Reconstructing Natalie Read online

  Mom named me after her favorite movie star, Natalie Wood, because she’d loved her in West Side Story, plus I had dark eyes and dark hair like Natalie. When I was little, Dad always called me Snow White. Once we saw Pocahontas though, with her hair flowing behind her as she ran like the wind, he exchanged one Disney princess for another. And even after I grew up and it became clear I wasn’t going to look like any of those movie stars, real or fictional, my parents still managed to make me feel pretty.

  After that embarrassing art-class incident, for instance, Mom took me to Macy’s and bought me five A-cup bras—three white, one nude, and one navy. (Black would have been a bit too racy for her thirteen-year-old daughter.) “Don’t you worry about being small, honey,” she whispered to me in the dressing room at Macy’s. “When you’re older it will be a blessing.”

  Merritt said my parents and I were a little too close and I needed to break free and spread my wings a little. But I have so spread my wings. After we graduated from high school, we went to Paris, just the two of us, for three weeks and had a blast. Merritt was in artist heaven as we strolled through Montmartre and spent hours at the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay. My best moment was seeing the Eiffel Tower up close and personal while munching on a croissant.

  Then, halfway through our trip, the coolest thing happened. My parents, who’d never been to Europe in their lives, let alone Paris, surprised us with a visit.

  I still don’t know why Merritt got so upset.

  Personally, I was a little tired of youth hostels and protein bars by then, so it was paradise to stay in a nice hotel in a room adjoining my parents and enjoy pâté, coq au vin, and chocolate mousse when we dined.

  Not to mention the Belgian chocolates on our pillows. Talk about bliss.

  Merritt always told me it was time to leave the nest, but I had a pretty sweet deal going. I had my own place, a cute mother-in-law cottage that Dad built in the backyard for my nana when she came to stay with us in her final years. When I was twenty-three, Nana passed away and I moved into the three-room cottage—where I only paid three hundred dollars a month, I might add, a rental steal in California. I was thinking of moving in with Merritt and Jillian, but my folks showed me the financial wisdom of staying put.

  My parents didn’t want me to pay rent, but I insisted. My independence was important to me. And I loved my cottage. You should see what I did with it. It’s amazing what you can do with some good basic pieces (my grandmother’s antiques), some fabric, and lots of imagination.

  We lived on a quiet, tree-lined street in an older suburb of Sacramento, the state capital of California, where the most common variety of tree is the Modesto ash, with a few maples and birches thrown in. Unfortunately, the Modesto ash only has a fifty-year life span and our little suburb was forty-nine years old. So the trees were really starting to show their age, most of them filled with mistletoe.

  Mistletoe is only romantic at Christmas. Trust me on this—it’s a parasite. So once or twice a year, a scruffy-looking guy in a rattletrap truck knocked on all the neighborhood doors and offered to get rid of the mistletoe for a mere forty bucks. For years my dad did it himself, but once he turned sixty-two, his back couldn’t take clambering up in the tree anymore. So now we paid the forty bucks. Except we’d let it go recently—tax season was always crazy at the firm—and the mistletoe was really getting thick.

  I coasted to a stop at the end of our driveway, reveling in the beauty of the gorgeous spring day. I looked up at the ash that shaded my porch and made a mental note to get the tree guy’s phone number from Mom. Then, grabbing my purse and shopping bag, I locked my car and headed to the front door of my cottage.

  Before I got there, I was assaulted with a powerful blast between my breasts.

  chapter two

  Gotcha!”

  Peals of delighted laughter bubbled forth from the towheaded little neighbor boy clutching the garden hose’s high-intensity spray nozzle.

  Dropping my bag and purse, I sprinted toward him, my shirt drenched and a river of water running down my jeans. “You are so gonna get it!”

  He shrieked and let go of the hose, running for cover in his backyard.

  “You may run, but you cannot hide. I’m gonna get you.” I grabbed the hose and squirted his skinny retreating back with a gentle blast that made him shriek again.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” A sandy head popped up from behind a soapy Mustang convertible in the driveway next door.

  “Daddy, save me.” The boy ran and hid behind his father’s broad back.

  Suddenly conscious of my soaking T-shirt, I crossed my arms over my chest but still made sure to keep a firm grip on the hose. “Turnabout is fair play.”

  My shirtless neighbor Andy grinned at the sight of my dripping clothes, then arranged his features into a stern look before turning to his four-year-old. “Josh, did you spray Aunt Natalie with the hose?”

  “Yeah. I got her really good.” His sapphire eyes shone. “A total sneak attack. Really cool. Just like you taught me.”

  My eyebrows lifted.

  Andy looked sheepish—for about a millisecond. “But what else did I teach you? Is Aunt Natalie wearing shorts or a bathing suit?”

  Josh scuffed his feet on the driveway and hung his head. “No.”

  “Then I think you owe someone an apology, don’t you?”

  He nodded and trudged over to me, eyes downcast. “Sorry you’re not wearing a bathing suit, Aunt Natalie.”

  I covered my mouth to hide the watermelon grin splitting across my face.

  “Josh . . . ,” Andy warned.

  He expelled a loud sigh. “And I apologize for drenching you too.”

  “Apology accepted.” I knelt down and hugged him. And while I was hugging him, I discreetly raised the spray nozzle dangling behind his back and blasted his dad full in the chest.

  “Hey!”

  I shot Andy a triumphant smile. “You guys aren’t the only ones who know how to do a sneak attack.”

  Andy Jacobs is my dearest male friend in the world. Three years older than me, he and I had been pals since we played in the sandbox together. Our mothers had always hoped for an alliance, especially since Andy took me to my senior prom—after my longtime boyfriend Billy broke up with me the week before. But we were just best buds. Still are.

  Andy’s the brother I never had.

  Over the years, I’ve cried on his shoulder about my share of disappointments and breakups. But he’s only cried on mine once. That was three and a half years ago, when his wife walked out after deciding the white-picket-fence-and-mother-in-the-suburbs bit wasn’t for her.

  Andy, who had bought his childhood home from his parents when they downsized to a condo, attended the same neighborhood church as I did, and really believed in the whole “for better, for worse” thing. He had never sought a divorce.

  Even when his Sheila didn’t write or call for more than a year.

  He faithfully wore his wedding ring, didn’t date, and was an excellent father to his son. Then, thirteen months after she abandoned her family, I opened my cottage door one day to find Andy on my stoop, a vacant stare on his face.

  “Sheila’s pregnant,” he said. “She’s living in Vegas with some guy who works at a dog track, and they want to get married before the baby’s born.”

  I held him in my arms as he wept.

  “So, Nat, what are you and Jack doing tonight?” Andy asked, tugging gently at my long braid.

  “Nothing. He’s doing the male-bonding thing with his brother.” I made a face. “They’re going to that World Wrestling Federation exhibition. Ugh. But what about you?” I gave him an innocent look. “I noticed you chatting with Sara Sedberry this morning. Things looked pretty cozy between you two. Anything happening there?”

  “Nope. She just needed some help with a clogged sink.”

  Sara was a single mom who lived around the corner and went to our church. I’d been conniving to get the two of them together for a while. She was
n’t the first person I’d tried to set him up with either. But Andy rarely dated. And when he did, he never brought the woman home to meet Josh. “I’m not going to have my son get all attached to someone and then be devastated if it doesn’t work out. I won’t do that to him. It’s not fair. When I bring someone home—if I ever do—it’s because she’s the one,” he’d told me once when I quizzed him about his love life (or lack thereof).

  Now he scooped up his son and tickled him. “Me and Joshie have big plans for tonight, don’t we, buddy?”

  Josh nodded between giggles. “We’re having hamburgers and mac ’n’ cheese and watching The Incredibles!”

  “For only the seventeenth time.” Andy rolled his eyes.

  “Wanna come, Aunt Nat? You can bring brownies if you want.”

  “Oh, I can, huh?” I raised my eyebrows. “I think if I come, I’d better bring a green vegetable too. What’ll it be? Peas, green beans, or broccoli?”

  Josh scrunched up his wise-old-soul face. “I don’t like broccoli. Even though it’s good for you, it doesn’t taste good.”

  “I’m with you, buddy.” Andy gave me a plaintive smile. “Peas, please?”

  If Andy’s the brother I never had, Josh is also the nephew I would not otherwise have had. And although Andy has a sister in Texas, I’m the only aunt Josh has here in town. He’s called me Aunt Natalie since he learned to speak, and he learned early. That kid’s precocious with a capital P. His vocabulary continually amazed me. And amused me, because I never knew if he’d sound like a four-year-old or a twenty-year-old.

  I peeled off my wet T-shirt and jeans and stepped in the shower, shaking my head. “I apologize for drenching you.” Most kids his age would just say, “I sorry.”

  As I was toweling off, I felt the lump again—sort of like a hard little pea.

  I pulled on my basic white terry-cloth robe and headed to the kitchen, where I put on the kettle. “Sorry, Jean-Luc,” I said, addressing the strong-but-smiling image of my favorite starship Enterprise captain taped to the inside of the cupboard door. “Instead of my customary ‘Earl Grey, hot,’ I need to switch to some caffeine-free Good Earth.”

  Opening the other cupboard door, I lusted over my collection while I waited for the water to boil. Sigh. Front and center was my Johnny, so sensitive and adorable in Finding Neverland. And all around him were the runners-up I drooled over: Ty Pennington, the hunky carpenter from Extreme Makeover Home Edition—I loved his muscles and his humor and that husky voice. But also Viggo Mortensen, strong and noble in full Aragorn regalia. And last, but not least, Clay Aiken.

  Yes. Clay Aiken. I got goose bumps a few years back when he sang “Unchained Melody” and “Bridge over Troubled Water” on American Idol. And like millions of other voters around the country, I think he was robbed. But that hasn’t stopped him from shooting to the top of the pop charts. (So there, Simon.)

  Brad Pitt flexing his fabulous pecs in his Troy costume used to hold a place of honor next to Clay. But after dumping Jen for Angelina (how could he do that to Rachel?!)—down he came. Now there’s an empty space just waiting to be filled.

  But I was not in any hurry. Serious consideration needed to be given to the best candidate for the coveted cupboard-door slot. Orlando Bloom was a major contender, but so were Clive Owen and Hugh Jackman. What can I say? Those British and Aussie accents made me go all weak in the knees. Of course, for sheer all-American appeal and charisma—and that yummy devilish gleam in his eye—you couldn’t beat Matthew McConaughey. There’s a reason People magazine voted for him as having the best abs. Mmm.

  I kept my lust collection under wraps, of course, especially when Jack was around. Didn’t want him to think I was stuck in junior high. And wouldn’t want to make him jealous either, especially since he’s gorgeous enough to belong right up there with the others. Dark, spiky hair, blue eyes, runner’s bod—what a combination!

  I glanced at the picture of us on the fridge, taken last month on our third date, playing miniature golf with some friends of his. Jack’s right behind me, having just whispered something funny in my ear, and I’m laughing, my head thrown back. His buddy snapped the picture just as my ponytail smacked Jack in the face, giving him a beard on his theretofore clean-shaven chin. My fingers reached up to trace his lips above the ponytail beard.

  That was the day we first kissed.

  Mmm again.

  Just as the kettle began to whistle, my front door cracked open.

  Every Saturday afternoon without fail, Mom came over for my dirty clothes and a cup of tea. Since there weren’t a washer and dryer at my place, she always took my laundry to their house and did it for me. I’d protested at first, but it made her happy, so who was I to deny my mother happiness? Besides, laundry’s about the only domestic-goddess skill my professionally oriented mother is good at, so I liked to encourage her.

  I pulled out another mug and quickly shut my fantasy doors. I kept my collection out of Mom’s sight too.

  An empty laundry basket appeared in the kitchen doorway, followed by my color-coordinated, not-a-hair-out-of-place mother.

  “Did you have fun shopping with Merritt today?” Mom asked hopefully. “Get anything new?”

  “Yep. A T-shirt.”

  “Oh, honey, when are you ever going to start wearing something besides jeans and T-shirts?” She set down the laundry basket and smoothed her gray slacks, removing a minuscule piece of lint. “You live in them.”

  “That’s ’cause they’re comfortable.” I poured the boiling water over the tea bag. “You and Jillian must be in cahoots.”

  “Is that cinnamon I smell?”

  “Yep. I was in the mood for some Good Earth today.”

  No way was I going to mention the caffeine—or the lump. Terms of Endearment was one of Mom’s all-time favorite movies. Knowing her, she’d immediately start wringing her Shirley MacLaine hands and cast me in the dying Debra Winger role.

  I poised the spout over her mug. “Want some?”

  “Thanks.” She plopped down on one of my white metal bistro chairs. “Do you and Jack have plans for tonight? Since the weather’s so nice for April, your dad’s planning to throw some steaks on the grill. I got some salad in a bag and some potatoes to nuke.”

  “Sorry.” My lips turned down in a pout—Dad’s steak was fabulous. “Jack’s out of town with his brother watching pumped-up men on steroids with one-word names wrestle each other. And I’m going over to Andy’s to watch The Incredibles—Josh’s current movie du jour. We’re having hamburgers. But if you have any leftovers, maybe you could save me some . . .”

  I threw her a pleading look, and she laughed.

  “Anything for you, my darling little carnivore. If you’re good, Mother may even go to the freezer and bake you a pie.”

  chapter three

  I hated going to the ob-gyn.

  Is there anything more humiliating than putting your feet in those stirrups? I always felt like a wishbone about to be snapped. And why is it they always have the table angled to face the door? Is it too much to ask for a little modesty and discretion? C’mon, work with me, people! I lived in mortal fear of flashing the whole doctor’s office.

  And do they have stirrups for men? I don’t think so. All they have to do is bend over and cough. Big deal. So much more dignified.

  But dignified or not, this had to be done. So I sat there on the edge of the table and tried to make the best of things.

  The doctor’s assistant took my blood pressure, then handed me one of those flat, blue vacuum-packed gowns that’s a hybrid of paper towel and waxed paper.

  “The doctor will be right with you,” she said.

  And the race was on.

  Since I didn’t know if I was going to have one minute or fifteen before the doctor arrived, I yanked off my shirt in one fluid motion and undid my bra with one hand while trying to open up the gown with the other. As usual, it wouldn’t cooperate—I just knew I was going to rip it. So there I stood in full frontal glor
y, fumbling with the sky-blue folds, keeping one nervous eye trained on the doorknob for the first hint of movement.

  Ah, success at last. I pulled on the flimsy gown and gingerly tied it shut with the plastic belt (which also looked like it would rip in a heartbeat). Then with all embarrassing body parts safely covered, I reached under the gown to pull down my pants and underwear. I hung all my clothes on the back of the door, tucking the underwear neatly out of sight under the jeans and T-shirt. Then I was sitting at the edge of the table, looking down at my chipped blue toenails (courtesy of Merritt), waiting for the doctor.

  It must have been a slow day, because I only had to wait seven minutes. I had lain back and was in the midst of playing connect-the-water-stains on the ancient ceiling when a couple of brisk raps at the door made me sit up quickly. A head of Little Orphan Annie curls shot through with gray poked in first, soon followed by the angular, freckled, fifty-something form of Dr. Laura Calhoun. (She’s nothing at all like the more famous Dr. Laura, I might add.)

  “Hi, Natalie. How are you?” She gave me a warm smile. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “I know.” I had the grace to look guilty. “It’s been a couple of years since my last pap.”

  She checked my chart. “Three, actually.”

  “Really? That long, huh? Sorry. I kept forgetting to reschedule my missed appointment.”

  “That’s what they all say.” She grinned. “The only ones more unloved than gynecologists in the medical profession are dentists.”

  Dr. Calhoun made small talk to put me at ease while she pulled out the stirrups, eased me back onto the table, and began the exam. She chatted about the romantic comedy she’d seen over the weekend, then segued into favorite reality shows. She liked the one where the rich executive always said, “You’re fired!” I was hooked on the heartwarming home-makeover show. I was in the midst of describing in minute detail the fairy-tale bedroom of the daughter in the latest installment when her fingers, which had been playing piano on my left breast, stilled.