Suzanne had never
doubted they would make more babies. She squelched the pang of jealousy—jealous
of what, she couldn’t say—and smiled at her best friend’s mother. “It’s wonderful,
Elaine.”
She
knew what would be coming next. The same thing had happened when Jake and Marci
got engaged (both times) and for the entire month before and after their
wedding. Well-meaning aunts, neighbors, friends—even her own mother—had joined
together in a constant refrain. So, when will we hear the good news about
you? Haven’t you found a nice boy yet? You’re so pretty—don’t keep them waiting
too long.
One
officious relative, Marci’s venerable Great-Aunt Mildred, had gone so far as to
squeeze Suzanne’s breasts like bicycle horns at a wedding shower, saying
something about every melon having an expiration date. Suzanne had been mortified.
But
when Mrs. Thompson spoke, it was something equally unexpected. “Have I told you
lately how proud I am of you?” she asked. Her tone was so motherly and
intimate, Suzanne glanced up to see whether Marci had returned from the grocery
store with Jake, and were standing behind her unnoticed. But they weren’t back
yet.
“I
hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’ve always thought of you as my third
daughter, Suze. I’ve watched you grow up, and I’m so very proud of who you have
become and everything that you have accomplished. Arthur and I read the Style
section every weekend, looking for pictures of you at all those charity
functions.”
Suzanne’s
cheeks burned. She felt herself squirming under Mrs. Thompson’s gaze. “Oh…” she
muttered, staring intently at the neat rows of rhinestones building from the
front of her cast. “All I do is get dressed up and plan parties for rich
people. It feels like such a silly job sometimes.”
“Maybe
it does, but just think of all the real people you have helped. You may not
have met them in person, but all those charities would flounder and die without
the support of silly rich people.” Elaine was smiling now. “Besides, I know
what you do behind the scenes is damn hard work.”
Suzanne
didn’t know how to respond to this. It was embarrassing, and wonderful. She
settled for a simple, “Thank you, Elaine.”
“Do
me a favor,” Mrs. Thompson went on, pausing to focus on her work up close, and then
looking intently at Suzanne over half-moon reading glasses. “Don’t ever let
anyone tell you that you should be anything other than what you are. Ever.”
Suzanne
could not pinpoint the emotion that washed over her, exactly. Perhaps it was
the painkillers or sleep deprivation, but she felt for a moment as though she
could pour herself into Mrs. Thompson’s lap like a child and weep for hours. She
desperately, absurdly, wanted her best friend’s mother to reach out and stroke
her hair or touch her cheek. With the same intensity, she wanted to pull back
her immobilized arm and run away, to plunge herself into a task that would
require her complete focus.
Either
Elaine did not notice this, or she was kind enough to pretend to be absorbed in
her work. The only further acknowledgment of their conversation was a few
moments later, when Elaine had finished applying the rhinestones and gently
squeezed Suzanne’s manicured fingertips, which were sticking out of her cast.
Chapter 6
Chad
Gwynn’s phone blared “The Bitch is Back”at nine Saturday morning, three
hours before he was supposed to meet Suzanne at the High. David looked over the
top of his newspaper, scowling. “I thought you weren’t on duty until noon?”
“I’m
not.” Chad had been reaching instinctively for the phone, but paused under
David’s glare. Elton John stopped singing and the phone was silent.
“She
has no right to call you now. It’s Saturday morning, for Christ’s sake. The
only day we get to sit and have coffee together. Isn’t it enough that you’re
giving her twelve hours later today?”
Chad
hesitated. David was right, of
doubted they would make more babies. She squelched the pang of jealousy—jealous
of what, she couldn’t say—and smiled at her best friend’s mother. “It’s wonderful,
Elaine.”
She
knew what would be coming next. The same thing had happened when Jake and Marci
got engaged (both times) and for the entire month before and after their
wedding. Well-meaning aunts, neighbors, friends—even her own mother—had joined
together in a constant refrain. So, when will we hear the good news about
you? Haven’t you found a nice boy yet? You’re so pretty—don’t keep them waiting
too long.
One
officious relative, Marci’s venerable Great-Aunt Mildred, had gone so far as to
squeeze Suzanne’s breasts like bicycle horns at a wedding shower, saying
something about every melon having an expiration date. Suzanne had been mortified.
But
when Mrs. Thompson spoke, it was something equally unexpected. “Have I told you
lately how proud I am of you?” she asked. Her tone was so motherly and
intimate, Suzanne glanced up to see whether Marci had returned from the grocery
store with Jake, and were standing behind her unnoticed. But they weren’t back
yet.
“I
hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’ve always thought of you as my third
daughter, Suze. I’ve watched you grow up, and I’m so very proud of who you have
become and everything that you have accomplished. Arthur and I read the Style
section every weekend, looking for pictures of you at all those charity
functions.”
Suzanne’s
cheeks burned. She felt herself squirming under Mrs. Thompson’s gaze. “Oh…” she
muttered, staring intently at the neat rows of rhinestones building from the
front of her cast. “All I do is get dressed up and plan parties for rich
people. It feels like such a silly job sometimes.”
“Maybe
it does, but just think of all the real people you have helped. You may not
have met them in person, but all those charities would flounder and die without
the support of silly rich people.” Elaine was smiling now. “Besides, I know
what you do behind the scenes is damn hard work.”
Suzanne
didn’t know how to respond to this. It was embarrassing, and wonderful. She
settled for a simple, “Thank you, Elaine.”
“Do
me a favor,” Mrs. Thompson went on, pausing to focus on her work up close, and then
looking intently at Suzanne over half-moon reading glasses. “Don’t ever let
anyone tell you that you should be anything other than what you are. Ever.”
Suzanne
could not pinpoint the emotion that washed over her, exactly. Perhaps it was
the painkillers or sleep deprivation, but she felt for a moment as though she
could pour herself into Mrs. Thompson’s lap like a child and weep for hours. She
desperately, absurdly, wanted her best friend’s mother to reach out and stroke
her hair or touch her cheek. With the same intensity, she wanted to pull back
her immobilized arm and run away, to plunge herself into a task that would
require her complete focus.
Either
Elaine did not notice this, or she was kind enough to pretend to be absorbed in
her work. The only further acknowledgment of their conversation was a few
moments later, when Elaine had finished applying the rhinestones and gently
squeezed Suzanne’s manicured fingertips, which were sticking out of her cast.
Chapter 6
Chad
Gwynn’s phone blared “The Bitch is Back”at nine Saturday morning, three
hours before he was supposed to meet Suzanne at the High. David looked over the
top of his newspaper, scowling. “I thought you weren’t on duty until noon?”
“I’m
not.” Chad had been reaching instinctively for the phone, but paused under
David’s glare. Elton John stopped singing and the phone was silent.
“She
has no right to call you now. It’s Saturday morning, for Christ’s sake. The
only day we get to sit and have coffee together. Isn’t it enough that you’re
giving her twelve hours later today?”
Chad
hesitated. David was right, of
Similar Books
