Something Blue

He kicked off his wet Pumas, peeled off his socks, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. 'I'm not sad about Brandi, but sometimes I am sad when I think about Milo.'

'Milo? Was that the guy Brandi cheated on you with?'

'No. Milo's the baby.'

'Oh,' I said sheepishly, knowing that I should have remembered that detail. I looked at Ethan, wondering what empathetic words Rachel would offer. She always had a way of saying the right thing, making someone feel better. I couldn't think of anything good so I just waited for Ethan to continue.

'For nine months, I thought I was going to be a father. I went to every doctor's appointment and fell in love with those ultrasound pictures… I even picked the name Milo.' He shook his head. 'Then we had the baby, and I realized he wasn't mine.'

'When did you know for sure that he wasn't yours?'

'As soon as he was born. I mean, he was dark-skinned with black eyes and all this crazy black hair sticking up everywhere. I kept thinking of my own baby pictures. Bald and pink. Brandi's a blue-eyed blonde too. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on.'

'So what did you do?'

'For the first few days, I think I was in shock. I pretended that it wasn't true, that it was just a fluke genetic thing… All the while, in the back of my mind, I remembered that 'big b, little b' chart from high-school biology… Two blue-eyed parents just couldn't make a Milo.'

I touched his arm lightly. 'That must have been so hard.'

'It was awful. I mean, I loved that little boy. Enough so that I almost stayed with her. In the end… well… you know the rest.' His voice cracked. 'I left. It felt as though someone had died.'

I remembered Rachel telling me about Ethan's divorce and the baby that wasn't his. At the time, I think I had been preoccupied with some crisis of my own and hadn't been particularly empathetic to his pain.

'You did the right thing,' I said now, taking his hand in mine.

He didn't pull away. 'Yeah. I guess I did.'

'Do you think I did the right thing? Keeping my baby?'

'Absolutely.'

'Even though you think I'm being a bad mother so far?' I asked, resisting the urge to tell him about my list. I wanted to make more progress before confiding in him.

'You'll get it together,' Ethan said, squeezing my hand. 'I have faith in you.'

I looked at him, and felt the same way I did on Thanksgiving, sitting on our bench in Holland Park. I wanted to kiss him. But of course I didn't. I wondered why I resisted, when in the past I had always followed my impulses with not much thought of the consequences. Maybe because it didn't feel like a game with Ethan, the way it had with Marcus and so many guys before him. Maybe because I had more to lose. Blurring the line between friendship and attraction was a surefire way to lose a friend. And losing one good friend was enough this year.

Later that night, after Ethan and I watched the news, he turned to me and said, 'C'mon, Darce. Let's hit the hay.'

'The hay in your room?' I asked hopefully.

Ethan laughed. 'Yeah. In my room.'

'So you missed me last night?' I asked.

He laughed again. 'I wouldn't go that far.'

But I could tell by his expression that he had missed me. I could also tell that he was a little bit sorry for our fight, even though much of what he had said about me was true. Ethan liked me in spite of my flaws, and as I fell asleep next to him, I thought of how much more he was going to like the new and improved Darcy.

twenty-two

The next morning, prodded by another series of kicks from my baby, I decided that I would go apply for a job at the nursing home Meg and Charlotte had told me about. Ethan had already left for the day, so I used his computer to type up my resume and a quick cover letter, which articulately explained that my success in the world of public relations had everything to do with my outgoing personality, and that certainly this quality would translate well in the group bingo setting. After I spellchecked the letter, opting for the British spelling of the words colourful and organised, I showered, dressed, and headed out into the London chill.

When I arrived at the nursing home, I was blasted with the distinct and depressing odor of old people and institutional food, and felt my first wave of morning sickness since my first trimester had ended. I found a mint in my purse and drew a deep breath through my mouth as I studied two little old ladies in matching floral smocks parked in wheelchairs in the lobby. Watching them laugh and chat together made me think of Rachel and how we used to say that when we were old and widowed we wanted to be put in a nursing home together. I remembered her saying that I would still be a guy magnet well into my nineties and could help her get dates with the cutest old men in the home. I guess she decided to play that one out sixty years early, I thought, as a gnomelike man, whom I'd assumed was a resident, came to the door and introduced himself as the manager.

'I'm Darcy Rhone,' I said, shaking his hand.

'Bernard Dobbs,' he said. 'How may I help you?'

'The question is, Mr. Dobbs, how can I help you? You see, I have come today to find a position at this fine institution,' I said, redecorating the shabby, poorly lit lobby in my mind.

'What sort of experience do you have?' he asked.

'I have a background in public relations,' I said, handing him my resume. 'Which is a very interactive, people-driven business.' Then I paraphrased my cover letter, concluding with, 'Most importantly, I just want to help spread cheer to the elderly folk in your fine country.'

Mr. Dobbs looked at me skeptically and asked if I had a work permit.

'Um… no,' I said. 'But I'm sure 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge' we could deal with that problem, couldn't we?'

He gave me a blank stare and then asked if I had ever worked in a nursing home. I considered lying. After all, I seriously doubted that he would place an international call to check my references. But I made a split-second determination that lying was not in keeping with the new Darcy, and that deceit wasn't necessary to get a job. So I told him no, I hadn't, and then added, 'But believe me, Mr. Dobbs, I can handle anything here. My job in Manhattan was quite challenging. I worked long hours and was very successful.'

'Hmm. Well. I'm so sorry, Dicey,' he said, without sounding the slightest bit apologetic.

'It's Darcy,' I said.

'Yes. Well. I'm sorry, Darcy. We can't have just anyone working with our residents. You must be qualified.' He handed me back my resume.

Just anyone? Was he for real? I pictured my future sister-in-law wiping up old- person drool as she hummed 'Oh, Susanna.' Her job hardly required much skill.

'I understand where you're coming from, Mr. Dobbs… but what experience do you really need to relate well to others? I mean, you either have that or you don't. And I have that in spades,' I gushed, noticing a woman with a horrifying case of osteoporosis, inching her way down the hallway toward us. She craned her neck sideways and looked at me. I smiled at her and uttered a high, cheery 'Good morning' just to prove my point.

As I waited for her to smile back at me, I imagined that her name was Gert and that she and I would forge a beautiful friendship, like the one in Tuesdays with Morrie, one of Dexter's favorite books, one of many that I had never found time to read. Gert would confide in me, tell me all about her childhood, her wartime remembrances, her husband, whom she had sadly outlived by several decades. Then, one night, she would pass quietly in the night, while I held her hand. Later, I would learn that she had bequeathed to me all of her worldly possessions, including her favorite emerald brooch worth tens of thousands of pounds. At her funeral, I would wear the pin over my heart and eulogize her to a small but intimate gathering. Gertrude was a