All She Ever Wanted Part 2

Emma Wyatt walked away from the lockers, casually paused in front of the mirror, and opened the towel just enough to reveal the swell of her belly. Even in the harsh light of the locker room, the slight curve of her pale stomach was a beautiful sight, like a Michelangelo figure sculpted in marble.

She was really pregnant.

After all the mornings in bed with the basal thermometer, the embarra.s.sing doctors' appointments for her and for Jake, the trip to the clinic with a little vial of Jake's swimmers tucked between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to keep it warm . . . now, at last, she could press a hand to her abdomen and make contact with the life growing in the cradle of her hips.

She stepped away from the mirror before one of the other women began to think she was stuck on herself. Though right now, the sense of well-being that cloaked her made her feel immune to anyone's disapproval. This prenatal swim cla.s.s was the perfect way to end a busy week, though she did have to rush here as soon as the last parent picked up their kid each Friday afternoon. The forty-five minutes of pool exercise made Emma feel loose and invigorated. For the first time in days, her feet and toes were warm. Life was good and full of promise.

Holding the towel to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she leaned into the open locker and noticed that her phone was buzzing from a message.

Three messages, actually. All from her sister.

Poor Chelsea was struggling through a bad patch, and Emma wasn't sure how to help her. Her normally articulate sister had grown quiet and sullen. It was as if the thoughts and feelings that had once bubbled forth couldn't even find their way to the surface anymore. Emma had cajoled and prodded, but Chelsea didn't want to talk about it. In fact, Chelsea didn't want to talk at all. These days she seemed grateful to hand off little Annabelle so that she could frown into the shadows of the room or doze off.

Having suffered through depression, Emma recognized the symptoms. Difficulty concentrating. Fatigue. And the guilt. More than once Chelsea had worried aloud that she was a terrible mother, and though Emma had rea.s.sured her, it was a worry. Chelsea was so hard on herself, but there was something to her concern. Surely Annabelle could sense the sadness around her.

Chelsea didn't want to admit that anything was really wrong, but Emma was pretty sure she was suffering from postpartum depression. She had searched online and talked with Chelsea and Leo-more than once. For a while, neither of them could fathom that Chelsea could be depressed about the thing she'd wanted most-a beautiful little baby.

"But this isn't about whether or not you love Annabelle," Emma kept telling her sister. "You're reacting to all the physical and emotional changes that your body is going through. After delivery, hormones can be all out of whack. Estrogen and progesterone levels drop and prolactin and oxytocin shoot up." She had reminded Chelsea that her body was still healing from a difficult C-section. The traumatic surgery was one risk factor for postpartum depression. Losing Mom within a week of Annabelle's birth was number two, although that was something Chelsea didn't want to talk about. And then there was the transition from being managing editor at a successful magazine like Home Handyman to being a stay-at-home mom. On top of everything else, the loss of status and social support had isolated Chelsea, leaving her alone at home for most of the day. Of course, that was the way she and Leo had planned it; no one could have foreseen the depression that would overwhelm Chelsea after the birth.

But there was no disputing the reality: Chelsea was depressed. She needed help, starting with her doctor.

Emma leaned into the locker to check the phone for text messages. Maybe this was good news. Today was Chelsea's appointment with her ob-gyn, right?

But there were no texts. Emma was tempted to take the messages now, but cell phone use wasn't allowed in the locker room, and Emma understood why. She'd heard the story of the group of teenage girls who had inadvertently snapped a photo of a nude woman while they were posing in front of the big mirrored wall. One of the many "exposures" of the electronic age.

Emma dressed quickly, pulled her hair back with a clip, and then made her way out to the lobby, a phone-safe zone.

"I need help." Chelsea's voice was tight and strained. "I'm driving home from the doctor and I . . . I think I'm going to slam into the barrier."

Emma's heartbeat began to pulse in her ears as her sister's frantic words played on. Where was Chelsea now? Had she pulled over? Did she make it home? Emma slid into her jacket as she forced herself to listen to the rest of the desperate message.

Unable to wait, she cut off the message and dialed her sister's number.

No answer . . .

Shouldering the gym door open, she plunged out into the cold as her finger hit the redial b.u.t.ton again and again. "Come on, Chelsea. Answer the d.a.m.n phone."

She thought about calling 911. This was an emergency, but what could the police do? Telling them that her sister was driving around somewhere with suicidal thoughts wouldn't give them enough to go on.

She needed more information. She needed Chelsea to pick up the d.a.m.ned phone.

The third time it went to voice mail, Emma was already behind the wheel, tearing down the street.

Chelsea's house . . . she would meet her sister there, praying that Chelsea made it that far. Yes, Chelsea would be there . . . with Annabelle. Oh, dear Lord, was Annie in the back of the car? Of course she was. Chelsea had realized she would have to bring the baby when she found out Emma couldn't sit for her. Emma set her teeth and punched the gas pedal, angry with herself for not intervening sooner.

At the amber glow of a traffic light she had to force herself to press the brake, slow it down to a safe pace. You have to make the right choices, too, she reminded herself. It was up to her to take care of herself and her unborn child.

Stay calm.

Which was hard for her. Emma had always been excitable, sensitive, and nurturing; it was the reason she'd been drawn to nursing. She was sure she had been put on earth to take care of others. Chelsea was the one who was calm and in control. A superwoman.

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for the light to change. But she blasted through the intersection as soon as the light turned green.

This couldn't be happening. If Mom were here, she'd know how to fix things. How to snap Chelsea out of this funk and bring her back.

One of her last conversations with Mom came back to her. Emma had hopped a plane to Florida when the doctors warned that the end was near. Sitting by Mom's hospital bed, she had sobbed into her hands. Silent but without shame, she had cried for Mom.

How she'd longed for the days of her childhood when Mom was healthy. She saw Mom doling out treats to the girls and the neighborhood kids, their feet bare in the lawn, cool and dark with clover. There were the "Surprise City Days" Mom had sprung on them once or twice a year when they were in grade school: Emma remembered trading her Keds and jeans for a baby-doll dress with lacy biker shorts to take the train into the city and see a Broadway show or visit a museum. Mom had not worried that they were missing school, and the girls had put aside their usual bickering to enjoy the day in the city with their mother.

Lost in thought, she hadn't noticed Mom stirring in bed. "Emma?" Despite the brutal rounds of chemo and radiation, Judith Maynard's voice still held the smooth dignity that had always rea.s.sured Emma.

"I'm here, Mom." Emma sniffed. "Crying, as usual." It was a family joke; the sight of a lost puppy or a sentimental coffee commercial could bring Emma to tears.

"You always were the crier, but it's not a bad quality. I never had to worry about you bottling things up inside. But Chelsea . . ." Judith lifted the arm that didn't have an IV line attached and pushed hair off her forehead. "You need to watch out for Chelsea."

"She's the strongest of all of us. Nothing ever gets her down."

"Everyone has a weak spot. Some are better hidden than others."

"I guess. But if you look at Chelsea, she's led a charmed life. The perfect job. A wonderful husband. A charming house and a baby on the way."

"Everyone has problems, sweetie."

"I know that." She had thought it didn't apply to Chelsea to the same degree as the rest of the world. Nothing ever seemed to bother Chelsea. When Emma got up to pour Mom more water, Judith's eyes were clear and s.h.i.+ny as dark stones in a riverbed.

"Promise me you'll watch out for Chelsea," Mom had said. "She doesn't have the tools you have."

"Oh, Chelsea has plenty of tools. How do you think she and Leo rebuilt the downstairs of their house?"

But Mom didn't go for her joke. "Promise me. She's going to need your help. I know she comes on like a bear sometimes. But she hasn't learned about the middle ground in life. She hasn't learned to see the gray areas yet."

"It seems to be working for her."

"The problem with thinking like that is that you're crushed when you don't achieve perfection, and this is not a perfect world."

Although Emma didn't really get what Mom was saying about Chelsea, the conversation had stuck with her. Of course, Emma had agreed, though the promise wasn't necessary. The Maynard girls supported each other in any way they could.

When her thoughts snapped back to the present, she was exiting the parkway and turning into the little neighborhood where Chelsea and Leo had bought a house last year. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she made the turns she knew by heart.

Please, G.o.d, let them be there. Let them be safe. . . .

Chapter 4.

When the sobs had drained out of her, Chelsea lifted her head from the steering wheel and took in the charming little Cape Codstyle house with its dormered windows, gray siding, and bright white trim.

Home.

How had she gotten here?

The stir of cloth nearby startled her. She turned to see Annie strapped into her car seat, kicking against the flannel blanket tucked around her legs.

Did I strap her in?

Did I drive us here?

Of course you did.

Part of her knew that. But there was that dark side, the gaping holes just behind her eyes that sucked in conscious thought and tormented her.

Torment.

Why was everything so difficult? Why was she so miserable?

The house staring back at her had become more of a prison than a home, and she longed for the days when she had reveled in every nook and cranny, seeing opportunity for color and light. Those days when she had imagined the loving moments that would take place under this roof.

Great potential . . . that was what Leo had said when they'd first seen this house a year ago. House hunting with Leo had been fun, but she'd been anxious to find the right match. After looking at dozens of homes, some that were disaster zones and others that they could not afford, she had known this house was the one.

The beveled gla.s.s windows winked at her in the winter light. Those windows had taken her breath away when she and Leo had first pulled up. They whispered of the house's charm and grace, its history.

"The trim needs painting," Leo had said that first day as he parked in the driveway.

"Paint is cheap," she'd answered cheerfully as she'd popped open the car door, eager to get a closer look.

After weeks of traipsing through sad little houses that left her feeling cold, she could barely believe the charm of the little New Roch.e.l.le house. The log burning in the fireplace drew her close. The mantel was made of tacky fake brick, but she could remove that. It would be a project.

The wood floors were worn, but they could be refinished, and she loved the warmth of hardwoods throughout the first floor. The kitchen could use updating, but for now it was functional. Of course, it would require some fixes. Paint and windows. Yard work. Someone had painted over the wallpaper upstairs, and the garage door was hanging by a thread. There was evidence of a mouse in one of the closets. None of that frightened her.

Leo ran his hand down the wood banister, testing it for strength. "St.u.r.dy. I like the looks of it."

"It has good bones." Chelsea had noticed a few settling cracks in the plaster, but no signs of water damage or structural defects. "And a good heart. You get the feeling that wonderful things have happened here."

Although Leo usually didn't like it when Chelsea waxed metaphysical, this time he didn't argue. "I like it," he said. Three simple words, but coming from him, it was a rave review. "But you're the expert. Managing editor of Home Handyman magazine. What say you? Like it, Love it, or Gotta Have It?"

"I love you," she said, "but this house? I Gotta Have It."

He nodded. "I knew that. I could tell."

She scooted up to him, slipping into his arms. "I can see us being very happy here." Despite some obvious mistakes of the previous homeowners, Chelsea knew this was the right house for them. It was easy to imagine living here a very long time with Leo and their little ones.

Children . . . Walking through this house, it was so easy to see herself as a mother. If a house marked the beginning of their fiscal responsibility, children were the ultimate prize. Chelsea wanted to be a mother one day, and she had always felt fortunate to have found Leo in a sea of Manhattan single men who placed "having kids" as a low priority on their list of life goals.

Leo had chosen to begin their house hunting in New Roch.e.l.le, an area not too far from the city that was ranked as one of the best places in the country to raise children. Despite his penchant for making light of things, he was serious when it came to planning for the future. Maybe it was because of his childhood, a reaction to the feeling that no one was fending for him when he was a kid.

"We need to make an offer," she said.

"You're sure?" he asked her. "I know you like the way things are now. The apartment. Living in Manhattan. It's the center of the universe."

At the start of their search, she had been reluctant to give up their sublet in the city. They had it good. But now that she'd seen this house . . . well, she could say good-bye to Manhattan Island and never look back if she lived in a house like this.

She pressed her cheek to his chest and sighed as her eyes swept up the old wooden staircase. "Wherever you are-that's the center of my universe."

"And that is the right answer, for fifty points. Care to move to the bonus round?"

She shook her head. "I just want to move in here."

Right then and there, Chelsea and Leo made an offer on the house.

While the Realtor went off to do her thing, they decided to explore "downtown" New Roch.e.l.le. The burgers at AJ's were delicious, the price suited their budget, and the place reminded Chelsea of a burger joint in the town where she'd spent her childhood in Maryland.

They talked budget and career plans. Leo's sales job was going well, and Chelsea had just completed her third freelance article to supplement her meager income at the magazine.

This is real life, Chelsea thought as she filched a french fry from her husband's plate. Not jobs, but careers. Not a lease, but a mortgage.

A house and a yard.

Leo talked fast through the meal, devouring his burger with his usual speed. She loved seeing him that way, that spark of excitement in his brown eyes. Animated.

And she felt a sure sense of destiny, strong as the pull of the undertow at Jones Beach. This was nothing like the uncertainty she had waded through when it was time to apply to colleges or choose a major.

This decision felt right.

Leo was signaling for the check when they got the call from the Realtor.

Their offer had been accepted.

She high-fived Leo, and worked out some details with the Realtor. Their online mortgage application was complete and they were preapproved, but there would be an inspection and they needed to decide when to lock in the interest rate. "Big-time decisions," Chelsea said.

"Really. If we don't watch out, we'll turn into grown-ups," Leo said.

Chelsea couldn't wait to tell Emma they would be living in New Roch.e.l.le, too, and it wasn't too late to call Mom and Dad in Florida to let them know.

She would never forget that day, driving home, wanting him so much. Van Morrison was playing in the car-"Into the Mystic"-as Leo drove them into the dusk, into their future. A light snow had begun to fall while they were eating, and it was sticking to tree branches and traffic signs, covering everything in a sugary white coating.

The snow acc.u.mulated quickly, slowing traffic. As they approached their neighborhood, they commiserated about the time it would take to find a parking spot.

But as they turned the corner onto Riverside, there it was-a wide-open, legal expanse on the street.

"Grab it!" she said, and a second later Leo swung the car in.

"In New Roch.e.l.le, we'll have our own garage with a driveway," he said giddily.

"Luxurious." Neither of them had wanted a car in Manhattan, but Leo needed it for his job.