Something Blue (23 page)

“Do it again,” Max squealed.

I did, forgetting that Geoffrey was watching, perhaps even critiquing me.

“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr,”
I said more robustly, as the rear wheels completed the bouncy climb over my leg. Then, I slipped off my socks, balled them up, and stuffed them into the cab of the truck. “Here. Some… cargo for you to drive… to the factory in… Liverpool,” I said. It all sounded feasible, and I felt relieved that boy games might be easier and more fun than I had once thought.

“The factory in Liverpool,” Max repeated happily.

And from that moment on, Max and I were fast friends. He didn’t stop saying my name in his adorable English accent, leading me around by the hand, showing me his toys, even insisting that I take a tour of his bedroom. I basked in his acceptance, feeling thrilled that Geoffrey and I had cleared the final hurdle.

Later that night, after Geoffrey put Max to bed, he rejoined me in the bedroom, all smiles. “Well. You did it! He loves you.”

“He does?” I asked, wondering if his father loved me too.

“Yes,” Geoffrey said, grinning.

“Does that make you happy?” I asked, snuggling up to him.

“Over the moon,” Geoffrey said as he smoothed my hair away from my face. “A million miles over the moon.”

twenty-six

Geofrrey invited me to go to the Maldives with him and Max for Christmas, even offering to buy me a plane ticket.

I hesitated before asking, “Where are the Maldives exactly?” He gave me the sort of affectionate gaze Dex had given me in the beginning whenever I confessed ignorance. “In the Indian Ocean, darling,” he said, stroking my hair. “Think white-sand beaches, crystal-clear water, palm trees swaying in the breeze.”

As tempting as a vacation in the sun was and as eager as I was to push things even further along with our relationship, I politely declined the invite, telling him that I thought he should spend quality father-son time with Max. The truth was, I didn’t want to leave Ethan all by himself in London. He didn’t have the extra cash to fly home for the holidays, and Sondrine was going to Paris for the week, so I think he was counting on spending time with me. Part of me was even excited that it would just be the two of us. I figured it might be our last hurrah—and our last flurry of sleepovers—before things really took off for each of us on the romance front.

I think Ethan felt the same way because on Christmas Eve morning, he went to Sondrine’s to say good-bye and returned home in high spirits, suggesting that we go buy a tree together. “Better late than never!” he chirped. So we put on our warmest clothes and strolled over to the nursery near his house. Of course, the best trees were long gone, so we had to settle for a small fir with mangled branches and several bald patches around the base. As we dragged the tree home, it lost even more needles.

But between Ethan’s ornament collection and a few pairs of my most sparkly chandelier earrings, our little tree became more than respectable. Ethan said the transformation reminded him of the tree in
A Charlie Brown Christmas.
I agreed and told him that it was the prettiest one I had ever owned, even though I had always made Dex buy grand eight-footers for our New York apartment.

We dimmed the lights in the living room and then switched on the white tree lights, spending the longest time just gazing at the tree, listening to Harry Connick Jr. croon Christmas carols, and drinking hot apple cider. After a long, cozy stretch of silence, Ethan turned to me and asked me if I had come up with any baby names.

I told him that I had a short list, but nothing concrete. I rattled some of them off. “Trevor. Flynn. Jonas. What do you think?”

“Honestly?”

I nodded.

“Hmm… Well, let’s see… a guy named Trevor got caught stealing clothes from the dryers in my dorm at Stanford. Flynn sounds like
phlegm,
and Jonas conjures whales…”

I laughed, and said that I’d have to go back to the drawing board.

“Don’t change on account of me.”

I shook my head. “Nope. I want you to love my names.”

He smiled and then suggested that we exchange our presents.

“Okay,” I said, clapping excitedly.

He got up from the couch, sat cross-legged on the floor next to the tree, and handed me a large box wrapped with silver paper. “You first,” he said.

I sat down beside him and carefully sliced open the paper the way my grandmother always did, as if to save it for future use. Then I opened the white box and the turquoise tissue paper inside to find a beautiful gray cashmere sweater coat from Brora, a store I had passed many times on the King’s Road.

“It’s not technically a maternity sweater, but it’s quite roomy, and the lady at the store said that lots of pregnant women buy them,” he explained.

I stood up and tried it on over my sweats. It fit perfectly, with room to grow, and the cashmere was positively luxurious. “I love it, Ethan!”

“See? It’s belted,” Ethan said earnestly. “So you can just loosen the belt as you get bigger… I thought you could wear it when you bring the boys home from the hospital. It will look really nice in photos.”

“I will definitely do that,” I said, loving that Ethan cared about photos. He was one of the few guys I knew who bothered to put them in albums. I looked at him and asked if he’d be there to take those photos.

“I wouldn’t want to step on Geoffrey’s toes… but I’d like to be there. It’s your call.”

“Geoffrey understands our friendship,” I said, not knowing whether that was exactly true, but hoping that it was the case. It was the only way our relationship would work.

Ethan smiled and said, “There’s another gift under there.” He pointed to a white envelope. On it, he had written, “To Darcy, Baby A and Baby B.” Inside was a small square of blue paper. I studied it, puzzled. “What is it?”

“It’s a paint swatch,” he said. “I want to paint your room that color. For the nursery. I was going to just surprise you and do it, but then I worried that blue was too obvious for you. Would you rather do something more… unexpected?”

“I
love
this shade of blue,” I said, feeling all warm inside and thrilled that Ethan wanted me to stay with him even after the babies arrived. I had been wanting to broach the subject for weeks, and now I had my answer. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

Ethan went on to tell me that he had measured a crib at Peter Jones and had determined that two would fit along the long wall. And that we could put a pad on top of that bookshelf and use it as a changing table.

I grinned and told him it was an excellent plan. “Now open your gift!” I said, handing him his package.

He opened it with exuberance, tearing off the paper, tossing it aside, and holding up the leather messenger bag I had found to replace his tattered nylon one. My only splurge in weeks. I could tell he loved it, because he immediately went to his room and brought out his old bag, unloading his papers and folders and transferring them to his new one. He swung it over his shoulder, then adjusted the strap slightly. “It’s awesome,” he said. “I look like a real novelist now.”

He had begun to make a lot of comments like this lately. I could tell he felt anxious about the progress—or lack of progress—he was making on his book.

“Still having writer’s block?” I asked sympathetically.

“Yeah. I feel like Snoopy stuck on that one line: ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’”

I laughed and reassured him that surely all great authors struggled with occasional writer’s block, and that I knew he’d make some good headway in the new year.

“Thanks, Darce. I appreciate that,” he said sincerely.

Then we curled up under a big blanket on the couch and watched a video of
It’s a Wonderful Life.
Right around the part where the uncle accidentally gives the envelope of money to Mr. Potter, Ethan hit the pause button and asked if he could fast-forward to the end. “I can’t stand this part. It’s too frustrating.”

I agreed. As we watched the grim scenes blur forward, I couldn’t help thinking about my own life—specifically the rift with my mother. She had not contacted me once since I had sent her the note from London. I firmly believed that the ball was in her court, but by the end of the movie, as we watched the happy family scene where George Bailey’s youngest daughter says, “Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings,” I decided to let go of my pride and call home.

Ethan was supportive of the idea, so I nervously dialed up my home in Indy. As the phone rang, I almost hung up, but grabbed Ethan’s hand instead. My mom answered after five or six rings.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, feeling scared and small.

She said my name icily and then silence floated over the wires. My mother was a champion grudge holder. I thought of my own grudge against Rachel, figuring that you didn’t get these things from strangers.

“Did I interrupt dinner?” I asked.

“Not really. We were just finishing. Jeremy and Lauren are here.”

“Oh,” I said. “How are their wedding plans coming?”

“Just fine.”

I waited for her to ask how I was, whether I was still in London. When she didn’t, I offered it up awkwardly. “I’m still here in London… You got my note, right?”

She said that she already knew I was in London, even before receiving the note, as she had run into Annalise’s mother at the mall. She added that it had been embarrassing to hear of my whereabouts from someone else, which I thought was a petty point to raise given the fact that I had written her a note, and that I had been the one to phone her first. But I didn’t let this deter me from telling her how sorry I was for disappointing her. I told her that it was understandable how shocked she had been upon my news. That no mother would want her daughter to get pregnant so fast on the heels of a broken engagement to another man. I also told her that she was right about Marcus. “He was a big jerk, Mom. I’m not with him at all anymore. I see now that you just wanted what was best for me.”

Ethan squeezed my hand and nodded, as if to say, “Keep going. You’re doing great.”

I swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “So anyway, I had an ultrasound here in London… and I found out what I’m having.”

“A girl?”

“No. Not a girl. I thought it would be a girl too. But it’s not a girl.”

“So a boy then? That’s great,” she said emotionlessly.

“Well, yes. But… it’s actually…
two
boys. I’m having twins. Identical twin boys! Isn’t that just the
most craziest
thing ever?”

In my mind, I could hear Rachel instructing me that it’s either “the craziest” or “the most crazy”—not “the most craziest.” But this seemed an appropriate time to break the grammar rule. To me, having twin boys
was
the
most craziest.
“Can you believe that, Mom?”

I braced myself for the worst, but it didn’t hurt any less when I got just that. She did not congratulate me. She did not ask about names. She did not ask how I was feeling. She did not say that she was happy for me. She only asked how in the world I was going to manage twins. Tears stung my eyes as I calmly reassured her that I intended to make things work in London. I told her that I was looking for a job and was sure something would turn up. I told her of our plans to fix up a nursery in Ethan’s fiat, smiling at him gratefully. I told her how much I loved London, rain and all. Then I wished her a merry Christmas and told her that I loved her. I told her to tell my dad and Jeremy, and even Lauren, that I loved them, and that I’d be sure to call again soon. She said she loved me, too, but she said so briskly, with no warmth at all.

When I hung up, I lowered my head into my hands and cried. Ethan stroked my hair and said softly, “You did good, Darce. You did the right thing by calling her. I’m proud of you.”

“I shouldn’t have called. She was
awful
!”

“Yes. You should have… Don’t let her get you down. You can only control your own actions. Not other people’s reactions.”

I blew my nose and said, “I can’t help feeling this way. She’s my
mother
.”

“Parents often let you down,” he said. “You’ll just have to do a better job being a mother to your boys. I know you will.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because, Darce, you’ve shown your true colors lately.”

I blew my nose again. “What do you mean by ‘true colors’?”

“I mean… you are a good person.” Ethan touched my arm gently. “A strong person. And you’re going to make a wonderful mother.”

Over the years, I had received endless compliments and ego-stroking words from countless men.
You’re beautiful. You’re sexy. You’re incredible. I want you. Marry me
. But this sentiment from Ethan was the nicest thing I had ever heard from a man. I put my head on his shoulder, basking in it.

“I’m going to try, Ethan. I’m really going to try.”

The next morning Ethan and I awoke and sleepily wished each other “Merry Christmas.”

“What are we going to do today?” I asked him.

“We’re gonna chef it up,” Ethan answered joyously.

We had gone grocery-shopping two days earlier, and his small English refrigerator was packed to the gills with all of our ingredients.

“What else?”

“Cooking Christmas dinner will take most of the day,” he said.

I asked if he wished we had waited to open our gifts. I knew that Christmas wasn’t about presents, but there is always a bit of a letdown when that part of the holidays has passed. Although, for once, I had enjoyed giving more than receiving.

Ethan said he preferred opening gifts on Christmas Eve, and then said, “I could give you something else though…”

I looked at him, and I think my face registered surprise. Was it my imagination or was his tone suggestive? Was Ethan coming on to me? Before I could answer, he continued innocently, “How about a poem?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” I said, feeling relieved that I hadn’t responded inappropriately and embarrassed myself. “What’s the title of this poem?”

He thought for a second and then said, ” ‘Hot Mama.’ ” I smiled and told him to go on, remembering his funny impromptu rhymes in high school. He cleared his throat and started rapping, inserting little rhythmic sputters and head bobbing along the way:

You’re one hot mama in your sexy gown.

The cutest little prefers girl in town.

You envisioned buying girly toys.

But instead you’re having two bouncing boys.

You took the news in stride and did not cry or pout.

‘Cause you know what motherhood’s really about.

And no one will make a finer mutha.

Your baby is lucky and so is his brutha!

We both cracked up. Then he threw one arm over me and hugged me just as one of my babies delivered a sharp kick. Ethan’s face lit up. I laughed. “You felt that?” “Yeah. Wow.”

He got you.

“He sure did,” Ethan murmured. He rested his hand on my stomach and gently pushed.

One baby responded with an impressive jolt. Ethan chuckled. “That’s wild. I still can’t believe you have two babies in there!”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I feel like I’m running out of room. It’s starting to get really tight.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sort of. It’s just this weird pressure down there. And I’m starting to get this annoying back pain.”