Magnolia Wednesdays Part 9

His warm breath tickled the back of her neck. Just thinking about the things they'd done together made Angela want to do them all over again.

"Hey, yourself," she whispered, feeling languorous and s.e.xy; adjectives she never would have thought, let alone applied to herself before she met James.

Incredibly, he'd fallen in love with her work first. Had actually walked up to her at the Hartwell Gallery where her first one-woman show, On the Outside Looking In, had been mounted and told her how moved he was by her photographs. He'd bought two of her favorites and then invited her out for dinner so that they could talk about her work.

Who would have believed that James Wesley, son of former legendary Atlanta Braves pitcher Cole Wesley, could have ever felt like an outsider? That the good-looking six-footer had felt completely lost in his father's shadow and had only mastered a crippling stutter in his early twenties. The difference was that he'd shared these things with her, while she'd kept Fangie to herself.

James's finger brushed across her nipple, then trailed languidly-she could get attached to that adjective-down her stomach, which she had to remind herself yet again, no longer needed to be sucked in or camouflaged, and came to a halt between her thighs. Before she could protest, not that she was of a mind to, he'd used that finger to bring her to a gasping release.

"Good G.o.d," she said when she was able to form actual words. Turning to face him, they lay in each other's arms while her breathing slowed to match his.

James smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. Angela brushed a lock of blond hair off his forehead and kissed him back. But in her heart she felt a fissure of unease. He'd been honest from the beginning; she knew who he'd been, what he'd overcome, who he was now. He deserved to know those things about the woman he intended to marry.

"Tell him," Fangie taunted. "Go ahead. Show him that picture you keep buried in your purse. And see how much he loves you then."

Instead, Angela showered and dressed, then let him walk her out to her car, sighing when he kissed her good-bye. She'd been doing her best to tune Fangie out for the last three years. Was there really any reason to listen to her now?

LATE THAT NIGHT in her room at Melanie's, Vivien propped herself up in bed and opened her laptop to write her column. With her fingers poised above the keyboard, she thought about all she'd seen in the last week; all the running, and doing, and juggling that had filled Melanie's days.

Vivien typed, Greetings from suburbia, where I have discovered that the suburban housewife has more in common with the triathlete than I would have believed before I landed here. Both race from activity to activity with an eye on the clock and often push themselves past the point of exhaustion in order to compete in their chosen events.

Of course, triathletes run and bike and swim while the women here tend to run errands, drive car pools, and volunteer. Athletes rely on their finely honed bodies, which they clothe in aerodynamically designed spandex. The suburbanite often has saddlebags and wears mom jeans and depends on an SUV, which has been surgically attached to her behind.

Both are born compet.i.tors; the athlete is determined to prove physical prowess, the suburbanite is too often bent on one-upping the neighbors. Or convincing others what a great mother she is.

If all of this energy were applied to ending global warming or curing cancer, the world might already be a better place. But many of these women spend their days in an endless loop of minutiae. Like Sisyphus rolling his boulder up a hill only to have it roll down again just before it reaches the top, they are doomed to repeat their days of frantic activity. Over and over. Week after week. Year after year.

Vivien paused, feeling a twinge of conscience at the light in which she was portraying women like her sister. Her fingers itched to backs.p.a.ce over the last paragraph, but it was, she reminded herself, all true. And no one, including Melanie, would ever know she'd written it.

They are on intimate terms with their children's schools, their dry cleaners, their grocery stores, their pediatrician's offices, their bank drive-throughs, and their post offices. They make and serve meal after meal, do load after load of laundry, expend large parts of their days and nights trying to make their families' lives better.

And yet despite occasional grumblings, they seem proud of their unpaid positions. And completely unaware that an alien landing in their midst as I have would a.s.sume them to be indentured servants or serfs of some kind. The Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation freed the slaves from forced servitude. Amazingly enough, the majority of suburban housewives and mothers have entered into this "bondage" of their own free will. And they would not appreciate the efforts of anyone bent on "freeing" them.

Vivien looked back over what she'd written and felt another twinge of conscience. It was a rant pure and simple and barely skimmed the surface of what she'd seen so far. Vivien had made no effort to delve beneath that surface to her subjects' feelings or motivations. Melanie, of course, did these things out of necessity, but Vivien chose not to think about that, either. Deciding that Scarlett Leigh was ent.i.tled to her opinion and the Weekly Encounter was ent.i.tled to print it, she concluded, Perhaps one day the skills needed to survive and compete here will find their way into compet.i.tive sports or even become an event in the Olympics. Who knows, maybe while I'm here I'll pitch the IOC on downhill SUVing or cross-country lawn mowing. She smiled and typed, Then again, maybe not.

Adding her signature, Your stranger in an even stranger land, Scarlett Leigh, Vivi saved the column, attached it to an email, which she addressed to John Harcourt, and sent it on its way.

13.

ON TUESDAY MORNING, Vivien silenced her alarm and opened her eyes. Yawning, she threw off the covers and staggered to the bathroom. She took a quick shower, dropped her wet towels in the hamper, and hurriedly dressed before retrieving the pot and pan she now kept carefully hidden. Despite the blare of the alarm clock six inches away from Shelby's head, her niece was deeply asleep. Without makeup, she looked like the seventeen-year-old girl she was, her skin young and unwrinkled, a natural flush on her high cheekbones. Her dark hair, not yet relentlessly straightened by the flat iron, swirled across her pillow, a frame for the lovely face.

But Vivien knew better than to be sucked in by the innocent, even malleable expression. The attack had to be swift and relentless, the chance of remaining asleep nonexistent.

"Up and at 'em," Vivien shouted as she flipped on the overhead light. "Time to get going!" She grasped hold of the covers tucked up under Shelby's chin and ripped them away, revealing her niece's pink flannel pajamas and fuzzy pink socks, which were much more appropriate than the clothing she would soon pull from her closet.

Shelby's eyes remained firmly shut, but Vivien knew from her niece's lowered brows and tightly set mouth that she was no longer sleeping.

Vivien banged the wooden spoon against the bottom of the aluminum pan inches from Shelby's ear.

"Stop it! Leave me alone!" Shelby's eyes remained closed. "You're a freakin' nightmare!"

"Then open your eyes and make me disappear!" Vivien shouted back even as she smiled to herself. Ripping Shelby from bed every morning had become one of the day's most satisfying moments. She banged the pot again for emphasis, taking up a really annoying cadence with which she'd had success before.

Shelby's eyes and lips squinched more tightly together. Her flannel-clad arms stole around her middle. "I am not getting up. There is nothing you can do to . . ."

Vivien set the pan and spoon down with a clatter, and Shelby's lips spread into a triumphant smile. Vivien rubbed her hands together in antic.i.p.ation. When she saw Shelby's body relax slightly, she reached down and s.n.a.t.c.hed both socks off of Shelby's feet.

"No!" Shelby shrieked, but it was too late. "Stop it!"

Vivien laughed maniacally as she tickled the exposed bottoms.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" Shelby shrieked as she tore her feet away. She sat up and tucked them underneath her.

It was Vivien's turn to smile triumphantly.

"s.h.i.t!" Shelby got out of bed in a huff. "You are sick and twisted! Why can't you just leave me alone?!" Turning her back on Vivien, she flounced into her bathroom and slammed the door. Through the wood she shouted, "Why don't you go back to New York and find some innocent people there to torture?"

Satisfied that someone else was more miserable to be awake than she was, Vivien stashed the pan and spoon under Shelby's bed and raised her arms, fists clenched in victory. Humming the theme song from Rocky, she did a victory dance down the back stairs.

"You are the champ," Melanie said from behind the kitchen counter. "Undisputed. It's barely over a week and you've already beat my ejection time by almost five minutes."

Vivien smiled. "I haven't even had to get devious yet. Just loud. And persistent."

"Tea?" Melanie asked, slipping into what had become their morning routine. Melanie was embarra.s.singly grateful anytime Vivien did anything remotely helpful.

"Yeah, that'd be great." Vivien walked past the kitchen table where Trip was eating breakfast, his eyes still half closed. "How does he do that?" she asked as the spoonfuls of cereal slipped cleanly between his lips.

"Heredity, I guess." Melanie placed the kettle on a burner as Vivien slid onto a barstool and took a banana from the fruit bowl. Her prenatal vitamins remained hidden in the bottom of her purse. "J.J. could brew coffee, consume a major breakfast, and carry on a fairly complex conversation almost in a dead sleep." She sighed and changed the subject. "I'm having lunch with Clay today. You're welcome to come along if you like."

Vivien watched her sister pour the boiling water into an oversized mug that had become Vivien's and wondered, again, about Clay Alexander's role in Melanie's life. Was he really just a friend? A mentor to the kids? He seemed such a constant part of their lives that Vivi couldn't help thinking he was angling to take J.J.'s place permanently. She watched Mel dunk the tea bag several times until it was the way Vivien liked it. But she wasn't sure how to ask.

"No, I have an appointment a little later." Vivien poured and stirred milk and sugar into her steaming mug as she considered how much to say about her morning plans. She added another couple of spoonfuls of sugar, trying to get the real thing somewhere near the sweetness level of the artificial sweeteners she'd given up.

She raised the cup to her lips, wishing she could mention that she was seeing the ob-gyn her doctor in New York had referred her to. Which would allow her to talk to another human being who had actually lived through pregnancy and come out the other side.

Instead she asked only for the thing she really needed. "Could I borrow the Toyota?"

Shelby chose that moment to huff down the stairs. "You're not going to let her take my car, are you?" She shot a withering look at Vivien. "I bet she doesn't even know how to drive."

"I was driving way before you were born, honey chil'," Vivien said. "I could drive circles around you. And I actually stop where I'm headed unlike some people I've heard about."

The jibe was automatic; something about Shelby's constant pout pulled Vivien right back into adolescence herself. She chose to blame this on the pregnancy hormones coursing through her veins.

Melanie shook her head. "It is way too early for arguments."

"But not for physical a.s.saults!" Shelby turned to Vivien and stuck out her tongue. Vivi returned the favor.

"Children, children," Melanie said. "That's enough." She finished packing Trip's lunch and shoved a breakfast bar toward Shelby. "We've got to get going. Of course, Vivi can use your car." She rummaged through her purse, then tossed Vivien the keys.

"Thanks. I'll try to bring it back in one piece."

Shelby rolled her eyes. Melanie laughed. But the truth was Vivien had barely driven in more than a decade and wasn't completely comfortable with the idea. As she discovered an hour later when she'd finally managed to back out of the driveway and aim the car in the right direction, she was, perhaps, the slightest bit rusty.

"Jesus, lady, what did you think you were doing back there?" The policeman leaned into Vivi's lowered window. His round face was on the way to jowly; caterpillar eyebrows punctuated close-set brown eyes, which said they'd seen it all.

Vivien drew deep breaths into her lungs in an effort to regain control. Her hands, which still grasped the wheel, were shaking. "I, um, was just trying to get out of the neighborhood. Did I do something wrong?"

In the last week Melanie had turned out of Garrett Farms at least a million times without comment or incident. Vivien hadn't realized how tricky it was to maneuver out of the neighborhood and make a left across the four-lane road on which traffic raced in both directions, without the benefit of a light.

"You're joking, right?" He gestured toward the four other cars that had beached themselves on the median and roadside in a frantic effort to get out of her way. It was a miracle no one had actually crashed.

"I, um, thought I had enough time. Things looked clear when I pulled out." She didn't mention that she'd actually been aiming for the brake, not the gas. And that she might have lost hold of the wheel for just a few seconds when she took off by mistake. She should have practiced a little in the neighborhood before venturing out, but she'd been running late and wasn't sure exactly which building the doctor's office was in.

The other drivers got out of their cars. Vivien looked up at the officer, wondering if he'd protect her if it became necessary.

"License and registration, please."

She handed him her driver's license with a shaking hand then searched the glove compartment for the car's registration.

"This isn't your car," he said.

"No, it's my niece's. Actually, my sister's."

He wrote down all her pertinent information while she watched the other drivers warily. They were conferring among themselves, deciding, she imagined, whether to come over and give her some s.h.i.t or wait for the policeman to take their statements.

"Hey," he said. "I thought you looked familiar." He smiled. "You're the one who got shot in that parking garage. My kid showed it to me on YouTube." He guffawed. "Maybe they shot you because of your driving!" He laughed, delighted.

"I was on a.s.signment," she said, not amused. "There was no driving involved."

"Couldn't believe you took it in the b.u.t.t." He was really enjoying himself now. "We had a bet at the station about whether it was staged. Was it?"

Vivien took back her identification. She wanted to get out of there before the other drivers decided to try to take the law into their own hands. "Listen, I hate to rush you," Vivien said. "But could you give me my ticket now? I'm late for a doctor's appointment and it doesn't look like anyone got hurt or had their cars really damaged or anything."

"All right." He glanced over his shoulder at the other drivers and motioned to them to wait just a minute. He leaned farther in her window, smiling, obviously eager to get back to the station and tell the guys who he'd just written a ticket to. "But you be more careful behind the wheel, you hear? I won't be so lenient next time you create this kind of mess."

Grateful, Vivien averted her eyes from the others' glares as she pulled carefully back into traffic. Slowly and with great care she drove the approximately seven miles to the medical building and managed to arrive without causing any further problems, though she still had to think through each move she made. Unlike the batting of eyelashes, there was nothing automatic or instinctual about her driving.

In the waiting room, which was filled with bellies of all sizes, she filled out forms and focused on unclenching. She heard two women talking and noticed that one of them was holding a copy of the Weekly Encounter. Neither of them sounded like fans. She sank down in her chair and hunched over the clipboard in her lap as one of them muttered, "Who the h.e.l.l is Scarlett Leigh?"

DR. GILBERT HAD steel gray hair, a well-worn face, and a direct, rea.s.suring manner that reminded Vivien of Dr. Sorenson. During her checkup he amplified the baby's heartbeat and she listened, fascinated, to its frantic pace. There might have been an out-of-whack metronome ticking away inside her.

"You're about seventeen weeks and the baby is about the size of a small cantaloupe now," he told her in all seriousness as he examined her. "I'd say we're looking at a mid-April delivery." His touch was gentle and experienced and she began to relax.

"I think my uterus may have secretly joined the fruit-of-the-month club," Vivien replied. She felt even more rea.s.sured when he smiled. "Last month Dr. Graber compared it to a grapefruit. According to What to Expect When You're Expecting, before that it was the size of a prune, a plum, and then a peach."

"Just a frame of reference," he said, smiling again. "You've got a ways to go, but ultimately it could be the size of a watermelon."

At which point there would be no keeping her pregnancy secret. No way to deny her impending motherhood.

Dressed and with next month's appointment scheduled, Vivien left the office and took the elevator down to the lobby. As she crossed the marble floor toward the main entrance, she heard her name called out.

"Vivien, over here!"

The male voice sounded vaguely familiar and much too close to ignore. Turning, Vivien saw Matt Glazer and had to bite back a groan.

Matt had been in journalism school with her at the University of Georgia. They'd worked together on the Red and Black, the student newspaper. They'd gone out once, which had been one time too many for Vivi but apparently not nearly enough for Matt.

During their four years in Athens he'd insinuated himself into every possible situation until she'd resorted to avoiding him in self-defense. She'd thought when they graduated and begun to pursue their careers that his interest would die a natural death, but he'd continued to pop up over the years reminiscing about a closeness that they had never actually shared.

"Hi, Matt," Vivien said, careful to smile with enough warmth not to offend but too little to encourage. "How have you been?"

"Good, actually," he said. "I'm at the Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution now." His still-scrawny chest puffed out in pride. "I have my own column."

Vivien tried to hide her surprise. As a reporter, Matt had always settled for a perfunctory answering of "who, what, where, when, and why." The last she'd heard he was with a tiny weekly in Minneapolis covering high school sports. "That's great. What kind of column?"

"I've got my finger on the pulse of Atlanta. I deal with all the movers and shakers," he said. "I've done a few pieces on your family, you know."

"No, I didn't." She took in the puffed-out chest, the prideful tone. "Shame on them for not telling me."

He smiled. "I write the Just Peachy column. It's the first thing Atlanta society reads in the morning. Everybody wants me to cover and write up their events."

Like she might during a crucial interview, Vivien kept her expression neutral, giving nothing away. But in reality she was appalled that even Matt would boast about writing what was little more than a gossip column. Of course, what she was writing at the moment wasn't much better, but at least she wasn't bragging about it. In fact, she was counting on no one ever knowing. Vivien eyed the revolving door and began to plot her escape.

"Wow," she said. "That's really . . . something."

"So what are you doing here? Are you seeing somebody about your wound?" He paused dramatically, as if playing to a camera. "Were there . . . complications?"

"No," she said firmly as his gaze strayed to the list of doctors mounted on the wall nearby. "No, I'm just in town visiting my family and decided to have a routine checkup."

A skeptical smile tilted his thin lips. "Oh?"

"Yes," she said. "Not that I think that's any of your business."

"Is that right?" The smile disappeared. So did the general air of good humor. "Well then, why don't we stick to your professional life?" His eyes narrowed. "I heard you were fired from CIN. Would you care to comment on that?"

Vivi knew she should tread carefully. Matt Glazer might not be a journalist in her eyes, but he had instincts. Like a rat sniffing out a piece of cheese, he was trying to figure out what she might be hiding.

"No, I wouldn't care to comment."

"That's what I thought," he smirked. "It's not like we haven't all seen Regina Matthews in your spot."

"As usual you've got your facts wrong." Her smile was cool, her voice frigid. "I wasn't fired. I quit."