True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA. Nancy Thompson Robards
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at the table next to ours is listening. I glare at her. She has the decency to turn away.
But my husband won’t look at me. Still, I know that look, that closed body language. He’s not just mad, he’s livid.
I didn’t expect him to jump for joy. I’m not exactly thrilled either, but I never imagined he would act this way. As if it’s my fault.
“Andrew, come on. I’m just as shocked as you are, but we’re in this together. Talk to me.”
His expression is as hard as stone. “How can we be having a baby if I’m shooting blanks?”
“What? What are you saying?” The pitch of my voice rises, but I don’t care. “Of course we’re pregnant. Do you think I’ve been having sex with another man?”
He finally looks at me. Stares me straight in the eyes and shrugs.
The server arrives at our table, and I sit there flabbergasted as Andrew gets rid of him. The woman next to us is looking at us again, but this time I don’t care. All I can focus on is the way my husband is looking at me as if he’s caught me in the act of infidelity.
Something inside me snaps.
I stand and grab my purse. “I am not going to sit here and plead with my husband to believe that I’m carrying his baby.”
Maggie
After we leave Stratford Middle School, Barbara drops me off at home and goes to run errands. I hope she doesn’t think I’m unsociable for not going with her. I just need some time to put away the things we brought with us from the car and make arrangements for a storage shed before the moving van arrives tomorrow.
I’ll have to store the majority of our furniture because the carriage house is furnished. I just don’t feel right asking Barbara to move her things out.
Besides, it’s better this way because it reminds me this arrangement is temporary. Sarah and I can’t stay here forever. Just long enough to figure out what we’re going to do.
It’s the first I’ve been alone in days and I take a moment to savor the freedom. I walk through the rooms of our little three-bedroom dollhouse, getting a feel for our new home, letting it speak to me the way old houses do.
There’s no foyer. The screened front door opens right into the living room, which is complete with polished hardwood floors and a fireplace, though why one would need a fireplace in Florida baffles me. Off to the left is a tiny galley kitchen and dining alcove; to the right, a squat hallway holds the lone bathroom and our bedrooms.
It’s about half the size of our house in Asheville, but the place is bright and cheerful, furnished in white wicker and shades of yellow. Generous windows in the living room invite in an abundance of light.
I’m soothed by the hominess of the place.
It’s such a beautiful day, I open the front door and windows to air out the closed-up musty smell places take on when they haven’t been lived in. My bedroom window looks out toward the lake. I open the blinds and stand there a minute enjoying the quiet of the house, the way the green lawn slopes down to the lake. I love the huge live oaks, the way the Spanish moss that’s draped on the branches dances in the wind.
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