The Big Bang (3 page)

An hour-long second passed until Theresa appeared on the deck, rubbing what was presumably her naturally bountiful womb. “Tim, did you see the painted vines above the cabinets?”

His eyes lingered on Hope until she moved out of sight.

“Look, honey.” Theresa grasped Tim’s hand. She pointed to the ivy pattern stenciled along the wall as though the fake flowers had actually grown and spread out across the trellis painted above the cabinetry.

Tim gave a cursory glance at one of the wicker baskets filled with plastic greenery. “Let’s check out the bedrooms.”

***

Hope removed the chocolate dipped strawberries from the refrigerator and arranged them in a semicircle around a wedge of Brie. Grabbing the platter and a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, she left the kitchen and walked into the great room. She set the silver trays on the hearth beside the sweating ice bucket in which a split of Dom Perignon, her last splurge until after Birth Day, was chilling.

With the flip of a switch, she had a roaring fire and the perfect picnic à deux.

As she lay on the Karastan area rug awaiting the sound of Jim’s car, she checked her watch again. Twenty minutes had passed since he’d called to say he’d be leaving soon.

Nine months since they’d started trying to get pregnant.

Just to be sure the timing was still ideal, she grabbed the thermometer she’d set next to the ice bucket, placed the metal bulb under her tongue, closed her eyes, and visualized the bold red plus that had eluded her so far.

The tick of the grandfather clock in the entry hall echoed and faded into the vaulted ceiling. Even with rooms full of handpicked furniture, rugs, wallpaper, and window treatments, their semi-custom still felt like a model.

It took the scattered mess of baby gear to make a house into a home.

She pulled the thermometer from her mouth and let her gaze settle at the hash mark where the silver line ended.

Elevated.

She picked up the phone and dialed Jim’s office number once again.

“You’ve reached the office of Jim Jordan. He is unavailable to answer your call. Please leave a message and…”

She pressed the off button, set the phone down, and readjusted a strap that had slipped down her shoulder. Jim would die if he knew so little lace and silk cost almost $200, but if Will Pierce-Cohn’s ashen face was any indication, the combination of lingerie and fertility drugs were sure-fire. Under normal circumstances she’d be horrified by the thought of him sneaking a peek from behind his petition, but his dumbfounded awe only made her more certain of the effect of the lingerie on the enthusiasm of Jim.

And his potent, but so far unsuccessful, little swimmers.

She popped the cork, poured herself some champagne, and settled into throw pillows where she’d spend thirty post-coital minutes with her legs in the air to ensure the sperm couldn’t miss her ripe, awaiting egg.

The garage door finally rolled open.

She ran her fingers through her hair, assumed a Ms. February pose complete with licked lips, and checked her reflection in the fireplace doors. “In here, honey,” she said over the clink of his keys in the bowl on the hall table. As he rounded the corner, she filled his glass. “I made us a picnic.”

As he reached for the Dom and emptied the glass, his pants, already unzipped, dropped to the floor. Without a comment on the spread, much less hers, he dropped to his knees and tugged at the crotch of her panties. “I have to be back at the office in fifteen minutes.”

H
ope dabbed her eyes with a handful of crinkled exam table paper and looked out the window overlooking the parking lot of the Melody Valley Medical Plaza.

“Any hot flashes, headaches, mood disorders, or visual problems since starting the Clomid?” the doctor asked.

Hope shook her head.

“Other side effects?”

“Besides feeling like a total failure?”

The doctor’s kind smile made the ache all the worse. “Patience can be the toughest side effect of all.”

How much more patient could she be?

She and Jim had been together since college when a girl she didn’t know appeared out of nowhere, grabbed her by the hand, and walked her across the quad where he stood with a group of buddies.
The two of you are too beautiful together not to belong together
, the girl had said. Jim smiled his killer smile and they’d pretty much been
that one couple
from that moment on. She wanted to start trying for a baby right after the wedding, but he wanted to wait until he had his MBA, got a job, and rose to a
family safe
level of career security at his consulting firm. She’d never once complained, in fact enjoyed their double-income-no-kids lifestyle in their tiny Washington Park bungalow, even if they were in Denver and not an interior design mecca like NY or L.A. Finally, he agreed to put a deposit down on a
family
home. She spent a year watching the house take shape amid the rolling hills of Melody Mountain Ranch and then another decorating the perfect space in the ideal kid neighborhood waiting for Jim’s travel schedule to die down enough to start filling it with children. She hadn’t grown her business much beyond holiday decor, flowerbed design, and the occasional room redo so she could slip seamlessly into the role of mother. In fact, she’d spent the better part of yet another year patiently trying every guaranteed how-to pregnancy hint.

And still, nothing.

“I always thought I’d have three children by now.”

“Hope, there’s nothing medically to suggest you won’t.”

Tears dripped down her cheeks as fast as she could wipe them away. Despite a negative home pee-on-a-stick test, three actually, she was two days late with both breast sensitivity and, she could swear, slight morning sickness. “I really thought I was pregnant this time.”

The bleeding started on the drive over.

“You’ve possibly suffered what’s known as a chemical pregnancy. If so, it bodes even better for your chances of a successful future pregnancy.”

Question was, how far into the future?

“You’ve been at this for, what, eight months?”

“Nine.” The irony only intensified the cramping. “And I’ve tried everything from wild yams to Chinese herbs to cough syrup.”

The doctor shook his head. “None of the old wives’ tales work as well as relaxing about the whole process.”

Endless sessions with her therapist, the acupuncturist, and Reverend Frank were supposed to have covered that base. “Jim doesn’t know if he’s willing to go the artificial insemination, much less the in vitro, route, but I’m starting to worry we’ll have to and—”

“Hope, you’ve only been on fertility meds for one cycle.”

“One unsuccessful cycle.”

“Forty to sixty percent of patients conceive on Clomid within six months.” He jotted on his prescription pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to her. “A month and a refill.”

“Meaning you think I’ll be pregnant by the beginning of summer?”

He patted her knee. “Meaning you’re still a long way off from considering yourself a failure.”

F
rank Griffin rapped his gavel on the podium. “Let the April meeting of the Melody Mountain Ranch Homeowner’s Board come to order.”

As residents found seats and board members filed toward chairs he’d arranged in an arc, a là city council meetings he’d seen on the public access channel, Frank eyed the gold inscription plate on his prized wormwood mallet:
Exercise Influence through Higher Power. Presented to Judge Mortimer Callahan for Twenty-Five Years of Devoted Service.

Of all the yard sale gems Maryellen had found, none felt as divinely inspired as this treasure she’d uncovered for him in a widow’s garage. If not for The Calling, and a dozen successful years in pharmaceutical sales, he’d have made an excellent judge.

Or so he’d been told.

The rec center multipurpose room was filled to capacity. Apparently, his Sunday sermon on paths to finding the Lord through community had resonated through the Melody Rancher rank and file. “I want to thank you all for coming this evening.”

He made eye contact around the room, stopping to smile in the direction of his new neighbor, Tim Trautman. According to Laney Estridge, Trautman’s previous HOB experience made him a good candidate for the next open position.

Will Pierce-Cohn’s position.

Even with the comeuppance of his failed presidential bid, P-C took on Covenant Violations chair, as far as Frank could tell, to disrupt the monthly meeting with a heartfelt plea for banning ice cream trucks, reexamining approved air conditioning systems in light of global warming, or whatever pointless issue was stuck in his unemployed, took-his-wife’s-name-with-a-hyphen, Jewish-liberal, househusband craw. He was sure to shit another pointless brick when he found out his current cause célèbre, the mega-playground land, had already been earmarked for a more lofty purpose: The Melody Mountain Community Church.

Having dreamed of, planned for, and then uprooted his family from Colorado Springs specifically for the spiritual leadership opportunity in South Metro Denver, the mere idea of finally breaking ground on a real live brick and mortar (or stucco for that matter) dream church sent a chill through him more intense than any desire of the flesh.

Despite P-C’s objections, the plan was a true win-win. After double-digit months of commercial zoning issues on the super-playground land Henderson Homes mandated in the original covenant documents, they would get what they wanted—an amendment that allowed for multiple smaller playgrounds in satellite locations. In return, Henderson Homes agreed to sell the now vacant property to the Melody Mountain Church at a price well under market. The sweetheart deal included builder financing and was sealed with the twenty-three grand in the church building fund as earnest money. Frank even managed to finagle a ninety-day closing to rustle the remaining seventeen thousand he needed from his flock.

By that time, the neighborhood children would be happily ensconced in summer play and no one but his delighted parishioners and Pierce-Cohn would care anymore about the switch.

“Roll call,” Frank said, to get the proceedings moving along before the honorable Mrs. Pierce-Cohn came home to spring her man from household Hades. If she really cared about family and community as much as she claimed, she’d resign from the state legislature and send her desperate househusband back to work.

Not that Frank was worried.

Once the community saw the new recreation space arrangement they’d hammered out, ratification, technically a formality since he’d already signed the paperwork, would be a foregone conclusion. “Chair is, of course, present.”

A handful of covenant breakers and complainers already had their hands in the air.

He looked past a repeat offender from Allegro Meadow Drive, fined again for leaving his boat in excess of forty-eight hours in front of the house, and nodded to the first-time violator to the man’s right.

“I received a citation for shampooing the carpet on my front driveway and…”

“To my knowledge, wall-to-wall is typically cleaned inside the house.”

“Not when the padding’s moldy and has to be replaced while the carpet’s being treated.”

“Wouldn’t a mold problem override covenant restrictions?” Roseanne Goldberg, neighborhood expert on all things scientifically dubious, added.

“I’m not sure there is a section that refers to indoor carpet cleaning done outdoors,” Frank said. He couldn’t allow one of her diatribes to give Pierce-Cohn time to arrive and derail the evening’s important business. “But I agree an exemption may be in order until we investigate further.”

Both the violator and Mrs. Goldberg nodded and took their seats.

“In fact, I’ve decided to pardon all of tonight’s attendees from fines associated with their infractions—assuming proof of compliance is provided within ninety days.”

Hands went down and sighs of unanticipated grace filled the room.

He pretended to scan for other raised hands. “As there appear to be no further questions, I’ll continue with roll call. Officers?”

Over a chorus of present, Frank nodded to his energetic, industrious treasurer. With her Christian spirit and can-do attitude, Jane Hunt was a bright spot on the board. Why her ex-husband decided to become a woman on her was a true mystery. “Ms. Hunt, would you please review the minutes from the last meeting?”

He hopped off the riser behind the podium and sat before she could stand to full height.

With an upward adjustment of the microphone, Jane began to cite the previous month’s minutes. “Our last meeting was called to order at six
P.M.
on March first. Notices were sent out for the following covenant infractions: 12354 Melody Way for installing a basketball hoop without painting the backboard to match the trim work; 31724 Songbird Mountain Circle for…”

The double doors banged open.

Will Pierce-Cohn paused for a moment in the doorway, scanned the room—for allies, no doubt—and then entered looking his usual diminutive, unkempt self. The damp pits of his faded polo shirt threatened the paperwork tucked under his arm.

Frank looked pointedly at his Bulova.

“Sorry. My wife was tied up in a legislative session.”

“Not a problem.” Despite irritation over the inevitable scuffle ahead, it was probably to his benefit to have Pierce-Cohn show up late, looking like the disheveled distraction everyone knew him to be, than absent and filing objections after the fact. If nothing else, Frank would get to see P-C’s reaction as the playground surprises unfolded.

“I recall this meeting to order at seven past six.”

Jane shook her head in what was surely a show of annoyance solidarity.
“A $100 fine was assessed to 19432 Meadow View Drive for repeatedly violating the
no nudity in backyard hot tubs
clause…”