Read Online Heaven to Betsy (Emily #1) by Pamela Fagan Hutchins - Free Book Online
Authors: Pamela Fagan Hutchins
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love the western-themed matching bedspread and curtains as much as I had when mother had made them for me as an eleventh birthday present. I missed my California King back in Dallas, with the silver silk sheets and the black satin comforter. Come to think of it, though, I didn’t love them all that much, either. They were Rich, through and through. My next bedroom would be all about me, the grown-up Emily—whenever I could figure her the heck out—and nobody else.
I stood at the closet door and surveyed my limited choices. I hadn’t been thinking career wear when I’d bolted for home the day after Stormy had, well, stormed in on our romantic dinner—the one I’d made for Rich to celebrate sharing my great news with him. “The rabbit’s died” took on a whole new meaning when Rich’s scary secret lover showed up in our candlelit dining room, before I’d a chance to even tell him about the baby.
Also, because of that dead rabbit, my clothes would soon be snug. I’d have to get Rich to ship my things. And I’d need to shop . . . and tell Mother. The thought of admitting to her that I’d somehow gotten pregnant just before my husband revealed his double life as a cheating bisexual burned my biscuits. Almost as much as the dread of Rich learning about his baby, and the possibility of sharing custody with Rich and Stormy.
All kvetching about Stormy aside, it wasn’t even that Rich preferred a man. It was just that I’d chosen heterosexual marriage, and I thought Rich had, too. If I’d been thrown over for a genetic female, I’d probably be as crazy mad as I was now. But it wouldn’t be such a hot a topic of hometown gossip. So, yeah, fact: Stormy being a he who dressed as a she was probably never going to make my life easier. I put my palm over my abdomen. My little peanut and I would be delaying our announcement chat with Grandma as long as possible. Rich? Twice that long. I pulled out a stretchy navy pantsuit and held it in front of me. I would just wear this every day for the next two months and pretend I was stress-eating. Or not.
When I’d finished showering and dressing, I slipped into the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast. Not much appealed to me but, after dealing with the smell of Jack’s food yesterday, I knew I had to have more than toast. I tiptoed to the refrigerator in the semi-darkness and opened the door and retrieved a plastic jug of OJ.
“I made coffee and toast,” my mother said in her sparkly morning voice.
I startled, and the OJ jug hit the porcelain tile floor, cracking open. An orange lake formed in front of me and I jumped back. “Spit!”
“Sorry, dear.”
Muttering under my breath, I crouched to the floor and started wiping up the mess.
“Good morning, Mother.”
“How was your first day?”
Church activities the night before had kept Mother out late. I was asleep by the time she came home, so she hadn’t had a chance to grill me about my job then.
“Peachy.”
I threw the wet, orange paper towels in the trash under the sink.
“Did you enjoy working with Jack?” Mother asked. “He’s such a gentleman, and so handsome.”
Gentleman was not the word I’d have chosen to describe the man who told the chicken and the feather joke, but whatever.
“He was fine,” I said.
I sat across from her at the ancient kitchen table. Art Deco green Formica on a round top perched on chrome legs. It went about as well as you’d expect with the rest of the kitchen.
“You know, you’re thirty years old with only one Fallopian tube. If you’re really splitting up with Rich, you could do worse than Jack.”
She just had to bring up my Fallopian tube. Not what I wanted to talk about at breakfast. Part of me could understand—she’d yearned for grandkids since the day Rich and I got engaged. I reached over and squeezed her hand.
“It’ll be okay, Mother. Really. Let’s let that go for now.”
She sat in silence for a moment. “Any interesting cases?”
I
I stood at the closet door and surveyed my limited choices. I hadn’t been thinking career wear when I’d bolted for home the day after Stormy had, well, stormed in on our romantic dinner—the one I’d made for Rich to celebrate sharing my great news with him. “The rabbit’s died” took on a whole new meaning when Rich’s scary secret lover showed up in our candlelit dining room, before I’d a chance to even tell him about the baby.
Also, because of that dead rabbit, my clothes would soon be snug. I’d have to get Rich to ship my things. And I’d need to shop . . . and tell Mother. The thought of admitting to her that I’d somehow gotten pregnant just before my husband revealed his double life as a cheating bisexual burned my biscuits. Almost as much as the dread of Rich learning about his baby, and the possibility of sharing custody with Rich and Stormy.
All kvetching about Stormy aside, it wasn’t even that Rich preferred a man. It was just that I’d chosen heterosexual marriage, and I thought Rich had, too. If I’d been thrown over for a genetic female, I’d probably be as crazy mad as I was now. But it wouldn’t be such a hot a topic of hometown gossip. So, yeah, fact: Stormy being a he who dressed as a she was probably never going to make my life easier. I put my palm over my abdomen. My little peanut and I would be delaying our announcement chat with Grandma as long as possible. Rich? Twice that long. I pulled out a stretchy navy pantsuit and held it in front of me. I would just wear this every day for the next two months and pretend I was stress-eating. Or not.
When I’d finished showering and dressing, I slipped into the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast. Not much appealed to me but, after dealing with the smell of Jack’s food yesterday, I knew I had to have more than toast. I tiptoed to the refrigerator in the semi-darkness and opened the door and retrieved a plastic jug of OJ.
“I made coffee and toast,” my mother said in her sparkly morning voice.
I startled, and the OJ jug hit the porcelain tile floor, cracking open. An orange lake formed in front of me and I jumped back. “Spit!”
“Sorry, dear.”
Muttering under my breath, I crouched to the floor and started wiping up the mess.
“Good morning, Mother.”
“How was your first day?”
Church activities the night before had kept Mother out late. I was asleep by the time she came home, so she hadn’t had a chance to grill me about my job then.
“Peachy.”
I threw the wet, orange paper towels in the trash under the sink.
“Did you enjoy working with Jack?” Mother asked. “He’s such a gentleman, and so handsome.”
Gentleman was not the word I’d have chosen to describe the man who told the chicken and the feather joke, but whatever.
“He was fine,” I said.
I sat across from her at the ancient kitchen table. Art Deco green Formica on a round top perched on chrome legs. It went about as well as you’d expect with the rest of the kitchen.
“You know, you’re thirty years old with only one Fallopian tube. If you’re really splitting up with Rich, you could do worse than Jack.”
She just had to bring up my Fallopian tube. Not what I wanted to talk about at breakfast. Part of me could understand—she’d yearned for grandkids since the day Rich and I got engaged. I reached over and squeezed her hand.
“It’ll be okay, Mother. Really. Let’s let that go for now.”
She sat in silence for a moment. “Any interesting cases?”
I
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