The Green Lace Corset, стр. 29
“I’m sorry. I’ll work on that.” Anne began to perspire. Not only had Priscilla thrown her under the bus, but now she was backing up over her.
Anne folded her hands on her lap. Good thing they weren’t meeting in the classroom now. She hadn’t cleaned up very well after the last session.
“Okay, let’s start with the official interview questions.” Priscilla looked at Mr. Willingsby.
He cleared his throat and read from the paper in front of him: “Why are you the right person for the residency?”
Perfect—she could answer this one. “First of all, I love the museum.” She ticked off the other three points on her fingers as she nailed the question.
Mr. Willingsby jotted notes while she talked.
Priscilla asked, “Being an artist can be very challenging. How do you keep balance in your life?”
Anne froze for a moment. She hadn’t thought of this question. Priscilla tapped her pen on the table edge. Mr. Willingsby frowned at her, and she stopped.
“Sorry. Would you please repeat the question?” Anne felt like a third grader at a spelling bee.
“How do you maintain work-life balance?”
Anne swallowed. “Even though art is my life, I practice yoga, walk the San Francisco hills, and spend time with friends.”
Mr. Willingsby jotted more on his paper and asked the next question. “Tell us about your artistic path.”
She had anticipated this one too. However, the fan twirling overhead cast shadows on the table in front of her, and she couldn’t concentrate. Her body felt like an overheating Karmann Ghia. The air conditioner must not be working. She wanted to take off her jacket, but she didn’t want the underarm stains on her blouse to show. Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit her again.
“Excuse me. I need some air.” She stood, and her chair fell over. She darted out of the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom.
21
That night, Anne stared at the stick resting on the sink. She felt faint, put the toilet seat down, and sat. It just couldn’t be. But those two blue lines didn’t lie. Oh my God! What was she going to do?
She counted on her calendar again, backward and forward. It had been seven weeks since she’d been with Sergio and, oh God, that guy from Ruby’s. She just couldn’t be pregnant. Not now. Not when her career had been going so well. She loved her work at the museum. She had the residency opportunity. The museum hadn’t contacted her yet about its decision. After her fiasco of an interview, she probably wouldn’t get it, but at least she had a chance.
How could she have let this happen? What a hussy. Sure, she’d been a bit down and lonely, but that was no excuse. Yes, she wanted a baby someday, but with a committed partner.
God, how could you be so mean as to put me in this predicament? Deep in Anne’s heart, she acknowledged she was the only one at fault. How could she have had sex with two guys within forty-eight hours? Both dalliances had taken her by surprise and caught her unprepared. Obviously.
She touched the lucky horseshoe she’d hung in the relationship corner above the shower. “You worked too well. I meant for you to get me a new man, not get me pregnant.”
She grabbed the hammer, ripped the horseshoe off the wall, pulling some plaster with it, and dropped the art piece in the trash can, then pulled it back out. She had to use it as a sample with her students. She carried it to the box of materials for the museum and placed the horseshoe inside, then lay on her daybed.
What was his name, that creepy wannabe cowboy from Rhinestone Ruby’s? Barnaby. What a name. She’d thought he was so sexy in his Stetson and tight chaps. How cliché. Just like in the movies, she’d been the girl who woke up in the morning with regret beside a guy in a raunchy apartment. She couldn’t blame it on the beers, Electric Slide endorphins, or even the green lace corset.
The day after their tryst (if she could call it that), he’d sent her a Facebook friend request, but she’d deleted it. Was he the guy who’d continued to like her Instagram posts?
How could Sergio have shown up in town so soon afterward?
Yes, they’d jumped right back into bed as if no time had elapsed. And because of their absence from each other, their lovemaking had been even more intense.
She looked down, put her hand on her stomach, and asked, “Who’s your daddy? I wish that little stick could tell us.”
She imagined DNA tests, lawyers, court orders. Sergio had always told her he wanted lots of children.
She closed her eyes and thought about her last visit to Michigan. As she’d held little Brian, her cousin Pootie’s son, Anne’s maternal instincts had kicked in. His blond peach-fuzz head, blinking blue eyes, and tiny, soft hands holding on to her fingers had made her wish she had one of her own.
What was she going to do? She should make an appointment at Planned Parenthood and consider her options. But she needed someone to talk to. She picked up her phone and dialed her mom.
“Hello.” A loudspeaker echoed in the background.
“Mom, what’s all that noise?”
“I’m in Detroit, at an Avon convention. They’ve got so many new wonderful products. I’ll send you some.”
Anne visualized her mom rubbing overly scented lotion on her hands. “Fine.”
“Did you hear Sue Garner is getting married?”
“Who’s that?”
“You remember—she’s Gloria Garner’s daughter. You used to babysit her. Called her Susie Q.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“It seems she’s in the family way. Gloria is so excited. How’s your love life?”
Anne swallowed. She so wanted to tell her mom she was pregnant and ask for advice, but under these circumstances, she couldn’t share that. Anne couldn’t call Pootie, either. She’d tell Anne’s mom and Aunt Tootie, and then everyone in Oscoda would know. They’d all ask if Sergio was the father. Then they’d all get their hopes up that