A Dutiful Wife

by Sydney Michelle

 

Chapter Four

 

When we build a house, we really have to put in two showers in our bathroom. Two people trying to get clean and make themselves presentable really need extra plumbing to get done on time. As it was, since I have morning kitchen duty, becoming enceinte being no exception, I had to drag myself out of bed and hit the shower. I needed it, boy, was I ripe, but I can’t say whether I was relaxed or in a fog. I vote for fog.

Once dry, or at least merely damp, I stole a few minutes to tend to me. Wives and damas are supposed to accept each other as they are, but minimizing puffy and splotchy doesn’t hurt. Hair drawn back in a pony, towel tied over my breasts, I applied a quick coat of foundation, some lipstick, and a couple of daubs of mascara. Just the basics.

I draped the towel to dry, turned to examine myself in the mirror. You have to be on tiptoe to see anything below the waist in a vanity mirror, but I wanted a last look before my one became two. Nice long buttocks, a nip at the waist, a good neck, tapering fingers, slightly wavy, mid-back, red hair (a real red head as my thatch testified), and nicely round breasts with pert nipples. I cupped them, felt the warmth, imagined them larger, fuller, filled with milk. Would they be more sensitive? When Blake touched them now, as she knew so well how to do, or kissed them, I practically came in my panties. Would nursing put me in a permanent state of arousal? Except for my complexion’s inability to tan, I would say I was a fox. Not a vixen, but a fox. Not a ten, but I could see why Mikey had been interested. Of course if he known about my pussy stick, now sleepily small thanks to the weekend’s sexercise, he would almost certainly have been horrified. Still, it had been nice to be appreciated. If a little dangerous.

I slipped into light blue panties, tucking myself discretely back. Normally I would add a discrete control element, usually a pad, just to keep things decent, but all would shortly be exposed to the world today. A complementary soft blue bra, silky but little support, then a tricot wrapper just to keep me from catching my death until I dressed. Pull out the pony, shake my head, run a brush through the strands and I was ready for company. Well, run my fingers through my strands a couple of times first. I do love the feel of silky long hair. Blake likes to play with it and I love her doing it. The light brush across my skin, the little tugs on my scalp are just so wonderful, relaxing, and then . . . Well, you know. A woman who doesn’t keep her hair long, well, she doesn’t have a partner who treats it, or her, right.

It was just before the half hour when I woke my Blakey-Bear with a kiss. Just a light buss and a shake, but I like seeing her wake and roll to me, blinking sleep from her eyes. It’s that first soft smile of recognition, that "glad to be here with you" look that makes my heart melt. I love her, and she loves me, and I love that she loves me, and . . . Oh, you know the drill. Unrequited love is a pain; love that feeds off each other just fills you up until you could burst.

She hit the shower and I settled in for the full Magilla: Eyeliner, shadow, blush, talc powder, and a couple of daubs of a floral perfume along my jaw. And of course my jewelry. My nose ring, our statement that I was a taken coman, earrings, drops and a diamond stud, my tennis bracelet, and of course my wedding set. Divide the pony and bend a couple of twisties to create a couple of doughnuts on the back of my head. All control today so the clinic wouldn’t have to fuss over possible contamination.

Blake emerged from the shower just as I finished. A damp kiss "Good Morning" and I was off to fix breakfast, light for me, a bit more substantial for her. The procedure is done on topical, but when people probe around in your abdomen, you don’t want a lot with a chance to come back up. Suddenly, a light pat on the rear lets me know I am loved as I headed out the door.

Was ever a coman so lucky? A beautiful woman loved me, and wanted me, and helped me become beautiful, and now I will bear our child. Why was I ever reluctant? So men don’t get knocked up every day. It was a new era as my wonderfully responsive body testified. Still, there was that long list of possible complications we had to read and sign off on. But I just know Blake, no, not Blake, Marie? would grow so beautifully in my belly. And when the time came, Dr. Jane would just pop her right out, no problem.

So I’m singing away as I fix toast and two eggs for Blake. Cold cereal for us both, and juice of course. No tea today, a new regimen for me, only herbals for the next nine months. After all, I have to consider Marie’s, Mary’s? needs first. No caffeine, no alcohol, easy on the aspirin and try to stay away from smokers and sick people until delivery. I’d miss my glass of wine with dinner, but better a little sacrifice than years of heartache.

Blake emerged when I called, not finished, but making progress. We’ll be dressed and off in time for the first appointment at nine. She’ll have me back home and still be able to get in a half day at work. After all, she had only been with Baker, Chandler, & Draper LLP, a few months, and that was only because Justice Gellman had been willing to let her out of her clerkship early since the State Supreme Court only hears emergency pleas during the summer. Despite all the extra hours, she really needed to hold down the time out until the next summer. Or until my delivery date, whichever came first.

Blake gave lots of extra little touches while we ate, hand strokes, finger twines, shoulder pats when she’s up for a refill. It was reassuring, because I was getting more nervous as my time neared. All those doubts started to creep back. I got to thinking about the video we saw back at ESU about the procedure. The zygote, it’s not an embryo until it attaches to something, me in this case, is in a fluid in a big syringe. The needle has to be big enough for Mary Margaret? Not if I can help it. To pass through surrounded my proto-ambiotic fluid. The baby is less than two weeks along, so its clump of cells isn’t very big. At the time, the needle didn’t seem that large, but it had to be, didn’t it? And I have this thing about needles. Especially big ones.

So I was getting nervous, sipping juice while Blake rinsed the dishes and deposited them in the dishwasher. Then we have to get dressed, Blake to put on her professional face, me to slip into something that slips on and off with a minimum of fuss. It’s not that I had a lot of housewifey things to choose from. Since I worked, most of my wardrobe money had gone into work clothes, either for the office or the bedroom. It really came down to two dresses, sleeveless, A-line, in yellow or pink, neither of which is really my color. The yellow won out after no help from Blake who was sliding into her below the knee, gray, dark pinstripe suit.

We’re off at eight, plenty of time to fill out insurance paperwork before they’re ready for me at nine. The G&O clinic at the ESU Capital Branch Richards Teaching Hospital had its own building, complete with out patient surgical suites. After our annual baselines, Dr. Cordray-Williams had arranged for Jan and me to see Dr. Jane Laney so we wouldn’t have to run the two hours back to College Switch. Besides, we needed a close at hand facility to monitor our pregnancies should anything go wrong.

Blake settled me into a chair and began filling out paperwork. We paid for the PPO option so I could be treated in the program. It wouldn’t cover "experimental" costs, but the routine exams and even the C-section would be paid for. An HMO? My case would have blown both their minds and their budget. The endowment would have picked up the cost, but I figured whatever could be kicked in legitimately would help ensure the program actually did follow me until our last child turned eighteen.

It’s a good thing Blake was there. I had a terminal case of nervous bladder. Fortunately we had been assured that this was one visit when they did not need a urine sample, because I was straining to get it all out three times before they came for me.

The nurse led us down the hall for weigh in and finger pricking. All my clothes went in a bag and I donned one of those terminally embarrassing hospital gowns, only backwards, with the overlap in front. A bubble cap for my hair, and I was helped onto a gurney to wait for my big entrance. A gowned figure, mask hanging below her chin, loomed over me. No matter how many times I had heard it, I got another procedure review, a recitation of things that could go wrong that should scare off all but the terminal, and a batch of release forms to sign.

She helped Blake into an all encompassing scrub suit since she would be present during the procedure. She had better be there at the beginning. When they open me up and lift Mary Jenniffer? out I’d rather she be pacing and worrying like a good dama. But when I’m getting punched? You bet your sweet bippy she had better be there.

We’re all set and I’m being wheeled along under a sheet on a short but nauseating ride to the surgical suite. You can shut your eyes as tight as you want, but being shoved along head first does wonders to your equilibrium, just not nice wonders. And then there’s that sideways jolt as they transfer you onto the table.

I breathed deep as instructed, trying to quell nausea and nervousness when I heard a familiar voice.

"How’s my coman doing?

"Dr. Cordray?"

A lavender gowned figure pulled down her mask and winked at me.

"You didn’t really think I was going to miss the start of your first pregnancy, did you?"

I could have cried. I may have. A little. "Oh, look, Honey, it’s Dr. Cordray."

"How are you holding up Blake? Excited at the prospect?"

"Thank you for coming, Doctor. I’m sure Jaimie will feel much better."

"So what am I, chopped liver?" Dr. Laney pulled down her mask and winked at me.

"Oh, no, Doctor, it’s just . . ."

She patted my hand. "I know. A woman’s Ob-gyn is often her most intimate and trusted professional. I wouldn’t imagine it would be any different for a coman. Maybe more so."

They readjusted their masks as the nurse pulled back the sheet. I felt cool air waft over me as I was exposed. The two physicians conducted a quick physical exam. It would have been dirty if it weren’t so clinical. A digit felt up me for polyps, an effort that required quite a rotation since Blake had used me so thoroughly and so well over the weekend. My nuts got a quick feel, the now familiar search for polyps and distensions. "How’s our coman doing? Everything functional?"

"It was this last weekend."

"She does seem extraordinarily relaxed." A latex gloved hand gave me a little squeeze. Nada. Zilch.

"Those were the instructions, weren’t they?" Blake’s voice floated from above my head as she gave my hand a squeeze.

"Glad to see you follow instructions thoroughly. Let’s hope you keep it up the next nine months."

A masked face loomed over me. "Now Jaimie, you’re going to feel some warmth on your belly, then a cooling. That’s merely the antiseptic. Then some more warmth from the topical. A couple of minutes after that, you should be numb and we can proceed with the implant. We’ll strap you down just so you don’t move. We’ll guide it with an ultrasound, and that is masked by a cool, make that cold, sticky gel. You can watch the progress on the screen if you want, or we can drape a sheet for a screen."

"Can I see the syringe?"

The nurse held it up, a big metal affair that I ever after swore was designed to shove pills down horses’ throats. "It’s empty now. I’ll fill it just before we use it."

"Screen, please." I may be a big chicken, but the thought of watching an oversize horse needle worming around in my guts was not what I wanted. So it wouldn’t be nearly as big around as the drill Blake regularly employed, and so the process qualified as a medical miracle, but that doesn’t mean I had to watch.

"As you wish. Nurse, rig it up while the anesthetic takes hold."

The sheet was hung on a frame as warmth and cold were applied to my belly. My nice, taut, firm, belly with a well defined navel that Blake liked to stroke and that fluttered when she kissed it. The needle would go through my navel, mainly for cosmetic reasons, and I wasn’t supposed to feel much of anything. It was that qualifier that had me worried. Doctors’ definition of pain and my definition of pain rarely seemed to agree.

Blake’s head appeared by mine. I rolled across to see her, felt a tear trickle down from the corner of my eye. "You’re going to be fine, Sweetheart. You’ll see. I’ll be right here."

That was comforting. With two doctors in attendance, what could go wrong? But if this all turned out to be an evil plot to turn me into a zombie or something, my sweetie was there to protect me. After all, being strapped down, I wouldn’t be able to protect myself.

The straps weren’t bad, padded and just firm enough that movement was hampered. Still, it was a helpless feeling, as I lay spread-eagled, no that’s quite right since my arms were down, not up, and my forearms were free, waiting for the gowned figures to get on with it. I couldn’t help feeling like there was supposed to be a bolt of lightening, followed by an evil cackle of "Look, Igor, she’s alive!" Then I would be stood up with a tall crinkly hairstyle as some distant organ played Bach’s Toccata and Fugue.

They weren’t lying about that gel. To my mind it felt like it had come straight from the freezer. Then there was a gentle press, and things got warmer. Just a little.

A masked face appeared over the sheet. "You alright? Ready to go? Last chance to change your mind." Dr. Cordray-Williams was extra careful to make sure we were really volunteers.

"Let’s do it. I want to carry Mary Elizabeth."

"You’ll feel a little pressure. Just my fingers. Already have a name picked out, have you?"

"First I’ve heard of it, Doctor."

"Damas are usually the last to know. Little more to the right, Dr. Laney."

I certainly did not not feel anything. Their worming around inside me felt like one of the sharpest gas attacks I had ever had. Maybe not that bad, as I didn’t feel quite like doubling up. But my belly must have tensed.

"Felt it a little did you? Just relax. We’re right over your nest. Just a little deeper and then you’ll feel a slight filling sensation as the zygote finds a home."

Deeper? They’re going deeper? But I did relax. Apparently the "gas attack" came from the horizontal adjustment as they centered in the nest of womb material attached to my lower bowel. And then I felt a little bloat, not as bad as my monthly hormonal adjustment. And then it was done.

"We’re going to tape a little plug in your navel to protect the puncture from infection. You can take it out in the morning. If you notice bleeding seep around it, get in touch with us at once. You shouldn’t; we missed all your veins and arteries, but just take a look a few times over the next few hours."

There were rattling sounds, wiping of my belly, my limbs being freed from the restraints. A mild hub-bub of the end of the procedure. The sheet came down. I saw a nurse working over my belly, cutting and placing tape, undoubtably the plug. My doctors’ faces beamed at me.

"You were just fine, Jaimie. We’re all done here." Dr. Cordray-Williams patted my hand.

"Am I pregnant?"

"Time will tell. We’ll schedule you back a week from Friday to pee in the cup. That’s about when you’re period would start to misfire. Dr. Laney’s office might have the results the end of the day. You’ll leave your cell phone number, I’m sure."

"I don’t like Friday’s for turn around tests. The techs can be in too big a hurry to get off for the weekend."

"Monday after then?"

"That’s fine."

"Can I take her home now, Doctor?"

"Let’s let her lie in recovery for half an hour. The nurse will be by with your post-op instructions. Then take her home and let her rest. Eat anything you want, just not too much of it. Rest is good while the zygote sets up. Sleep is better. And I would advise that you two try not to ‘celebrate’ for a few days. Dr. Laney will keep me informed of your progress."

An aide wheeled me back down the corridor into a vast waiting area with those totally inadequate pull curtains for "privacy." Blake was sweet, asking how I felt, stroking my hand, fetching me water, in general the anxious, solicitous mate that she had not been that morning. That was one time I got genuinely fussed over and it felt nice.

An RN popped in, all smiling but businesslike with our instructions. I should not drive for twelve hours, eat moderately, rest as much as possible for twenty-four, and not do anything involving arduous abdominal activity for three days. Normal movement and reaching would be fine, but no exercises or long stretches. All that was to give Mary Elizabeth the best chance to become attached and minimize tearing. I could come in anytime Monday morning after eight to give a urine sample, but earlier was better. And I was to start recording my food and beverage intake again. She took a peek at my plug then pronounced me dismissed.

My tummy was still numb while I dressed. Blake wheeled me out to the door, then drove me ever so carefully home. She took my hair down after I changed into my light flannel night gown then took me in her arms.

"I love you, Jaimie Alba Jones. Thank you for being my wife, for having my child, our child. I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"I love you too, Miz Jones." What brought this on? Not that I’m complaining, you understand." It was nice having her arms around me, even knowing we weren’t going to get all hot and bothered. Like I always say, take your "I love you’s" any way you can get ‘em, but this was top notch.

"Just you on that table, seeing your grimace when they inserted the needle. It hit me that "a delicate condition" was more than a euphuism. And it hit me how much more you meant to me than a good roll in the hay."

"Two years living together and it just now hits you?"

"Oh, I’ve known it. It’s just it came back into focus, more intensely than ever."

I leaned my head against her, enjoying the stroking of my hair. "I need you too, Blakey-Bear. More than ever. Thank you for making me your wife."

She tilted my head back. I closed my eyes. She kissed me tenderly and I knew I was her beloved.

"Go. You need to get to work to support us. And if you stick around much longer, I might not be able to follow doctors’ orders."

"Will you be alright?"

I clung close, running my fingers under her lapels. "I’ll be fine. I’m not dead. Or bleeding. Of course you could call this afternoon to check up on me."

"Won’t you be asleep?"

"It won’t matter. The sound of your voice will relax me."

Another kiss, a smoothing of my hair, a long hug and she was gone. I took off my face, scooped myself a bowl of raspberry sherbert, popped a movie in the player, and settled down, propped up on pillows. It was the first time since the wedding I had really been alone. I mean really alone, no one else in the building like at work, or with Blake in the next room or soon to pop in.. For a moment, I really wanted the now familiar feel of her next to me, the smell of her closeness. Then Father of the Bride II started up and another nibble of sherbert calmed me down.

I did get a little nap, that felt good, after soup and toast, but I was thumbing through a magazine, trying to find something interesting between the ads, when Blake called. Hearing her voice was so very reassuring. I may not have melted, but I did relax. I doubt phone kisses are proper law office etiquette, but I loved it. Holding her pillow to me, I caught the faint whiff of her as I slipped back into slumber.

 

Chapter Five

 

I was still a little sore around the navel the next morning as I drove to A Cut Above. Nothing serious, just a little tender when I lifted my legs and pointed my toes to roll on my pantyhose. It was back to a professional look, minimal jewelry, a dark blue separate set and mid-heels. I did suck it in slightly for a corselet. I thought the extra control would help keep my tummy still. Besides, I always feel just a little more attractive with something nice on underneath. It puts a little spring in my walk.

Wednesdays were my day to close, so I could get my appointment in and not miss work. Of course last week I had moved to Thursday evening so I could look nice for our "relaxing" weekend. Being all pouffy and curled, firm but flexible to the touch, may not have been responsible for my multiple orgasms, but it didn’t hurt. Blake had liked running her hands over my hair while we necked before she led me off to bed.

I checked my face and hair before I got out of the car. My hair was nothing elaborate, just my pony twisted and caught with a broad barrette. It’s not that I had to look like I had just come from a salon to get my hair done, but you are on display to women who care about their appearance. A dab of powder took off the nose shine, a purse of the lips smoothed my lipstick and I was good to go.

My old econo wheels would have to go soon. I doubted I could slide the seat back far enough once Mary Elizabeth got me into serious pooch. Besides, I’d need something suitable for hauling with a baby seat taking up half the back seat. Not that Blake would give me the Cheetah. Papa Jones had given her that when she graduated high school and it had been her pride and joy ever since. She looked good in it, her black head standing out above the silver metal. Maybe not a full mini-van, not yet, maybe a hatch back or a baby van. Baby. How appropriate.

Miriam checked me in, bringing me water instead of my usual tea. My change of request raised an eyebrow, but I pretended not to notice. I flipped through a style book, deliberately ignoring Good Housekeeping and Modern Maternity. I didn’t want to jinx things.

Ashley was Jenny on the spot, leading me back to the shampoo bowl before I got more than a cursory look at the new prom styles. I always check out Jolene’s staff for ideas; I don’t want to get in a rut. Ashley’s chestnut hair was shorter than mine, just below shoulder length, with a little height and waves dipping onto the brow. Soft waves ended in a full upturned curls resting on the shoulders They were too soft and touchable to be called a flip, but the whole effect framed the face to show off subtly done but striking eyes. For a nineteen year old beauty school student, Ashley appreciated that trendy dramatic was not that attractive.

"So how are you today, Mrs. Jones? Did you have a good weekend?" Fingers undid my twist, warm water began to wet my hair.

I closed my eyes and relaxed. "It was nice. We got away for a few days."

A hand lifted my head, getting the back thoroughly wet. Fingers massaged my scalp. I sensed, more than heard, Ashley squeeze out shampoo gel. "I really envy you and Mrs. Tunbury. It must be nice to have someone who cares for you so much."

"Give it time. It’ll happen."

Fingers worked the suds through my strands, front to back to keep the soap from my eyes. "I hope so. It just seems so lonely sometimes. All the girls at school just talk about partying, and who they’re going to be with this weekend, or who dumped who. They don’t seem much for commitment."

I couldn’t reply with my chin tucked while water swished the shampoo and spray off my hair tail down the drain. I batted my eyes to focus when my head nestled once more on the bowl. "You’re young yet. Your set is just having the first taste of being on their own. In a year or two, they’ll start to tire of the eternal chase and start to think about rings and veils."

Ashley carefully worked a small amount of gel into my hairline before massaging it through to create a mass of suds. "I hope so. It’s just they don’t seem at all interested. In me, that is. We pal around after class, but whenever I try to ask someone out, it’s ‘I’m seeing someone right now.’ They’re always seeing someone."

"Well a boy in a skirt isn’t every girl’s cup of tea. Especially one who can look more attractive than they do. Be patient, be friendly, and let your friends work for you. Girls tend to be chronic matchmakers."

Ashley gently lifted my head, making sure the suds were completely washed away. He sighed. "Maybe so. But the only time one tried, she tried to set me up with her cousin. A football player. Second string, to boot." He reached for a towel.

"Did you let her know you didn’t swing that way? That you want a nice girl for a friend?"

He squeezed wet through my hair, then blotted the strands dry. "Uh-huh. She just said the girls she knew thought the boys would think they were lez if they went out with me."

"So maybe it isn’t a ‘date.’ Just some casual time together getting to know each other."

He sat me up, gathered my hair on top of my head and began to wrap my turban. "That doesn’t seem to be their style. They’re either with someone, or on the make, or in full gal group." His hand steadied my back to stand me up.

"Maybe you need to look for someone older, more settled. Maybe Jolene could take you along to some trade shows and introduce you discretely. There’s bound to be someone in your field who would appreciate someone gentle and attractive.

Ashley led me toward the styling cubicles. "Maybe. I hope so. Sometimes I feel like Ravenal, wondering where’s the girl for me?"

Jolene was her usual effervescent self. If you didn’t want something told around, you better not tell her. She considered gossip part of her stock and trade, although she was never vicious about it. I could always depend on her to pass a message to Jan or Thelma if I needed to. She was more reliable than answering machines. Of course she would want a synopsis of the weekend, I just had to be a little coy and remember not to relive every delicious moment.

"So how was your weekend? My work didn’t survive it, I see. That must have been fun."

"Blake was properly appreciative, thank you. It’s always nice when you’re ready, all fresh from the chair, and your spouse reacts. Packing for the weekend did get put on hold for a bit."

"So what am I to do with your today, Madam Librarian? Something suitably dowdy? Maybe a fat bun at your nape to go with a pair of horn rim glasses?"

"You know I don’t even wear contacts."

"Fake it. A nice big pair of fake tortoise shell, and you could take them off, suck on the end of an ear piece, reach back and take out a pin or two. A nice slow head shake as your hair tumbles down, and you should get a tumble or two. That is, if Blake has any left."

I laughed. "Tempting, the way you put it. But no, let’s try a little volume. Maybe French Braid the back and tuck the ends in a pocket."

"Trite. We need to show you off a little more, Jaimie. I want women asking who does your hair so I get some more trade. How about I alter the prescription a little?"

"You’re my stylist. I trust you."

Jolene drew a comb through my hair, sectioning off the hair before the ears. "Can’t have you too severe. You need a soft, feminine touch. Gotta go counter to type." The strands wrapped tightly around very small vertical brush rollers, pics holding them steady against my cheek. "And then there’s the girl with a curl. When she’s good, she’s good, but when she’s bad, she’s better." She giggled slightly. "I just bet you were very, very good this last weekend."

"Blake couldn’t complain. And neither did I."

Jolene used another small roller at each corner, where my widow’s peaks might show up in the future. "So tell. You two are trying to have a baby, aren’t you? Like Jan and Drew?"

"We’re trying. Maybe soon."

"The more you do it, the better the odds, right?"

"Not exactly for us."

"Oh?" She pinned another roller to the other point, reached for her blow dryer. She tilted my head back with her fingertips before lifting the front section with her comb’s rattail.

I have no idea how much she could hear over the mighty blast from the gun. I just assumed that it would mask my words from the other patrons. Somehow I didn’t think the details of in vitro fertilization would be high on Jolene’s tell list.

My hair was dry and Jolene ran a round brush through it a few times to distribute the shine. "So when will you know?"

"I pee in the cup two weeks from last Monday."

"You do?" Jolene paused in mid-tease.

I nodded.

"Honey, I thought I had heard everything, but how is testing you going to determine whether you two are having a little bundle of joy?" Apparently Jan had left out the little detail that she, not Drew, was the preggie one.

I looked straight into the mirror, straight into her eyes. "Because I’m carrying. I hope."

"You’re kidding?" Jolene’s voice dropped to a soft, near whisper. She looked at me in the mirror. "You’re not?"

I shook my head. Jolene resumed a light tease, but slowly, draping the strands forward. "Now I know I’ve heard everything. You want me to keep this under my hat, don’t you?"

"Until we’re sure. In a few months, it’s going to be pretty obvious. That’s not going to cause you any problem, is it?"

"Honey, we’ve always got a client or two who can’t see their toes. What’s one more glowing wife?" She lightly sprayed the underside before drawing my hair back, just under two inches of lift at the brow, definitely teased but not definitely teased, just nicely finished. She sectioned and pinned my hair at the crown.

"Now I’m going to under-braid the back, ‘Dutch’ braids. The braids sit up on top, not concealed. A nice bow at your nape, and I’ll give you two sweet bananas trailing down with the ends. How does that sound?" The professional stylist had returned.

"Delicious. I just hope Blake can behave. We’re not supposed to until the weekend."

"You just pop in curlers at night to keep this fresh. The barbed wire should help her behave." Jolene’s finger flew behind my head.

"I don’t want to keep her too far away. I need to be held right now."

"I’ll bet you do. I could use a group hug myself about now." Jolene moved a pin down to my nape, then resumed plaiting. "Tell me one thing. Is Jan, uh, Mrs. Tunbury, is she? Too?"

I closed my eyes, luxuriating in the small tugs behind, trying to imagine the braid pattern. "Uh-huh."

"Well I’ll be, Mrs. Jones. I knew you two were wives, damned nice looking ones at that, but I had no idea they could. Well these days, I suppose." She shifted another pin, reached for her curling iron, installing a roller that had to have been two inches across. "It’ll be pretty, promise."

I sat still, admiring the look in progress. With my nicely arched, not too thin brows, a touch of gray eyeshadow showing, and a diamond and a gold stud in each lobe, the height added a nice length to my face. With the tight curls, I would be acceptable for either business or romance. It didn’t hurt that my blouse bulged nicely where my breasts peeked over the top of the corselet, discretely masked by a heavy stock. I was a dish, just with a little present on board.

The curls done, a dark blue hair bow secured my nape. She spun me around and handed me a mirror. The plaits ran down the back, side by side, hiding any seam. The bow complemented my suit, and the thick curls hung to the tops of my shoulder blades, inviting hands to cup them, fingers to penetrate them. No dried up prune of a librarian, me, but a nubile, fertile, docile maiden. Well, not a maiden.

"It’s lovely," I breathed.

"Glad you like it. Let me finish you up." The gun spewed hot air over the curlers, fingers tested, then removed the guiding mesh. There were tight spirals before my ears, inviting my beloved to taste the delights behind. Jolene drew the brow strands back, pinning them before drawing them forward for just little naughty spirals to grace my forehead. Satisfied, she masked my face with her hand and applied a light coat of spray.

She positioned me to have a good look at the finished product, turning me slowly side to side so I could view the profiles. I looked somewhat like a colonial gentleman, with the bow and hanging curls. But the vertical instead of horizontal curls positively shouted "woman" or, in my case, "coman." With a slight variation, Kenzie would look nice in something similar for Thelma.

"Mrs. Jones? This program you’re in? Could they do something for Ashley? Sometimes he seems a bit, well, out of it. And he’s a nice kid, really."

"It’s for stable couples. Chrysalis doesn’t have singles. But I’m sure the school has other programs, and Ashley might be able to come to our support meetings. If she’s lonely, maybe you could match her with someone a bit older who could appreciate her." I reached for my purse for tip money.

"I hate to get that involved in an employee’s life. The romance ends, and it’s all your fault."

I placed a bill on the counter. "It’s not like you have to invite them to dinner or anything. But if at a professional meeting, Ashley were to meet someone who would be open, and who already knew. Well, they could take it from there. My hair looks really nice. I just hope Blake will behave."

"Badly, I hope."

"Sadly, not for a few days. But after last weekend, that shouldn’t be too big a strain."

"See you next week. I’ll keep a lid on it until you tell me it’s Okay. Really I will."

"Thank you, Jolene. Pray for me."

"I’ll light a candle." She gave me a hug, deep and genuine. It’s nice to be cared for.

 

Chapter Six

 

Work was a break, keeping my mind off whether or not I was with child. Really with child, my Blake’s Mary Elizabeth, first daughter of her loins, my affirmation that I was truly a wife. Life with Blake had certainly been an adventure, dressing for the Sadie Hawkins dance, then dressing full time after the bended knee scene, then joining the program with my best friends, then getting used to the feel of and the feeling in those growing mounds jutting so proudly from my chest. Looking back on the year we lived together before the march down the aisle, we really were "playing house," even with me working and Blake struggling with Law Review and a full course load.

The year since saying "I do" had been a real learning experience, not so much in bed although Blake does keep finding new spots, like between my toes the other night. Let’s face it, when it comes to my woman, I’m just one big quivering goose bump, always ready to be led to bed to please her. I would chase her around the bedroom except I rarely get the chance. She keeps me humming and happy, and I do the same for her. I have no idea how we’re going to tone it down once we have kids.

It’s the learning to live together now that breaking up is not an option. I’m a dutiful wife, deferring to my dama’s judgement when in doubt. Blake’s had to learn to bring things up for discussion, not just announce things, like I was going to bear our children. That really took some getting used to, even with over a year to the wedding and almost a year afterwards. I mean I was reconciled to doing it, but it was just this last weekend that I really wanted it.

Blake was going to have to give on our daughter’s name. I was bound and determined she would have something from her dam, and Mary’s close enough to Marie. Elizabeth is Mom’s middle name, so that was fitting. She could add something else if she wanted, just not her mother’s name. That woman was still freezing me out, politely, as though I put the idea of me as a wife in a dress in Blake’s head.

Being a professional’s wife has been an eye-opener. These days, two "women" together isn’t a conversation stopper, at least in legal circles which prides itself on accepting anything that isn’t illegal and defending that what is. But the pecking order is fierce, attorneys deferring to judges, judges deferring to appellate judges, they to justices, and ultimately everyone giving way to the Chief. The military couldn’t be any worse, and wives rank right in there with their husbands, unless they’re practicing as well. Getting the order right is nerve wracking. Fortunately Jan, my best friend and maid of honor, Drew Tunbury’s wife and a month ahead of me (hope and pray) on the delivery schedule was a budding Emily Post. She seemed to have a natural instinct for that sort of thing although she said it came from keeping her eyes open at the ESU Press. You could always tell which editor’s latest book had sold more than the ritual Christmas present sales to the author.

Being at the bottom of the totem poll, except for the first year associates, and an auxiliary as well, I got lots of practice sipping and smiling, and an occasional "That’s interesting." Or "That’s very interesting" for variety. It only took Blake one gathering to inform me as a non-lawyer, and a spouse of a lowly clerk, I did not have an opinion anyone there cared about unless they thought I was a pipeline to her, and through her, to Justice Gellman. Being told your best pose was invisible, or very visibly on her arm, was a real crying jag. I would have thought it was sexist, except it included the husbands of the female attorneys as well. One, an M.D., had not gone over well when he told a malpractice attorney he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what was a reasonable medical opinion and he would be simply delighted to give him a free operation so that the IQ of future generations would be improved by subtraction. Never mind the attorney had been bloviating about how all doctors were quacks, or charlatans, or drunks, or all of the above.

Then there’s that time when you realize that that person across the table is going to be underfoot for the rest of your life. I mean at times, well, most of the time, you wouldn’t have it any other way. But occasionally you just want a little time and space to yourself: an extra half hour in the tub, or an uninterrupted twenty pages of a good novel. I’ve become a lot more partial to Jane Austin since I entered the program. At least neither of us is a big sports fan. But sometimes you would just like to slip a movie in the player without a big discussion about it.

Above all, it’s the process of becoming "us," not just she and me. I knew at graduation I wanted it to be that way, after all I was all teary Spring Break when Blake asked me to marry her, but you just don’t understand how thorough and intense that can be until you go through it. It’s not that we can finish each other’s sentences, yet, but her likes and dislikes are becoming second nature to me now. And mine to her, I think.

What makes it all worth it, this being inextricably part of a couple? It’s knowing that you are loved, truly loved, differently than your parents loved you, than your kids will love you, that with her you are made whole. I thought I was, all grownup and functioning and competent before we became an item, but every time you think the process is done, another door opens. It’s scary, sometimes, to think that competent adulthood is something you might never master, to realize that there will always be new situations, new challenges, like when Mom had to take care of Grams before she passed on. Now Mom and Dad are back alone together, in another phase of their lives and someday Blake and I will be there too. "Come grow old with me; the best is yet to be." That’s the payoff. With your beloved, what’s this "significant other" stuff? It makes your spouse sound like a pet, disposable when inconvenient. With your beloved, you know that come what may, you’ll face it together. And when one stumbles, the other will pick him up. Amen.

 

§§§

 

Everybody at work wanted to know how the tests had gone. I just said things were looking up and I might know more in a little while. Work is mainly Lexus searches for the Justices and their clerks, we have aides to pick up and re-shelve after the attorneys who use the Court’s Tanner Library. There’s requesting or filling the occasional inter-library loan, usually for some technical journal. There’s the infrequent dun call, we don’t actually have much we let off the premises, but we do have to pry some things back from the Justices’ chambers. That’s approached very carefully since they are also our bosses, but it’s usually a clerk who has sat overly long on something and they would rather not have their bosses think they couldn’t keep up.

There are a couple of dozen full time, quite a few like me, the spouse of a clerk for the court. We come and go, rarely staying more than a couple of years. Mr. Davidson, the Chief Librarian, has been here forever, or so it seems. He is tall and spare and courtly, with long, wispy hair trailing almost down to his shoulders. He really looks like he should be a symphony conductor, and with his passion for classical music, I suspect he really might have wanted to be one once. He glares, and harrumphs, and is very protective of his library, and not even the Chief has the nerve to tell him no. At first glance, he seems like a real bear, but if you get to work on time, are quietly efficient, and don’t try to tell him too much about how modern libraries are supposed to be run, he is really quite a dear, very protective of "his girls." You can be fifty with grandchildren, and you’re still one of "his girls." Like I said, he’s a dear.

I was working the Main Desk when five o’clock rolled around. Mr. Davidson appeared at ten after, almost ghost-like, in the space between the desk and credenza supporting the terminal I was using.

"Mrs. Jones?"

His girls were always distinctly "Miss" or "Msres", never the Southernly ambiguous "Miz" or the detested Yankee "Ms." That made us sound like a pile of paper, he said, a manuscript, not a woman due her full dignity and deference.

I looked up, slightly startled by his unnoticed approach. "Yes, Sir? May I assist you?" Politeness was the supreme virtue he noticed.

"Mrs. Jones, it has come to my attention that you were absent from work yesterday. A sick day, I am told. I hope that it was nothing serious. You seem to have returned in good health and spirits."

Time cards wouldn’t be filed until the end of the week and the State had combined sick leave and vacation, finally realizing how frequently one became the other. Nothing escaped that man even if you thought he spent all his time entombed in his office. He had to nave noticed and queried Mrs. Hutchison, the de facto vice-Chief.

"No, Sir. Just an outpatient procedure. I’m sure I’ll be fine."

"Hhm. I certainly would not wish to pry into your private affairs. You gave more than sufficient notice of the timing of the procedure, so it could not have been an emergency. But Mrs. Jones . . ."

"Yes, Sir?"

"Should you need further medical attention, please do not hesitate to take all the time you need. I understand that a, uh, woman’s, uh, needs are quite different from a man’s and little things can indicate conditions that are quite serious. I trust it will not be so in your case. I find you to have been a most polite and efficient employee in the brief time you have been with us. Do not let the briefness of your service deter you from attending to any needs you may have."

"No, Sir. Thank you, Sir." I was astounded. That was quite the longest personal discourse I had heard him deliver in my entire time with Tanner Library.

"I should not have spoken to you so in public, Mrs. Jones, except at this time of day, the premises are quite empty. ‘Happy Hour’ I believe it is called. Do not hesitate to call on me for assistance should it be required. Good evening, Mrs. Jones."

"Good evening, Mr. Davidson. Thank you for the offer, Sir." I glanced down and blinked back a tear. As attentive to detail as he was, he had to have known I checked "M" for gender on my employment forms. Yet he never failed to treat me as one of "his girls." He had just complimented me and been solicitous of my health and well-being. I would have run and hugged his neck if I wasn’t sure that would have wounded his dignity.

When I got back to our apartment, Blake had eaten at the office, off the daily chit for supper delivery for associates trying to fulfill the partner’s improbable promises to clients. She had already slipped in a quick bath, so she was robed and slippered, relaxing as I came through the door. Our usual "How was your day" was replaced with "How are you feeling?" After assurances that I wasn’t any wobblier than usual for a Wednesday, she was appropriately appreciative of my new do. Only my corselet and my need for a quick bath saved us from violating doctors’ orders.

We turned in early, still recovering from the weekend’s exercise and the stress of the procedure. Besides, who wanted TV when the best show was lying right next to you, her arm slipped all comfy around your shoulders despite the presence of curlers to keep your curls from crushing while you slept.

"So how was your {kiss} day?"

"The usual. {kiss} Yours?"

"Very {kiss} unusual. {kiss} Oh, migawd but you’re good."

"Unusual? How?" {nibble}

"Oh, yes lower. Oh, good. Oh, Lord, please stop, Blakey-Bear or I’ll jump your bones and we’ll have to do the procedure all over again."

"Okay, I’ll be good. How unusual?"

I slipped down to nestle my nose between her breasts. Those luscious, peachy, soft and sweet breasts. Just a kiss or two in appreciation, a lick and a promise.

"Now who’s not being good?"

"I thought I was being very good."

"Not that kind of good."

"Okay." I nestled beside her, slipping my thigh between hers.

"Mr. Davidson spoke to me today."

"The Bear? What did he want?"

"Just that I was polite and efficient."

"He must be about to give you a promotion."

"And that I should take all the time off my ‘condition’ requires."

"Does he know what your ‘condition’ is?"

"I don’t think so."

"So he has a heart after all. Who’da thunk it? I’m proud of you, Sugar-Bear."

"Thank you. You know Ashley?"

"At A Cut Above?"

"Uh-huh. Well, she’s a guy."

"I thought something was a little off. She was a bit flat one time I was in."

"She’s really feeling down."

"I’m not surprised. She’s. what, eighteen? Nineteen? A guy in skirts. That could be hard."

"You seem to like it."

"Surprised me. Not that I would change you back." {kiss}

"Me neither." {kiss} I rubbed my thigh slowly over her thatch.

"I thought you wanted me to be good."

"I just needed to get your attention."

"What do you want me to do? Bounce off the ceiling?"

"I thought Ashley might come to some of our group meetings. Sort of see there’s hope out there after all."

"She wants to be a coman?"

"I think so. She says she wants to be with a woman."

"You’re not thinking about playing matchmaker, are you?"

"No, nothing like that. Jolene may try to introduce her to some people. I just know having friends in the same predicament made a big difference with going through with it."

"I wasn’t enough?"

"Honestly?"

"Is there any other way between woman and wife?"

You bet there are. I’ve learned that much living with a lawyer. There’s the truth and then there’s the truth. "Of course not."

"Well?"

"Honestly, Sweetheart, and take this as a statement of how I felt then, if it had just been me and you, I’d have been out the door and so far down the road you couldn’t find me with radar."

"Really?" Blake sounded hurt.

{kiss} "Don’t you remember how angry I was when you announced to Mom I would have our babies?"

"Sorta."

"And that was after I had made the commitment to dress. And we were almost all formally engaged. If the four of us hadn’t decided the four of you really loved us, I would have been outta there."

"Wasn’t I persuasive?" Blake kissed my fingertips.

"Very." {kiss} "But you wouldn’t have had an opportunity." I rubbed my thigh against her slit again. "Of course now, . . ."

"Now what?"

"I love my Blakey-Bear heart and soul. And I’m so proud to be carrying her Mary Elizabeth."

"Uh, about that."

"What?"

"Where did Mary Elizabeth come from? Don’t I get a say in naming my own daughter?"

"You did, Sweetheart."

"When?"

"You said anything but Blake."

"That statement did not preclude further discussion."

"Sorry counselor, the contract will be interpreted against the one who drew it. Besides, I like it. Mary, for you, Blake Marie, and Elizabeth for Mom. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"Shut and kiss me, you fool."

Our arms were around each other, our tongues tangling when her honey pot began to jiggle against my thigh. Then she was holding me tight, her chin digging into my shoulder as she gasped for breath. Then her fingers dug into my back, she stiffened against me, and then slowly relaxed.

"Oh, lordy you’re good. Thank you, my love."

"I didn’t jiggle."

"So Mary Elizabeth is alright?"

Case closed. Lola isn’t the only one who gets what Lola wants. "I’m sure, Sweetheart. I love my Blakey-Bear."

"And I love you, Jaimie Alba Blair Jones."

Like I always say, take your "I love you’s" anyway you can get ‘em.

 

 

 

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