A teaser from a novel long forgotten…
The work is called Much Ado About Everything. The characters are returns from my first true novel, Stark Raving Mad. This is the first chapter, or at least it’s the first chapter right now.
1.
There’s little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing.
Three thousand miles away, B could imagine her older sister’s pout.
“You just don’t understand, B. The project’s overwhelming,” Kerry moaned through the speaker phone.
According to Kerry Stark’s Seismic Crisis Rating System, her own minor calamities ranked higher than anyone else’s genuine disasters.
B rubbed her rounding belly. Twins. What could she possibly have done to deserve twins?
Kerry continued babbling. “Can you believe it? I mean, what kind of moron would finish all the ceiling tiles before wiring in the recessed lights? It’s a total catastrophe. And he can’t understand why I’m angry,” she huffed.
“Maybe you should try learning French,” B suggested dully. They’d been through this many times before.
“I do speak French.”
“No, Kerry. You know a few French words and phrases. It’s not the same as speaking the language.”
“Most of the time I get along fine. How many non-native speakers would know how to say please complete the wiring before plastering the ceiling?”
“Veuillez accomplir le câblage avant de plâtrer le plafond.”
“Of course you would.” Kerry snickered. “But it does seem a bit esoteric don’t you think.”
“Not if you’re being paid to oversee a remodeling project in Brittany.”
B suspected being terse was the only thing short of bursting into tears that might force Kerry to recognize her troubled tone.
“What’s the matter with you?” Kerry asked somewhat resentfully.
“I’m a little overwhelmed myself.”
“Oh, don’t even start. You’re not going to have any trouble finding a tenure track position. If you’re fishing for compliments, try Dad.”
B was silent.
“B?” Kerry prompted, a note of concern edging into her no-nonsense voice.
I’m pregnant. Two simple words. Or at least one word and a contraction. All she had to do was say them. But she couldn’t.
“B?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Look,” B replied, doing her best to sound cool and collected. “It’s kinda a long story and it would probably be better if we talked about it in person.” B relished the worried silence emanating from the phone. Stringing Kerry along gave her a perverse thrill.
“I have time right now,” Kerry prompted.
“Yeah, but I still have to grade exams, post the scores and finish packing before my flight this evening.” B sighed inwardly. There really was a lot to do before she whisked back to the UK for a family visit. “Listen, what I need you to do is pick me up, yeah?” (God, she wasn’t even there yet and already the linguistic nuances were creeping back in.)
“Well duh? Did you think we’d just leave you at Terminal 5?”
No British nuance there. Apparently now that Kerry was a bona fide resident of the EU she’d given up on being hopelessly British and embraced her birthright American self.
“No, Kerry I mean you explicitly.” B’s voice was grave. “Not Christian and the girls. Not Martin. And definitely not Mom or Dad. Just you.”
“Absolutely.” Kerry couldn’t hide the curiosity in her voice. “What time do you land?”
“10:05 am.”
“I’ll be there.”
B sighed again. It would take Kerry two hours to drive from Underhill Farm in the Wye Valley to Heathrow—without any tail-backs. (She was doing it again.) And punctuality had never been Kerry’s strong suit. Nor was getting out of bed before eight in the morning. B realized she’d be lucky to see her older sister before noon. Then again maybe not. Kerry’s growing interest was obvious.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kerry asked with a note of concern.
B squeezed her eyes shut to blink back tears her sister couldn’t see anyway. Perhaps tomorrow would be one of those fabulous but fleeting times when Kerry managed to rise to the occasion. “I’m basically fine,” she said, surprised by how convincing her voice sounded. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I am.” Now B felt guilty. “But thanks.”
“Alright, sweety. Have a safe trip.”
B clicked off the phone and sank back into the cool leather of her second-hand sofa and stroked her blossoming belly. It had all happened right there. They hadn’t even made it to the bedroom. Without shifting her position B reached for the mouse and clicked the playlist icon on her laptop. The electronic tinkle gave her a chill, even if the computer’s speakers sucked. She closed her eyes, losing herself in the déjà vu elicited with each note. His fingers on her bare skin. The way his eyes lingered on her lithe figure. An electric pulse as they kissed.
My tired eyes, like lonely stars. Try to find, a little chaos in the order. This is what you do to me.
He’d always been a music aficionado—anything cool or cutting edge, he had it. “Anti Atlas,” he’d told her, “is great music to paint to.” Painting had become his passion. “These tunes get the creative juices flowing.”
That comment turned out to be one huge-fucking understatement.
It’s a shayme…I just thought you should know…
The melancholy voice singing from inside the black box returned B to her memories. His breath in her ear. Her hands pulling him closer. The way she stood in front of him, undoing each button like some shy, first-time stripper…
B sat up. What the hell had she been thinking? (And was that question in reference to the sex or to reliving it time and time again?)
Both needed to be addressed. Actually doing it wasn’t so difficult to explain. It had been a long, long time since B’d had anything remotely resembling a hook-up. And even longer since she’s had a real relationship. Little wonder that when an opportunity presented itself she’d seized it.
But with him? A friend. A real friend. A guy she’d known for years. One who was virtually part of the family? Why couldn’t she have picked up some stranger at a bar like a normal person? (‘Cause that would be too simple.)
“Just pretend it’s simple,” B thought. “They’ll never know the difference.”
****
B stepped onto Heathrow’s tarmac in a comfy pair of charcoal boot-leg stretch pants, a baggy off-white tank and a slimming black oversized Anthropologie cardigan. Thanks to the cool English mist she needed the cardigan, despite the fact that it was late May. Back in Ithaca she’d been living in tank-tops and shorts for the past several weeks, a fact that had made her very familiar with her new bumpy figure. She glanced at herself in the reflected glass of the arrivals corridor. The woman looking back cried stylish, grown-up, simple. Pregnant was definitely not the first thing someone would notice about her. B tossed her long blonde mane over her shoulder, pleased that her choice of outfits hid her swelling baby bump so well and strode toward security.
As she walked she perfected the arguments she’d been practicing throughout the flight. “It was just one of those things,” she heard her most professional voice explaining. “No, mother, there isn’t any way to contact the baby’s father.” B reminded herself to ignore her brother Christian’s gaze when that lie emerged. She could imagine his shock at the idea of his baby sister one-night-standing with some guy so much a stranger that even his last name and cell number were a mystery to her.
And to Martin, the oldest of the Stark children, sitting quietly while he searched her words and expressions for some clue indicating what she truly felt, B would tell the truth — “Don’t worry about me, big bro. I’m really excited to be a mother.”
Simple, she thought as she waited in line at customs. It was a total fiction, but a simple one.
