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“If I fast, I faint.” What she really needed was the Comfort Eater’s Diet. Or the Stressed While Trying for a Baby Diet.
In the meantime she needed to order control underwear.
She stuffed both magazines under the sofa and noticed the notepad on the coffee table that Greg had been using to make a shopping list.
Maybe she should write down some of her stories. Why not?
She tore out a clean page and sketched two little girls with a goat, but the goat ended up looking like a pig.
She tapped its bloated stomach. “What you need is a bikini diet.”
Throwing down the pen, she slid the paper under the sofa along with the magazines. Maybe she’d think about it another time. Or maybe her stories were better told round a campfire than written down.
Her dress felt uncomfortably tight, so she walked to the bedroom to choose something else.
She pulled on her favorite pair of stretchy jeans and a sweater Greg had bought for her birthday. It was a pretty shade of blue, shot through with silvery thread, and it fell soft and loose to the top of her thighs, concealing all evidence of her dietary transgressions.
She was checking the casserole when she heard the sound of his key in the door.
“Something smells good.” Greg walked into the house and dropped his keys on the table. “How’s my green-eyed mermaid?”
He’d called her that since the summer she turned eight years old when she’d barely left the sea.
“Mermaids don’t have curly hair and freckles.” She smiled as he came up behind her and kissed her on the neck.
“You shouldn’t stereotype mermaids. You look gorgeous. Is that sweater new?”
“You bought it for me.”
“I have great taste. How was your mother? Are you in need of therapy?” He slid his arms round her and she sucked in her stomach to make herself thinner. She liked the fact that he kissed her before he even hung up his coat. Andrea was right—she was lucky to have Greg. So why didn’t that feel like enough?
What was wrong with her?
“I decided on the sort of therapy you can pour into a glass. It was that or chocolate chip ice cream.”
“That’s what I call a dilemma.” Greg let go of her and hung up his coat. “Walk me through your decision-making process.”
“Wine is made from grapes and grapes are fruit, which makes it one of your five a day. So it’s healthy.” She handed him a glass of wine. “And if I’m not pregnant, I might as well drink. How was your day?”
“If I tell you my day was good are you going to snatch this glass from my hand?”
She grinned. “No, because by the time I’ve finished whining you’re going to need it.”
“Wine for whine. Sounds like a reasonable deal.” Greg took a mouthful of wine. “I’m braced. Hit me with it. What was today’s gem?”
“Nothing new. She reminded me about the painting incident and held me personally responsible for her gray hair.”
“Her gray hair makes her look distinguished. She should be thanking you.”
“She praised you, of course.” She lifted her glass in a mock toast. “You, Greg Sullivan, are the all-conquering hero. A gladiator among men. A knight in shining armor. I was lucky you were there to save me from my wicked ways.”
“She said that?”
“Not in so many words, but she was thinking it.”
Greg put the wine down. “Did you tell her you were feeling down about the whole baby thing?”
“No. Our conversations are an exchange of facts.”
