Birthday Girls (17 page)

“Well,” he said, withdrawing his hand and slapping the steering wheel with a chuckle, “the ladies certainly enjoyed seeing you. I think Harriet Lindley wishes you were her daughter.”

The car hummed toward the bridge.

“Which reminds me,” Edmund continued, “are we doing Thanksgiving this year?”

Thanksgiving
. Since long before Grandfather died, Abigail had
done
Thanksgiving, done it with all the pomp and tradition of true Hardy heritage: the most regal table, the finest cuisine, the company of old, valued friends—the
illusion
that only grandeur could create, the same illusion she conveyed to her audience every week as the only way to entertain.

She wanted to tell Edmund no, that she would be long gone by Thanksgiving. Instead she replied dryly, “Probably.”

“Good,” he replied. “You always make Thanksgiving so grand.”

She glanced at her husband, the man she had vowed long ago to love and to cherish until death did they part, because Grandfather had said they’d be a good match.

Maybe he hadn’t been wrong.

There had been good times, she reflected—holidays and trips and parties and even fun. And he had been so kind when Grandfather died. He’d made all the arrangements because she was too numb and could only sit on the sofa in Grandfather’s study and stare out the diamond-paned window. That first night Edmund came in and silently sat beside her, holding her hand, easing her pain until the first light of dawn crept into the room and she fell asleep on his shoulder. It was something she doubted she was capable of doing for him.

Edmund gave her so much and she gave him so little; she was surprised he’d stayed with her at all. He’d be so much better off alone.

Her chest grew heavy now as she turned her gaze out the window, to the tiny white lights that studded the top of the long bridge as if declaring its importance, its permanence in the world. “Not many cars out tonight,” she noted.

“It’s after midnight,” Edmund responded with another chuckle. “It’s probably the only time traffic’s not backed up on the bridge.”

As they headed across the wide span, she looked down at the black water. No traffic, she thought. No traffic, no witnesses. Her breath caught in her throat.
This is it
, she wanted to scream.
This is my answer
.

She shot another glance at Edmund to see if he’d heard her gasp. But the contented smile of a new business deal lay lightly on his face. Her hands began to tremble. She reached over and turned on the CD player. Mozart filled the small space within the car.

The Tappan Zee Bridge
was all she could think.
What a perfect place to disappear
. She lit a cigarette and wished Kris and Maddie would hurry home so that they could get on with her plan.

“As long
as you’re still ovulating it shouldn’t be a problem,” the doctor said. He had a perfect California tan.
Kildare
, his name could have been, if this were the sixties and if Kris believed in miracles; “It might take a few tries, but you seem healthy enough.”

“You won’t need to do an egg implant?”

“Not if you have enough of your own. There is some medication we can start you on to help increase egg production. The down side is, you could end up with twins. Or more.”

Kris laughed. “Good God. I don’t want a litter.”

“Suit yourself. But without the medication, things might go slower.”

Slower? That was the last thing she needed. “Then go for it,” she said, and leaned back on the white leather–covered examining table, musing that only in L.A. would they have
white leather
examining tables. L.A., the land of miracles, where they didn’t seem to mind that she was forty-nine years old and finally ready to have a child. She smiled. “So I may have a family after all.”

“We’ll do our best.” He scanned her chart, then showed his perfect white teeth. “You had an abortion, is that correct?” He said it matter-of-factly, without shock, without criticism.

“Over thirty years ago.”

“First trimester?”

“Yes.”

“No other pregnancies?”

She shook her head.

He clicked off his pen. “We’ll run some tests first—standard things, nothing to worry about. Your last period was when—a week ago?”

“Not quite.” She stared at the ceiling, a warm glow flooding through her. A glow that seemed very close to something called joy.

“We can get started right away. If everything checks out, the first procedure can probably take place next week.”

Kris lay her hand on her flat, taut stomach. “I can’t believe this is going to happen.” She also couldn’t believe that for all her usual wordiness, she could not think of anything more intelligent to say.

Young Doctor Kildare smiled again. “Get dressed. My assistant will schedule your tests.”

“Thank you, doctor. Thank you.”

He nodded and left the room. Kris remained on the table for several moments, thinking about how this would change her life and about how without Abigail and Maddie she would never have had the courage to face her true self.

If it hadn’t
been for Kris, Maddie would have turned around and flown back to New York. But because of her big mouth, because of her
lie
, she was forced into spending at least one day in L.A. pretending she had something important to accomplish, pretending she was too busy on her “scouting expedition” to go to the doctor’s with Kris.

Parker had not been on the plane yesterday.

Whether Bobby had been wrong about his father’s schedule, or Parker had simply changed his mind, Maddie had no idea. She only knew she’d scanned every seat from first class to coach, and her ex-husband was nowhere to be seen.

Of course, she had wanted to cry. She had wanted to
tell Kris the truth. But Maddie had been too embarrassed and knew there was no way Kris would understand. It was bad enough that Maddie was chasing a man, Kris would think, let alone that she’d paid for this out of her own pocket with money she could ill afford to blow.

So instead of crying she’d gone to L.A., spent half a day shopping on Rodeo Drive, let Kris buy her an overpriced dinner at Morton’s, and acted as if she couldn’t wait to get up in the morning and begin her scouting expedition, whatever that was.

Now Maddie sat on a concrete bench outside United Artists—her third studio tour of the day—and rubbed her feet. The low heels that Abigail insisted
must
be worn with pants were about to cut off her circulation. She’d give anything for a long cotton skirt and her comfortable, broken-in sneakers. She’d give anything to scrub the Red Door makeup from her face; she’d give anything to be home.

Home
. Where Sophie would cook her a warm, comforting dinner; where the boys would distract her by relating the adventures of their day.

When Parker had been with her, meals had been different. “Let’s do Japanese tonight,” he said when sushi first came into New York vogue. “The boys need some international exposure beyond pizza.”

It hadn’t mattered that Bobby and Timmy were only five years old; spontaneity and adventure were Parker’s way, and Maddie never failed to love it.

“He brings out the spirit in you,” Sophie had said, long before the divorce.

And Maddie knew it was true, for when she was with Parker everything had been fun. Everything had been magical. And so very right.

But Parker wasn’t here now and L.A. wasn’t home. She lowered her eyes, checked her watch, and realized it was
still too early to trudge back to the bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Then she pulled a brochure from her camera bag and decided she might as well take a bus tour to the Homes of the Stars. If nothing else, she’d be so tired that Kris might believe she’d been working her tail off all day.

Later
that evening Maddie unlocked the door of the bungalow, tossed down her things, and realized this would be the time she’d ordinarily stuff down half a bag of cookies. But thanks to Abigail—and the merciless, fitness-freak Andrew—the only thing she wanted now was a San Pellegrino. With lime. She wished her need for Parker could be eliminated as easily as her cravings for chocolate chip cookies.

Kris, however, skipped in from the adjoining room and greeted her with a bottle of champagne. “A toast,” she cried, “to the rest of our lives.”

“Toast it yourself,” Maddie said, heading for the closet that held her luggage. “I’m going home.” Lies or no lies, she hated not knowing which continent Parker was on; it made her feel empty and off balance and very, very alone.

“You can’t go home yet,” Kris said, following close behind. “Don’t you want to hear what happened today?”

“I know that I got some great research shots. I know that I’ve had enough of L.A.” She pulled out the empty suitcase. “And yes, of course, I want to hear how you made out. You can tell me while I pack.”

Kris reached out. “Please don’t go Maddie. Not yet. I need you here. I’m going to have a baby.”

Maddie laughed. “You don’t need me for that, Kris. Besides, I thought you were used to doing things alone.” She stuffed yesterday’s Rodeo Drive purchases into the open
bag, then caught the look on Kris’s face. Her dark eyes seemed clouded, her brow seemed shrouded with fear. It was something Maddie had never seen before, at least not on her friend. It was, she knew from her own experience, a look of …

Need?

Kris Kensington?

She suddenly remembered she’d seen the same look on Abigail’s face. First Abigail, now Kris. As though needing someone was a contagious, almost-fifty disease to which even the strongest were apparently susceptible.

“Do you mean it?” Maddie asked, trying to show that she really did care. “They’re going to do it?”

Sinking down onto the bed, Kris nodded. She raised the bottle and pointed to the label. “I figured this would be my last chance at champagne. You know how they are today about alcohol and pregnant women.”

Maddie stopped packing. “Kris, this is wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

“Well, it’s not a done deal yet. They have some tests to do first. Shit. I hope they’re not psychological tests.”

Plucking her spray gel (Vincenté’s own private label) and round styling brush from the bureau, Maddie dropped them into her bag. “They’ll probably want to make sure you’re old enough to know what you’re doing.”

Kris laughed.

“But what about the father, Kris? Do you … do you get to pick?”

“Pick? You mean like will he be black or white?”

“Well … I didn’t think of that …”

“Of course you did, Maddie. The truth is, I’m not sure. Race has never been a big issue with me. But chances are a kid who is three-quarters white will probably have a better shot at success than one who is three-quarters black. Or maybe not. Who knows.”

“You’re a celebrity, Kris. I shouldn’t think it would
matter.” She wanted to add that things rarely mattered for people who were pretty and rich and had been all their lives and would never have to worry about being anything but. Instead Maddie reminded herself that she was entitled to a life, too, entitled to stop being
Maddie the martyr
as Kris had called her. And she was going to begin by not changing her mind about finding Parker simply because Kris looked needy. If anyone could handle this, Kris Kensington could.

“The truth is, I’ve only ever wanted to be happy,” Kris said. “I’d like my kid to be happy, too.”

Happy
. Maddie stared into the suitcase. That was what she wanted, too. And there was only one way she was going to get it. She pulled open the drawer and scooped out her underwear and her nightgown.

“Please stay, Maddie,” Kris asked quietly. “Abigail was right. Today, for the first time, I realized what a huge decision this is for me.” Then she smirked. “Besides, I’ve never had sex without being kissed.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“But we could shop some more. The clothes here are so much more hip than in New York.”

“I can’t, Kris. I have to get to my studio and get the shots developed. I’m on a deadline.”
Deadline
might be a word Kris could relate to. And believe. She walked to the phone. “I’m going to try and catch the red-eye.”

Kris stood up. “I thought we were in this together.”

“We are, Kris. But I have to get back …”

“To your studio? Or to your ex-husband?”

Maddie asked the operator to connect her to TWA. Then she turned back to Kris. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you? For wanting him back?”

Kris flicked her eyes. “Not necessarily a fool. I simply don’t understand why anyone would let their life revolve around a man. Especially at your age.”

“And I don’t understand why anyone almost fifty
would want to have a baby. But I’m not judging you, Kris. Those were the rules.”

“Well,” Kris said as she grabbed her bottle and stomped from the room, “you’re not exactly supporting me, either.”

“Kris … I’m sorry,” Maddie called after her, but then TWA came on the line and her attention was diverted. Yes, she could get a seat on Flight 702 if she could reach LAX by nine o’clock. She reserved the space and gave her credit card information. She got her way; she was going home.

But when Maddie hung up she felt like a shit for letting Kris down. Still … there was Parker to find. And whoever would have thought Kris would want or need anyone?

God
, she thought, brushing back the Warm Autumn Haze bangs from her forehead,
why do people have to change?

Abigail
sat in the library thumbing through the atlas. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning, but she’d been unable to sleep. Edmund had left this morning for Lima, where some Peruvian collector supposedly had a few choice Gauguins. So Abigail was alone again, alone to lay out the blueprint of her future.

After her decision last night, there was only one more detail to plan. She knew how she would survive financially, at least for a little while. She knew how she would fake her death.

All she needed now was to figure out where to go.

Madrid might be fun—she’d always loved the Spanish language and used to speak it fluently, long before being bilingual was trendy, long before she had more to do than take frivolous lessons between aerobics classes
and try to be a trophy wife for a man who hadn’t wanted that.