The Swap(40)

What I had realized the most during her absence was that I missed her. Despite the toxic stew of emotions surrounding that night, Freya was the most vibrant, exciting person I had ever met. Without her, my life whittled down to Brian, whose mind was preoccupied with his novel; the store, which was struggling; and Low, who was . . . Low.

And I couldn’t walk away from Freya’s baby. The poor little thing needed me. Freya knew nothing about infants or children, seemed remarkably naive and uninformed about the process of birthing and rearing a child. While she was fun, stylish, and cool, she was also self-absorbed, flighty, and irresponsible. She had told me, numerous times, that she was out of her depth and would need my help with the baby. And I believed her.

I’d had several texts from her while she was in Mexico—breezy notes wishing I was there, wishing she could have a margarita, wishing she didn’t look like a “beached whale” in her bikini. She sent photos, too—belly shots mostly. She was also posting them on Instagram. Though I wasn’t very active on the platform, I’d noticed her photos and the outpouring of admiration they prompted. There were nasty comments, too, but the majority were supportive, adoring, worshipful. . . .

My responses to Freya’s texts had been brief and ambiguous as I grappled with my feelings. I’d been too upset to confront her before she left, but as the date of her return approached, I found emotional clarity. I wanted Freya and the baby in my life, but there could be no more secrets, no more deception. We had to face our issues head-on.

She texted me the day after they got home.

I’m baaaaaaack. Coffee? Lunch? Drink?

We needed privacy for this conversation; a place where we could be completely and utterly alone.

Could you come by the store?

Late January was a retail no-man’s land. Freya responded instantly.

Will Low be there?

My only employee had minimized the incident that led to her fallout with Freya. Her baby brother had been keeping her up at night, she’d told me, so she’d temporarily camped at the studio. A noise had woken her, and she’d rushed to the main house in concern only to find Freya and Max in the kitchen. A pottery bowl had broken, Freya had cried out in dismay. It sounded so benign, but Freya had been incensed by the invasion of privacy. Low had to have seen more than she was letting on.

I was certain that Low had caught Freya and Max in flagrante in the kitchen. My friend may have been sexually provocative, but she was not an exhibitionist. And she was pregnant. That would have made her feel more vulnerable. Freya was vain about her appearance. She must have been mortified and embarrassed, so she had cut Low off. What else could it have been?

I texted her back.

We’re closed Tuesdays. I want to talk to you. Alone.

As I hit send, a frisson of foreboding traveled through me. If Freya could excise Low from her life over a misunderstanding, she could do the same to me.

? ? ?

Freya arrived at the store dressed in white to set off her tan. Her bump had grown in the six weeks since I’d seen her. It rode on her tiny frame like a perky basketball. Her hair looked even blonder; her eyes even bluer. On her arm was a bulging canvas bag that she set on the counter before sweeping me into a long, genuine hug.

“God, I missed you.” She had a way of expressing intense, even intimate sentiments in a casual, offhand way. “And the baby missed you, too.”

She placed my hand on her taut belly. There was nothing for a moment, and then I felt it move. Freya’s child was rolling over, shifting position, letting me know he or she was there. A host of tangled emotions filled my chest. I already loved this baby.

“Wow,” I whispered.

“I brought you something.” From the bag, she extracted a bundle of newspapers. Inside was nestled an exquisite piece of hand-painted Mexican pottery.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I saw it and thought of you right away,” she said. “I was terrified it would break, so I brought it as extra carry-on luggage. I had to charm the flight attendant to let me keep it in my lap.”

I was touched by her thoughtfulness. “Thanks,” I said, my voice husky. But I couldn’t forget that she had manipulated my husband into her bed. “Have a seat.” I indicated the stool behind the counter. “We need to talk.”

“Sure.” She perched, like a little pregnant bird, on the edge of it. “What’s up?”

I took a deep breath. “I know you slept with Brian.”

“And you slept with Max.”

My cheeks burned with humiliation. “Yes, but you told Brian that I was bored with him. And desperate to have sex with someone else.”

“That’s what you told me, Jamie. That day when we were walking in the forest.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said you had wanted to be with other people and have other sexual experiences, but you and Brian got together so young.”

“That didn’t mean I wanted to swap husbands!”

“So you didn’t enjoy it?”

My face was practically on fire now. “I—I didn’t say that. But my husband is hurt and upset.”

“He seemed to be having a good time to me.”

Jesus, she could be mean. My voice wavered as I continued. “And then you got pregnant. Brian was . . . concerned.”

“The baby’s not his,” she snapped, hopping off the stool. “I showed him a dated ultrasound photo.”