Baby proof

I look at Michael and say, 'Thank you.'

I can tell Michael knows what I'm driving at-that I appreciate him changing the subject-because he winks and says, 'No problem.'

Annie and Jess exchange conciliatory remarks as if to acknowledge that they can have a lively disagreement and still remain friends. Even Daphne's sad expression fades as I watch Tony put his arm around her and whisper something in her ear. She smiles. So I smile. Then I feel myself relaxing again as we turn to topics other than sperm and eggs and the orchestrated meetings between the two.

twenty-one

Later that night, after I've thanked everyone and told Richard I will see him in the morning, Jess calls me into her room and gleefully shows me the Viking baby Web site. I come very close to telling her how I wished she hadn't brought up babies at my birthday dinner, but decide against it. I know she means no harm. She can't help having an obsessive personality, a one-track mind.

She clicks on a link that brings up photos of various blond, blue-eyed donors. One of them is shown kicking a soccer ball and grinning. His name is Ian Janssen. I instantly remember that Tucker's last name is Jansen, and as I hone in on the second s in Ian's Janssen, it hits me that I might have spelled Tucker's name wrong during my initial Google search. I make a mental note to run another search with the extra 5. Then I tell myself, You will do no such thing! Do not turn into a psycho!

I wonder what part of me will prevail in that battle-the well-adjusted, forward-looking me or the wistful, brooding, backward-looking me. Unfortunately, it's too close to call.

The next morning, just as Richard arrives in a black Lincoln Town Car, Jess hands me my luggage-her own oversized, cherry-red Tod's duffel that I love. She says, 'Have fun. I know you will!'

On my way down in the elevator, I unzip the bag, peek inside, and see my passport. Now I am really excited. Although maybe the passport is just a decoy.

When I get in the car, Richard kisses me on the cheek. He looks happy.

I say, 'Jess told me where we're going.'

He says, 'You expect me to fall for that?'

'Yes?' I say as I remove my sunglasses from their case and slide them on.

'No.'

'Fly-fishing in Colorado?'

He laughs. 'You don't strike me as an outdoorsy girl.'

'I'm not,' I say, thinking of all the times growing up that my mother told me to get my nose out of my book and go get some fresh air.

'Good,' Richard says. 'Because I don't like camping. The woods itch.' Then he changes expression and says, 'So how annoyed were you last night? With all the baby talk?'

I consider playing it off but instead I say, 'Pretty annoyed.'

'I don't blame you,' he says.

I give him a grateful smile and then say, 'So, c'mon, where are we going?'

'I can't tell you that,' he says. 'But I can tell you this-I've been there a couple of times before, and I've yet to see a single baby on the premises.'

I look at him and smile, thinking, That was the perfect thing to say.

An hour later we are at JFK, checking in at the first class American Airlines international counter.

'Milan?' I say, after we have our boarding passes. 'I love Milan.'

'Good to know,' Richard says, 'but we're not going to Milan.'

Richard keeps his secret for the entire flight as we drink champagne, eat, watch a chick flick starring Kirsten Dunst, and sleep. Only after we have landed in Milan the following morning, cleared customs, and picked up our rental car, does Richard hand me a postcard of the Villa d'Este on Lake Como. I instantly recognize it, as it's a place I've been wanting to go since I was about fifteen and saw a coffee-table book filled with Helmut Newton's racy photographs taken on the villa's premises.

And I can't help but think of Ben, as Lake Como was the spot we had planned to go for our five-year anniversary. We had been 'saving' it. It seemed too special for any random trip. I have revised my philosophy on saving things. There is no point. It's like my great-grandmother putting plastic on her new couch-one she didn't have a prayer of wearing out.

Of course Jess knew about these anniversary plans. So despite the fact that Richard has been to the Villa d'Este, I am highly suspicious that she had a hand in his choice. I only wonder if she was candid with Richard or manipulated him into the choice. She is fully capable of either. I decide it would be bad form to ask the question, so I just smile and say, 'We're going to the Villa d'Este?'

He nods, looking pleased with himself. Then he says, 'Jess said you've never been to Lake Como.'

'I haven't,' I say.

'I needed to fix that. It is heaven on earth. As Shelley put it, 'This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.' '

I am a sucker for men spouting off poetry, and I can feel myself blushing as I say, 'This is way too generous.'

'Well, it's not unselfish. After all, I am going with you,' he says. Then he points to a third-floor window facing the water and says, 'And I intend to fuck you right in that room.'

I look at him, thinking that if Ben had said he was going to fuck me somewhere, it would have sounded crass, unloving. With Richard, it is sexy. I wonder why that is, but don't come up with an answer.

Minutes later, we are driving through Italian hills. Everything is so beautiful that I don't know where to look.

'Don't you just love knowing you're in Italy?' I ask Richard.

He nods and says, 'It beats the hell out of Jersey.'

The ride is surprisingly short-under an hour-and we quickly come up on the little town of Cernobbio. Just beyond the town is our glamorous hotel. Richard pulls up to the main building, and a small, tidy man with a moustache opens my door before I can. As he welcomes us with a slight bow, I have the sudden thought that my expectations are too high-that Lake Como will not live up to them. But within seconds, I am relieved to find that some things really are that good. The grounds and gardens are magnificent; the vistas of blue mountains and misty water are breathtaking. Everything has a dreamy quality. I say this to Richard and then think that dreamy is a word I have never used, unless mocking someone or imitating Marcia Brady.

We walk to the front desk, as Richard says a robust American hello to everyone. I like that we are at one of the finest hotels in the world and yet he remains the same-friendly, unpretentious, borderline brash. In contrast, my demeanor changes in fancy hotels and restaurants. I can't help talking in a hushed voice and making my posture perfect.

As we check in, Richard glances up at the high ceiling and says, 'Check it out.'

I look up primly and then whisper, 'Ohhh. Beautiful.'

I suddenly miss Ben, as I always do when I see beautiful buildings or recall the romantic architectural language he taught me, terms like belvedere turrets, fleur-de-lis ornaments, gingerbread bargeboard, Mary Hart arches, fretwork spandrels, voussoir vaults, and swan's neck molding. I think of how much he would love this hotel and all of its exquisite detail. Maybe he can come here on his honeymoon. Try for a baby during his stay.

We are shown to our room by a young, gorgeous woman-the kind you can't stop staring at and so you certainly can't blame your boyfriend for staring, too. Which I catch Richard doing as she gracefully points out the minibar, the automatic blinds, and the safe. Then she welcomes us one final time, smiles and leaves.

When the door clicks after her, I say, 'Well, she was a dog.'

Richard smirks and says, 'Was she? I didn't notice.'