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I startle at the sound of Mrs. Jones's voice calling throughout the apartment. I've been in the baby's room for hours, working on the mural. I'm painting an entire wall with a medieval castle, surrounded by a Dragon and a knight, and a princess in a tower.
Justin wants me to paint a big bad wolf hiding in the brush in the corner. The other walls will be covered with chalkboard paint up to waist high. We are not the first in our social circle to have children. Forewarned is forearmed and all that. I’m hoping that by taking precautions, we can avoid most of the coloring on the wall incidents.
I want the room to be feminine but masculine enough that when we have another child, and if that child happens to be a boy, we won't have to redesign the entire bedroom.
But I clench the paintbrush in my fingers and whip my head in the direction of the living room when I hear Amelia's voice.
Mrs. Jones never uses my given name. Ever. Not unless there's something serious enough happening that it pulls her from her professional persona and back into the headspace of being my pseudo-mother.
Nothing good ever happens when she uses my given name.
Immediately panic rushes through my bloodstream as images of death and destruction careen through my imagination. My hand's cup my belly, uncaring of the paint splatters across my fingers, as I prep myself to see police officers at the door to tell me someonedied.
I take a calming breath and put the brush in the can of paint thinner before starting the trek down the hallway expecting the worst.
Instead, I trip to a stop barely into the living room at the vision of Mrs. Remington Lancaster, The Second, rigidly standing in my entryway.
"Mrs. Lancaster," I stutter, my eyes widening in surprise.
The room fades away as I take in the prim and proper Lancaster matriarch nervously fingering her clutch in front of her. Her eyes bore into me, challenging me to question her presence in my home. All I can do is lick my lips and wonder what the hell happened to bring her here.
The last time I saw the woman, I was begging her to allow her son to live in his happiness—with us—and she was calling me a whore. Her eyes trail all over me, stopping at my now very pronounced belly. My hands rise to cradle it instinctively, as if I could hide the baby from Mrs. Lancaster’s prying eyes.
There can only be so many reasons she’s come to see me today, knowing that I’d be here alone. It’s a safe assumption that the main motivation has something to do with the life growing inside me. The life put there by her son.
"Tea, I think," Mrs. Jones declares, throwing me back into the present.
It's not a suggestion.
"I'll arrange it on the kitchen table. The muffins you made last night, maybe the cookies too."
Baking seems to be a side effect of pregnancy. Maybe the comment was a throwaway jab that I know how to be a proper wife to two strong and proud men.
Or maybe she just really liked the muffins. There’s no telling with the formidable woman.
She squeezes my hand in support and comfort as she saddles past me and into the kitchen.
My heart speeds up at the thought of allowing Mrs. Lancaster into my inner sanctum, but maybe that's the best path forward. She hasn't shown me any aggression…yet, though she's only been here a minute or two. Until she does, I'll treat her the same as I would Justin's mother.
"Th-this is a surprise," I finally say, at last coming back to my senses. I cringe a little at how breathy and halting my voice sounds but fight the urge to clear my throat. "A pleasant one," I add.
I attempt to wipe my hands off on my yoga pants, but it's been too long, and the paint has long since dried into the crevices. Taking the risk of being soundly rejected, I close the distance between us and place my hands on her upper arms, dropping a kiss on her cheek.
My belly touches her suit.
She looks as unnerved as I felt five minutes ago. However, it only takes her a heartbeat to regain her composure, and her mask slips back into place.
"Please, come in," I offer, waving her deeper into the apartment.
Her eyes take in every detail, and it's then that I realize she's never been in our home before.
She looks like she's on her way to a charity function. Every strand of hair is in place, tucked into a knot at the base of her head. She's in a rich purple suit, the color of royalty, and the only outward sign of her discomfiture is the way her fingers tap on her clutch.
"You have a lovely home."
It's said by rote.
The statement is expected of her when she enters the dwelling of another, just like she’d expect the same of any person who crossed her threshold.
