“You put it off, you’ll be sorry, and you’ll have to shop by yourself for baby stuff.”
“I’m not shopping, with or without you. I’m just going to buy something. And it better not take over ten minutes.”
“Then we can get food, right?”
“It’s always something with you. There probably won’t be anywhere to park. I should just get something online. You can just tell me what I should get and I’ll get it. Isn’t that enough?”
“No.”
“Bitch.”
“You’ll thank me when Mavis gets all soft and gooey.”
“I don’t like soft and gooey unless it comes in chocolate.”
“Speaking of chocolate, what kind of cake are we having for the shower?”
“I don’t know.”
Sincerely shocked, Peabody jerked around in her seat. “You didn’t get cake?”
“I don’t know. Probably.” Because the idea of the shower, what she had to do, hadn’t done, should do, made her stomach jitter, Eve squirmed. “Look, I called the caterer, okay? I did it myself. I didn’t dump it on Roarke, I didn’t ask—God forbid—Summerset to handle it.”
“Well, what did you ask for? What’s the theme?”
The jitters escalated into a roiling. “What do you mean, theme?”
“You don’t have a theme? How can you have a baby shower without a theme?”
“Jesus Christ, I need a theme? I don’t even know what that means. I called the caterer. I did my job. I told her it was a baby shower. I told her how many people, more or less. I told her when and where. She started asking me all kinds of questions, which gives me a fucking headache, and I told her not to ask me all kinds of questions or she was fired. Just to do whatever needed doing. Why isn’t that enough?”
Peabody’s sigh was long and heartfelt. “Give me the caterer’s info, and I’ll check in with her. Does she do the decorations, too?”
“Oh, my God. I need decorations?”
“I’m going to help you, Dallas. I’m going to run interference with the caterer. I’m going to come over early on the day and help get it set up.”
Eve narrowed her eyes and tried to ignore the joy and relief bubbling in her breast. “And what’s this going to cost me?”
“Nothing. I like baby showers.”
“You’re a sick, sick woman.”
“Look, look! That car’s going to pull out. Get the space! Get the space! It’s first level, almost at the door. It’s a sign from the goddess of fertility or something.”
“Damn Free-Ager,” Eve mumbled, but beat out a Minibug for the parking slot.
She thought she’d hate shopping in a baby boutique. And Eve was a woman who knew herself well.
There were gargantuan stuffed animals and mind-numbing music. There were tiny little chairs, strange mesh cages, other animals, or poofy stars hanging from the walls and ceiling. Racks were full of odd miniature outfits. There were shoes no bigger than her thumb. Thumb-sized shoes, she thought, were unnatural. Nothing that small should be able to walk on two legs, so why did it require shoes?
Things rocked and swayed and played more tinkling music if you looked at them crooked.
And there were a number of gestating women, and others who carried the fruit of their wombs in colorful slings or strange padded seats that hooked over their shoulders. One of those fruits was wailing in a thin, alien cry.
And there were others, bigger ones, who sat in pushcarts or wandered around free to pummel the animals or climb on everything in sight.
“Courage,” Peabody soothed, and clamped a hand on Eve’s arm before Eve tried to bolt.