Page 118 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
17
Georgie
Clang! Clang-clang-clang!
Out of shock or some strange pregnant spasm, Georgie dropped the empty can of pineapple juice. And, as if swallowed by silence, everyone in the room watched the little cylinder roll to a stop at the edge of the stage.
Jordan lowered his voice. “Georgie, I think it’s—”
“I know,” she whispered back, feeling the color drain from her cheeks.
Her mother was here. Had the messages made it to her? Perhaps, this was a surprise?
Georgie took a few steps forward, trying to find a way to see into the ballroom without frying her retinas.
“Mom, is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me,” came the moneyed huff of a woman who did not sound like she was there for a pleasant surprise.
The glare of the spotlight dialed back a bit, and Georgie blinked once, then twice as she took in the scene. Hector and Bobby sat at the center table, slack-jawed and eyes as wide as saucers with Faby seated on the table.
Her gaze slid from the men and landed on her mother, standing in the center of the room.
Georgie did a double take, hardly able to believe her eyes.
There was one thing about Lorraine Vanderdinkle that remained the same no matter if she were shopping the couture racks at Chanel or reading the psychic energy of a piece of toast.
The woman was always put together. Be it jewelry from Tiffany’s or crystals from some high-end hipster spiritual shop in Boulder; the woman never looked less than perfect in her chosen persona du jour.
But that wasn’t who glared up at her. No, this woman sported a wild mane of hair with glints of gray—like her natural hair color gray—which hadn’t been seen since the beauty disaster of 2012 when her stylist came down with the flu, and she had to wait a whole week before getting her roots done. One would have thought the world was about to implode. To ease the pain, she’d checked herself into the Ritz and gone into hiding between room service and spa treatments.
But there was more!
Her mother’s usually chemically smooth face wrinkled—like, muscles actually moved—as she frowned without even the hint of makeup. And her outfit, a dull pale green tunic and flowing pants, was crumpled and—God forbid—probably not dry-clean only.
Georgie pressed her hand to her rounded belly and did her best to compose herself as the ballroom, filled to the gills with rich people in Western garb, sat stupefied.
“You look different, Mom,” she stammered, then realized, a second too late, that spectacularly inarticulate utterance was probably the worst thing she could have said under the circumstances.
A few better choices…
How was your trip?
Did you nail down thatSankalpa?
If you haven’t noticed, I’m super pregnant.
Any of these would have sufficed as a more appropriate greeting when coming face-to-face with an angry socialite who needed to have her roots done ASAP.
Her mother lifted her chin and tucked a mostly blond and partly gray strand of hair behind her ear. “This, Georgiana, is what one looks like after flying commercial for twenty-three hours straight in…” she paused, taking a moment. “Coach,” she finished with a pained twist to her lips.
The ballroom flooded with gasps as women fanned themselves, and men shook their Stetson-clad heads.
Georgie glanced at her husband in an attempt to flashoh-shiteyes, only to find the man flashing the same expression when a bearded gentleman in a white flowing robe walked through the ballroom and stopped next to her mother.
“Namaste, Georgie and Jordan,” he said with a deep bow.
“Howard?” Jordan asked, squinting into the dim ballroom.
