A New Lu (14 page)

june

Once a woman has “ripped her breeches,”
as my grandmother would say, with family and friends,
what they think just doesn't matter anymore.
She will, however, often form a closer alliance with the truth.

—“When a ‘Good Woman' Goes Bad”
CUE LU!

19

The tone is set before I even glimpse Tai. The moment the elevator doors glide open onto the offices of
Five-O
I feel the frost of perfection.

It often happens at successful galas, fetes and other all-important events. Someone arrives, and for a perceptible moment, there's the sense of snow falling from a bright July sky. How can this be? And yet there it is. Those in the know count the number of times this freeze-frame of interest galvanizes the jaded throng—and use it to sell everything from CDs to soap.

“She's back,” Babs mouths at me as I approach. Uh-oh. We're down to pantomiming on the first day of Tai's return. Not a good sign. Just how “terrible” was the accident that kept her out of work two weeks?

“Editorial staff meeting at ten o'clock.” This Babs manages in audible tones as she scoots down the hallway toward the boardroom.

My watch reads nine-forty-five. I'm technically not
late. Good. Want to get this over with before I turn on my computer. I'll just pop in on Tai for a sec.

Just as I reach her office the door swings open. Out she comes, accompanied by her male equivalent. Once such men were called pampered. Now they are “metro-sexuals”—straight males whose grooming habits are so particular that they will walk up to the women's cosmetics counter in a department store to buy Kiehl's or Clinique for Men. His pale hair is Ralph Lauren perfection. No way to gauge the age of that chiseled-chin, sharp-nosed attraction. Every inch is custom-tailored.

Tai smiles at me but prevents my “hi” by saying to her companion, “See what I mean?”

She must mean me because he turns his head in my direction. I'm observed for the nanosecond the truly sophisticated will give a subway token lying in the street as they pass it by. A sketch of a smile, and they move on.

As they walk away in perfectly matched strides, I think,
Fine. Have it your way. We'll have an audience for the showdown.

I'm feeling myself again. Morning sickness is a rapidly fading memory. My mind is functioning and eight hours is again enough sleep. Best of all, the results from the first round of screening tests came back negative!

My regular ob-gyn, after picking her chin up off her examining-room floor, has promised her office will be discreet. After today, it won't matter.

I check my watch. If I hurry, I won't be late.

Tai is in full stride when I appear in the boardroom doorway. She conducts meetings while in motion behind the imported Italian leather chair she requisitioned for the boardroom. She holds up an arm to show she's wearing a cast on her right wrist, one of those Velcro-tabbed removable ones that leaves her fingers free to gesture and type.

“The sprain completely ruined my concentration,” she
says as I move on to find my chair. “Absolutely excruciating! I could barely eat or sleep. Running was impossible.” She touches the corner of an eye with the pad of the middle finger from said afflicted arm. “I'm sure I show signs of the strain.”

As Crescentmoon, Babs and KaZi reassure her that that is not so, Rhonda and I exchange glances.

“Hard to get worn out in a Swiss spa,” Gwendolyn murmurs under her breath.

That's when I look at Tai again, really look, and am struck by how incredibly wonderful she looks. It's something I can't put my finger on. She's lit from within, as if she swallowed a halogen light.

Even when basking in attention, Tai doesn't overdo it. The pacing resumes. “I've called this meeting to introduce our new design strategy.” She pauses behind Mr. Metro. I tell myself that he's not smirking.

“It came to me while I was away that what
Five-O
lacks most is a male point of view of today's woman.” Tai lays her injured wrist on the man's shoulder. “No one knows the male mind better than Marc Kazanjian.”

She pauses a fraction of a second, expecting applause, perhaps. She gets a fraction of a second of silence. She goes on. “It required all my persuasion to lure Marc across the country. He comes to us with amazing credentials.
Details, Maxim
and most recently
Trends.”

“It's against our mission statement.” Crescentmoon's soothing voice flows through the room. “We are by and about women.”

“And who knows more about women than men?” Tai counters smoothly.

Other women,
I think to myself, and hear Rhonda murmur something too low to be picked up.

“This is whack,” Curran says more audibly.

I sense recalculations taking place around the table. We're a small staff. That means we've already worked out
the “you're in my space” rules of office etiquette. The intruder looks as if he's accustomed to a lot more room than we collectively own.

“Our mission statement precludes males in major positions,” Crescentmoon reaffirms. Her little-girl voice sounds prissier than before.

“That's why Marc is on loan.” Tai's irises are dancing. “He's here to coordinate our ‘New Lu' series. Over the weekend Marc evolved a design strategy for the series and tie-ins that are just fabulous. We've been so off the mark.” She turns to look at me. “And Lu obviously needs close guidance. She's not kept a single appointment with Rodrigo.”

In other words, Marc's being here is my fault.

All eyes turn to me. Got to hand it to Tai. She can deflect a hit with the skill of a Beltway spin doctor.

“What do you say about all this, Lu?” Tai asks.

Under cover of the table Gwendolyn pats caution on my thigh. Am I spoiling for a fight? I'm maggoty with it. But I can be mature and above the fray. As long as I don't have to address Tai directly.

I look at Marc. “I'm sorry, Marc, but you'll have to count me out.”

Tai takes a moment to fold her arms beneath her perfect small breasts. “Lu.
Lu.”
Could any name sound more pathetic in her mouth? “I see you've beefed up a bit while I was away. Are you afraid you can't recover your premenopausal self?”

Gwendolyn jerks her hand away.

Oh, thank you, Jesus! In my head I hear Tina Turner's gravelly voice talking about singing “Proud Mary.” We're going to do this nice and
rough!

“Funny you should mention fertility. Not, by the way, that I was ever tempted to participate in your slice-and-dice-Lu marathon. But the truth is, I'm not even close to menopausal. I'm going to have a baby.”

“You're what?” Tai's expression is one of perfect disbelief.

“I'm preggers, Tai. Sprung, with child, in a family way, knocked up?”

“You can't expect us to believe that.”

“Oh, but it's true. If this is a problem for you, I'll quit.”

“What?”

“Consider me gone—” I rise and turn sideways to give her the full thrust of my sixteen-week pregnant profile.

“Shit!”

I have to give Tai credit for her appropriate word choice.

Then it hits me. She punctuated that word with a thump of her injured hand on the back of Marc's chair. She didn't injure her arm. It's a cover for some beauty enhancement treatment she underwent in Switzerland.

“You really should do the column yourself, Tai. Challenge women to become ‘Fit to be Tai-ed.'” I can't help it, I do the finger quotes, guaranteed to tee off anyone with an IQ above sixty.

Having a roomful of shocked gazes lock on one gives a person a moment of razor clarity. This must be what it feels like to be shot out of a cannon.

I don't make eye contact with any of them as I move. I just let their collective shock levitate me right out of the room.

I'm halfway down the hall when it hits me. For the first, maybe only, time in her professional life, Tai has let someone else have the last word.

20

It's ten-fifteen in the morning and I've already bought more maternity underwear than I'll ever wear out. Damn Andrea, the fashion witch! She flipped my vanity switch and I'm OD-ing online.

I had supposed the English would have a mature and practical take on what constitutes maternity wear. That was before I found
JoJoMamanBebe.com
, where I discovered that the pregnant tummy is called a “bump,” and Elle Macpherson fronts a line of expectant undies.

Look at her, all lush and lanky, single-handedly unclipping the drop cup of a nursing bra! The pose is the female equivalent of 007's trademark smirk. Who can resist such self-satisfied bravado? I bought three: black, lilac and oh-so-hot pink. The thongs I left alone.

Reluctantly I refocus on the job at hand: help wanted ads in the
New York Times.
After ninety-five hours and twenty minutes of silence from the offices of
Five-O,
I assume I'm unemployed.

Out of work. That has an interesting ring to it. But
what exactly does it mean to me? I don't feel desperate yet, though goodness knows I should. I must have been out of my mind to walk out on a job that was mine to lose. I loved working at
Five-O
B.T. (before Tai, that is).

The doorbell only marginally nudges me into action. I take so long to unfold from the kitchen chair and shuffle to the door in a ratty caftan and booties with most of their rubber traction strips peeled off that I expect the would-be visitor to have found something else to do.

No such luck. Cy stands on my porch, trying to peer the wrong way through my peephole. He knows I quit my job. No doubt, he's checking because I haven't drifted beyond my doorway since.

I open the door. “I'm in a bad mood, Cy. You may want to think about that.”

He shrugs. “I'm an old man. Abuse me and I'll call the proper authorities.”

“In that case, come in.”

He's not taken more than three steps inside my door before I say, “There's another thing you should know. I'm pregnant.”

For a moment his eyes go perfectly round behind his rimless glasses. “You aren't happy about this?”

“No. I am.” I ruffle my unwashed hair. “Really.”

A big grin splits his face. You'd think I'd told him I was having his grandchild.

He offers me a quick, hard hug. Afterward, we begin to dance. Well, not dance exactly, it's more an impromptu waltz. We join hands and begin a slow twirl around my hallway, lilting and spinning until I'm laughing, and he's grinning from ear to ear.

Finally out of breath and feeling just light-headed enough to resist the temptation to continue, we stall out.

“You've seen a doctor? You're taking vitamins? You're expecting no complications?” Each time I nod in the
affirmative, Cy adds another question until he seems satisfied. “So, when is the grand event?”

“November.” And I realize this is the first time anyone has been absolutely pleased by my news.

“Come, come, let's sit and have a glass of milk.” He ushers me into my kitchen as though it's his and pours me a tall one. He doesn't comment on the empty ice cream carton in the sink, or the Dove bar wrappers on the counter. He does try to mash down the tuft of hair I haven't combed since I returned from
Five-O.
I'm living hard these days.

“Have you thought of names?” He's standing over me, to make certain I take a healthy swig of milk. “Do you want to know the sex?”

I shake my head firmly no to both questions, too amazed by how refreshing the milk is to speak. I should have been doing this before.

“You're going to need a nursery.” Cy perches on the edge of a nearby stool. “I haven't designed one of those since…” The joy in his face dims, and I remember how dejected he was three years ago when his youngest son's wife rejected out of hand his gift of designing a nursery for their first child.

“I won't have your father in charge of what should be my prerogative,” I'm told she said. Of course not! Who would want a world-class architect to gift them with a nursery? Some people's children still need a spank now and then.

“I'd love to take you up on the offer, Cy, but I can't afford any renovations.”

“Why? Did Jacob lose his job again?”

“In a matter of speaking. He isn't going to be the father of this child.”

This time Cy's eyes stay wide.

“Let me rephrase. Jacob's the sperm donor, but he's made it clear that that's the only contribution he plans to make to this enterprise.”

“I see.” At seventy-two, a person recoups from surprise quickly. I guess there's not much time to waste. “And this is all right with you? No job? No husband?”

“It's fine, Cy. I'll be fine,” I say when the milk is gone. “I'm making arrangements to put the house up for sale next week.”

He just looks at me. I know how he feels. But again, he doesn't address the issue directly. “You should celebrate the news of this new life coming into the world. Have you done that?”

“Not exactly.” A memory of William Templeton's bare buttocks comes to mind before I can stop it. He will forever be in my fondest-memory category. If only the timing were different!

Blessedly ignorant of my wayward thoughts, Cy bounds to his feet as nimbly as a man of forty. Tai chi is amazing. “Then we must celebrate. Tonight. I will call for you at seven.”

I'm ready a few minutes early, thinking that Cy will expect me to do the driving. He gave it up years ago when he realized, he said, his life was worth a great deal more than the amount it cost to hire a driver. He had begun driving through red lights while contemplating complex structural ideas. Now that he goes into the office only a couple of times a week, he doesn't even bother to keep a car.

So I'm a little surprised when the doorbell rings as I'm picking up the phone to tell him I'm ready.

For Cy's benefit, I'm flossed, blow-dried and shaved. I'm also wearing the pale-blue-sleeveless-top-and-below-the-knee-skirt maternity set Andrea assured me makes me look fresh and feminine. I pat my “bump” and say, “Nice going, kiddo.”

“Ah!
You look fine,” Cy says warmly, when I've opened the door.

When we first started “dating,” as he told his children, they were worried until they got what he calls “a good gander” at me.

He hands me an armload of delicate blue irises and pink snapdragons wrapped in florist's paper and says, “Blue for if it's a boy, pink for if it's a girl.”

After I've put the glorious bouquet in water and given them the place of honor on my dining room table, Cy leads me out the door to a waiting car. A limo.

“What's all this?”

Cy looks as pleased as a child on Christmas. “We're celebrating. I hope you're hungry?”

“Am I ever not?”

He nods and offers his arm.

“I'm really fine,” I protest.

“Independent women,” he mutters in halfhearted disapproval as I take his arm.

The restaurant he's chosen is in Manhattan. I'm glad I decided to put on my wedding rings, just in case we draw stares. I couldn't care less about my reputation. At this point, I'm not sure I have one. But Cy is another matter. His children see an old man when they look at him. I see a man who knows a lot about life and living, and how to handle both with grace and charm. I wouldn't hurt him for the world.

He's a wonderful storyteller with a sly sense of humor. By the time we pull up before a discreet numbered awning on a tree-lined side street in lower Manhattan, I've forgotten just how unhappy and miserable I am—or was, or should be.

No surprise the maître d' greets Cy by name. This is one of those quiet, tucked-away places for those in the know. The small dining room glows with pale yellow candlelight. Tables are set with silver, crystal and bone china, atop linen cloths so thick they look like pads. The clientele
speak soft words and laugh in muted tones, the tinkle of glasses and flatware are dampened by a draped ceiling. This is a golden-eye view of what life can be like.

No surprise then that our table is in an alcove where a bottle of Diamant Bleu champagne is chilling for us.

“I shouldn't,” I say reluctantly, though I do so love good champagne.

“One small glass of the very best won't hurt.” Cy signals the pouring. “A toast to new beginnings. To a new Lu.”

“A new Lu.” It was meant to be a new column, but now it will be a pledge to myself.

We contemplate ordering a disgusting amount of things. Cy believes that, if it sounds good, it should be sampled. We are in the midst of ordering half the menu when the maître d' comes over and says, “Perhaps you would prefer a taste of the kitchen.”

Cy and I smile and nod like those bobble dogs in the back windows of certain vehicles. Anyone who loves to eat well will tell you nirvana is a place where the chef prepares a little of everything from the menu, and serves it to you in mini portions that leave room for the most sinful of desserts.

When we are done ordering Cy turns a suddenly serious look my way and takes my hand between both of his.

“You are a proud, strong woman. This I know. So I won't insult you by suggesting that you need a man in your life. But a child? A child's needs must supersede even the independence of the mother.” He pats my hand. “Lu, at a time like this, you should have no worries. If you need the cash, then put your house up for sale and move in with me. I have rooms enough for five babies. There, it's settled.”

“Because you'll buy my house for more than it's worth.”

He blinks as if surprised I thought of that. He forgets I know how he extracted a promise from Jacob years ago that we would give him first dibs if we ever decided to sell. “A man my age can't be too careful about who might move in next door.”

I squeeze his hand. “I can't accept your offer to buy my house or move into yours. But thank you for it. It means more than you know.”

“Are you afraid that people would think you are living off an old man who has nothing but his memories to keep him warm?”

“There's that. And what about when I begin to show?”

This brings color to his face. “Imagine the joy of a man of my years being accused of siring a child with a pretty woman?”

“What's all this talk about old age? Is there something you're not telling me?”

“Absolutely.” His eyes roll dramatically heavenward. “I'm dying. Of something, I can't think what it is at the moment. So I need the comfort of a companion. A young woman who will bring laughter and joy into my failing life.”

“And diapers and middle-of-the-night feedings and crying jags.”

“I am almost deaf and half-blind. I won't hear or see much.”

“What about your children?”

“To have this I will bear the anger of my children. Perhaps I shall disinherit them and give it all to you.”

“The law won't let you do that.”

He looks up, eyes bright with mischief. “So then, marry me.”

Of course a conversation this light was heading this way. All the same, the words spoken have an unexpected response. I burst into tears.

“Hormonal,” I assure Cy. All the same, the great breaths I take to ebb the tears draw the attention of others.

“You, go away!” Cy orders the waiter who bundles over to ask if he can do anything for us. Cy, in a mood, could have stood down the mutiny on the
Bounty.

He is also an expert with a dinner napkin. He dries my tears with one corner and then straightens my smeared lipstick with another. “It was foolish of me to bring it up here,” he says kindly. “I only wanted to make you smile.”

“It's nutty me, not you, Cy!” I whisper furiously. “You'd think I'd never been proposed to before, or been pregnant before, or even had a kind word spoken to me!”

He takes all this remarkably well. “I've heard better excuses, and gotten better responses to my proposals.”

“Oh, Cy.”

“I've heard that one, too. You forgot to sigh on Cy.”

I can't remain an emotional cripple before a man who's still waiting for an answer to his proposal. I smile and touch his arm. “If I were going to marry anyone at this point, it would be you.”

He shrugs but takes my hand again. “That's a no. But a nice no.”

He is silent for a while, a solemn, dignified man in a blue suit and silver tie and shiny lenses that reflect back a good portion of what he views. Then he sits up, becoming as stiffly erect as a drill sergeant. “I will speak with Jacob about his responsibilities. He will listen to me.”

“No, thank you. I know this is an absolutely asinine thing to say, considering my circumstances, but I think I—” I look down at my middle. “We deserve better.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I've always thought so.”

Does Cy not like Jacob any better than Andrea? I don't think I want to know why.

“So, about this moving in.”

I've swallowed so many tears I don't have the heart to dish out two
no
s in a row, so I let him talk for a moment while I try to remember if I was this touched when Jacob proposed. Why can't I remember?

“Better yet. I will buy your house and you can live there rent free.” He leans in. “I make a hell of a landlord, let me tell you.”

“You're putting me against the wall.”

“That's my point. You can come and live on my second floor while I do the renovations. A mother-to-be mustn't be around paint fumes and wood stains and such. Better yet, you should have a bedroom on the main floor. I drew up plans for such a thing years ago. If Ethel had lived a little longer, she was going to need her own room downstairs. God rest her soul, the woman could snore. She worried about keeping me awake. We planned to convert our sleeping porch on the rear. Your house has the same arrangement. We'll take in the pantry you no longer need and backstairs closet and make a fine bathroom with lots of closet space. Of course, you still need a nursery. What about the kitchen nook? It's on the south, lots of sun and no drafts.”