Two of a Kind (28 page)

“Come into my office,” Andy said. Jesus H. Christ, was he actually feeling the stirrings of a hard-on? She followed him inside and he took a seat across from her. The desk was a comforting buffer—wide, professional, and distancing.

“I appreciate your willingness to see me on such short notice, Dr. Stern. Especially when it's not
exactly
medical.”

“The mind and the body work in concert,” he said. God, why did he have to sound like someone had shoved a pole up his ass? Because he was nervous, that was why. He was nervous sitting here alone with this goddess, only the desk between them. He had a sudden image of pulling her onto that desk and plunging his hand down the front of that golden, goddess dress of hers—

“They do, they do,” breathed Xiomara. “And though the body is fine”—she patted her belly lovingly—“the mind is not doing so well.”

“Are you feeling anxious about the birth?”

“A little. But more anxious about Badu.” Badu was her basketball star husband. Apart from their initial visit, he'd never been back to the office with her again.

“What's been going on?” Andy asked, leaning a little closer.

“Nothing!” she said. “Just about a big, old nothing. He won't touch me, Dr. Stern. Won't even get near me. You'd think I had the plague. The last time he saw me stepping out of the shower, he said,
Would you please cover
yourself.
”

“Some men are made uncomfortable by pregnancy, particularly in the latter stages. It's not admirable, but I hear it from a lot of my patients.” He tried not to think about her stepping out of that shower—now he really did have a hard-on, damn it.

“What about you, Dr. Stern?” she demanded. “Is that how you did
your
woman after you'd gone and knocked her up?” She gestured to the photo of Rachel that was still on his desk.

“My wife is dead,” he said stiffly. “It's been almost three years since I lost her.”

“Oh!” Xiomara's lovely, ring-bedecked fingers flew to her lips. “I am so, so sorry.”

“You were talking about your husband—”

“So after months of acting like I'm this, this freak, this monster, I begin to get annoyed, you know? I began to rag on him. Pick fights.” Andy nodded sympathetically. “And after one fight, he didn't come home all night. I made Felix track him down; he found Badu with some other girl, Dr. Stern. Some tramp he'd picked up. And when I called him on it, and broke down crying and told him how much he'd hurt me, he turned around and told me it was my fault.
My
fault! Can you believe it? For pushing him into someone else's arms.”

“You must have been very upset,” he said.

“I was,” she said. “I am. I just want a little affection, Dr. Stern. A little tenderness. You understand, don't you? I
know
you do. I can
feel
it.” She leaned forward so that the desk was a bridge, not a barrier. And then she kissed him.

Andy reacted to that kiss as if a gun had gone off in the room. He was astonished, aroused, intoxicated—but mostly he was horrified that the fantasy had stepped out of his head and into his office. Yes, she was the most gorgeous woman God ever made—but she was his patient; to give in to her would be to violate everything he'd ever believed in, worked for, achieved. “Xiomara,” he began, waiting for his heart to stop its insane throbbing. “You are a beautiful and desirable woman—”

“Even like this?” She waved a hand over her belly.

“
Especially
like this,” he said. “But I'm your doctor. And as your doctor, I have a professional obligation to you and to your baby. You don't want me—”

“You're wrong—I do. I do!” She tried reaching for him again, but he moved away.

“No, you want to hurt Badu the way he's hurt you. But you'll regret it. You'll regret it and you'll blame me for not stopping you. So I'm going to save you all that regret and blame.” He stood up. “I want you to go home and talk to your husband. Tell him you're going to forgive him—but once and only once. And tell him he's on notice. As for you—you're going to stop picking fights to get his attention. You have something to say to him, you say it—right out in the open.”

“I just wanted . . . I mean, I just thought—” She fluttered her lashes, which, though obviously false, still made for a highly effective gesture.

“I know what you wanted and I know what you thought.” He came around the desk to see her out. “And it's all right. It really is. We never have to mention this again. It will be our secret.” Amazingly, he was even able to smile. “You text Felix and tell him to come in here and get you now.”

She placed her finger on his mouth and gently touched his lips. “Dr. Stern?” she said. “You're a good man. A
good
man. And good men are hard to find.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I try.” He didn't feel like a good man. He felt like he'd dodged a bullet. One minute more alone with her and who knows what he would have done?

“There's a woman in your life now?”

“There was,” he said, suddenly scorched by the image of Christina, hair spread out across the pillow and reaching her arms up to him. “But not now.”

“Well, you deserve a woman,” she said firmly. “You deserve the
best
.”

Andy opened the door and there was massive Felix, impervious as a tank. “I'll see you next week,” he said, determined to sound professional and in command. God knew what Felix thought; he'd seen it all—and more—before.

“Thank you again, Dr. Stern,” Xiomara said. She had one hand on Felix's arm; the gold cloth shimmered as she went. But in one swift, fluid movement, she turned and deposited a last, lingering kiss on Andy's mouth. Felix didn't even blink.

A
lthough it was a mild late April morning, Christina woke shivering and almost too weak to make it out of bed. She got to the bathroom just in time; another minute and she would have thrown up all over the floor. She rinsed her mouth thoroughly and shakily reached for the thermometer. No fever. Well, that was a relief. And once she had showered and vigorously brushed her teeth, she was fine—at least physically.

She didn't feel the same sense of shock and outrage she'd felt when Will died; that grief had been vicious, attacking her with claws and talons. No, breaking up with Andy had just anesthetized her. Despite the relentless advent of spring—tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths bursting from window boxes and planters all over the neighborhood, ordinary city trees made briefly glorious by their clouds of pink or white lacy blossoms, the madly twittering sparrows and cooing doves in her own garden—she herself was a figure carved from ice.

Over and over she replayed the scene in the hospital cafeteria. Could she have done anything differently to change the outcome? But what? Pointed out that his failure to tell her about Jordan's eating disorder was no different from her not telling him about Oliver and the pot? In the end, it would have done no good. His mind was made up.

She had thought of calling him, writing to him, even showing up at his door. She did none of the above. She wasn't going to beg; she had her pride, even though Sister Bernadette had railed against pride as one of the worst of the seven deadly sins. Since then, she'd gone through her days like a sleepwalker, even though she was busier than she'd been in months. The Web site had brought in a couple of new jobs; those jobs in turn had spawned others. Her reach was beginning to extend beyond Brooklyn: she was working on a loft in Tribeca, a pied-à-terre on the Upper East Side, and a little cottage in Sag Harbor that belonged to friends of Stephen. Good jobs all, and she was grateful to have them.

The next morning she awoke again with that horrible, nauseated feeling, but it wasn't until the third day that its true meaning finally hit her. On her way back from the loft in Tribeca, she stopped in a Duane Reade to pick up the pregnancy test and used it as soon as she got home. The stick turned instantly and emphatically blue.

Pregnant. Holy Mary, Mother of God. She was
pregnant
.
There was a loud and vigorous thumping, which could have been the sound of her own, frantic heart. But it was only Jordan's rabbits, steadily beating their hind legs against the bottom of their cage. As if in a trance, she went to the refrigerator, pulled out some lettuce leaves from the crisper, and placed them in the cage. The rabbits fell upon their treat with rabbitlike delight, which is to say, they methodically and steadily consumed the leaves until they were gone. Then they both remained close to the front of the cage, nostrils flaring delicately, as if waiting to see what she would do next.

She left the room. It was almost six, time to start dinner. Since her illness, Jordan was eating a bit more, and Christina made every effort to entice her at mealtime. It was like having a picky toddler all over again, but at least her daughter no longer looked so painfully gaunt. The doctor who had treated her at the hospital had suggested a therapist who specialized in eating disorders and stipulated that she not be allowed back to ballet class unless she agreed to see her.

Tonight Christina was preparing chicken, brown rice, and asparagus she'd purchased on Saturday at the local farmers' market. With any luck Jordan would eat small portions of everything. The asparagus stalks were a bit thick; she decided she would shave and then steam them. The chicken would be roasted and she'd perk up the rice with the skillful deployment of herbs and spices rather than butter or oil. She performed these tasks on autopilot, her hands moving efficiently despite the chaos in her head.

How could she be pregnant? She had thought they were being careful; evidently they had not been careful enough. Thinking back, she tried to calculate how far along she might be. Eight weeks? Ten? That meant she could still have a first-trimester abortion, though the idea filled her with sorrow. Even though she'd left the Catholicism of her girlhood behind and believed in a woman's right to choose, that did not mean
she
would choose an abortion. But how would she manage with a baby at this point in her life? She wouldn't be able to work; who would support them? And how would a new half sibling affect Jordan?

She looked down. She had been so diligent in peeling the asparagus stems that there was virtually nothing left of them; on the counter was a pile of the clustered buds. She scraped the shavings into the covered enamelware pot she kept for compost; her hands were shaking. Abandoning the asparagus, she sat down at the table. She would have poured herself a glass of wine, but under the circumstances that did not seem like the most prudent idea.
Under the circumstances.
What was she thinking? That she was going through with the pregnancy? If she did, she would have to tell Andy. But wouldn't she tell Andy in any case?

When Jordan called to say that she would not be home for dinner after all, Christina was relieved. She finished preparing the meal and then, overcome by a sudden ravenous urge, ate it all. She had to force herself to take a plate and sit at the table; otherwise, she would have stood at the stove, shoveling the rice, chicken, and what remained of the asparagus right from the pots and into her mouth. After she finished, she went prowling through the cabinets in search of something sweet; an open box of amaretto cookies was tucked in the far reaches of a top shelf. Stale as they were, she finished them, along with the ice-crystal-encrusted remnants of a pint of dark chocolate gelato. Afterward, she had to lie down. She remembered those surges of hunger from her first pregnancy; they were like a feeding frenzy.

But she couldn't remain still for long. She had to do something, talk to someone. Andy? No, not yet. Stephen. Of course. She did not bother to phone, but trotted up the stairs to knock on his door. “Hi, doll,” he said. “Misha and I were all set to watch a movie. Want to join us?” Mutely, Christina shook her head. She had not yet said the word
pregnant
out loud; she almost couldn't bear it. “Are you all right?” he added.

“No,” she said. “I'm not.”

“One sec.” He disappeared for a moment and then returned. “Misha's going to start without me; you and I can go to your place to talk.” He followed her downstairs and as soon as they had reached Christina's parlor, she turned, put her head on his chest, and started to sob. He must have been startled; in all the years they had known each other, she had never done such a thing. But he did not ask any questions and instead patted her back until she was calmer. It was only when they were seated on her love seat that she began to talk.

“So you're sure he doesn't know?” Stephen asked when he'd heard the story.

“Positive.”

“And what are you planning to do about it?”

“I don't know. But whatever I decide, I think I have to tell him. Don't you?”

“Yes. Only . . .” He looked down.

“Only what?”

He lifted his gaze again. “There's something you should know before you do. Something I was going to tell you about; Misha and I were just trying to figure out the best—that is, the
kindest
—way to do it.”

“Tell me now,” she said. “I need to know.”

“I'll be right back.” He got up and Christina waited in uneasy suspense. What could Stephen and Misha know about Andy that she did not? Their worlds were totally separate. When he returned, he handed her a folded newspaper. “Read it and weep.”

Puzzled, Christina opened it up. She found herself holding a cheap tabloid with the headline
Xiomara's Baby Doc Gets Up Close and Personal
. Underneath was a large photograph of Andy kissing the very pregnant singer. Her body was pressed close to his; even in the photograph, Christina could see how her ample breasts grazed his chest. Quickly, she scanned the article—if you could call it that. It was really just a bit of salacious reportage, hinting at a rift between Xiomara and her basketball player husband amid rumors of infidelity on his part, and the speculation that she might now be linked romantically to her ob-gyn, the handsome, eligible widower Andrew Stern. The piece concluded with a mention of Xiomara's recent redecoration of the VIP suite at the hospital where she planned to give birth; the estimated cost of the work was more than ten thousand dollars.

Christina put the paper down on the love seat. So it was true. There
had
been
something between them. And it looked like there still was. “This thing is a rag; I wouldn't believe anything I read in here. But the picture . . .” The picture was like an ice pick to her heart.

“I still think you should tell him,” Stephen was saying. “But I just wanted you to have all the information first.”

She reached for the folded paper and then stopped. She didn't want to see it again.

“Whatever you decide, you know I'm there for you,” said Stephen.

“I know that,” she replied. “And I'm grateful.” She stood. Stephen stood too, and kissed her lightly on the forehead before he left. When he had gone, she opened the newspaper again and looked at the picture for a long time.

She felt like she was thawing, coming to life after being frozen by grief. She was lucky he'd broken up with her—she really was. She didn't want him, and she didn't want the life she would have led with him—turbulent, erratic, governed by his moods and his outbursts. Whether she would keep this baby was a different matter. But if she did, she would raise it without him.

The next day, Christina was able to schedule an appointment with her gynecologist, Amy Wenders. Amy said she was about eight or nine weeks pregnant—still time for a first-trimester abortion. “And I can perform it for you,” Amy said.

“I want to schedule it now, and give myself a week to live with the idea.”

Amy nodded. “We can do that.” She reached for an appointment book. “I don't want to pry, but I'm assuming that the male part of this equation has not been informed.”

“Not yet,” Christina said. “I'm going to tell him, though.”
But when?

She spent the next few days veering between bouts of nausea and surges of appetite. The eating she tried to do in secret, not wanting to arouse any curiosity—or suspicion—in Jordan. It wasn't that hard; Jordan was home even less than usual. And all the while she thought of Andy: how to tell him, what words to use. Nothing she came up with ever seemed right. She told Stephen about the abortion she'd scheduled; he arranged to take the day off to accompany her. But two days before, she called Amy again. “I can't do it yet,” she said. “I'm not ready.”

“How about if I give you another four days?” Amy said. “I don't want to pressure you, but I don't want you to wait too long either. Once you go past twelve weeks, the procedure is . . . quite different.”

“I understand,” Christina said. “And Amy—thank you.”

After she'd said good-bye, Christina knew she could not wait another day to tell Andy. And she would do it now, before she lost her nerve. But before she could make the call, her phone buzzed. For a second, she thought it might be him, and even though she had told herself she was done with him, hope lifted inside her. Then she saw the unfamiliar number—it was not Andy after all. When she answered, the low, snarling voice had such menace that she thought it might be an obscene call and was about to hang up when the word
painting
caught her attention. “—and I don't know what kind of scheme you've cooked up with that so-called restorer, but I'm on to you, do you understand?”

“Who
is
this?” she said. But then she knew: Ian Haverstick.

“You think I believe that story about his conveniently disappearing? Do you think I'm an idiot?”

No, I think you're a crude, insensitive bully,
she wanted to say. Instead, she said, “I expect you to believe the truth. And the truth is that I'm as shocked by Derrick's disappearance as you are.”

“Save it for the judge,” he spit. “Because you're going to need to tell it to him.”

“What are you talking about? You know I was not a party to the contract you signed.”

“I'm bringing charges against you for theft. Because I think you're hiding him and I aim to prove it.”

“You're bluffing,” she said, though she was not at all sure this was true. “You haven't got a shred of evidence against me because there isn't any evidence to have.”

“Wait and see. When I'm done with you, you won't have a client left. And I hope you'll like the correctional facility upstate I've got picked out for you—maybe if you're a model prisoner, they'll let you redecorate the cells!”

“How dare you call me up and browbeat me like this?” The words came tumbling out. “You're a brute, a philistine, and you're . . . delusional! I pity your wife. I really do!” And then she ended the call.

Christina was shocked at herself. She had never once yelled back at a client, even one who had abused and fired her. It would be bad for business. Word always got out in the neighborhood. She pressed her open palms to her cheeks; they were so hot they felt feverish. Would he involve the police? Let him! She had nothing to hide. But her plan to tell Andy about the pregnancy evaporated. She couldn't face another confrontation right now; she just couldn't.

The next day, Christina had a visit from a detective, a lanky man with a large beaky nose and a bald spot he tried, ineffectually, to cover with the thinning wisps of his remaining hair. He showed her his badge and said he was with the local precinct; so Ian Haverstick had not been bluffing. She invited him in and answered all his questions—there were many—as best she could.