AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The nausea these last several weeks, the dizzy feeling that I’d attributed to the upheaval in my life. It hadn’t been that—or hadn’t been entirely that—it had been a little baby, trying to make herself known.
How had I missed it? My strong reaction to the fennel, to Ethan’s smell. I had missed it because it hadn’t even occurred to me as a possibility. Danny and I hadn’t been particularly active recently. We’d put the trying on hold until we got to Italy. We’d put a lot of alone time on hold—and for once that had been his choice more than mine. He’d been so busy prepping the Upper West Side job, he was almost never home.
Though, apparently, he had been there at least one time.
I could figure out when. It was either the night he came home and found me in an old University of Oregon sweatshirt in my egg chair watching When Harry Met Sally. Or the night when he came home and found me in his sweats on the bed, half-asleep. Despite all of my stylish work dinners over the last few months—meeting the players at the Food Network, prepping for the new cookbook—the times he was actually up for having sex were probably the times I looked the worst. A weird guy, my husband.
My sister stood up. “This is Danny’s, right?”
I drilled her with a look. “Yes,” I said.
She raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, just checking as to what level of tragedy we are looking at here.”
33
Pregnant. I couldn’t believe it. I carried the news around for nearly a week—trying to get used to it. But I knew it wouldn’t feel real until I told the one person who would make it real. Except how was I going to tell him? I was tempted to drive to New York and tell him in person, but I didn’t even know where he was staying. And the thought of ambushing him at work again—even with happy news—seemed like the wrong tack to take.
Danny had wanted a kid so badly, even more than I did. Regardless of what was going on between us, he’d be thrilled to know he was going to be a father. So why was it that I was so scared to pick up the phone? Why did it feel like if I picked the right time—or the right way—to tell him we were going to be parents, he’d forgive me? That he’d do more than forgive me?
Finally, I gave up on finding the right time, or even a reasonable time. I called Danny from the restaurant, a little before midnight. It wasn’t smart for several reasons—not the least of which was that the dining room was still full, the second seating finishing up dessert. I had most of my trash report ready from the previous courses, but I never knew when Chef Z would come over, wanting a rundown.
The losers of the night were the heirloom peaches. They had been diced up and served with a roasted lamb and mint chutney.
The lamb was a hit—as was the chutney—though some of the small peaches were left behind. I had the plates lined up and prepared to show Chef Z, before I snuck off to talk with Danny. Still, if I heard him shout my name, I’d have to hang up on my erstwhile husband, even if I was in the middle of telling him he was going to be a father.
There was also the issue that at nearly midnight, there was a very good chance Danny would be sleeping.
But as soon as his cell phone rang, my heart started racing, and I couldn’t wait to get the words out of my mouth. Even if I was greeted by his sleepy voice. Even if I was greeted by his voice mail.
Pregnant.
Except it wasn’t his voice on the other end of the line. It was a female’s voice—one that I recognized—though it took a second to place who had answered.
“Hello?” she said.
Maggie. Our friend Maggie, who had designed our apartment. Really, she was Danny’s friend Maggie. They had gone to high school together in Iowa, and worked together all the time, recommending each other for jobs, their designs often shown in tandem. She had recommended Danny for the job on the Upper West Side. She had helped land our apartment in Architectural Digest. His work, and her work, were displayed prominently on the same pages.
A formidable team, the writer had called them. We had toasted to it, all together.
As silly as it sounds, I assumed they were out drinking with our other friends. She had probably seen it was me on his caller ID and picked up to say hello. Except she didn’t know it was me, since I was calling from the restaurant’s phone. And the familiarity of her hello sounded like the question wasn’t why she was picking up my husband’s phone at midnight; the question was who had the audacity to call so late.
“Who is this?” she asked, her voice high-pitched.
“It’s me.”
And she went silent. “Sunny. I uh . . . I thought you were my sister. She’s out in the Hamptons with the kids for vacation, and I saw the area code. I thought you were her. Sorry.”
“Why would she call you on Danny’s number, Maggie?” I said.
She got quiet. “I’m going to get him for you, okay?”
I had no idea where she was “getting him” from. I didn’t know where I’d reached him. Or her.
“One sec,” she said.
She started moving, the pitter-patter of her feet. And I could hear it in the background, the distinct sound of the shower.
Maggie knocked on the door and called out his name. “Danny!” she said.
