says in a near-whisper, adjusting her glasses, “Callahan’s is opening tomorrow, so I’ll review that. I’m doing low-fat Easter favorites for next weekend. The nutritious school-snacks column is featuring…”
I try to pay attention as Angela details the asparagus bisque recipe she hopes will dazzle our readers. Though I’m not much of a cook, I do love to eat, and all this talk of food is making me hungry. And while Angela carries the title of food editor, she will answer to me, and her recipes and advice will give our readers another reason to check out our food Web page, which can carry more information than the Thursday edition of the paper.
After our meeting is done, I get to work calling the freelancers the EFG uses, introducing myself, checking the town calendar for events I should go to, chatting up the nice lady at the chamber of commerce. I edit a piece for our next edition, then, glancing at my watch, decide I have time to extend the old olive branch.
I grab my backpack, check my cell phone and go over to Lucia’s desk, where she is busy filing. “I hear you’re engaged, Lucia.” It’s my peace offering, and it works.
She is more than happy to rant and rave about the stresses of being engaged for the next ten minutes. “So anyway, I told the florist that I didn’t care what was in season! Teddy—my fiancé?—I call him Teddy Bear, isn’t that cute? Anyway, he loves sweet pea. He just loves it! I have to have sweet pea! He wanted it mixed in with baby’s breath? So beautiful! In these little bowls? And candles? And here was this stupid florist, telling me I couldn’t have sweet pea? I don’t think so!”
I force a smile, nod and glance at my watch, wondering if all brides are this psycho, and if all grooms are invested in centerpieces as Ted. Sounds like…well. I’m the one who was mistaken for a lesbian, so what do I know?
“Well, I’d love to hear more, but I’m doing an interview. Should be back before five, okay?”
“Fine,” she snaps. Apparently, it will take more than a feigned interest in her wedding for us to become friends.
It’s a lovely, warm day. The pale green leaves are just about edible, and I stop for a moment to look to the hills as well, a smile coming to my face. Most of the buildings of the downtown area were built at the turn of the last century and exhibit a grace and attention to detail that would be considered too costly for a design today. Brick or limestone, most are only four or five stories tall, with all sorts of cunning detail and gilt painting. Little alleys run off the main street like tributaries off a river, and a wave of affection washes over me. I love Eaton Falls. I love being a journalist. I’m so glad to be back. This is a new phase of my life, and I’m determined it will be a good one. True adulthood. A home, a dog and soon, hopefully, a boyfriend/fiancé/hubby/father of my strong and attractive children.
I walk the three blocks to the new toy store, conveniently located next to Hudson Roasters. I pop into the coffee shop, order two tall lattes and, as my stomach growls, a cheese danish, then take my bags next door to Marmalade Sky.
“Hello,” I call, pushing open the door. It’s very cute inside. Toys…well, obviously…puzzles, Legos, stuffed animals, all in a cheerful, crowded atmosphere. “Kim? It’s Chastity O’Neill from the Gazette.”
A heavyset young woman wearing a brown denim jumper comes out of a door toward the back. “I’m Kim Robison. It’s so nice of you to come!”
Kim’s interview had been scheduled by my predecessor, and I’d decided to take it myself. Her toy store opening is just the sort of soft news that I’ve been looking forward to covering, a far cry from the urban heartbreak of Newark that I’d been immersed in for the past five years.
“I brought you a latte,” I say, holding out the cup.
“Oh, you’re so nice,” she smiles. “Sorry, though. I can’t have any.”
Probably one of those green-tea types, I guess, judging by her rather crunchy look. Kim invites me to sit in the reading area at the back, surrounded by glossy picture books, classic Pooh figures, and a mobile shaped like a ship with rainbow sails. I take out my notebook. “So, Kim, how did you come up with the name Marmalade Sky?” I ask.
“It’s from the Beatles’ song.” She smiles, shifting in her chair.
I pause. “The LSD song?”
“No,” she answers. “‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’”
I pause. “Uh…that’s the LSD song.”
Her face falls. “Oh, no,” she says. She thinks for a moment. “Oh, for God’s sake. Of course it’s the LSD song.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t put it in the article. Okay, next question. When did you become inspired to own a toy store?”
“I guess when my sister had her first baby,” Kim says. She talks about her love of children and their vast imaginations. I smile and nod as she talks, sometimes mentioning one of my eight nieces and nephews. Kim smiles often, her plump apple cheeks bunching attractively as her glossy hair swings. “See, Chastity,” she says, leaning forward, “when you give a child the right toy, you’re giving them hours of fun and creativity and imagination, almost giving them the key to…their own…”
“To their own world?” I suggest, scribbling away. She doesn’t answer. I look up.
Kim rises awkwardly out of her chair and stares down at her ample stomach. “I think my water just broke.”
My head jerks back, and my stomach drops as if I’m on the express elevator in the Empire State Building. “You’re—you’re pregnant?” Not heavyset. Not chubby or plump. Pregnant. Crap. Some journalist I make.
“Yeah, I’m…ooh! Yes, that’s water breaking.” She lifts the hem of her long dress and examines her ankle. “Oh! Oh, boy. Yup, it’s started.”
In response to those words, my own water breaks—sweat. I am suddenly drenched in sweat, from the soles of my feet right to my scalp. Because even if I’ve never seen a baby born, I know how it goes. Pain. Screaming. Blood. Gore. “Uh-oh,” I choke out. My throat slams shut, and I can’t seem to breathe. I raise a shaking hand to push my hair off my face, pictures of bloody afterbirth flashing through my mind.
“Um…can you…can you just call my husband for me?” Kim sinks back into the chair, takes a deep breath and rubs her abdomen.
“Are you…um…are you…” There is a watery stripe of blood on her bare ankle. Don’t look. Too late. Don’t look again. Stop looking. “You’re bleeding,” I say in a hoarse whisper, tearing my gaze off her ankle and pointing in the vague direction of her foot.
Kim glances at her ankle. “Oh, they say that’s normal.”
I swallow repeatedly. “Oh.”
“Do you mind?”
“What? Do I mind what?” There’s a buzzing in my ears, and Kim sounds very far away. Stay with it, Chastity! She needs help!
“Can you call my husband? He’s number one on speed dial. My cell phone is in my bag behind the counter.” She breathes in deeply and exhales with a long shushing sound, rocks back in her chair.
I force myself to stand, though my knees are buckling. How can
