Speakeasy (True North #5)(85)

It’s a tough crowd here on a Thursday. I pass Zara the jug of ale and try to continue. “He replies, ‘Why not? I don’t take up mushroom…”

Everyone laughs.

But I’m not done. “So the bartender says—”

“Omigod,” Audrey yelps, setting down her fork. “I think my water just broke!”

My first thought is, No, that’s not how it goes.

Then I realize that Griffin has leapt out of his chair. “Let’s go to the hospital,” he says. “Is your suitcase in the truck?”

“Take a breath, honey,” Ruth says. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t know if you’ll still think so when you see the pad on this chair,” Audrey says shakily.

Audrey Shipley went into labor in the middle of my mushroom joke. I can’t believe it. I think I’m destined never to finish it.

Griff eases Audrey off her chair. “You doing okay?”

“Sure,” she says, and then inhales suddenly. “So that’s what contractions feel like.”

“Breathe,” Zara says. “You’ve probably been contracting all day. But after your water breaks, you really feel it.”

“Oh, goody,” the very pregnant woman says, easing herself out of the chair. “Well, guys. The next time I see you, it will be with a baby.”

“I’m not ready to be a great-grandpa,” Grandpa says. “That sounds so flipping old. I think I need a piece of pie to console myself.”

Everyone wishes Audrey good luck as she takes Griffin’s hand and begins to ease herself toward the door.

“Do you have any beer tasting notes for me at least?” I tease. “Before you deliver this kid?”

Griffin scowls at me, but by now I’m used to it.

“I’ll follow you to the hospital in an hour,” Ruth says. “Is there anything you need from the bungalow that you don’t have?”

“I don’t think so,” Audrey says, wide-eyed. She moves carefully.

“You should sit on some towels in the truck,” Zara offers. “Trust me on this.”

“I’ll get ’em!” Dylan says, bounding out of the room.

Griff and Audrey make their way out of the house and drive away. The rest of us nibble a little more dinner and then clean everything up quickly so that Ruth can go to Montpelier whenever she wants to.

“I could go with you, Mom,” May volunteers.

“That is nice of you, sweetie, but go and take your things to Alec’s. The baby won’t show up until tomorrow, probably.”

May and I take this advice. We carry her packed possessions out of the TV room and out to my truck and load them up.

“No garbage bags this time,” she says.

“Because we’re so classy,” I say, closing the tailgate on her boxes of books.

We get into the truck and I start ’er up. “Do I get to hear how that joke ends?” May asks while the engine warms.

“Oh, sure. The bartender repeats that he doesn’t serve mushrooms. And the mushroom says, ‘Why not? I’m a fun-gi.’”

May’s beautiful brown eyes just blink at me in the darkness for a second. Then she bursts out laughing.

“It’s a good one, right?”

She hangs her head and her shoulders shake. “No and yes. It’s a crap joke. But you are a fun guy.”

“The funnest,” I agree. “Let’s go home and I’ll show you just how fun.”

We do that. But first we have to kiss for a couple of minutes right there in the driveway. Because we’ve got a good thing going and we don’t see any need to change.