Good Little Wives by Abby Drake

sturdy Waterford Lismore, Bridget’s grip might have snapped the stem.

Fourteen
    Brunch.
    For the eighteen years Lauren had been married to Bob, Sunday meant a gathering of the Halliday clan: seven children plus a few spouses now, and six grandchildren at last count with another due any day, Dory’s first. It hurt now to remember that when Dory got married Lauren had been sleeping with Vincent, well not at the exact same time or even on the same day, but Lauren clearly recalled when she’d watched Dory inch down the aisle, her thoughts had been completely on him.
    What would it be like to be married to Vincent, to have sex every night, every day, all the time?
    The thought still sparked a warm rush all these months later, even now though he was dead. She wondered how long Vincent’s memory would linger in her mind and in her vagina, and if even the clamor of Bob’s children would ever be loud enough to quell the loss.
    â€œShould Florence prepare more eggs Benedict?” The question came from Dory, who poked her head into the garden room where Lauren stood, daydreaming in silence away from the brood who apparently remained in the dining room awaiting more food.
    â€œNo,” Lauren said. “There’s been enough for one day, don’t you think?” She meant, of course, that there had been enough visiting as well as eggs Benedict.
    Dory stepped into the room. She sat down on a white wicker chair and rubbed her quite bulbous belly. “Agreed,” she said. “At least it’s quiet out here.” Of all of Bob’s kids, Lauren felt closest to Dory. They both were size fours and were blue-eyed blonds and were only eight years apart. Like Lauren, Dory wore her hair tied back in a demure ponytail. On occasion they’d been mistaken for sisters.
    â€œI’ve never grown used to all the commotion,” Lauren said. “It’s not that I don’t love everyone…it’s just that, well, you know.”
    Dory nodded. “There are too damn many of us, that’s the problem.”
    Lauren rebuffed the truth. Like memories of Vincent, some thoughts were best kept to herself. “But tell me, dear. How are you feeling?”
    â€œLike I’m too old to be having a baby.”
    â€œNonsense.” Not that Lauren would know. “Besides,” she said with her best effort to be cheerful, “it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
    Dory looked at her, paused a short moment, then burst into hormonal tears. “I hate my life,” she sobbed. “I hate everything about it, especially Jeffrey.” That would be Jeffrey, as in her husband.
    â€œOh,” Lauren said, going to her stepdaughter, crouching in front of her, taking her small hands in hers. “Oh dear.”
    â€œYeah, ‘oh dear’ is right. What am I going to do, Lauren? I don’t want this baby…I want a divorce!” That’s when Dory’s water broke, straining through the wicker, dribbling onto the floor.
    Lauren screeched and promised Dory that later they’d talk about Jeffrey and what she should do, but that right now Dory needed to breathe in and out.
    She wondered if there was a Lamaze technique for ridding her own mind of Vincent.
    Dory whimpered.
    Lauren stood up, shook off her despair, stepped over the puddle, and raced from the garden room, deciding that Sunday brunches had, indeed, become too traumatic, and she must tell Bob that, from now on, she’d be sleeping in.
    Â 
    Bridget had lost faith in God years ago, the day they’d buried her tiny Alain. But she supposed she should try and find it again, now that she had cancer and all. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to say a prayer or two that she would see Luc before he went back to Provence.
    If only she knew where he was staying.
    She’d wanted to quiz Aimée last night, but Randall had monopolized the girl, asking about her friends and her studies, then