Making Faces(24)

The doorbell chimed its song-song tune at eight Saturday morning, and the sound meshed so perfectly with Fern's dream that she smiled in her sleep, lifting her face to the handsome man in uniform who had just said, “I do.” He lifted her veil and pressed his lips to hers.

“I'm so sorry, Fern,” he whispered, just like he had at the lake. “I'm so sorry,” he said again.

Fern kissed him frantically, not wanting apologies. She wanted kisses. Lots of them, and hugs too, and somewhere in her subconscious she knew it was all a dream and she would be waking up momentarily, and all opportunities for kissing would melt away into Never-Never-Gonna-Happen Land.

“I'm so sorry, Fern!”

Fern sighed, impatience blurring the fact that it wasn't Ambrose’s voice anymore.

“I'm so sorry to wake you up, Fern, but I need to show you something. Are you awake?”

Fern opened her eyes blearily, mournfully accepting the fact that she was not in a church, that no wedding bells had chimed, and Ambrose was hundreds of miles away at Fort Sill.

“Fern?” Rita was standing about a foot from her bed, and without warning she unzipped her pants and wiggled them around her hips, then she lifted her shirt and tucked it in the elastic of her bra so her mid-section was exposed. Rita stood akimbo and cried, “See?”

Fern eyed the slim curves and the expanse of bare skin beneath Rita's full breasts sleepily, wishing Rita had waited even a few minutes more to barge into her room and begin undressing. Her eyes were heavy and curvaceous girls didn't rock her boat. She craved a certain man in uniform. She raised questioning eyebrows at Rita and muttered, “Huh?”

“Look, Fern!” Rita pointed with both hands at her lower belly, just below her belly button. “It's huge! I'm not going to be able to hide it anymore. What am I going to do?”

It wasn't huge. It was a softly rounded stomach that protruded gently above a very brief pair of black lace panties. Fern had the same pair that she hid in the back of her drawer and only wore when she had to write a love scene, like the one she'd written last night . . . which had only been a couple hours ago. But Rita wasn't going to leave and let her drift back to dreamland, so Fern raised up on one arm wearily, pushing messy curls out of her eyes so she could get a better perspective on Rita's issue. She tipped her head this way and that, her eyes trained on her friend's tummy.

“Are you pregnant, Rita?” she gasped, the fog of having been suddenly awakened from a deep sleep making her slow to the punch line.

Rita yanked her shirt free from her bra and zipped her pants hastily, as if now that Fern had guessed her secret she was eager to hide it once more.

“Rita?”

“Yeah. I am.” Rita collapsed onto Fern's bed, sitting on Fern's feet in the process. She apologized profusely as Fern yanked her toes free and promptly burst into tears.

“Are you going to get married?” Fern patted her friend’s back as she spoke gently, the way her mom did whenever Fern cried.

“Becker doesn't know. Nobody knows! I was going to break up with him, Fern. Now I can't.”

“Why? I thought you were crazy about Becker.”

“I was. I am. Kind of. But he moves so fast. I feel like I can't keep up. I just wanted to take a little break. Maybe go away to school or something. I even thought about being a nanny . . . maybe even in Europe . . . an au pair. That's what they call them. Isn't that cool? I wanted to be an au pair. Now I can't,” Rita repeated and cried harder.

“You've always been really good with kids.” Fern struggled to find words that would comfort her friend. “So you'll just have one of your own, now. You may not be able to go to Europe right now. But maybe you could open a little daycare . . . or you could go to school to be a teacher. You would make a great kindergarten teacher. You're so pretty and nice, all the kids would love you.”

Fern had thought about leaving town too, maybe going to college, going somewhere where she could start a whole new life, free of old stereotypes. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave Bailey. And she wanted to be a writer, a romance writer, and she could do that living in Hannah Lake, living next door to Bailey, as easily as she could do it in Venice, Italy or Paris, France.

“How did this happen?” Rita wailed.

Fern looked at her blankly. “I know all the words from the Grease II song about reproduction. Would you like me to sing it slowly?” Fern asked, trying to make Rita giggle instead of cry.

“Very funny, Fern,” Rita said, but she smiled a little as Fern started singing about flowers and stamens in a very enunciated, clear soprano. Rita even joined in for a couple of lines, the lure of corny show tunes irresistible, even in the face of such drama.

“Don't tell Bailey, okay Fern?” Rita said as the song faded and Fern stroked her hair.

“Rita! Why? He's our best friend. He's going to know sooner or later, and then he's going to wonder why you didn't tell him yourself.”

“He's always made me feel like I was special . . . you know? So when I screw up and do something stupid, I feel like I'm letting him down. Or maybe I'm just letting myself down and I blame it on him,” Rita answered, wiping the tears from her cheeks and taking a deep breath like she was preparing to jump in the pool.