“Blossom Betty’s,” I read. That was the logo on the card. “Where’s that?”
He picked up his phone and did a quick search. “It’s in Anders,” he said.
“Huh. Weird.” Anders was halfway to Atlanta. Lawrenceton had once been a small town some distance out of Atlanta, but the space in between the two on the map was rapidly filling up with bedroom communities. Anders was one of those.
“They’re really pretty,” I said. “You like roses, right? Especially yellow ones? You said that in an interview. So I’m guessing that someone meant to congratulate you on the nomination.”
“By sending me flowers?” He looked doubtful. Then he shrugged and coiled up another belt to place carefully in the middle of the bag. “Okay, that’s it except for my shaving kit,” he muttered. He looked at me with a resigned face. “You have to quit reading my interviews. I’ve said some weird things when I felt under pressure.”
I went to the kitchen to put the roses in a vase. While I arranged the flowers, I realized I was feeling a bit sluggish. Not quite ill, but not really well, either. I was glad when we turned in for the night and I could legitimately crawl under the sheet. I was restless all night, but toward dawn I fell into a heavy sleep.
When I woke, Robin was already shaved, and he’d combed his unruly red hair. I was startled that I’d slept so long. I scrambled out of bed, with a hazy feeling that I was starting the day off on the wrong foot. In honor of his departure, I went about toasting some English muffins and scrambling eggs.
I caught a glimpse of Phillip as he grabbed a muffin on his way out the door. His friends Josh and Jocelyn Finstermeyer were already parked outside.
Robin perched on a barstool, enjoying a cup of coffee and a hot breakfast. The hot breakfast was a little unusual, I admit. I feel I am doing well to even start the coffeepot, most mornings. I turned away from the plate I’d prepared and coughed into my elbow.
“You’re sick,” Robin said.
“Oh, maybe a little cold,” I said.
Robin touched my forehead, and went into our bathroom, reappearing with a thermometer.
I had a low-grade temperature. “It’s nothing,” I said, with forced cheer.
Robin looked at me sharply. “I’ll cancel my flight and my hotel.” He meant what he said, but I could detect his disappointment. He had a panel this afternoon with some of his idols, and the awards banquet would be tomorrow night. Ever since the day he’d gotten the phone call from the nominating committee, Robin had been walking on air.
For the past twelve years, Robin’s sales had gained momentum, but he’d never before been nominated for more than a minor award or two. This year, for the first time ever, Robin was on the highly prestigious Anthony ballot. Only my reluctance to take a small baby into such a public venue had kept me from traveling to Nashville with him. Robin’s friend (and best man at our wedding) Jeff Abbott had promised me he’d film Robin’s acceptance speech—if Robin got to make it.
After I’d read the other nominated novels, I thought Panel of Experts had a real shot at winning. It was Robin’s best book to date; plus (and this never hurts), he was a popular and respected writer.
“You’re going,” I said firmly. I stared Robin down across his suitcase. He was getting on that plane.
To give him credit, Robin was still dubious. “I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to get sicker. Maybe call the doctor and see if you should even be breast-feeding?”
I hadn’t thought of that. Sophie and I were a package deal until I weaned her. She would not take a bottle, which made me curiously proud, but it was actually quite inconvenient.
Robin, who’d been looking at me with baffled concern, brightened. “Listen, you want me to call that woman your mom hired? Who came every day after Sophie was born?”
“Virginia,” I said.
My mother had figured home help was the best assistance she could give me. Though I had initially resisted the idea of sharing my first few days with my baby, I’d given in when I realized how exhausted I was. Virginia had had the energy to put a meal on the table and do the laundry as well as take care of Sophie’s diaper changes while I took a nap and Robin tried to catch up on his work.
At that time, Virginia had stayed from 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. for five days. I’d recovered from the birth as quickly as I had because Virginia picked up the slack. Though I’d appreciated all Virginia’s help, I couldn’t say I’d bonded with her.
This morning, I figured it would be better to hire Virginia and not really need her than to go without her (possibly essential) help. I didn’t often get sick, but when I did, I did a good job of it. If I was even thinking of going back to bed when Robin left, I’d need Virginia.
Robin checked his Contacts list and called her on the spot. He liked to walk around while he talked on the phone. He wandered into Sophie’s room to look at her sleeping, and then down the hall, all the while exchanging a quiet dialogue. When he came back into the bedroom, he was beaming. “Her last job just ended. And she’s willing to stay nights instead of days. If you’re getting sick, your temperature will be going up at night. I’ll only be gone till Sunday afternoon.” He was much happier now that he could leave with a clear conscience.
“Do we still have the bed she used?” My mother had loaned us a folding bed. Phillip had the second bedroom, and Sophie the third, so Virginia would have to share with Sophie, as she had before.
“Aida told me to keep it for a while, just in case. I’ll get the foam slab,” Robin said. We’d bought it to make the folding bed a bit more comfortable. “Won’t take me a minute to set it up, and if you tell me where the sheets are, I’ll put them on.”
The plus side to owning an older home (and one of the reasons I’d bought this house) was that all the rooms—including the bedrooms—were really sizable. Virginia wouldn’t be cheek by jowl with the crib.
“The sheets are in Sophie’s closet on the second shelf,” I told him. While Robin took care of the bed, I called my ob-gyn, Dr. Garrison. Her nurse relayed my questions and called me back in five minutes. We had a conversation about Sophie’s risk in being close to me, and how I could minimize the chances of her getting whatever it was I was coming down with. I was punching the “end” icon when my husband reappeared.
“What did Dr. G say?” he asked.
“My milk is okay. I should wear a face mask when I’m holding her, wash my hands thoroughly and often, and minimize contact. So it’s good Virginia’s free.”
“Do we have face masks?”
“You had some you wore when you mowed the yard. They’re in the garage, third shelf, middle.”
“Great!” He hustled out to bring them to me. “Anything else before I call Uber?”