I continued to suffer from eater’s remorse. I’d been working my ass off-literally- to get fit for my gown. When I weighed in several days after our indulgence, I’d burst into hysterical tears. All of my squats and push-ups meant nothing; I’d gained two pounds. I cursed myself for wrecking my metabolism every time I’d pigged out during my pregnancy. I made a vow to myself to ramp up my workouts before my final fitting.

Just a few weeks before, I’d made a stab at tradition by dress shopping with the ladies in my family. It took less than an hour with Mom, Robin, and Granny to see I’d set myself up for failure. After what felt like a death march through three bridal stores, I was ready to shoot someone. Between Granny’s rude questions about whether I thought “wearing white would fool anyone” and Robin insisting I try on the Cinderella clear slippers, I was ready to elope again. A half a day of pulling on pounds of satin and chiffon had me near tears. I scared the poor sales girl by wadding up a particularly atrocious cathedral length gown and screaming into it.

“I need a break.” I explained, and she promptly brought me my very own bottle of champagne. Kicking back in my bra and slip, I didn’t bother with a glass. I pulled out my cell phone and called my best friend, Dan.

“Sweetie,
never
buy off the rack.” He drawled. “Not for something like this.”

“I don’t have time to have something made.” I sniffed, knowing my scramble for a gown was my own fault. I promised myself I wouldn’t be the shlumpy bride standing next to GQ Joe. I’d fantasized about being Mrs. Joe Jensen since I was in the eighth grade, and I didn’t plan to live that dream with breast milk leaking through my bodice. I’m no Kate Middleton, but this girl has some standards.

“I’ll be there tonight.” Dan snapped, his tone leaving no wiggle room for an argument. “And we’ll go see Peter in the morning.”

True to his word, Dan arrived with his three matching suitcases a few hours after our phone call. He gushed all over the twins, refusing to give Eva up until she fell asleep. On his way up from Galveston, he’d already spoken to Peter, his ‘friend of a friend’ at The Frock Shop. Peter’s boutique was incredibly upscale, and he’d been the one to provide the red gown I wore the first time I met Joe’s family. Dan explained that Peter would design my dress and his best seamstress would bump it to the top of her to-do list.

“Wow...you must have made quite an impression on him.” I cocked a suspicious eyebrow at Dan.

“Quite an impression on his memory foam mattress.” Dan drawled, and Joe snorted appreciatively. I rolled my eyes at the both of them.

Fueled on Starbucks, we left Joe at home with the twins as Dan dragged me out for round two the following morning. Fortunately, Peter surpassed all of my expectations. His very first sketch
was
my dream dress. A modified retro dress pattern adapted just for me. For the fabric, we chose champagne silk. Peter brought out actual antique lace he’d been saving for just the right occasion, and unable to maintain my dignity, I jumped to my feet and hugged him.

I’d been back to the shop for two fittings with his Asian seamstress, Mei. Though she shoved me around like I was a farm animal as she worked, when I left the shop, my face always hurt from smiling so much. My gown was going to be as perfect as my soon-to-be husband was.

All of Mei and Peter’s efforts would be in vain if I allowed myself to turn into a bloated train wreck in the ninth inning. So thirty minutes after Joe left for work, I set the DVR to record my show, and laced up my sneakers. I covered the twin’s faces as I spritzed them with sunscreen, packed the diaper bag, and headed out for a long and vigorous walk.

Just as I cleared the last step with the double stroller, I heard my next door neighbor’s front door swing open. I felt my heart plummet, and braced myself for the onslaught on backhanded insults I was about to be barraged with.

“Hi!” Penny’s nasal tone pierced through my chipper mood like an icepick through a mylar balloon. I plastered on a phony grin and turned to her.

“Mornin’.” I replied, quickly turning back to arranged the babies’ blankets. I could feel frown lines forming on my face, and hoped she’d take the hint that I wasn’t in the mood for a neighborly chat. Frankly, when it came to Penny Madsen, I was never in the mood.

First of all, she was flawless. Sure, she was at least ten years older than me, but she was a fucking size two and her constantly absent husband had the money to pay for quarterly maintenance to her fine features. She made her high school daughters look like frumpy trolls, and she had an annoying habit of being outside in a bathing suit every time Joe went out to mow the lawn or work on the vehicles. When it grew too cold to tan, she wore skin tight yoga gear and had a knack for downward dogging in his general direction. She’d wander over to the fence to be neighborly, giggling at everything he said. Not to sound like a psycho, but I could set my watch by her sudden appearance at the fence with a cool glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. Joe’d tip his hat to her and accept her offering. She’d smile that overly white grin of hers and toss those long princess locks with perky exuberance.

I loathed her.

My distaste for my neighbor wasn’t all about her obvious infatuation with my fiancé. That kind of situation was the norm. Joe was hot. He attracted women like a picnic attracted ants. My dislike came from Penny’s natural talent for making me feel inferior about
everything
regarding my babies. That made me want to run the other way.

Let’s face it. There is no more judged person than a new mother. It starts with the appearance of the baby bump. That undisguisable sign that you’ve been “blessed” with a child...aka that you’re a hussy that obviously “gave it up”. Perfect strangers feel entitled to put their hands on you, since you obviously are fair game. Then the horror stories about delivery spill out of their smiling lips. I was in labor for 48 hours...in a blizzard...uphill...both ways. If sleeping wasn’t a problem already, those well-meaning war stories were sure to keep you awake.

Next comes all the unsolicited parenting advice: everything from old wives tales for thrush, to cloth versus disposable diapers, to how important it is to breast feed over the bottle. I’d been surfing an endless wave of stress since before I’d officially joined the parent club.

Most people seemed good intentioned, but Penny seemed to be tallying my shortcomings as if she were building a court case against me. Every time she stopped by with brownies (every other day while I was dieting); I ended up feeling bad about how I looked, dressed, and talked. Then I felt bad for thinking evil thoughts about her for trying to help me. On top of all of that, I felt guilty about being a bad mother.

Some of the highlights of our last visit had been how I needed to make my own baby food and how I should start applying for preschools immediately. Penny declared it was never too early to make sure they get onto the waiting list for the best ones. Eva and Logan were only seven months old, for the love of Christ.

Her opinions went on and on and on. It got to the point where I drew the curtains and hid inside with the babies like a vampire seeking sanctuary from the dazzling Texas sun. Joe seemed completely immune to her grating voice as well as all of the pressure. It just seemed to roll off of him like the tide off of the sand. Me, I felt like I was drowning in all the ‘helpfulness’.

“Hey there, little darlins’!” Penny smiled down at my children. Both twins beamed back at her, and I felt betrayed. It was as if I was about to witness the abduction of Hansel and Gretel by the witch from the gingerbread house, but was powerless to intervene. “Where are y’all off to this mornin’?”

“Walking over to SoCo to check on one of the food trucks.” I murmured, hoping she’d take a hint and take a hike.

“Without hats on their little heads?” She cried, the gigantic smile never leaving her taught face. “They’ll get earaches, Molly! Let me run back inside and grab them for you.”

I had no intention of putting hats on the twins since it was 83 degrees outside. Their pediatrician had schooled me that when it came to the weather, I should dress them like I dressed myself. Since I was wearing cargo capris and a tank top, hats seemed a bit absurd. They had on sunscreen and were covered by an awning attached to the stroller. But I said nothing, and felt like a total coward about it. I usually spoke my mind, but I had to live next to this woman for God knows how many years, so I dug deep for the extra grace to keep my big mouth shut. Penny had raised two children to near adulthood. She wasn’t as clueless about this as I was and she probably deserved my respect in the parenting department.

Before I could object, she trotted up the stairs and pulled the spare key out from under our welcome mat. Stunned by her audacity and the fact that she knew about the key at all, I tried to mask the alarm I felt. I’d locked myself out once when I went out with the twins. I’d had to call Joe in the middle of the day to come and let us in. I’d never told anyone-not even Joe-that I’d stashed a spare under the mat. This just confirmed how closely my neighbor was watching us. I debated about texting Joe, but quickly realized he’d tease me about being paranoid like he had when I felt like someone was looking in our window a few nights ago. The last thing I needed was to add fuel to that fire.

Joe wasn’t entirely off base about me being paranoid, but as Granny always says, “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you”. I
had
been struggling a bit since the babies were born. I loved them to pieces, but my insomnia was worse than ever and my doctor was convinced I had some postpartum depression. Joe agreed, but he always took the doctor’s opinion as gospel. I knew better. I didn’t feel sad. I felt directionless, like a plastic bag floating on the wind. My daily routine was mind numbing, and I found myself pacing the floor from lunch time until Joe got home. I wasn’t morose and crying every day, but my moods swung from euphoric baby bliss to feeling like my time was over and my sole purpose in life was the babies and their well-being.