McCallum Quintuplets (3 page)

Madeline lowered her head. “Just until I was twelve,” she admitted, then looked at her friends, who were goggling at her. “No, seriously, I did grow up in a commune. It was wonderful. Really. Stop laughing.”

“I can't help it, Madeline,” April said, wiping her eyes. “I'm trying to be serious, but I keep seeing you tripping through a meadow, a daisy chain in your hair, a loaf of homemade bread under your arm.”

Annabelle clapped her hands for attention. “Another discussion for another time, ladies. Okay, so now we know where the granny gowns and sandals and that braid came from—and may they all leave quickly, please. But we're here together tonight to turn Madeline Sheppard from—and I mean this in the nicest way, Madeline—dull and dreary and into
ka-wow!
”

“Oh, sure.” Madeline groused, wiping her hands on her paper napkin. “I can see it now. I open a couple of
buttons on this dress, take off my reading glasses—which means I won't be able to see my French fries—take down my braid, shake my hair free and—bam!—suddenly I'm Catherine Zeta-Jones.” She rolled her eyes. “Cut me a break.”

“Hey, it could happen.” April ignored the sarcasm. “And another thing. Are you saying that there's something under that dress that would be improved by opening a couple of those buttons? I'll bet you are. Well, then, we're on our way, aren't we, Annabelle? Hot dog!”

“Oh, no,” Madeline moaned, and buried her head in her hands.

Madeline walked to the tall T-stand and lifted off a hanger, holding up the soft cotton flowered ankle-length dress to her friends. “See? It's not just my mother sending me her efforts, sewn with her two arthritic hands, bless her. There have to be dozens of these dresses here. How can you say I'm out of date?”

Annabelle and April exchanged pained meaningful glances. “I'll take this one,” April volunteered after a moment. She relieved Madeline of the dress, which she then shoved onto the rack. “Madeline. Sweetheart. Honey. Yes, they still make these dresses. Yes, they still sell these dresses.
To teenagers.
You're thirty-five years old.”

“Thirty-four,” Madeline grumbled under her breath. “Maybe for only one more day, but I'm hanging on with both hands, thank you anyway.”

“Thirty-four, thirty-five, whatever,” April continued, taking Madeline by the elbow and steering her toward another section of the largest department store in the mall. “The point I'm trying to make is that, if you're not either eighteen or pregnant, the time has come to say goodbye to the cutesy, little-girl look, okay?”

Madeline cast one last look over her shoulder at the
rack of dresses, sighed. “Okay, but what do I tell my mother? She sends me at least ten new dresses a year.”

“Tell her you still want them to donate to the thrift shop run by the hospital auxiliary. Those high waistlines, those gathered skirts? Your mom puts enough material in those dresses to take a woman carrying sextuplets into her third trimester. In fact, maybe you ought to think about donating your entire wardrobe to the hospital thrift shop.”

Madeline blinked back sudden tears. “You sound just like Ian. I swear, if that man had his way, all women would wear nothing but bikinis.”

“Really? He's a sexist?” Annabelle asked.

“No, not really. I was exaggerating,” Madeline said. “He just thinks it's time I paid more attention to myself, that's all, instead of taking the easy way out, which is what he calls my clothes. Which are
comfortable,
not to belabor the point. I don't even have to waste time like this—shopping. You have both figured out that I
hate
shopping, right?”

“Ian said you should pay more attention to yourself?” April nodded, pulling out a soft pink silk blouse, holding up the hanger. “Sounds like a smart man. Life in a commune, working your way through college and med school, working twelve-hour days at the new unit? I know you're busy, Madeline, but you're not just a doctor. You're a fun, lovely, intelligent woman. It's about time you stopped hiding behind those yards of material.”

There was no getting around, over or under these two women. She'd have to tell the awful truth. “I've got a gut,” Madeline said quietly, so quietly that Annabelle leaned closer, made her repeat what she'd said.

“A gut,” Madeline said, more loudly than she'd intended. “A belly, Annabelle. I always have. There are the
medical terms for it, but in layman's terms, I'm an apple. You know—apples and pears. Pears have small waists, flat bellies, bigger hips, heavier thighs. We apples have skinny arms and legs, narrow hips, but tend to gain all our weight in our bellies, waistlines. And our busts,” she added, knowing that every drawback had at least one bonus, and her generous bust was hers.

“She says she's an apple,” Annabelle said to April, shrugging.

April shrugged in return. “So? I'm a pear. I've been waging war on my upper thighs since I was twelve. No problem. We camouflage.”

Madeline rolled her eyes. “Isn't that what I've
been
doing?”

“Madeline,” April said reasonably, “you could hide
Oklahoma
under that dress. We don't need that much camouflage. We just go for short skirts—to show off your legs—and longer, more swingy tops, to hide this massive waistline you say you have. Now, what size are you?”

Madeline tried to make her one-hundred-and-forty-pound, five-foot-six-inch frame smaller—knowing she couldn't make it disappear. “I don't know. I have to go larger to be able to comfortably button my waistbands, which is just another reason Mom's dresses are easier and definitely more comfortable. And slacks? Forget it! By the time the waist fits, the crotch is at my knees, the seat sags, and my legs disappear. Which—” she ended on a sigh “—is why I don't wear slacks or jeans.”

“Oh, have
you
ever been shopping in the wrong stores. Except you don't shop, right?” Annabelle shook her head. “Come on, Madeline, it's just us girls here. The size?”

Madeline sighed. “A fourteen? A sixteen?”

“Sixteen? No way!” Annabelle exclaimed, eyeing Mad
eline with what looked to be a practiced eye. “You probably just chose the wrong designers. Some seem to design for those of us with smaller waists and bigger butts—pardon my French—and others design for, what did you call yourself? Oh, yeah, an apple. We just have to find a designer who caters to apples.”

“And elastic waistbands,” April added, dragging Madeline across the carpeted floor to yet another section of the women's department. “According to my mother, a definite apple, elastic waistbands are the greatest invention since sliced bread, or something like that. A sixteen? Never! I'll bet you're a twelve, once we find those elastic waistbands.”

April was wrong. Twenty minutes later, with Annabelle running back and forth between dressing room and selling floor to exchange sizes, Madeline stood staring at herself—and wearing a size ten.

The collarless Wedgwood blue silk suit jacket she wore had long sleeves, a lovely row of covered buttons, a hem that hit just at the top of her thighs and a softly nipped-in waist that actually gave her a shape. A real shape. And the skirt? Lined with slinky taffeta, the straight skirt—with elastic waist—barely skimmed the top of her knees, exposing her slim, well-shaped, very long lower legs.

“Now I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, who
is
this gorgeous creature?” April asked, obviously quite pleased with herself. “So, Madeline? What do you think?”

“I think I don't believe it,” she answered, pulling up the tag hanging from the sleeve. “A
ten?
”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of camouflage,” Annabelle said as she hung up rejects, then sat on the small chair in the dressing room. “You look great, Madeline. Professional, yet sexy. We'll take it, right, April?”

“Definitely. Happy birthday, Madeline,” April answered with a grin. “Thank heaven the mall is open late for the pre-Easter sales. Now that we know the style and the size—and the great elastic secret—Madeline, it's time to pull out the plastic, because we aren't leaving here until you've got a whole new wardrobe. Suits for work, slacks and tops for casual wear, you name it.”

“And then we do the shoes, the purses—because you're
not
going to ruin that suit by carrying around that knitted feed bag anymore, Madeline.”

“And makeup,” April added, unwrapping the elastic tie around Madeline's braid, unwinding the braid itself. “Oh, would you look at those curls! Madeline, you've been hiding naturally black, naturally curly hair? How could you? That's positively criminal. And you've got fabulous skin, Madeline, white and creamy. That's probably because you've never worn makeup. Snow White skin, Snow White hair—all we need now is a prince.”

“Yes, definitely a prince,” Annabelle said, jumping up from her chair to kiss Madeline's cheek. “You look
wonderful,
Madeline.”

“True, Annabelle, but there does come a time when we all need a little…embellishment. Even princesses. With those brown eyes, I'd say some two-tone beige and brown shadow, some peachy-colored blusher and lipstick. And, of course, mascara and eyeliner. Madeline? Madeline, are we pushing too hard? Are you okay with this?”

Madeline, who had been staring at her reflection, half frightened, half pleased, knowing she still wouldn't give Catherine Zeta-Jones a run for her money—but, then, who could?—just nodded. “Okay. Sure. I mean—” she gave her head a small shake, watched her curls settle onto her shoulders “—sure. Let's do it.”

 

I
AN LOOKED
at his watch, calculating how much time it would take to get across town to the Lone Star in time for their six o'clock reservations.

He'd had it all planned so carefully. Up early, go for a run. Golf with the guys, a nap, some power shopping to locate a reasonably good birthday gift, dinner at six.

Except he'd come home to a note Madeline had slipped under his door, telling him that she might be a little late because she had to go back to the mall with April and Annabelle for “some last-minute idiocy.”

Ian pondered that line for a while, then tossed the note aside, found the channel changer and surfed for whatever sports might be on the tube the week before the NCAA March Madness started next week. He lucked out with a great game for one of the last divisional tournaments and settled in to watch, one ear listening for Madeline's footsteps in the hallway.

Not that he wasn't interested in the game on the screen, because he was. But he and Maddie usually watched the games together. Baseball, basketball, football, ice hockey—anything that wasn't soccer, because she always fell asleep during soccer games.

Maybe, after dinner, they'd come back and watch the video he'd rented last night. He'd started to watch it by himself, but only five minutes into it he knew Maddie would love it, so he'd ejected the tape. Then he'd read two chapters of a book. Then he'd walked around his apartment, straightening up, and found one of Maddie's hair clips under the kitchen table. He put it in the dish on the counter, the Maddie Collection Plate that she raided every time she ran out of hair clips or needed postage stamps, emery boards, even her extra pair of reading glasses. Her sandals he kept in the hall closet, along with a tweed vest he hoped she never remembered she owned
and the crutches she'd used that summer she broke her foot.

Not that he minded that Maddie, left to her own devices, could quickly have his entire apartment littered with her stuff, because he didn't. He liked that they were so comfortable with each other that they just about lived in each other's pockets. Sharing, caring. All that good stuff.

Except now Maddie was going to turn thirty-five. If he'd thought she'd panicked at thirty, it had been nothing to compare with the teary monologue he'd listened to one night a few weeks ago, wherein Maddie lamented her single state, her ticking biological clock and her conviction that she was speeding headlong into old maidhood.

He was also going to be thirty-five. Did that mean he was racing down the road to old bachelorhood?

Not according to Maddie, Ian remembered, as he looked into the mirror above his dresser, twisting his tie into a neat Windsor knot.

“You're just entering your prime,” she'd told him—accused him, actually. “Men have it so much easier. You'll be able to take your pick of women—especially younger women—well into your fifties. But not women. And especially not if we want babies. Do you know how much more difficult it is to even
become
pregnant for the first time after the age of thirty-five? And the complications of having your first child after forty? Not good, Ian, not good. Trust me. So I'm thinking about getting pregnant. I mean, why not? Women like me are doing it every day. Of course, I'd have to find a donor.”

“Yeah?” he'd said, trying to keep the conversation light. “Well, don't go to strangers.”

Ian checked the collar of his shirt, still looking at his reflection as he thought over Maddie's words, his flip re
ply, the rather shattered look that had passed over her features before she'd smiled, laughed rather hollowly.

Was that when everything had changed?

Probably.

Maddie was his best pal, his good buddy—his other half, when he got right down to it. There was nothing they didn't know about each other, nothing they couldn't share—not their pains, their joys, their highs, their lows. Theirs was the friendship of a lifetime, the sort only a few were blessed to have and one he knew had to be fed, nurtured, in order to endure.

Except he'd been taking advantage of Maddie. Oh, not intentionally, but he'd been monopolizing her time all these years while keeping his social life in full swing.

Was that his fault? If Maddie didn't date very often, didn't actively look for dates—was that his fault?

Did he keep her that busy? Sure, they saw each other every day, sometimes sharing breakfast in her apartment, sometimes meeting near the hospital for lunch. Madeline cooked dinner for them at least four nights a week.

And on Friday and Saturday nights Ian went out on dates…and Maddie stayed home to read medical journals.

“You've been getting all the perks here, bucko,” Ian told himself as he ran a comb through his dark hair. “You don't just count on Maddie hanging around, waiting for you to show up in her life—you
expect
her to be there. And that's not fair.”

Maddie should be married. Ian knew that. She should have a gang of kids, definitely. But if she stayed with him, let him be the platonic man in her life, she'd never find a romantic man for her life. Maybe Maddie didn't see that, but he did. Now. The damn dirty shame was that he hadn't seen it for fifteen long years.

“Yeah, but don't tell her that tonight,” he warned him
self as he went to the closet and pulled out his sport jacket, slid his arms into it as he headed out of the bedroom. “Happy birthday, Maddie. Go away, find a life.” He shook his head. “Oh, yeah, that would do it. That one would nail down that Prince of the Year award for sure.”

But what else was he to do? What Maddie wanted, what Maddie needed, he couldn't give her. They were friends, not lovers. Hadn't they tried that back in college? It hadn't worked then and it wouldn't work now. They knew each other too well to change their comfortable friendship into something so much more complicated.