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Oliver has planned an elaborate proposal for Kate, and this puppy is the linchpin. Mrs. Duke picked up the puppy to take her to our local vet as a favor to Oliver. She’ll return to her birth mom until the big day. Mrs. Duke called me over to come meet the adorable, yet-to-be-named pup.
This coming weekend, I get to play a role in Oliver’s grand plan. I’ll pick the puppy up and bring her back to the ranch house. Under Oliver’s strict instructions, there can be no balloons or signs of congratulations. For his vision to be complete, when Kate walks into the ranch house, it has to feel like any other day. Although Mrs. Duke’s already ordered a cake, and Mr. Duke purchased the best champagne he could find. It’s currently hidden in the garage refrigerator, and Mrs. Duke has been stressing for a week over the menu for the celebratory family dinner that night.
Oliver’s plan is for Kate to enter the house and for the puppy to come bounding down the hallway to meet her with a note, a bow, and ring attached to her red collar. That’s the plan. I think Oliver is placing a lot of trust in an untrained puppy, but one thing he has going for him is that Kate will probably chase the puppy if it doesn’t come to her… so one way or another, the proposal note should end up in her hands.
Mrs. Duke opens the crate to give the baby a chew toy, and the heart-rending crying ceases. With that resolved, Mrs. Duke turns her motherly concern my way.
“How are you doing, sweetie? I heard you’re not feeling well.”
“Oh, I’m fine.” The response is automatic. I breathe in deeply to quell the ever-present nausea. I tell everyone I’m fine. She tilts her head to one side, and I get the sense that she sees right through myfine.
She always has. She’s a really good mother, and I just hope she remains in my life. But, for now, fine is the best plan. There’s still a very good chance I’ll miscarry, given my age and odds and all that, and so there’s no sense in upsetting the apple cart or getting everyone in a tizzy. Not yet.
My eyes sting, and I glance away because she’s too perceptive. I go to lift the small kennel so Mrs. Duke doesn’t have to, and her hand covers mine.
“I’ve got it, honey.” She glances to my extremely flat stomach, and that nausea kicks up a notch.
Damn this town. Nothing remains private. But, for now, denial is my game plan. If something happens, folks can chalk it up to vicious rumors.
“Well, I’m gonna get out of here, then.” I head to the door, unnaturally fast because I need fresh air.
The black weighted bands on my wrist do a good job of alleviating my nausea, but they aren’t foolproof. I haven’t been able to eat much, but I’m told that after the first trimester, if I’m still pregnant, the nausea should subside.
The nausea first struck on the drive back from Houston after we returned from Anguilla. I thought it was my body reacting to ending everything with Ian. But now, looking at the calendar, I swear I think the nausea started the second Ian’s sperm fertilized my egg. Which is probably scientifically inaccurate, but that’s certainly what seems to be true. Two weeks later, my period didn’t come when scheduled, and I bought a pregnancy test.
My doctor doesn’t want to see me until I’m approximately eight to ten weeks along, so I’ve got a way to go before I even see a doctor. It’ll be months before I show. And yet rumors are already flying.
Some women don’t have any symptoms. When I was pregnant before, for that couple of days before I miscarried, I didn’t have a single symptom. Maybe the sore boobs and the nausea are good signs? That’s my hope.
The gravel under my tires crunches as I drive away from the Duke ranch house. Through the rearview mirror, I see Mrs. Duke waving and I stick my arm out the rolled-down window and wave back.
Dang it. She knows. And bless her heart, she’ll stand by me. She won’t care that I’m a single mother out of wedlock. But will she stand by me when she learns it’s Ian’s?
On one hand, I think she’ll stand by me more fiercely. She’s a fierce momma bear, and her grandbabies are her cubs too. But then doubt nags at me. How appalled will she be that I’ve been with two of her sons? What on Earth will she think of me? And the worst thing is, for a while, people suspected I’d been with Oliver. I was never with Oliver, and those rumors are patently untrue, but it won’t change what people believe. People are going to say I’ve been with all three sons. They’re going to say I’m obsessed with the Dukes and desperate to have one of their babies, so desperate I somehow played Ian and purposefully became pregnant. And then, when he and I aren’t together, the rumors will grow teeth. They’ll say I became pregnant to trap him, but it didn’t work, and now I’m a single mom. Folks will probably be torn between feeling sorry for me and feeling sorry for Sam and Patty Duke. I can hear it in a gentile southern accent.They took her under their wings, and look what she did to them. To that family.
Vicious rumors. It’s like all the crap in the tabloids. You know a lot of it is gross exaggeration and gimmicky headlines, but there’s a shred of truth. Why are the worst human traits and the most personal mistakes entertainment?
My car pulls into the driveway of my home within minutes of leaving the Duke ranch, because that’s how close I live to them. The empty paddock greets me. There’s still a stack of hay near the shade hutch that I need to go clean up one day, maybe haul it to the Duke ranch for their horses or cows. But that day is not today.
I head inside, straight to the bathroom, and hurl. The orange juice I got down earlier in the day comes up with a bitter taste. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and head into the kitchen to find the herbal tea that’s supposed to be good at settling nausea.
I settle onto the sofa. Normally, in the morning, I’d drink coffee, but I lost my taste for coffee a week ago, so I curl up and close my eyes.
The phone rings, and nausea combined with a sense of dread stirs.
I check the phone, and my throat tightens. Ian. I’m not ready for this. My body feels too weak to face him, but I force myself to answer.
“Ian. Hey,” I answer softly, fully aware of how we ended things.
“Have something you need to tell me?”
I close my eyes.Dang it all.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“Ian, it’s not–”
“I don’t want to hear it.” He’s cold. Angry. I get it. But things were so awful when I left, and it doesn’t feel definite yet. It’s so early.
