Delia's Gift (Delia 3)

“Every three weeks!”

“Changes come quickly,” he said, although I sensed that even he thought that was extravagant.

I shook my head, imagining the expense.

Afterward, every style and garment he suggested looked fine to me. I really wasn’t all that worried about being in style. I was no movie star. He was happy I made his work so easy for him, so he could hurry out to go to his shop. He said he would return before dinner the next day. When I told him there was no reason for such a rush, that the clothing I had available would be fine for a while, he looked at me as if I had gone absolutely mad.

“It’s what Mr. Bovio wants. It’s his first grandchild,” he said, as if nothing could be more obvious.

I smiled to myself as he fidgeted with his briefcase and reconfirmed all of his measurements, taking special care not to touch my breasts. He checked and double-checked what he had written. The way he fluttered about reminded me of the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland chanting, “I’m late. I’m late for a very important date…”

For now, this was amusing, and I was grateful for Señor Bovio’s almost motherly concern for my comfort and welfare. I had been here barely a few hours, and he was rearranging anything and everything to make things as easy and pleasant for me as could be. If he wanted to spoil me with personally designed and tailored maternity clothes, so be it, I thought, as I ran a brush through my hair again and started out. I wanted to take a short walk and get some air. I had been shut up in the clinic too long, and I was interested in exploring this wonderful estate.

“Wait!” Señor Bovio shouted from the bottom of the stairway when I appeared and was about to descend. He held up his hand like a traffic officer.

Next to him was a young, light-brown-haired man in a dark brown suit and matching tie. He carried a black leather satchel and stood nearly as tall as Señor Bovio. I imagined him to be in his early thirties at most. They both stood at the foot of the stairway and looked up at me.

“I was just going to take a short walk, señor,” I said.

“In a while,” Señor Bovio said.

He and the young man started up the stairway.

“First, there is one more thing I want to get out of the way immediately. Dr. Denardo will be happy we’ve made these preparations, too.”

I had forgotten the doctor was yet to come.

“Please, go back to your bedroom,” he said, waving at me.

Curious about what else he wanted done, I returned.

“Delia, this is Mark Corbet from the New Mom Shop on El Paseo,” he said when the two followed me into the bedroom suite.

El Paseo was the street of fancy and expensive stores, a street I was told was similar to Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills or Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. I had been there before, shopping with Tía Isabela.

“Hi there,” Mark Corbet said.

I nodded and said hello.

“One of the things they specialize in is maternity shoes,” Señor Bovio said.

“There are maternity shoes?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, you may or may not know that pregnancy will cause your feet to get a good half-size bigger,” Mark Corbet said. “Your shoes should allow for some swelling. Also, you’re better off in low-heeled shoes. Less stress on your spine.”

I nodded. In Mexico, we wore sandals, so what he was talking about never mattered.

“However, that doesn’t mean you have to wear something ugly,” he quickly added, smiling at Señor Bovio. “We have some pretty fancy styles. I have a few samples here, and I—”

“Mark will measure your foot. I’ve explained that I’d like the shoes personally made for you.”

“Personally? Shoes, too?”

“Sí. Mark

.”

Mark Corbet moved into my room quickly and set his satchel on the floor. He took out his mechanism for measuring foot size. I sat on the chair by the vanity table. I was still quite surprised. Tailored maternity clothing and now shoes? Why was it necessary for everything to be made personally for me?