Life Is Too Precious And Marriage Is Too Sweet To Rush Into Relationships That Are Less Than Best For You
Honeymoon: (noun) 1. A vacation or trip taken by a newly married couple. 2. The month or so following a marriage. 3. Any period of blissful harmony. 4. Any new relationship characterized by an initial period of harmony and goodwill.
Or, in the more colloquial parlance, a chance to ditch family and friends for a week or two, lounge about a palatial suite, order champagne and exotic meals from room service and go at it like rabbits on aphrodisiacs.
("Why travel halfway around the globe? We do all that right here." "Yeah, right. Mother never gets up in the middle of the night, one or the other of us does the cooking—" "One out of three isn't bad…") I knew he was teasing, so I left a couple of brochures for couples only/adults only vacation spots scattered about (on his desk… on the bed… tucked in his laptop (Unfortunately, on that day Gibbs was trying to be helpful—opened up the laptop, stared for a moment, said, "Your fiancée left you a message," closed it… and went back upstairs without another word.)… Ducky actually liked the idea. Remembering my frequent bad luck with planes, he booked us on the ship Grace and Favor and a three-week January trip through the Caribbean. (Yes, we waited a month. Would we miss Christmas? Heck, no.)
A honeymoon was one thing but I was more than a little hesitant about leaving Mother for three weeks. The store would survive; they had a substitute ME for NCIS; but Mother…?
"It will be fine," Suzy reassured me. "I'll stay here during the week, the girls will be over just about every day—and we have the weekends covered… Go. Enjoy yourself."
We did. Okay, the stateroom on the boat was on the small side—but, let's face it, unless you own your own yacht any stateroom is bound to feel small. It was a lovely room, regardless; the entertainment was first-rate, the food was beyond first-rate (I think I put on fifteen pounds over the three weeks), the resorts where we put in to port were just exotic enough to be a thrill and we lucked out that most of the other couples—married or otherwise—were a pleasure to be around.
Most were also newlyweds. About 2/3 were in the 20-30s range, a sprinkling in the 40s and the rest our age or above. (The top of the heap was a couple in their 90s—93 (he) and 96 (she) ("I've always had a thing for older women.") whose grandkids all pitched in for the trip.) We were treated to a lot of proud parent/proud grandparent pictures from all quarters (and in the case of the Meierhausers, proud great-grandparent pictures).
So, after sun, sand, surf and three weeks of lazy fun, I wasn't that surprised when Ducky broached the idea of children. (That was a lot of pictures to admire.)
We were less than a day out of homeport when he gently hinted that I seemed tired.
"Hey. We just took first, second and third in the sexual Olympics," I teased. "You should be a little tired, too."
He blushed faintly. And grinned (a little smugly). "Well… yes. But I'm just concerned that you feel… all right."
I laughed. "I feel great! More than great."
"I just thought—well—" He hesitated. "Perhaps you should call Dr. Lester when we get home."
My amusement dropped just a hair. "Honey… I know we discussed this after my surgery. We stopped using the condoms when we thought I was pregnant—and decided not to go back. If the gods want us to be pregnant—well, me to be pregnant—" I shrugged slightly. We weren't actively trying to get pregnant—but we weren't throwing up any roadblocks.
"Dearest…" He reached over and took my hand. "I think you are pregnant."
I stared at him for a long moment. "Come again?"
He didn't even make an attempt at a dirty rejoinder. "I know you're the one with the soothsayer name. But… I think you're pregnant."
"How so?"
It was his turn to shrug. "I can't say exactly why. It's just… different." I was still confused. "From the moment we left the States, from the first time we made love on the trip, it's felt—different."
Remembering what had happened last time, my hands went cold.
He felt the temperature drop and quickly took both of my hands in his. "Not bad different, not wrong different—just… different. And I can't even tell you why. But I just have this… tingle in the back of my mind that… you're pregnant."
"Hey." I tried to lighten the mood. "I wouldn't be the first woman to have a baby nine months after the wedding."
And that was precisely what Dr. Lester said when I called her the next day.
I didn't have to spell it out for her. After the last time, I was worried we were facing another snake eyes in the craps game of life—and this time might be worse. So while I promised Ducky I would call, I didn't let him know that I would be pleading for a lunchtime work-in. And, hearing the quiver in my voice, she acceded.
It was a quick appointment, in and out in fifteen minutes. A couple of fast errands after and then I was back at the store and scurrying to play catch-up (I have a great staff, but there's always something only I can really handle) with Dr. Lester's cautions, concerns and suggestions fluttering through my mind as I ran hither and yon. I made it home by six and discovered Suzy had thrown together dinner, bless her heart.
"I figured you could use some ease-back-into-the-routine time," she said while I gushed my thanks. "Enjoy it while it lasts—I figure I'll leave you on your own about Wednesday."
Ducky was equally appreciative (Suzy makes killer ribs). But it's amazing how tired you can be after three weeks of vacation; we were both beat by eight o'clock. Mother was understanding about our exhaustion and didn't whine about chatting online with Charlie—who, with school in session, had an early bedtime as well.
After settling Mother in bed with Friday's Child (another favorite Regency romance), I checked the locks and scurried upstairs. Ducky had only been a couple of minutes ahead of me, and was standing next to the bed with the square box I'd left on the bed in his hands. "For me?" When I nodded, he gave me a quizzical look. "For…?" When I didn't answer, he added, "Why?"
"Open it and find out, silly."
"Heavy…" he muttered, slitting the white paper. "Quite heavy…" It took both hands to pull out the golden stand and then the clear orb. "A… crystal ball?"
"It was Dr. Lester's idea. Sort of. I mean, she asked me if you used a crystal ball…"
His grip tightened on the ball. (Good thing, too—dropping that thing would have broken a few toes.) "Do you mean—are you—is it—?" He set the ball carefully on the bed.
I pulled an envelope out of the dresser drawer and fumbled a set of pictures into view. Typical V-shaped angles and, even though Dr. Lester had carefully pointed out the embedded embryo, to me it still looked like cloud cover. But I knew Ducky would do a better job of interpretation. "She figures barely four weeks. She called you Criswell," I laughed, handing him the pictures. Hands shaking, he looked through the pictures, drawing in a slow breath as he did. Finally he looked up from the black and white prints. Astonishment. Shock. Almost disbelief. "Just in case, let's not—" He nodded quickly, dumbly. "But in the meantime…"
He dropped the pictures next to the crystal ball and threw his arms around me. "We'll upgrade the air conditioner immediately."
Not what I was expecting. "What?"
"Oh, darling—it will be hot and humid your last trimester—I want you to be comfortable, as comfortable as you can be—"
I laughed. How pragmatic. And how sweet. I snuggled into his shoulder. "Hey."
"Mmh?"
"Happy Father's Day."
