THE GUEST LIST Edison, New Jersey 1971 John Evans stood with his hands jammed into his pockets in the open doorway of his wife's hospital room. He was instantly aware of two things: first, that his wife looked like she'd been arranged in the bed. She wore her frilly bed-jacket and her long golden hair had been placed just so over her shoulders. Lipstick and rouge were evident as though she were waiting for a special visitor. He sniffed. Perfume, too. The second thing he noticed was the silence, a little like the first ten minutes before mass got underway at St. Gabriel's. He didn't want to go into the room and make conversation with his beautiful, unloving wife. He didn't want to be the one to tell her the bad news, but the doctors insisted he do it. They thought Harriet would accept it better coming from him. They didn't know Harriet. No one knew Harriet except maybe his brother-in-law, Donovan. This past year John had come to realize that Donovan knew Harriet even better than he did. If John had known two years ago what he knew now, he never would have married the woman. His only explanation--and Donovan agreed with him--was that she'd cast a spell over him with her beauty, her wit and her charm. Who but a fool wouldn't have been smitten? John's eyes narrowed. The still form in the bed hadn't so much as twitched. If her hands were folded across her chest, she would look like a mortician's handiwork. He thought about the ten and a half month old baby at home with the sitter. Baby Mallory looked like him with her dark eyes and dark hair. He adored her. Harriet tended to the child but as far as he could tell, she'd never bonded with the her. She never cuddled her or rocked her, never played with her. She saw to the baby's needs but that was all. All the loving and cuddling had to come from him. He did it all willingly because he loved her. A voice behind him hissed in his ear. "Is she dead?" John twisted around. "Jesus, Donovan! Don't sneak up on me like that." He put his hand on Donovan's arm. "Let's go out to the waiting room." Donovan Mitchell was a tall man, sandy haired, rugged, with an open smile. For a big man, he carried his one hundred and eighty pounds with athletic grace. His wife, Harriet's sister, Emma, had died in childbirth. He'd tried to warn John about Harriet--that she was mean and hateful just like Emma--but John was to smitten to listen. "You look like hell," Donovan said with concern. "Was it a hard delivery?" "Ten hours. Longer than the doctors expected." John raked his fingers through his hair. "I've been here all night. I think I drank two gallons of bad coffee and smoked two packs of cigarettes." "Who's watching Mallory?" "Mrs. Lascarais." Donovan narrowed his eyes. "There's something wrong, isn't there? Harriet looks fine so it must be the baby. Don't look at me like that, John, what's wrong?" John shook his head, unable to speak. Donovan clapped his hand on his friend's back. "C'mon, tell old Donovan what's wrong." "Why don't I show you, instead? Then you tell me. You didn't go to the nursery, did you?" "Nah. I came straight here when I got your message. I know where it is. The nursery, I mean." They walked in silence until they came to the nursery window. John tapped lightly on the glass. A nurse looked up and smiled. She moved to the far end of the nursery to lift a small pink bundle from the crib. She was still smiling when she held the infant up for inspection. "Shit!" Donovan gasped. "What the hell is that? Is it going to go away? Jesus, John, what is it?" "A birth mark. The doctor called it a port wine stain. I don't know if it will go away or not. She'll have to go to a specialist at some point. It's really deep. It's the whole left side of her face, Donovan," he said, his voice anguished. "I see that. Listen, modern medicine . . . ." his voice trailed off as he stared at the baby. John's shoulders slumped. "Harriet is never going to . . . . Children are so cruel . . . . Jesus, Donovan, what if it can't be removed?" Donovan hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. "Listen to me, John, this isn't the time to be thinking along those lines. Is she healthy? Will that mark make you love her any less?" "She's perfect in every other way. And, hell no, it won't make me love her any less," John said, rallying to Donovan's question. But then he thought about Harriet. "Harriet doesn't know yet. She's going to be. . . ." He sighed. "To make matters worse, she was expecting a boy, you know." "A boy. A girl. Babies are babies." "God, Donovan, what am I going to do? If I know Harriet, she won't want anything to do with a less than perfect baby." His voice softened as he stared at the baby through the glass. "Look at all those golden curls. I didn't know babies could have so much hair. Mallory was bald for six months." He turned away from the window and the two of them started back down the hall toward Harriet's room. For John, each step was harder to take than the last. "I don't know what to say to Harriet. Where's the money going to come from for the operations? Insurance will only pay so much if they pay for something like this at all. I can't work any more overtime. As it is, I'm killing myself taking care of Mallory and working seven days a week. You know the construction business. What happens if we hit a dry period?" Donovan put a hand on John's shoulder to halt him. "It'll all work out," he assured him. "I've got a healthy little nest egg. I'll help you." The corner of John's mouth lifted in a semblance of a smile. "Thanks, buddy, but we both know that money is only a small part of this problem." "Yeah, and you and I both know the solution to all this bullshit is for you to take the kids and walk out. It's never going to get any better between you and Harriet. I never thought I would say this, but divorce is your answer. Harriet won't give a shit one way or the other. Trust me on that, John. She's just like Emma. Hell, I can even tell you what she's going to say the first time she sees the baby." "I don't want to hear it, Donovan." "You need to hear it so you're prepared, " Donovan persisted. "She's going to tell you to put the baby up for adoption or farm it out to foster care. She's not going to want anything to do with that child." John's face contorted with anger. "You're wrong. Harriet would never say something like that." But she wound. He knew she would. What he didn't know was why he was defending her. "Ten bucks says I'm on the money," Donovan said, then waved his arm as if to erase what he'd said. "Oh, forget it. I can't take your money. It was a bad joke and I'm sorry." He punched John's arm. "Listen, buddy, how about I go over and pick up Mallory and take her to my house so Mrs. Lascarais can go home? It'll cut down your sitter bill. I'll clean her up and put her to bed." When John started to shake his head, Donovan cut him off. "Don't argue with me. You stop at Tony's on your way home and pick up a large combination pizza. We'll pound a few brews and think about what to do. You can even spend the night if you want. Okay?" Defeated, John nodded. "Tell Harriet I said hello." Donovan waved his arm. "Nah, forget that. Harriet thinks I'm the spawn from hell because . . . Oh, never mind. See you later, buddy." I'll be over later," John said to Donovan's back as he walked down the hall. He watched him until he got into the elevator. Donovan was right--about everything. Even about Harriet hating him. Actually, it was their friendship Harriet hated, probably because it was the only thing he refused to give in on. In everything else, he let Harriet have her way. It made life easier. Before he knew it, John found himself back in his wife's doorway. Nothing had changed. She still looked like she was laid out, and he was still as jittery as he'd been twenty minutes ago. Just tell her, he told himself. Get it over with. Cough, shuffle your feet, shake her shoulders. Blurt it out and get the hell out of here. He did all three at the side of her bed. Harriet opened one lavender-shadowed eyelid. "Oh, John," she said wanly. "Have I been sleeping long?" John cleared his throat. "I don't know. I just got here a little while ago." "Did you see our son?" "We don't have a son. We have another daughter," he said, practically running the two sentences together. "A daughter! That can't be. I wanted a boy! I was going to call him Christopher Matthew. There must be some mistake. Hospitals are always making mistakes. You need to check on that, John, and you need to do it right now before it's too late. Go. Quickly." When he didn't move, she asked, "Why are you still standing there?" She was an amazing woman, he thought. She had more arrogance than any man he'd ever known. She'd wanted a boy and she'd taken it for granted that she would have a boy. It never even occurred to her that God might have something else in mind. "I'm standing here because I don't know what else to do. Our daughter is wearing her I.D. bracelet with our name on it. There is no mistake." "It's your genes, John. This child was supposed to be a boy. I wanted a girl and a boy. That's the way it should be." Angry, she turned her face to the wall. "I'm sorry, Harriet, but in spite of what you wanted, this is the way it is, and there's nothing either one of us can do about it. I happen to love little girls. A son would have been nice to carry on the Evans name but a girl is just as nice." He bent his head and mustered up his courage. "I need to talk to you about something, Harriet." "For heavens sake, what is it?" "Aren't you going to ask how Mallory is?" he asked, hedging from what he'd meant to say. "Mrs. Lascarais is very capable even though she's a nosey old biddy. Mallory is in good hands. Giving birth is very traumatic. I'm here to rest. There's absolutely no need for me to concern myself about Mallory." Gathering his courage, he moved around toward the window. "Look, there's no easy way to say this except to say it," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Our new daughter was born with a birth mark on her face." "What!" "They call it a port wine stain," he explained, determined not to break down. "It covers the whole left side of her face and neck. The doctor feels that at some point it can be removed, but I don't know when that will be. She would need a specialist. She weighs seven and a half pounds and is twenty inches long. Her head is covered with golden curls. She's beautiful, Harriet. Aside from the birth mark, she's perfect." Harriet reared back into her nest of pillows. Her carefully made up face turned hateful as she spit out the ugly words that would ring in her husband's ears for the rest of his life. Are you saying I gave birth to a freak?" newsflash / biography / bookshelf / contest my latest / complete list / my favorites / my suggestions chapter one / series list / my publisher / my blog the romance club / site map / contact Copyright ©1997-2008 by First Draft, Inc.