The Green Lace Corset, стр. 30

“Annie, I’ve gotta go! The awards are starting. I’m getting a Mrs. Albee Award for being one of Michigan’s best-selling representatives.”

“That’s great, Mom. Bye.” If Anne decided to have an abortion she wouldn’t tell her family anything about it. Ever.

Fay would understand and help her make a decision. But could Anne confess the whole truth? She’d never told anyone about Barnaby.

I had a one-night stand, and we got drunk, and then Sergio came for an unexpected visit, we got carried away, and, well, oops.

She could hear Fay now: blimey this and blimey that.

The next morning, Anne walked into the Coffee Cup Café. Taylor Swift’s “Lover” played softly. Anne waved at Stan the Barista Man and looked around. Even though the place was packed, Fay had managed to snag their favorite, bay-window table. Anne hoped she’d have the courage to confide in Fay about her predicament. If not, she would need to make a decision on her own.

Fay stood and gave Anne a quick squeeze. “Sorry, I don’t have much time. I’ve an install.”

She handed Anne a cup. “Here, I’ve ordered for you.”

Anne licked the whipped cream off the top of the mocha and sat down.

Fay sat, ran her hand through her smashing turquoise bob, and gave Anne an envelope. “And here’s your check from the gallery. Five of your small heart pieces sold. Everyone is bonkers over them.”

“Sweet.” Outside the window, summer breezes blew ornamental pear-tree branches.

“We sold the hearts for one hundred dollars apiece, so the check is for two fifty, since the gallery’s cut is fifty percent. Will you make some more for me?” Fay dunked her tea bag.

“I’ll try. I’m still working on my Southwest inspirations.”

“Okay.” Fay nibbled a bite of scone. “Ooh, scrummy.” She pushed it toward Anne. “Have some.”

The thought of taking a bite nauseated her. She’d already been sick once that morning. She felt better now but didn’t want to chance it. “I didn’t get much sleep. This mocha will help.” She took a sip.

“You do look tired.”

A group of teenage girls sat at a nearby table, drinking coffee and scrolling through their cell phones. Their bra straps showed beneath their sundresses.

Fay leaned toward Anne. “Blimey. Me mum would have killed me if I’d tried to wear something like that out of the house.”

“Mine too. Fashionista Fay, why don’t you say something to them?”

“They have no class. But it’s not my job to tell them so. They wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.”

“My mom didn’t let me drink coffee at that age, either. Did yours?”

“No. How’d the interview go? I heard Fredricka had to sit out.”

Anne filled her in about Karl’s bow. “I think Mr. Willingsby liked me, but Priscilla was very businesslike. In fact, she was downright icy.” Anne told Fay about Priscilla’s snarky comments. “What a disaster.” She didn’t mention the part when she ran out to the bathroom and discovered that Priscilla and Mr. Willingsby were gone when she returned. “I really wanted it.”

“Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll get it!” Fay pulled off another piece of scone.

Anne drank some mocha. “What do you know about Priscilla? What kind of art did she do?”

“I’ve never seen her work.” Fay pulled out her phone and googled her. “Nothing here about her genre. Degrees up the wazoo, though.”

“I know. Maybe she’s a shadow artist.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s from Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way—someone who hangs out with artists but never does any work herself.”

Fay stuck out her lower lip and ran her hand through her hair.

“I didn’t mean you.” Anne put her hand on Fay’s arm. “You’re a professional. You do more than just hang out. You encourage. You curate. You sell.” Anne held up the check with a grin.

“Maybe someday your workaholic friend will try to do some art.”

Anne leaned forward. “Maybe you can take my adult class at the museum. I do all sorts of lessons for artists at all levels.”

“Maybe. You never know what life will bring.” Fay raised her eyebrows.

“That’s true.” Anne held on to the edges of her chair, took a deep breath, and let it out. “I’ve got news.”

“So do I. You go first.”

“No, you.”

Fay smiled and raised her voice. “I’ve got a bun in the oven.”

Confused, Anne glanced at the scone, at the barista behind the counter, and back at her friend. Face aglow, Fay put a hand on her stomach.

Anne’s hands flew to her cheeks as the realization set in. “What? You’re pregnant.” Her plans blew up in flames. No way could she tell Fay now what she was considering.

Fay guffawed. “Abso-bloody-lutely. Isn’t it a miracle?”

Anne forced a smile. It had been more than a year since Fay had moved into Bay Breeze with George and subsequently married him.

Anne swallowed. “Congratulations. How far along are you?”

“Four months. We waited to share the news until the coast was clear.” She continued, in her bawdy English accent, “I know. I thought I was going through the change. When the doctor told me, I said, “Blimey. I’m no spring chickadee! Isn’t it dangerous? I’m almost forty-seven.” She reassured me geriatric pregnancies are commonplace now and easy to monitor. I’m a geriatric! How do you like that?”

Anne didn’t know what to say. She just stared at her friend.

“I know what you’re thinking. We’re kind of old, but George is deliriously happy. When we were first engaged, we considered adoption, but then we decided we were too old. This is all meant to be!”

Feeling queasy, Anne eked out, “What a blessing.”

“Yes, it sure is. It was soooo hard not to tell you, but I promised George I’d wait until after we got all our geriatric test results back. Paul was ecstatic; he insisted we all continue to live together at Bay Breeze and take care of him. He said he’d be delighted to hear the pitter-patter of little feet besides just Lucky’s, his beagle-basset. There’s plenty of room there for all of us.”

Anne sipped her mocha, trying to listen with an open heart as Fay bubbled on. “Because of