Bev cleared her throat and straightened her blouse. I could tell she wanted to say something more, and I waited, almost certain that she had noticed the changes in my figure.
“You're changing, Blue.” Her words echoed my thoughts almost verbatim, and I held the picture tighter, mentally shielding myself from the discomfort of the topic.
“You've softened up some, and it looks good on you. And I'm not talking about the weight you've put on.” She eyed me pointedly, pausing for effect, letting me know she was on to me. “I'm talking about your language and your appearance and your taste in men. I'm talking about that cute Sean Connery you're friendly with. I hope you keep him around. And I hope to hell you've told him about the baby, 'cause I'm guessing it ain't his.”
“It's not. We're not. I mean . . . we're not in a relationship like that,” I stammered. “But yes, he knows. He's been a good friend.” But Bev was more right than I wanted to admit. Something was happening to me, and it had everything to do with Darcy Wilson.
“That's good then.” Bev nodded to herself and straightened some papers on her desk. “I'm your friend too, Blue. I've been where you are, you know. I was even younger than you are now. I made it through. You will too.”
“Thank you. Bev. For the picture, and . . . everything else.” I turned to go, but she stopped me with a question.
“Are you keeping the baby, Blue?”
“Did you keep yours?” I asked, not willing to answer her.
“Yes . . . I did. I married the baby's father, had my son, and got divorced a year later. I raised my boy on my own, and it was hard. I'm not gonna lie.”
“Did you ever regret it?”
“Regret keeping my son? No. But getting pregnant? Getting married? Sure. But there's no way to avoid regret. Don't let anybody tell you different. Regret is just life's aftertaste. No matter what you choose, you're gonna wonder if you shoulda done things different. I didn't necessarily choose wrong. I just chose. And I lived with my choice, aftertaste and all. I like to think I gave my boy the best life I could, even if I wasn't perfect.” Bev shrugged and met my eyes steadily.
“Knowing you, I'm sure that's true, Bev,” I said sincerely.
“I hope so, Blue.”
Chapter Sixteen
“But the fourth of July is an American holiday.” I wrinkled my nose at Wilson. “What in the world are a bunch of Brits doing celebrating Independence Day?”
“Who do you think celebrates more when the child moves out, the parents or the kid? England was glad to see you all go, trust me. We threw a party when America declared their independence. Bravo! Now go, and don't let the door hit you in the arse!” Wilson growled.
“I'm not buying it. Does the Revolutionary war ring any bells, Mr. Professor?”
“All right then. Actually, Mum is in town, along with Alice and Peter and my three nephews. It's too blasted hot to barbeque, but Tiffa's flat has an amazing view of the strip – so the fireworks are brilliant – and best of all, there's a pool on the roof.”
It had averaged 118 degrees all week. Hot didn't even begin to describe it. The thought of a pool was almost too wonderful to contemplate. Then I thought of how I would look in a bathing suit and felt my enthusiasm wane.
“So why are you asking me? Where's Pamela?” I was proud of how innocent and conversational I sounded.
“I'm asking you because you informed me that you are out of wood, you are bored, you are hot, and you are cranky.” That much was certainly true. Wilson had come down to the basement to do some laundry and found me staring at my empty work bench mournfully, trying not to melt into a hot mess all over the concrete floor. I had neglected my wood gathering expeditions lately. The heat combined with pregnancy made me an absolute wuss. Now I was paying for it. A whole day off and nothing to sculpt.
“And Pamela's in Europe,” Wilson added, moving a load of his clothes to the dryer. Of course she was. People like Pamela hobnobbed all over Europe with their hobnobby friends. But if Pamela was gone . . .
“Okay,” I agreed. “Bring on the barbeque!”
Wilson's mother looked nothing like him. She was blonde, slim, and looked very much like an English aristocrat. She would look very at home in a wide brimmed hat watching a polo match and saying 'Good form!' I could see a resemblance to Tiffa in her willowy figure and wide blue eyes, and Alice looked exactly like her, only less serene. The lack of serenity might have been the result of the three little red-haired boys bouncing around her, over her, under her. Alice looked frazzled and irritated where her mother seemed cool as a cucumber. I wondered if Wilson favored his dad. If not for Tiffa's curly hair, I might think he was the product of a torrid affair. The thought made me snicker. Joanna Wilson did not do torrid affairs, I would almost bet my life on it. But she was crazy about Wilson, no doubt about it. She held his hand in hers while they talked, hung on every word he said, and patted his cheek countless times.
I hung back, awkward in the close family setting, and spent most of my time in the pool playing with the kids, throwing weighted rings to the bottom over and over again so they could retrieve them like tireless puppies. Tiffa joined me after a while, and the kids piled on her eagerly, little wet bodies scrambling to hold on as she giggled and dunked herself – and them – several times. I was surprised by her physical play and the obvious affection she had for her nephews. I wondered suddenly why she didn't have any kids of her own. She seemed much more suited to motherhood than poor Alice, who sipped an alcoholic beverage in a nearby pool chair and squealed every time one of the boys splashed too much. What had the woman been thinking having three children one after the other? Maybe, like me, she hadn't been thinking at all.