Stork Raving Mad(5)

I gazed at my husband in envy. At the moment, I could think of two Spanish words—adiós and arriba. Neither of them seemed even slightly apropos, so I worked on smiling in a welcoming fashion.

Then I recognized another phrase—mi esposa. Michael must be introducing me. I held out my hand.

Señor Mendoza lunged forward, grasped my hand, and thumped my belly several times.

The twins resented it. Someone should explain to strangers that it was rude to tickle babies before they were born.

“Sorry,” I said, wrestling my hand free and taking a step back. “But Butch and Sundance aren’t up to shaking hands yet.”

Actually, Butch might be trying to—he was squirming around with great enthusiasm. Sundance merely began the steady, rhythmic kicking he resorted to whenever Butch annoyed him. Why couldn’t they wait until they were out in the world before beginning their sibling squabbles?

Michael stepped up and treated Señor Mendoza to a few more paragraphs of Spanish. I hoped he was explaining that while he was happy to welcome such a distinguished guest to his humble home, the guest should damn well keep his hands off the lady of the house. Whatever he said made Señor Mendoza beam at me with great approval.

“Meg!” my grandfather said, as he burst through the door with another blast of cold air. “This is going to be such fun. Nacio’s going to make paella. And he’s brought his guitar—did you know he’s an expert flamenco player?”

Nacio? Must be Mendoza’s nickname. Short for Ignacio, I supposed. Were they old friends or had they hit it off instantly? Either way, it was cause for alarm, given my grandfather’s penchant for trouble.

And then the other part of his statement hit me: paella. A dish that normally contained copious amounts of seafood. No one in my family ever remembered my allergy to crustaceans and shellfish, so why should I expect them to believe that ever since I’d become pregnant, the mere smell nauseated me? I’d be avoiding the kitchen for a while.

And was there any hope that someone could convince him to play quiet, subdued, soothing flamenco music? Or was that an oxymoron?

Everybody seemed to be looking expectantly at me. Had I zoned out again and missed a question? I blinked, hoping someone would enlighten me. No one did.

The only creature in the hallway not staring expectantly at me was Spike, who was sniffing suspiciously at Señor Mendoza’s shoes. To my horror, he uttered the briefest of growls before sinking his teeth into the playwright’s left ankle.

Everyone was horrified except Mendoza.

“Que diablito!” He picked Spike up, not seeming to mind getting nipped in the process, and held him up at eye level. “What a ferocious watchdog!”

Spike was squirming madly. I wasn’t sure whether he was uncomfortable or just frantic to get out of the playwright’s grip so he could counterattack. Luckily Mendoza seemed to have a good hold on him.

And some of my linguistic ability surged back.

“Chien mechant,” I said finally, hoping my memory was working, and I had just called Spike a bad dog. “Et maintenant, je dois dormir.”

Never before had news of an impending nap been greeted with such laughter and enthusiasm, so I was more convinced than ever that I’d mistranslated. Time enough later to worry about it. At least Señor Mendoza, after chuckling, tucked Spike under one arm, and kissed my hand. Then he followed my grandfather to the kitchen, still carrying Spike.

I ignored the chuckles and cries of “Brava!” as I shuffled upstairs.

It wasn’t till I was curling up in bed, trying to find a position that was comfortable for me and my two passengers, that I realized I’d spoken in French rather than Spanish.

Ah, well. Maybe they’d think I’d done it on purpose. Catalonia was on the border with France, wasn’t it? Or was it on the border with Portugal?

Normally I’d have fretted about this for hours while tossing and turning, but instead I fell asleep while trying to remember.





Chapter 3


It was darker when I woke up. Had I slept till nightfall? Had I missed hearing that we were having a storm?

No, someone had tiptoed in while I was asleep and pulled all the blinds. Probably Rose Noire, since I also noticed a thermal mug on the bedside table. Another infusion of some obscure, healthy, herbal tea whose very smell would set my stomach churning. In the morning, the mug might contain a yogurt smoothie so laced with vitamins, supplements, and herbs that it had the same unsettling effect on my stomach. But luckily, in the afternoons the offerings were almost always herbal teas. I had to walk all the way to the bathroom to dump the smoothies, but unloading the teas was easier.