“Only one baby,” observed Nicki. “No twins.”

“Or triplets,” said Gemma.

“Heaven forbid!” chuckled Nicki.

That night, while Gemma did her house-sitting duties—chatting with the Violets, dusting dozens of tiny ornaments, listening to Mary Penthurst’s unappealing older sister, Frances, deliver her weekly phone lecture—another layer of her consciousness continued to consider the suddenly very urgent relationship advice for Kara.

“I was only saying to my friend today,” said Frances in her thin querulous voice, as if she were making this observation for the first time, “what an incredible amount of rent you must be saving!” It was a common complaint from the relatives of house-sitting clients, and Gemma knew exactly the right response—excessive gratitude.

“I know! I am solucky! Every morning I think, I am solucky!”

Frances grunted but was mollified and moved on to the garden. “You did plant Mary’s sweet peas on St. Patrick’s Day? She’s been doing that religiously for the last twenty years, you know! It’s a funny little ritual of hers.” Gemma said, “I certainly did!” and imagined Kara cowering on a lounge, while her boyfriend raged about the way she’d flirted with one of his friends. Everyone saw it, said the boyfriend. Everyone was so embarrassed for me. You acted like such a dumb, stupid slut.

Gemma felt a white-hot flame of rage ignite like a blowtorch. No, it’s not proof of how much he loves you! Please, sweetie, I know it seems hard, but just leave. It’s easy really. Stand up and walk out the door. But Kara just sat there, in a stupor of fear and shame and apathy, and Gemma understood.

“You’ve been remembering to air that musty back room?” asked Frances.

“Absolutely,” said Gemma.

When Frances finally wilted and hung up, Gemma called Kara.

“Have you got a new boyfriend?”

“No. Why are you asking that? Did Cat say something? She promised!”

“No, no! I just wondered. Look, Kara, it’s really important if you do get a boyfriend, that he’s really nice to you. O.K.? All the time. Not just some of the time. All the time.”

There was silence. “O.K.,” said Kara slowly. “Thanks, Gemma. Um. Friends is about to start.”

“Oh! Sorry. Bye then.”

She put down the phone and laughed out loud, imagining the condescending, “What a loony!” expression on Kara’s face. She would have plunked herself in front of the television and not given her step-auntie’s weird advice another thought.

Gemma sat down on the Penthursts’ soft floral sofa, which made her knees slide up to her chin, and stopped pretending to talk to Kara.

You were nineteen. You didn’t imagine it. You didn’t deserve it. You didn’t secretly like it. When he died, it was weird and confusing. Of course it was. You loved him as much as you hated him. I’m sorry for being so nasty about it for all this time.

“I forgive you,” she said out loud. Who, Marcus? the Violets called out nosily from the windowsill.

No! I never stopped forgiving him! Me. I forgive me for staying with him. A pressure she didn’t know she was feeling suddenly released. It felt like she was unclenching her fists for the first time in a decade.

Someone did a ladylike little fart during “Beginner Yoga for Mums-to-Be.”

At the time everyone was lying flat on their backs, eyes shut, pinned to blue foam mats. The lights were dimmed and the cross-legged teacher was delivering gentle, melodic instructions: “Breathe in…one, two, three…and out…one, two, three.”

Gemma’s pupils danced behind her eyelids. That was not the slightest bit funny, she told herself sternly. You are not a schoolboy.

“Excuse me!” The frothy hint of a giggle in the culprit’s voice was irresistible. All around her Gemma sensed the quivering vibrations of chortling, pregnant women.

“Breathe in…” continued the teacher reprovingly, but it was too late, the class united in a gale of warm laughter.

And at that moment, as Gemma laughed with them, she felt a small but unmistakable movement in her belly, like the delicate flutter of a butterfly’s wings. It wasn’t like those other peculiar tummy rumbles she’d been experiencing; this was separate from her, yet part of her. Well, hello there, little butterfly baby! So, you really are in there! Do you think it’s funny too?

As the class pulled themselves together and the teacher resumed her chanting, a single tear slid down Gemma’s cheek and straight into her ear, where it tickled.

Hello, sweetie! I’m your Auntie Gemma.

“It’s absolutely gorgeous.” Gemma stood in Cat’s spare room surveying the exquisite nursery that was emerging. “You’re so clever!”

“Yes, I am.” Cat looked content in her yellow paint-splattered overalls, a glass of red wine, a bag of pretzels, and a portable stereo on the floor next to her. “I didn’t realize home improvement could be so therapeutic. And check this out, I’ve been stocking up!” She opened the linen cupboard to reveal neatly stacked shelves of baby stuff—bibs, booties, disposable nappies, fluffy blankets. “Lyn’s been giving me things.”

“Oh, good! She must be coming around to the idea.”

“I don’t think so. Every time she hands something over, she says, “Don’t think this means I approve!”

“She might need that stuff for herself if she gets pregnant.”

“She told me yesterday they’ve revised the five-year plan. They’re going to wait until Maddie is three. She wants to expand the business this year, set up a franchise operation.”

“Gosh. She’s so driven.”

“Michael told her he was leaving her if she didn’t hire an assistant.”

“Oh, that’s so lovely of him!”

“Yes, I was pleased with him. What’s your five-year plan, by the way? What are you going to do once the baby is born?” Cat gave her a sudden keen look.

“I work on five-minute plans,” said Gemma. “But lately, I have been thinking about getting a real job. Maybe I’ll go back to teaching. Or study again. Or maybe I’ll travel for a bit!”

“Gosh, Gemma,” Cat picked up her wineglass and grinned at her. “You’re so driven.”

In August, when Gemma was seven months pregnant, Frank moved back into the family home at Turramurra.

Tags: Liane Moriarty Suspense
Source: readsnovelonline.net