Second Time Around (32 page)

“He was single for a long time after he got divorced,” Sarah said. “He had almost ten years to sow his wild oats.
I’m sure he got it all out of his system. He must have, if he asked me to marry him.”

“One would assume.”

Sarah kept looking up at her, desperate for direction and approval. “Do you think I’m making a mistake?”

Jamie glanced out the window at the frost-encrusted garden where she’d help run the anniversary event just a few weeks ago. The flowers and lush green foliage had disappeared along with the warm weather, leaving only prickly shrubs and the bare wooden frame of the trellis. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“Do you think he’s too old for me?”

“Sarah. I cannot have this conversation with you.”

“You can and you will!” The bride was on the verge of tears again, so this came out as more of a plea than a command. “You’re the one who opened this whole can of worms with your big morality lecture at the bar last weekend.”

“And you told me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business,” Jamie reminded her. “The only advice I can give you is this: If you’re not completely, one hundred percent sure, don’t do it. In my experience, you never regret
not
getting married to the wrong guy.”

Sarah ashed her cigarette into an empty porcelain soap dish. “So you’re telling me to call it off.”

“No, I am not.” Jamie reached out and squeezed Sarah’s shoulder. “What I am telling you is that, if you do want to bail, this is the time. Just say the word and I’ll take care of everything. I’m a full-service wedding planner, escape clause included.”

“No, forget it. That’s crazy. I can’t call it off.” Sarah wolfed down a petit four from the stash she had smuggled up
from the reception. “I’m just delusional from all that dieting to fit into my Vera Wang.” She reached for another pastry, then stopped herself. “Everybody gets cold feet, right?”

Jamie opened her mouth, but Sarah didn’t give her a chance to comment.

“It’s too late, anyway.” The bride-to-be flushed the remains of her cigarette down the toilet, reapplied her lipstick, and headed back down the hallway, where they could hear Maureen’s laughter drifting up from the foyer. “I made a commitment and I’m sticking to it. We’ll work it out. We’ll be fine. Everything’s going to be perfect.”

J
onas, I don’t have time to talk. The wedding is tomorrow and I’m having a cake crisis. If you’re that desperate to see me, you’ll have to come up here.” Anna clicked off her cell phone, carefully navigated the icy path leading up to a weathered little cabin on the wooded outskirts of town, and rang Trish’s doorbell.

“Come in!” Trish called from inside.

Anna eased back the storm door, dredged her pockets for the house key Trish had given her, and unlocked the dead bolt.

What Trish’s house lacked in square footage, it more than made up for in rustic charm. The floor plan was open, with
a combination eating/cooking/living area and double doors that partitioned off the single bedroom. Firewood crackled and popped in the woodstove in the corner of the den. Trish was camped out on a saggy green sofa smack-dab in the middle of everything. Her russet hair hung limply over her face and her fingers were tapping away at the keyboard of a laptop. She barely looked up from the computer when Anna walked in.

“Well, it’s about time you showed up. I was beginning to wonder if you’d fallen into the mixer at Pranza.”

“You wish. I’ve got the cake in the car, along with a big tub of icing and enough gumpaste to choke a horse. Nice pajamas, by the way. You’ve been here alone all day?”

“No, my cousin came by with groceries this morning. And then my mom came by for lunch and a lecture on how I’m gaining too much weight, and I’m not doing enough to prevent stretch marks, and I’m going to regret getting that tattoo on my lower back when my child is old enough to realize that Mommy has a ‘tramp stamp.’” Trish gritted her teeth. “Good times.”

“What about your boyfriend? When do I finally get to meet this mystery man?”

Trish stopped typing. “I don’t know. I don’t even know when
I’m
going to see him again.” Something in her tone warned Anna not to press, so Anna switched gears.

“How are you feeling?”

“Physically? Fine. Mentally? Eh. It turns out I’m further along than I thought, so they pushed up my due date. And bed rest is the opposite of restful. I hate not showering and wondering if every little flutter I feel is the rest of my placenta ripping away from my uterus.” When Trish finally
looked up, her expression was frazzled and fearful. “And I read all those pregnancy books you gave me.”

“They upset you?”

“No, no, they were great. But then I had some follow-up questions so I went online, and now I’m afraid to wear nail polish, I’m afraid to eat anything that comes out of a can, I’m afraid to eat a damn doughnut.”

Anna cocked her head. “Why?”

“Phthalates, heavy metals, trans fats.” Trish’s lower lip trembled. “Trans fats cross the placenta, you know. It’s a scientific fact.”

“All right, that’s enough. You are officially banned from the Internet until further notice.” Anna stepped forward and closed the laptop. “Pregnancy hormones and search engines do not mix.”

“You can’t ban me from the Internet; I need my bed rest support chat room! Plus, I need to shop online for all the crap I thought I’d be buying at the mall during the third trimester.”

“Like what? Make a list.”

“I have to figure out how to pick the safest car seat and baby bottles that won’t poison my kid with Bisphenol A.” Trish was practically hyperventilating now. “And you’re not allowed to use crib bumpers anymore, because they’re a suffocation hazard. And should I be blasting Mozart into my womb every morning? And should I be mainlining omega-3 or avoiding fish products altogether?”

“Scoot over.” Anna made room for herself on the sofa and sat down.

“Before last week, I didn’t worry about anything,” Trish continued. “Now I spend all day, every day worrying about
everything. And then I worry that I’m worrying too much, because stress isn’t good for the baby.”

“Whoa. Slow down.” Anna took a deep, exaggerated breath and waited for Trish to do the same. “I promise I will help you hunt down the safest baby products on the planet. But you have to cut yourself some slack. The occasional doughnut isn’t going to make the Bug grow horns and a tail.”

“Says the chick who wouldn’t even let me have an ibuprofen last month.”

“You need to go take a shower and wash your hair. You’ll feel much better, I promise.”

Trish shook her head and sniffled. “My doctor says I’m not supposed to be on my feet for more than ten minutes at a time.”

“So use combination shampoo and conditioner. I’ll time you.” Anna crossed the room to the kitchenette and rummaged through the cabinets. “And while you’re in there, I’ll make you some hot water and lemon. Surely you can’t freak out about that.”

“Actually, I’ve been reading some things about the local water supply,” Trish said, her expression solemn. “I think I need to install a reverse-osmosis filter ASAP.”

Anna rolled her eyes and pointed toward the bathroom. “Move.”

“God, you’re bossy.” But Trish started to push herself off the sofa. “What’s on our agenda today, anyway?”

“We have to finish the wedding cake this afternoon. Then we can go over the ingredient list for the next few weeks so I can special-order the more exotic stuff. And if you promise to stop obsessing, I’ll send my housemate over on Monday to install a water filter.”

“Which one?”

“The one who works in the alumni affairs office at the college. You’ve probably seen her around town. Brooke Asplind?”

Trish looked incredulous. “That tiny blonde who looks like a pageant contestant turned Sunday school teacher?”

Anna grinned. “The very same.”

“You have the best housemates ever.”

“Amen.”

While Trish showered, Anna went back outside to retrieve the wedding-cake-in-progress from the back of her station wagon. She’d already baked and assembled the layers and covered the tiers in white fondant, but the finishing touches were trickier than she’d anticipated. It was relatively easy to pipe words and designs; it was exponentially more challenging to sculpt three-dimensional flowers and berries out of gumpaste.

She dragged the small, sturdy kitchen table over to the couch and set up the cake, along with an assortment of pastry bags and decorating tools. When Trish emerged from the bathroom in precisely ten minutes’ time, Anna stepped back across the room to see if all the design elements came together. “Do the rosettes look a little wonky to you?”

“Wonky isn’t the word.” Trish heaved herself back down into the sofa cushions and finished toweling off her hair. “A drunken monkey could do better.”

“Gee, thanks. Do you feel better now that you’ve showered?”

“Yeah,” Trish admitted with a grudging smile. “Did you save any samples of the actual cake?”

“Right here.” Anna pointed to a small bakery box at the edge of the table. “White cake with orange-cranberry filling. Very Thanksgiving-y.”

Trish helped herself to a slice and took a tiny bite. She paused, took another little bite, then crammed the rest into her mouth.

“You don’t have to tell me it’s delicious,” Anna said. “I already know.”

“The inside’s delicious,” Trish mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. “But these rosettes are a disaster.” She finished chewing. “I’ll fix them for you on one condition: You have to tell me how you made that Coca-Cola cake for Belinda Elquest’s cocktail party.”

“You heard about that?”

“Everyone heard about that. It’s the talk of the freaking town.”

“Done.” They shook on it.

Trish grabbed a pastry bag and flexed her fingers like a pianist preparing to perform. “Sit back and take notes, Legacy. School is in session.”

A
nna and Trish toiled over the cake for hours, pausing only for bathroom breaks and the high-protein snacks Anna insisted Trish eat. Dusk fell, then darkness, and the pair of bakers established a silent, cooperative rhythm. When the doorbell chimed, both of them startled and Trish mangled the tiny leaf she’d been adding to a rosebud on the cake’s top tier.

Anna leapt up and headed for the entryway. “I’ll get it.” Her hands and back ached from the hours of detail work, and for once she was thankful she wasn’t pregnant—she was free to pop ibuprofen at will.

“Whoever it is, tell them to get lost,” Trish said.

Anna yanked open the door, not bothering to disguise her irritation.

“Oh good,” said Jonas. “You’re here.” He’d lost a bit of weight since she’d last seen him, and if the dark smudges under his eyes were any indication, he was still jet-lagged from the flight home.

Part of Anna wanted to slam the door, throw the dead bolt, and go back to squabbling with Trish over mundane matters like rosette placement and the ideal sugar-to-liquid ratio in icing.

The rest of her wanted to throw her arms around her husband and never let go.

Finally, she composed herself sufficiently to ask, “What are you doing here?”

“You said if I wanted to see you, I’d have to make the trip, so here I am.” He exuded a calming, casual confidence in hiking boots and jeans. “I went to Henley House, and Brooke and Cait told me you were still working on the wedding cake. So I drove down to that restaurant on Pine Street and asked around. The owner said you might be here.”

“Oh.” She started toward him, then stopped herself.

He shifted his weight. “Any chance I can come in?”

“Yes, of course.” She stepped back and held the door for him. “Trish, this is my husband. Jonas, this is Trish.”

He glanced back at Anna. “
The
Trish?”

“The one and only.” Trish let out a diabolical little laugh. “Her archenemy.”

Anna couldn’t stop staring at Jonas. He looked so comforting and familiar, but something about him was different. Something had shifted over the last few weeks. “So what was
so pressing that you braved the Friday afternoon Northway traffic?”

“This.” He handed Anna a cordovan leather folder.

She ran her fingers over the smooth, flat surface. “What am I looking at?”

“It’s our adoption portfolio.”

Her head jerked up. “I told you, Jonas, I’m not—”

“Just open it.”

She did, and inside she found several photo collages mounted on laminated binder pages. The first page featured her in her wedding gown, beaming up at Jonas as the minister pronounced them husband and wife. The next few pages were devoted to their home in Albany: the well-equipped kitchen, the cozy family room, and the grassy, sloping backyard that abutted a nature preserve. There was a snapshot of the local elementary school with the sign in front of the flagpole: “A National ‘Excelling’ School!” Finally, there were photos of the empty upstairs guest room that Anna and Jonas had designated as the future nursery, accompanied by a page torn out of a catalog featuring the crib, glider chair, and changing table Anna had selected during one of the interminable waits at a gynecologist’s office.