Birthday Girls Read online

  No, she thought, picking up another magazine and flipping pages again. It wasn’t as though she were hurting anyone.

  Kris did as she was told. When she walked into the doctor’s office, he motioned for her to sit down.

  “Frankly, Ms. Kensington,” he said, scowling at the chart on his desk, “you’re too old.”

  Trying not to react, Kris raised her chin.

  “However,” he continued, “you may want to consider oocyte donation.”

  She wanted to ask what the hell that was. Instead she smiled and said, “Could you explain that, please?”

  “In women your age, or close to menopause, we recommend an egg donor be used.”

  “I already have my own eggs. What I lack is sperm.” Her anger sparked; she hoped it didn’t show. She only knew she wished she’d never come to this place called the Mayfield Institute; surely there must have been a more appropriate doctor in the Yellow Pages. The Mayfield Institute, however, had offered the earliest appointment. Which should have been a clue.

  “Even though you continue to menstruate, chances are you have few eggs remaining. Any day now, bingo,” he said, punctuating his words with a snap of his preppy-pink fingers, “your ovaries will shut down. No offense.”

  “Bingo?” Kris mimicked and stood up. “And no offense to you, doctor, but I believe I’ll get a second opinion.”

  “That certainly is your right.” He rose from behind the desk that was too large for him. “You may have better luck in Norway. They are making great strides in successful impregnations of older women.”

  Kris stopped at the door. “What is it with this country? Is it the liability? Afraid of getting your ass sued?”

  The doctor picked up a file. “You could try California.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that,” she said, and abruptly left.

  “So he told me to try Norway. Or California. But I think they’ll all say the same thing. ‘You’re too old.’ Shit. When did this happen? When did we get old?”

  They were sitting on buttery smooth leather chairs in the posh, private room Vincenté reserved for his special clients. The tall, orange-haired man had already applied a color Abigail picked out, something called Warm Autumn Haze. Now he studied Maddie’s face, snipped, then studied some more.

  Maddie did not want to think about what he was doing. “You’ve always loved it when people said it couldn’t be done,” she said to Kris. “You loved it when Mr. Hamilton said you could never put together a project on centrifugal force in time for the science fair.”

  Abigail and Kris both stared at Maddie. “Jesus,” Kris said, “how’d you remember that? What ever happened to old Mr. Hamilton?”

  “Maybe he’d be a good father for your baby,” Maddie laughed, trying to ignore the long clump of hair that fell to the floor.

  “I’m working on some alternatives,” Abigail said. When Vincenté muttered something about needing sharper scissors and left them alone, she whispered, “In fact, I was thinking this morning that maybe you should take Edmund. I won’t be needing him any longer.”

  “Your husband?”

  Abigail shrugged. “Why not? He’s going to be an available widower soon. And he has great genes for being a father.”

  “No thanks. A man would only complicate my life.”

  Maddie frowned. “And a baby won’t? Being a mother isn’t a walk in the park, Kris.” She thought about Bobby and Timmy, how different they were, how difficult it was sometimes to raise two boys, to know what to do with boys, to know how to help them and guide them and shape them into … people.

  Vincenté returned and snip-snipped some more.

  “I have an idea,” Abigail said. “Maddie’s leaving for California tomorrow. Why don’t you go with her? Maybe you can find a doctor out there …”

  Maddie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “No,” she said abruptly, and a little too loud.

  “No?” Vincenté asked. “You don’t like the bangs?”

  She twisted in the chair. “The bangs are fine,” she said curtly, flicking her gaze at Abigail in the mirror. “I meant no, Kris can’t come with me. It wouldn’t be convenient. I’ve got work to do …”

  “Kris would hardly be in your way. Oh, come on, Kris, do it. See this through to the end. My wish is waiting for yours to come true.”

  “I don’t know …” Kris said.

  Maddie couldn’t believe Abigail was going to screw up her plans. “You probably couldn’t get in to see anyone so fast,” she said weakly.

  “Of course she could,” Abigail continued. “The name Kris Kensington must mean something in L.A. How many of your books have been made into films?”

  “I don’t want to involve anyone else.”

  Vincenté snipped.

  “Not over my ears, please,” Maddie said.

  Abigail laughed. “Excuse me, but I thought that was the point. To have each other ‘involved.’ ”

  The snipping stopped. In the mirror Maddie watched as the stylist raised her hair through his fingers, examining each strand for tell-tale remains of the woman she had been until forty-five minutes ago.

  “I never told you guys,” Kris said. “I never told anyone. But hell, this is the nineties, and it no longer matters.” She took a deep breath, then let it out in a whoosh. “A long time ago … when we were in school … I had an abortion.”

  Musak leaked from the vents. The trusted Vincenté picked up the blow-dryer and blasted it on.

  “No kidding,” Maddie said above the noise. “But they were illegal.”

  “Didn’t matter in Harlem. Not if you knew someone who knew someone.”

  Maddie didn’t want to ask which of the boys Kris had known had known someone who had known someone. She stared at the mirror, watching the miracle being performed.

  “So you think God doesn’t want you to have a child?” Abigail asked. “That He’s punishing you for that abortion?”

  “Sometimes I’ve wondered …”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You don’t understand, Abigail. You can’t understand, because you’ve never had one.” She paused, then added, “Have you?”

  “Of course not!” Abigail snapped, then fell silent. The hum of the blow-dryer filling the dead air.

  Maddie wanted to ask Kris who the father had been, if it had been Jack, or one of the countless other boys Kris had dated. She wanted to know but didn’t dare ask. After all, this wasn’t exactly the right place, no matter how “trusted” the hairstylist was. Besides, there were more important matters. Like how was she going to talk Kris out of going to L.A.

  “Go with Maddie, Kris,” Abigail said. “Give it a try.”

  “Well, maybe.”

  “Maybe nothing. This is your last chance, remember?”

  Vincenté turned off the dryer, fluffed Maddie’s hair, and spritzed on gel.

  “Okay, I’ll give it a shot. But I don’t need to go with Maddie. I’m used to doing things alone.”

  Maddie wanted to breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Nonsense,” Abigail chirped. “You will go with Maddie. You can be as independent as you want, Kris Kensington, but when it comes to this, a little moral support can work wonders. In fact, I insist you go with her.”

  “So I won’t chicken out?”

  “Precisely.”

  “You want my wish to come true that badly?”

  “Yes. But more than that, I want mine to come true. And I won’t even have a chance until yours does.”

  An ache in Maddie’s head crawled to her eyes. As Vincenté conducted his final fluffs and spritzes, suddenly everything blurred. In the mirror Maddie saw two images of Kris, two of Abigail.

  “I’d have to pay a premium fare on such short notice.”

  “You can afford it,” Abigail snorted. “Besides, I’m sure it will cost less than twenty thousand dollars.”

  Kris sighed. “What time is your flight, Maddie?”

  Maddie blinked. Slowly the two images of Kris merged
back into one, but the ache in her eyes, the pain in her heart, did not leave. “Ten-thirty.”

  “Fini,” Vincenté announced. “You like?”

  “It’s gorgeous,” Abigail said.

  “Perfect,” Kris added.

  All Maddie could do was nod. The transformation was complete: she was no longer a leftover hippie. Maddie looked at the stylish woman in the mirror and wondered who the hell it was.

  The party was in Newburgh, New York, on the opposite side of the Hudson River. Abigail lingered by the boursin platter, studying the way the chef had laced the perimeter not with dull celery stalks and carrot sticks, but with finely sliced apples and wafers of delicate crackers. The effect was pleasing to look at, but Abigail knew it was totally impractical: the cheese would never spread evenly across the moist surface of the Macintoshes, and the crackers would crumble under the weight of the knife. In short, her viewers would flood her with nasty notes if she dared present an hors d’oeuvres tray like this.

  She turned from the table and congratulated herself for at least having learned something in her decade of media stardom. Maybe she’d be able to fake it as a chef after all. God knew she’d have to do something to support herself; she didn’t dare disappear with any money that would cast suspicion that she might still be alive. It was bad enough she’d already begun setting aside—a little at a time—the twenty thousand dollars for her new identity.

  Across the drawing room Edmund stood chatting with L.C. Howard, a lively old man whose passions included collecting Monets, Manets, and women under thirty. The most civilized thing about this intimate gathering was that no one here cared about Abigail’s fame, for their riches were old money—very old money—like Grandfather’s had been.

  But as much as Abigail liked being out of the limelight, she did not feel comfortable here either. Though she had spent a lifetime around these people, she had only now begun to realize how unhappy it made her. She had little in common with the white-haired, bejeweled women, smiley and jovial though they were. Glancing around, Abigail wondered if any of them had ever considered changing their lives.

  “Abigail, darling,” one of the old ladies called, “do come and tell us about your little business.” It was Harriet Lindley, the most tittering gossip of the old-money set, whose grandfather had been friends with Abigail’s great-grandfather and who was known to amuse herself by turning on the television only to watch the shopping channels. “Can you believe it?” she often asked her friends; “people actually telephone in and pay money for those kinds of things.” But Harriet was sincere, if not naive, and the shield of her wealth had never been perforated by life. Which, Abigail supposed as she walked toward the small group of women, was exactly as her life could have been if she’d never sought more.

  “My ‘little business’ is going well,” she said when she reached them.

  “Well, dear, it keeps you so busy we hardly see you anymore. You really must do something about that,” Harriet crooned, her blue eyes glinting off the sapphire-and-diamond choker that strained to encircle her thick, soft neck.

  Abigail stared at the necklace while Harriet droned on. “You simply must come to London for the theater season. And Chardonnay, dear. You must do Chardonnay this year.”

  Nodding and smiling, Abigail stopped listening. Instead her hand sought the satin collar of her navy faille suit, touching the diamond brooch that had been her great-grandmother’s and that, along with the matching earrings and bracelet, constituted the most valuable pieces in her vast collection of jewelry.

  As Harriet’s chatter drifted to Gladys Knudsen beside her and the two women conferred about the gaiety of last season, who-was-seen-with-whom and who-(unbelievably!)-had-done-what, Abigail’s thoughts charged ahead in a direction far from Chardonnay. Suddenly she realized she didn’t need to worry about skimming money from Hardy Enterprises. For if, when she disappeared, Abigail were dressed as she was tonight, attired with over a million and a half dollars worth of jewels, she could find a way to pawn them … pawn them for cash. She’d have to be certain that someone—Louisa or Edmund—would know she was wearing the jewels. Then no one would ever suspect.

  The heat seemed to rise in the genteel room; the sounds of the small talk became muted and distant. Her heart beat faster; her excitement grew. And Abigail knew that she was almost ready.

  Of course, she thought as she sat beside Edmund on the drive home, it was not possible yet. She did not know where to go; she did not yet know how to execute the plan.

  “Foolproof,” Kris had said, repeating Mo Gilbert’s word. “It has to be foolproof.”

  Damn Kris. Damn her for being three thousand miles away when Abigail needed her now.

  She stared out into the night.

  “Nice party,” Edmund commented, his eyes steady on the road.

  “Hmm.”

  “L.C. has decided he’s entering a Gauguin stage. He wants me to sell off some of his collection and buy all the Gauguins I can find.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I’ll say it’s nice. It’ll be worth close to a million in commissions.”

  They were approaching the Tappan Zee Bridge. Abigail always preferred it once they had crossed, once they had returned to the familiarity of “her side of the street,” as she’d always considered the land east of the Hudson.

  And then Edmund’s hand was on her thigh. She resisted the urge to push it away, to tell him to stop, to tell him he’d better get used to not having her around.

  “Thanks for going with me tonight, honey. I know you’ve been tired lately. But this deal means a lot to me.”

  She looked away from his hand. “I enjoyed it,” she lied.

  “Well,” he said, withdrawing his hand and slapping the steering wheel with a chuckle, “the ladies certainly enjoyed seeing you. I think Harriet Lindley wishes you were her daughter.”

  The car hummed toward the bridge.

  “Which reminds me,” Edmund continued, “are we doing Thanksgiving this year?”

  Thanksgiving. Since long before Grandfather died, Abigail had done Thanksgiving, done it with all the pomp and tradition of true Hardy heritage: the most regal table, the finest cuisine, the company of old, valued friends—the illusion that only grandeur could create, the same illusion she conveyed to her audience every week as the only way to entertain.

  She wanted to tell Edmund no, that she would be long gone by Thanksgiving. Instead she replied dryly, “Probably.”

  “Good,” he replied. “You always make Thanksgiving so grand.”

  She glanced at her husband, the man she had vowed long ago to love and to cherish until death did they part, because Grandfather had said they’d be a good match.

  Maybe he hadn’t been wrong.

  There had been good times, she reflected—holidays and trips and parties and even fun. And he had been so kind when Grandfather died. He’d made all the arrangements because she was too numb and could only sit on the sofa in Grandfather’s study and stare out the diamond-paned window. That first night Edmund came in and silently sat beside her, holding her hand, easing her pain until the first light of dawn crept into the room and she fell asleep on his shoulder. It was something she doubted she was capable of doing for him.

  Edmund gave her so much and she gave him so little; she was surprised he’d stayed with her at all. He’d be so much better off alone.

  Her chest grew heavy now as she turned her gaze out the window, to the tiny white lights that studded the top of the long bridge as if declaring its importance, its permanence in the world. “Not many cars out tonight,” she noted.

  “It’s after midnight,” Edmund responded with another chuckle. “It’s probably the only time traffic’s not backed up on the bridge.”

  As they headed across the wide span, she looked down at the black water. No traffic, she thought. No traffic, no witnesses. Her breath caught in her throat. This is it, she wanted to scream. This is my answer.

  She shot another glance at Edm
und to see if he’d heard her gasp. But the contented smile of a new business deal lay lightly on his face. Her hands began to tremble. She reached over and turned on the CD player. Mozart filled the small space within the car.

  The Tappan Zee Bridge was all she could think. What a perfect place to disappear. She lit a cigarette and wished Kris and Maddie would hurry home so that they could get on with her plan.

  “As long as you’re still ovulating it shouldn’t be a problem,” the doctor said. He had a perfect California tan. Kildare, his name could have been, if this were the sixties and if Kris believed in miracles; “It might take a few tries, but you seem healthy enough.”

  “You won’t need to do an egg implant?”

  “Not if you have enough of your own. There is some medication we can start you on to help increase egg production. The down side is, you could end up with twins. Or more.”

  Kris laughed. “Good God. I don’t want a litter.”

  “Suit yourself. But without the medication, things might go slower.”

  Slower? That was the last thing she needed. “Then go for it,” she said, and leaned back on the white leather–covered examining table, musing that only in L.A. would they have white leather examining tables. L.A., the land of miracles, where they didn’t seem to mind that she was forty-nine years old and finally ready to have a child. She smiled. “So I may have a family after all.”

  “We’ll do our best.” He scanned her chart, then showed his perfect white teeth. “You had an abortion, is that correct?” He said it matter-of-factly, without shock, without criticism.

  “Over thirty years ago.”

  “First trimester?”

  “Yes.”

  “No other pregnancies?”

  She shook her head.

  He clicked off his pen. “We’ll run some tests first—standard things, nothing to worry about. Your last period was when—a week ago?”

  “Not quite.” She stared at the ceiling, a warm glow flooding through her. A glow that seemed very close to something called joy.

  “We can get started right away. If everything checks out, the first procedure can probably take place next week.”