Read Online Christmas Bliss by Mary Kay Andrews - Free Book Online Page A

her brilliance and efficiency always made me feel inadequate. In fact, she was so efficient, she’d managed to have twins three years ago and six weeks later ran a marathon.
    “Do I need a birth plan? Nobody told me.”
    “Of course! When I had Addison and James, I had a whole spreadsheet printed out and packed in my hospital bag. Jeff had a copy, and my mom and mother-in-law had theirs, and I made sure to e-mail copies to my obstetrician and his partners.”
    “I don’t think I have one of those,” I admitted. “I sort of just thought when the time came I’d go to the hospital and, you know, have a baby.”
    “Oh, BeBe, you’re so cute and funny,” she said, rapping my arm playfully.
    I turned away slightly and bumped into Karen Turner, a former classmate from Savannah Country Day.
    “Oh, a Christmas baby,” she cooed, placing both hands on my belly. I backed away a little. Baby or no, I’ve never gotten used to people, even well-meaning semi-friends, randomly fondling my abdomen.
    “Uh, actually, no. I’m not due for another six weeks.”
    Her eyes widened. “Really? Ugh. Another six weeks? I remember when I was pregnant with Creighton, those last six weeks were torture. I couldn’t sleep, because he kicked nonstop, plus I had to get up every ten minutes to pee. The back pain was agony! And then I got gestational diabetes, which meant blood testing and insulin injections. Plus, I had this really heinous constant heartburn, and then my hands were so swollen Wendell had to take me to the emergency room and get my wedding ring sawed off.”
    She gazed meaningfully down at my ringless left hand.
    What do you say to something like that? I blanked, which Karen took as a signal to overshare with one last tidbit of her maternity miseries.
    She leaned in and lowered her voice. “I guess Merijoy probably told you about my episiotomy disaster, right?”
    Episiotomy disaster? If ever there were two words no pregnant woman ever wants to hear uttered together, it was those words. I looked around for Weezie, frantically searching the room, hoping she would rescue me. But she was clear across the room, laughing and chatting with our hostess, without a care in the world.
    “I’m still not right,” Karen was saying.
    I felt dizzy. I put both hands on the back of a nearby chair to steady myself, but the room seemed to suddenly go a little fuzzy around the edges. I took a couple of deep cleansing breaths, the kind I’d read about on somebody’s mommy blog.
    “Are you all right?” Karen asked.
    “Could you excuse me?” I managed. “I have to go powder my nose.”
    I ran-walked to the powder room, making it just in the nick of time. Afterward, I ran cold water on one of Merijoy’s monogrammed linen hand towels and dabbed my face and neck with it. I leaned against the locked bathroom door and checked the time on my cell phone. Only twenty minutes had passed since I’d arrived. Twenty minutes!
    More deep breaths.
    Finally, after ten minutes of stalling, I sidled back into the living room and concentrated on making myself invisible—no easy task when you’re the size of a Winnebago and the party is in your honor.
    Thankfully, nobody else had the nerve to inquire about my plans—birth or marriage. And I managed to steer well away from Karen Turner for the rest of the afternoon.
    Finally, mercifully, Merijoy herded us all into the dining room, where we exclaimed over her snowman-themed Christmas tree and loaded our hand-painted luncheon plates with the obligatory Southern lady party food; tiny, delicious little crustless sandwiches made with shrimp paste or egg salad or pimento cheese, deviled eggs, a pecan-speckled cheese ball surrounded by strawberry preserves, and of course cheese straws. In Savannah, there’s a law that says you cannot get engaged, married, christened, or buried without a nicely polished silver tray of cheese straws.
    When I’d eaten my fill of cheese-related products, plus four or five