A New Lu (25 page)

He looks defeated. “I'm feeling my age and, I gotta tell you, it terrifies me.”

“And whenever you look at me you see the accumulation of all those years, time that you can't recapture.”

He blushes but nods. “Something like that.”

“You can't outrun aging,” I say gently.

“I know. But I want to live to the fullest whatever time there is left. Even if it means leaving some of my old life behind.” I hear a counselor's voice in his phrasing, but this time I agree.

I withdraw my hand because I see Sandra making her way across the room toward us. Poor kid. She doesn't know how many times the world has turned in her absence. She's already a footnote in Jacob's biography.

I lean forward and say in a low, honest voice, “I love you, Jacob. But we both know you can't be part of my future, or my child's.”

“Yeah.” He looks…relieved.

Sandra alights on her chair with a big smile. “Did I miss anything?”

I smile. “Not even dessert. How about a chocolate soufflé?”

37

The second issue is flying off the stands. Not as fast as the sleazoid headlining, “I Had the President's Secret Love Child,” but
very
respectable numbers. The photos of me surveying my “options” boosted interest. Score one for Tai. My next paycheck should be nearly as plump as I am.

“…the projected numbers for next month's issue look even better.” Tai is not pacing for a change. “Lu's local interviews gave us a boost. It's a start.”

I smile. We all smile. From Tai, this is tantamount to an oracle's declaration of peace and prosperity.

Not one to rest on her elegant haunches, Tai continues. “The most frequently asked question about ‘The Pregnant Pause' is how Lu got that way. Crescentmoon will answer that question in next month's issue in her health column.”

“Did she interview the sperm donor?” Rhonda is feeling very frisky. We've all noticed it.

“Did she interview the sperm?” KaZi, on the other hand, is not. If funk had a persona, she would be it.

“Don't interrupt,” Tai answers shortly. “The question
of paternity is running a close second. We're also getting tirades against the sanctity of the traditional family unit.
Bo-ring!
I want to take a page from the tabloids, and do a tongue-in-cheek poll for nominees for Lu's baby's daddy.”

“How about the ex?”

Tai shakes her head. “Too obvious.”

The others look at me. “I'd have to agree. It is a cliché.”

“The mailman?”

“Harassment lawsuit!” Tai snaps.

“A neighbor?”

Again, heads swivel my way. “My neighbor's a seventy-two-year-old widower. I have it on good authority that he'd be delighted.”

“Gawd! This is fantasy time, ladies.” Tai glances at Curran. “Apologies to our lone male, but who do the rest of you secretly want to do the nasty with?”

Rhonda chuckles. “A much younger man.”

Tai gives her a quick glance. “Such as?”

KaZi smirks without looking up. “How about Curran?”

I don't know if I should be grateful that the table instantly erupts in laughter, but it defuses any possible interest in pursuing the subject.

Curran, however, has turned radish-red. He stands up, camera on shoulder and heads for the door. “Later!”

Without missing a beat, Tai says, “Now, then.”

There's a lot of giggling and ribbing as the staff indulges their libidos at my expense. Everyone from Rodrigo to the kid who delivers takeout from the Vietnamese place across the street is fair game for speculation. After this issue, I doubt I'll be able to enter any of my regular haunts without scaring off the male staff.

When the list of potential dads has been whittled down to ten, Tai puts Rhonda in charge of getting signed releases from the “real” men for use of their photos and names. “We'll fill out the list with a few celebrity hotties.
After readers pick the top three, we'll have Lu's face morphed with the candidates and print the ‘offspring' photos in the October issue. Lu can write a column about each fantasy lover to go with it.”

“Not on your life,” I say sweetly. “This child will be born with enough baggage attached. Mama's not going to do soft-porn columns over the conception.”

“Then you better think of something else equally entertaining,” Tai responds with her usual edge.

“Naturally.” I shut my eyes and repeat under my breath, “Baby needs new shoes, baby needs…” Poverty is a great spur to inspiration. I'll think of something.

Rhonda waves at me as I enter the deli for lunch. I nod and point to the hot buffet line. As I approach, I see two other familiar faces in the adjacent salad-bar line.

I have to admit dreads are beginning to look good on Curran. The carefully sculptured facial hair gives his features some added dimension. He's dressing better, too—baggy but better. Today, KaZi's channeling Patti Boyd sixties retro, in thigh-high skirt, knee boots, a mane of stick-straight brown hair with bangs to rival Tai's, black eyeliner, fake lashes spiked with loads of black mascara, and pale lipstick.

As I watch, Curran says something to her. Predictably, she turns her back. He reaches for her tray but she slaps his hand. He backs up, before he turns away.

I know it's none of my business. People fix and ruin their lives every day without any help from me. But after what Curran has told me and KaZi's remark this morning, I can't help but feel that one big boulder in this rocky relationship has my name on it.

I veer away from the pizza slice/lasagna line and fall in next to KaZi, reminding myself that greens are good for baby and me.

“Hi, KaZi.”

She doesn't look up from picking the frosted polish off her short nails. After a moment, she shoves a handful of hair over her shoulder and picks up a tray.

Seems a more direct approach is called for.

“You eating here, or what?” I look back to see a man in a delivery uniform bending an unkind eye on me. “Take a tray, lady. I ain't got all day.”

I pick up a tray and follow down the opposite side of the salad bar from KaZi. When I'm across from her I say, “I want to thank you again for the great makeup job you did for this month's photo spread. Despite my mum-to-be moon face, Curran says you made me look sultry and luminous.”

“That's his drama.” She continues reading the ingredients on a yogurt label. When she's made her choice, she moves on. She passes bowls of conventional lettuces and grabs the tongs for the organic mesclun mix. While she's fishing for greens under the glass hood, I start piling up spinach salad. We finish making our choices at the same time and reach the end of the table where the dressings and condiments are.

“I seem to recall a time not so long ago when if you'd asked Curran to paint his tongue black and wear a nose ring, he would have.”

She looks across at me. “Talk to someone who cares.”

“But—”

She throws up her hand, flipping it palm outward. “Slap to your forehead, Lu. I have a mother. Okaaay?”

And I guess that puts me in my place.

When I've slunk away, trying to keep from tripping on the tail tucked between my legs, to join Rhonda she says, “What was that about?”

“Young love.”

She looks down, smiling. “I can relate.”

It takes me a second to register her tone. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

Rhonda nods. “Remember that article I offered to research when Tai first came to
Five-O?
Well, I've been freelancing.”

“And?”

“He's younger. Much younger.” She leans in. “Did you see the episode of
Sex and the City
where Samantha meets this hot…?”

William calls almost nightly. Occasionally he wakes me, but that's not difficult any time after 7:00 p.m. Tonight he talks about a patient he lost earlier in the day.

“Some patients just get to you.”

“I'm sure you did everything you could for her, William.”

“That didn't make it any easier when I had to tell her that my best wasn't going to be good enough. You know what she said afterward? ‘Well, Doctor, if you've done all you can do, all you know how to do, that's all anybody can ask.' And then she held my hand while I shed a few tears.” He's silent for a moment. “Does that sound like I'm patting myself on the back?”

“It's a bit Sarah Bernhardt. But, remember, I've seen you in action with Aunt Marvelle.”

“And that's why you love me.” His voice catches for a second. “You think I'm going to be that nice to you in thirty years?”

Every dozing brain cell zaps alert at the word “love,” even though it was buried in a throwaway line. For one crazy nanosecond I wonder how to respond, but the treat-it-lightly habit is hard to break. “Oh, I plan to outlive you.”

He laughs. The moment passes. I swear I can smell ozone as my overstimulated synapses cool. And my heart could pump oil it's still hammering so hard.

After we hang up, I get up and get a bowl of Jell-O with pineapple because I'm too stoked to fall asleep. Like a fifteen-year-old, I replay in my head every word of
tonight's conversation, trying to figure out from his inflection and word choice, what he meant by inserting the
L
word in our exchange. And why I'm so frightened by it.

“Don't be an ass!” Andrea says impatiently when I can't resist calling her. “You know what it means. I know what it means. Even
he
knows what it means.”

She's right. We all know it means this is getting serious.

“He needs a place to lay his weary head. And I like it a lot that he comes to me. We are good as friends.”

“Excuse me. There's sex involved.”

“It's friendship sex. But, Andrea, I'm not ready for serious. We've got issues.”

“Who doesn't? Did I tell you that heart doctor kid is calling me again? You know how I feel about being crowded. Men! They want to be in
looove.
All this talk about men who don't want to commit. Where are
these
men?”

When we've finally worn ourselves out and I'm shuffling back to bed, I realize that I should simply let the matter go. The
L
word may never come up again.

As I pull the sheet up I can't help but think about KaZi's ability to put an end to a relationship without breaking a sweat. And Andrea's avoidance that masquerades as keeping her options open. But I really like being part of a couple. Like it so much, in fact, that I know I'm going to have a very hard time letting go if the
L
word doesn't come up again.

September

Not long ago I called my mother to complain that my
grown children still call regularly for help and support.
When exactly, I asked, do they make the transition into
independant, freethinking individuals?
There was a pause before Mom said,
“You're on the other end of my line, sweetie.
How long do you plan to live?”

—“Mum's the Word”
CUE LU!

38

'To our collective female family consternation, tonight's rehearsal dinner has a theme,
The Great Gatsby.

Hungover from the bridesmaids' Girls' Night Out the night before, Dallas slept most of the day. At the moment, she's come to my bedroom to try on the “perfect for you” 1920s Boue Soeurs creation her soon-to-be mother-in-law, Marj Pascal, borrowed from a friend's vintage-dress collection for Dallas to wear at the rehearsal they're hosting. As it was just sent over by car, this is the first time any of us have seen it.

It's made of lace with satin rose garlands. It's pale pink. It's…hideous.

“Holy Christ!” Dallas cries when the full-length mirror reveals the awful truth.

“It isn't the most becoming shade,” my mom, who has arrived for the wedding, begins tactfully. “And the drop-waist gathers…”

“Tell the truth, Leila. It's vile!” Aunt Marvelle clicks her tongue. “She looks like a giant pink fig.”

“Mo-
ther.
” Dallas's expression is brittle as glass. One wrong word and she will shatter into a million vibrating pieces, which I'm much too ungainly to pick up.

I pat her shoulder. “Take it off, Dallas. We'll think of something.”

One week out from the wedding, my assertive, forthright, take-charge daughter moved back in with me for refuge. I am the calm center about which she spins, quakes and erupts as she negotiates the intricate web of exhausting last-minute wedding details. I am the om of the wedding weekend. I am…really tired.

I try to calculate the devastation to the in-law relationship my idea may create. Jacob and I have met the Pascals exactly once before, just after the engagement, and just before he walked out.

Marj is the principal of a private school. She's attractive and forthright in the manner of one whose job includes the ability to tell parents who pay way too much for the education of their offspring that said progeny are deficient in things like math and manners. Husband Preston is a CFO for a venture-capitalist firm. Casually elegant in that Ralph Lauren Black Label way, they own a horse farm in an area of Bergen County where money and prestige needn't announce themselves. The assumption is we are all equal, aren't we?

Yes and no. I have a nice home. Marj and Preston have an estate and grounds, where they occasionally host galas for hundreds. “We've got a perfectly good indoor arena and horse barn. Why not hold the rehearsal and the dinner here?” Stephen asked his parents to keep things intimate. Marj agreed, sort of. The idea of a theme came later. Along with the decision to wear costumes.

“Someone should have told the mother of the groom that she is supposed to wear beige and keep her mouth shut,” Aunt Marvelle says as she sips her afternoon martini. “I don't see why we have to dress up like fools for a
woman who wears jodhpurs and thinks a barn is a swell place for a party. Well, Tallulah, what's the child to do?”

Dallas watches me like an acolyte who expects her Goddess Mother to turn disaster into Roberto Cavalli. At this late date there's really only one possibility. “There's always the family heirloom.”

Dallas immediately stops quaking. “You don't mean…?”

“Mother's beaded dress!” Mom and Aunt Marvelle chorus as if cued.

We head for the door at the same time, but Mom and Aunt Marvelle quickly outpace me. My size is not the problem, it's my blood pressure. It's low so I'm slow. It helps me keep a perspective. No one beyond my inner circle knows my secret, of course. The weekend isn't about me.

There's a cedar closet in the guest bedroom that we call “Aladdin's Cave.” It's where we store all the clothing that no one wants but doesn't want thrown out. Davin and Dallas once loved to dig around in the cave to find things for Halloween costumes. We don't have to dig for the gown. It is stored on a shelf in a silk-lined suitcase, wrapped and rolled in yards of tissue paper so that it won't crease or stretch from weight. Once I locate it, Mom and Aunt Marvelle reverently unroll it. The twenties-era dress consists of two sleeveless panels of silk netting covered with jet beads in art deco patterns.

Dallas sloughs off the offensive pink-lace dress, then Mom and Aunt Marvelle slip their mother's old gown over her head. She takes a few tentative steps as the sheer silk panels sway about her calves. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think you need a slip, or at least black panties. The pink thong? Too much.” But she can see by the look on my face that I think she looks fabulous.

She looks at herself in the mirror and smiles. “I feel just like Cinderella!”

Thank goodness, Grandma had a sense of style.

We group-hug, careful not to snag the eighty-year-old gown. Nothing bonds four generations of women faster than a fashion crisis.

“I think we should have had that second martini, just in case.” My mother, usually a rock on social occasions, says this as she blows a feather from her sister's headdress out of her face.

Five of us are crammed into the back seat of a Lincoln Town Car because the limo we reserved a month ago was unavailable at the last moment. The bridesmaids are following in another car.

“Who is up for a lemon-drop stop?” coos Amanda, Dallas's maid of honor and the fifth member of our select group.

“If it contains alcohol, I am,” Marvelle answers. “Ask the driver if he knows of an establishment nearby. We've time for a short libation.”

“Mother!” Dallas's voice rises in alarm at the mention of such mutinous action.

I pat her knee and say, “We don't want to be late, Aunt Marvelle. After all, we have the bride.” But if Aunt Marvelle is feeling the strain we could be in trouble.

From the moment I haul my body out of the Lincoln, I am put in mind of Gatsby. The paddock lawn is a lovely, almost surreal shade of green. There are flower-strewn tables beneath white umbrellas. Surrounding them are people—lots of people—dressed in variations of “twenties” fashion. It is a
Vanity Fair
moment, with a whiff of manure.

As I enter the white fenced area I'm enveloped in a hug I didn't see coming.

“Oh
gawd,
Lu! I've been reading all about your pregnancy. How tragic!” Thelma Lawson, my divorce attorney, has thrown her arms about my neck. “Was it your hormone therapy?”

“What are you doing here?” I ask in astonishment.

“I was invited, of course.”

And now the numbers on the lawn begin to make sense. I look around and realize Marj and Preston invited the entire wedding guest list, and then some.

“Mom! Do you believe this?” Dallas looks furious as she surveys the scene. “They are going to steal my thunder,” she whispers in a tight voice.

I smile serenely. “No one can do that. You are the bride.” But I cross my fingers behind my back because it's just possible I've told my child a lie.

“There she is, our little bride!” Marj is opulence itself in a silver bugle-bead dress that ripples like water along her lean flanks as she crosses the lawn toward us. Stephen, looking natty in a white dinner coat, is her escort. “But, Dallas, dear, where's the Boue Soeurs gown I borrowed for you?”

Dallas looks vague in a way Davin would approve. “Didn't fit. Luckily my great-grandmother's did. It's perfect, don't you agree?”

“Yes, I suppose….” I imagine Marj is frowning but not a line creases her brow. The Botox party must have been a success. “You look fine, dear. Fine.”

“You look so hot!” Stephen says in a way that makes this mother's heart swell with relief. Going braless has assured Dallas of
his
attention. He practically vibrates around her. He grabs Dallas's arm. “Come on, I want to show you off.”

Marj gives me a tight smile. “And this is your family?”

I quickly make introductions. Mom and Marvelle are dressed in costumes from an off-Broadway production of
Thoroughly Modern Millie,
thanks to the ever-changeable KaZi, who volunteered to use her theater connections after she overheard me talking to the Radish about my need for vintage garb. They wear pastel handkerchief-hem dresses with matching headbands with jeweled feather ornaments.
I opted for the black-lace number with the ostrich feather hemline Andrea talked me into putting in layaway back in May.

“And Lu! How clever of you to come as a pregnant flapper.” Marj pats my stomach but then jerks her hand away. “Oh! I thought—That's a really firm pillow.”

Unlike Thelma, apparently Marj isn't a reader of
Five-O.
Equally obvious, neither Dallas nor Stephen has said a word about my condition.

Aunt Marvelle gives me the fish-eye and says to her sister, “Come on, Leila. It's definitely time for that drink.”

Before I can begin the necessary explanation, Stephen's dad arrives at Marj's side, Scotch glass in hand.

“Hello, Lu.” Preston's smile is wide and his eyes are bright, really bright. “Sorry to hear about you and Jacob.” He hugs me a little too hard and a few cold drops of his drink splash down my back. “Say, maybe you better cut back on the Ben & Jerry's comfort therapy. Huh?”

“Preston!” Marj admonishes in embarrassment. To me she says, “Preston started celebrating early.”

“Oh, come on,” Preston says, patting my cheek. “We're all family here, or soon will be.”

I remind myself that perfectly nice people can get a bit weird when a wedding is involved.

I slip an arm through one each of theirs. “Since you're both here, I have a little announcement to make. It's not a problem. It's not an issue. It's just a fact. I'm pregnant. Six and a half months.”

Preston bursts into laughter but I watch Marj's gaze focus on the bump beneath my dress. Preston quickly sobers, after a fashion, aware that he's missed something huge. For seconds the silence is absolute, as the mathematics of gestation becomes a lawn game.

“Well, well. Isn't that wonderful?” Marj says finally. “Right, Preston?”

“Oh sure. Wonderful.” Preston is busy checking his shoe, for he's stepped in a pile of manure.

It's clear Marj and Preston are shocked. Shocked.

I smile and slip free before they can think of the obvious follow-up questions.

I'd been warned that wedding rehearsal dinners fall into two types. The first launches joyful festivities that won't end until the couple is on their honeymoon. The second involves dealing with situations that quickly remind you why you don't see these people more often. It seems I've been dealt the second hand.

Jacob arrives shortly after this with Davin and, regrettably, Sandra. She wears a thigh-high chemise that looks more like an undergarment, but who's judging?

Davin gives me a big hug. “Wow, Mom! You look hot.” Thank goodness for sons who like feathers.

“Yeah, you look nice, Lu.” Jacob's face is bright red as he kisses my cheek, and then I get a whiff of gin. Seems like the whole gang thinks being stinko is a good idea.

Sandra and I smile at each other. I thought she was history. I'm sure she wishes I were. I suppose Jacob didn't want to show up without a date, in case I had one.

Funny, I feel no real angst. William wasn't able to get away. He's promised to make the wedding. Andrea, alas, had other plans, too.

Soon after, Cy and Curran arrive. Cy latches onto my elbow. “So, how bad is it?” I give him the look. “I would have escorted you. But you must be the independent woman.”

“I was wrong. The Pascals don't approve.” I pat Sweet Tum.

“They've got taste,” he says, “just not good taste.”

As we make our way through the throng, Curran follows. His camera should be surgically attached. It's like having my own portable paparazzo.

Despite the fact that this is Dallas and Stephen's evening,
I find I'm the reluctant focus of attention among many guests. Once Aunt Marvelle makes off with Cy, claiming she needs his help with some arrangement, my late-life fertility becomes a pretty good gauge for the mind-set of one's acquaintances as they greet me with monologue reactions.

“Well, la-la-palooza Lu!” Dill Graves, my dentist, flashes me a white-porcelain smile, which reminds me I'm overdue for a checkup. “You're looking quite, quite something I can't put my finger on.”

I just smile.

A moment later I get a big wink from Jacob's podiatrist. “So, you're still in the game, huh, Lu?”

“There goes your retirement,” offers my CPA.

“I've been reading all about it in your column, Lu. You're so brave. So very brave.” This from a woman whose youngest has just flown the nest.

Men with exes say things like “Poor Jacob. How's the old boy handling it? What's the poor bastard going to do?”

One of Jacob's golfing buddies leans in to whisper, “A big girl like you should know better. Now, if you'd come to me, I would have taken care of business.”

Some men just leer. Really leer, as if my expanding tum is the most embarrassing turn-on since Bob Dole started hawking Viagra.

Then there are the distant, less sympathetic utterances.

“—just ridiculous.”

“—at her age.”

“Showing off, that's all.”

Through it all I smile and behave as if I'm not ready to bolt. Whenever I catch Dallas's eye, I nod and wave. But finally I decide that if getting drunk is out then a sugar high will have to do.

Yet as I make my way over to the sweets table, Dallas's godparents, Jeff and Sarah, waylay me.

“Lu, Lu!” Jeff begins in mournful tones like the start
of a homily on the prodigal child. “How the hell—
aw—ouch!”

Hmm.
That's going to leave a bruise. Sarah never spanked her children growing up. She just pinched them into submission.

“Lu knows what I meant.” Jeff looks leery as he glances from his wife's poised right hand to me. “Right, Lu?”

“Sure, Jeff. It's a shock. To all of us. Still, we must be brave and do the best we can, under the circumstances.” I quickly step away from Sarah, just in case she's thinking I'm being a bit too glib. I bruise very easily.