Read Online Christmas Bliss by Mary Kay Andrews - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Kay Andrews
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birth of her sixth child—a boy, she confided—I glanced around the living room. A towering fir seemed to fill one corner of the room, its angel tree-topper touching the two-story-high cathedral ceiling. The thing was plastered with hundreds and hundreds of gilded and glittered angels, all of them lit by miles and miles of tiny white lights.
“Wow, what a tree. Is it real?”
“Oh yes,” Merijoy said. “Randy Rucker won’t allow a fake tree in his house. So we actually have six trees—the others are in the dining room, the kitchen, the great room, his office, and the children’s playroom. All of them have different themes. And I spend most of my waking hours vacuuming up pine needles.”
Merijoy plucked a cellophane box from a console table behind a green velvet sofa, opened it, and took out the largest orchid I have ever seen. “This is for you,” she said.
It was approximately the size of a dinner plate.
“Oh, wow, thanks,” I said feebly. “A corsage. I don’t think I’ve had a corsage since I went to the KA pledge party at Ole Miss.”
The doorbell rang just then, and she left me to fasten my own corsage. Pinned atop my now D-cup boob and trailing pink and blue ribbons, I felt as though I were wearing a potted plant on my chest. I glanced over at Weezie. “How’m I doing?”
Before she could answer, I was suddenly engulfed in a tidal wave of female relatives; my grandmother, my great-aunt Helen from Beaufort, Aunt Bizzy from Charleston, and the clot of cousins I’ve always referred to as “the Marys”—Mary Margaret, Jeanne Marie, and Mary Elizabeth.
With affectionate squeals and shrieks and pats and hugs and kisses, they circled around me, exclaiming over their joy at seeing me, their approval of my dress—Aunt Bizzy referred to me as “cute as a bug,” something nobody has said of me since I was eight—and questions. Endless questions.
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Don’t know,” I said breezily.
“But which would you prefer?” somebody asked.
“A healthy baby,” I responded.
“Have you picked out names yet?”
“Not really. We want to wait to see who the baby is before we commit to something as important—and permanent—as a name.”
“I always think family names are the most suitable,” Aunt Bizzy opined. “And you know, none of the cousins has ever named a child after your grandparents. Wouldn’t that be a lovely tribute to them?” She gave me a meaningful wink.
I adore my grandparents—whose names are Spencer and Lorena. Nice enough names, I suppose, but not ones I would ever choose for my own child. I was about to remind Aunt Bizzy that she hadn’t bothered to name any of her five children after her own parents, but thank God, Grandmama overheard.
“Good heavens! I’ve always hated the name Lorena, and I’m not keen on Spencer either, which is why we didn’t foist them off on any of our own children.”
She gave me a stern look. “BeBe, I absolutely forbid you to name a child after either of us.”
“If you insist,” I said gratefully.
“Don’t ask her about when she’s getting married,” Grandmama said when there was finally a temporary lull in the conversation. She was seated in a leather armchair in front of the fireplace, her silver-knobbed cane resting against her legs, which were clad in her customary dark orange surgical stockings.
Five sets of eyes stared at me. I smiled sweetly. And said absolutely nothing.
Fortunately, more waves of women soon landed in the room, another two dozen or so—and they barely made a dent in the Ruckers’ expansive living room, with its jewel-toned Oriental rugs, velvet sofas, and paisley armchairs and leather wing chairs.
I circled the room and made polite conversation.
“Do you have a birth plan yet?” asked Stephanie Gardner. Stephanie was a Georgia Tech–educated engineer, and she and her husband, Jeff, also an engineer, lived two doors down from my town house downtown. I liked Stephanie, but
“Wow, what a tree. Is it real?”
“Oh yes,” Merijoy said. “Randy Rucker won’t allow a fake tree in his house. So we actually have six trees—the others are in the dining room, the kitchen, the great room, his office, and the children’s playroom. All of them have different themes. And I spend most of my waking hours vacuuming up pine needles.”
Merijoy plucked a cellophane box from a console table behind a green velvet sofa, opened it, and took out the largest orchid I have ever seen. “This is for you,” she said.
It was approximately the size of a dinner plate.
“Oh, wow, thanks,” I said feebly. “A corsage. I don’t think I’ve had a corsage since I went to the KA pledge party at Ole Miss.”
The doorbell rang just then, and she left me to fasten my own corsage. Pinned atop my now D-cup boob and trailing pink and blue ribbons, I felt as though I were wearing a potted plant on my chest. I glanced over at Weezie. “How’m I doing?”
Before she could answer, I was suddenly engulfed in a tidal wave of female relatives; my grandmother, my great-aunt Helen from Beaufort, Aunt Bizzy from Charleston, and the clot of cousins I’ve always referred to as “the Marys”—Mary Margaret, Jeanne Marie, and Mary Elizabeth.
With affectionate squeals and shrieks and pats and hugs and kisses, they circled around me, exclaiming over their joy at seeing me, their approval of my dress—Aunt Bizzy referred to me as “cute as a bug,” something nobody has said of me since I was eight—and questions. Endless questions.
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Don’t know,” I said breezily.
“But which would you prefer?” somebody asked.
“A healthy baby,” I responded.
“Have you picked out names yet?”
“Not really. We want to wait to see who the baby is before we commit to something as important—and permanent—as a name.”
“I always think family names are the most suitable,” Aunt Bizzy opined. “And you know, none of the cousins has ever named a child after your grandparents. Wouldn’t that be a lovely tribute to them?” She gave me a meaningful wink.
I adore my grandparents—whose names are Spencer and Lorena. Nice enough names, I suppose, but not ones I would ever choose for my own child. I was about to remind Aunt Bizzy that she hadn’t bothered to name any of her five children after her own parents, but thank God, Grandmama overheard.
“Good heavens! I’ve always hated the name Lorena, and I’m not keen on Spencer either, which is why we didn’t foist them off on any of our own children.”
She gave me a stern look. “BeBe, I absolutely forbid you to name a child after either of us.”
“If you insist,” I said gratefully.
“Don’t ask her about when she’s getting married,” Grandmama said when there was finally a temporary lull in the conversation. She was seated in a leather armchair in front of the fireplace, her silver-knobbed cane resting against her legs, which were clad in her customary dark orange surgical stockings.
Five sets of eyes stared at me. I smiled sweetly. And said absolutely nothing.
Fortunately, more waves of women soon landed in the room, another two dozen or so—and they barely made a dent in the Ruckers’ expansive living room, with its jewel-toned Oriental rugs, velvet sofas, and paisley armchairs and leather wing chairs.
I circled the room and made polite conversation.
“Do you have a birth plan yet?” asked Stephanie Gardner. Stephanie was a Georgia Tech–educated engineer, and she and her husband, Jeff, also an engineer, lived two doors down from my town house downtown. I liked Stephanie, but
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