Then Came You - Jennifer Weiner [94]
“Oh my God, look at them,” said India, with her hands clasped at her chest. “They are the cutest things I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I thanked her, grateful that someone appreciated the work I was doing. The boys hugged my mother, then sat on the couch, with Frank Junior spreading out the old Candy Land board on the coffee table. Aware of India watching me, I knelt down and looked at both of them. “Mommy’s going away for a few days, and you get to stay with Grammy and Grampy. I want you both to be good boys. Listen to Grammy and do as you’re told. Frank Junior, you take care of your brother.” Frank nodded. Spencer hugged me, pressing his warm cheek against mine.
“Mommy, don’t go.”
My throat tightened. I’d never left him for longer than an afternoon before. “Mommy always comes back. Remember?”
He nodded gravely. “Always comes back.”
“Don’t worry,” said Frank Junior. “I’ll take care of him.”
I kissed them both, hugged my mother, then got in the back of India’s car. It took me until we were on the highway to realize that she was staring at me like I’d just turned wine into water, or started levitating.
“What?”
“You’re so good with them.” She sounded wistful. “How’d you learn to be such a good mother?”
I felt myself flush with pleasure. “Oh, I have my moments.”
“Do you yell?”
I thought for a minute, then shook my head. I got impatient, got bored sometimes, and often wished I could have more privacy, more time to myself, more sleep . . . but I honestly enjoyed my boys’ company, and I wasn’t much of a yeller at anyone, let alone my sons.
“And you don’t spank them . . .” Her voice trailed off as I shook my head again. She laughed. “Not that I’m planning on spanking this baby! It’s just that you’re so patient.”
“You’ll learn,” I told her. “You’ll see. When it’s your own baby, you’ll be surprised at how it all just falls into place.” Meanwhile, I was almost falling asleep. The car had the smoothest ride I’d ever felt, and the backseat felt soft as a bed. India still looked concerned, rolling the strap of her handbag between her fingertips.
“I guess there’s classes I can take.”
I stifled a yawn. “You don’t need classes. You’ll be a natural.” I could tell that she was worrying, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I dozed the whole way to the airport, glad that we were flying out of a different terminal from the one where Frank worked, and I ended up sleeping for the entire trip down to West Palm Beach.
Another car met us at the airport, the uniformed driver waiting by baggage claim, holding a sign that read CROFT. “Have you ladies stayed at the Breakers before?” he asked.
“I have, my friend hasn’t,” said India.
“Well, ma’am, you’re in for a real treat.” He drove us through the gates of a building that looked like the largest, grandest country club in the world. India spoke to the uniformed woman behind the desk, who handed her two keys and two bottles of water. A bellman took our luggage, and India led me to the elevator.
My room—a suite, really—was beautiful, with pale-green carpet and a canopied bed, a deep tub and separate shower in the bathroom, a balcony with a view over a linked complex of swimming pools and, beyond it, the golden sand of the beach. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed, my cheek against the pillow, which was deliciously crisp and cool. Maybe for a few minutes, I thought, and closed my eyes again. When I opened them again it was nine o’clock the next morning, and there were two notes that had been slipped under the door; one from housekeeping, apologizing for not being able to give me turn-down service the night before, the other from India. Call me when you’re up,