The Last Romantics(95)

Recently Jonathan had finished a large retablo for a Greek shipping magnate, a ten-foot-tall wooden secular altarpiece with a series of carvings and small sculptures that evoked the life and family of the client. Finished, it operated more as extravagant spectacle than furniture or art, which Renee supposed was the client’s intention. These were the kinds of things Jonathan did now. Gone were the tables and chairs and tall, elegant mantelpieces. Nothing utilitarian, nothing useful, only more and more of these personalized, quasi-ceremonial pieces, enormous and, to Renee’s mind, reflective of little more than his clients’ own outsized narcissism.

It was nice, Renee admitted, to have the money. Her medical-school loans gone. The entire brownstone theirs. They traveled widely and well, when their schedules allowed, and had offered to help Noni on numerous occasions (What about a nicer house? You and Danette don’t have to stay at youth hostels anymore!) though she’d always refused.

Renee glanced at the clock. She pulled the milk from the bag. She set the glowing red tomatoes onto the sill. Today the egg (Melanie’s beautiful, special egg) would meet Jonathan’s rangy, lab-pummeled sperm, and two would become one. Would become four, sixteen, thirty-two. On and on and on. In five days Renee’s body would receive the cluster of cells (the embryo, the nurse informed her, the size of a petit pois) and she would be pregnant.

Renee placed an eggplant into the vegetable drawer. She put a hand on the refrigerator door. There were still things that could go wrong. Things could always go wrong.

A door slammed. Jonathan was home.

Renee had bought flowers, a great bouquet of yellow and red tulips. She took them to the door to greet him. “Jonathan,” she called, and already he was there in the kitchen doorway. His eyes caught on the flowers, and instantly Renee felt silly. This day was nothing. It might be nothing. Why mark it with so much fanfare? She placed the bouquet beside the sink.

“Hi,” Renee said. “How was the flight?”

“Long.” He glanced at the bags on the counter. “Did you get wine?”

“Yes. A nice pinot gris. Harold recommended it.”

“Great. Tonight, you know. The thing at Nan’s.”

“Yes. I’m not going. Remember?”

“Why?”

“I need to rest. I can’t drink.”

“Renee.”

His voice was solemn and she paused before answering. “What?”

“I don’t want this.” Jonathan was still wearing his jacket. His packed suitcase was still in his hand.

“They’re just flowers,” Renee said, although she knew what he meant. The only surprise, she realized now, was that it had taken this long.

“I mean. This. The egg. The baby.”

“It’s not a baby yet.”

“It will be. You heard what they said. You’re a great candidate.”

“Still. Anything could happen.”

“I don’t want it. The change, the disruption. I like us the way we are.”

Rene studied Jonathan: graying, a shadow of stubble, older than she was. He still wore the same glasses, the same types of shoes as he had when they first met. Jonathan was loyal, there was no denying that, when the subject of his loyalty remained constant. But Renee: she had changed.

“We’ve been over this, Jonathan. With Betsy. With Dr. Petarro. This is what I need. But if you want to go, go.” Renee waved him away and turned back to the sack of groceries; there were still items to unpack.

There followed a minute or two of silence from Jonathan. Renee refused to look at him as she moved around the kitchen, finishing up. It was his choice to make. She would not try to convince him. On some questions the need for persuasion meant you had already lost.

Finally Renee heard the rattle of Jonathan’s keys, the soft tap of his shoes, the whine of the door as it opened and closed again. The quiet that descended.

She emptied the grocery bag and hung it from a knob. She took the flowers from the counter and carefully unwrapped them, snipped the ends, found a vase in the side cupboard, the tall one used for unwieldy things, and filled the vase with water. She slid the flowers in and placed the vase onto the kitchen table, right in the middle. They were lovely flowers, the cups of the tulips just beginning to open. It was spring, and the watery, dank scent of spring—even here, surrounded by concrete—came to her from the open window.

So much remained uncertain, but Renee felt at ease. This egg, hers but not hers. A baby. After eighteen years with Jonathan Frank, Renee was ready to love someone new.





Chapter 18




I sat at the computer in the den reviewing my itinerary for the climate-change conference. Three mornings of presentations and meetings in Seattle, with day excursions possible. A trip to the Olympic Peninsula. A ferry ride to various islands, each one appearing on Google Maps as craggy and green, studded with peaks shrouded in mist. I clicked through this link, then that one. Will was upstairs packing for his own business trip, this one to Chicago, when he heard me cry out.

“Fiona?” He pounded down the stairs and stood in the doorway. “What is it? Is it Renee?”

“No,” I said. “Not Renee. She’s still pregnant and big as a house and bloated, but she’s fine. I just talked to her an hour ago.” Caroline and I were on perpetual call for Renee: she’d asked us both to be there for the delivery.