Chapter 9 - The Baby shower
By early June, the warm summer air had brought the Brookline garden into full bloom. The hydrangeas along the brick wall were heavy with blue and purple blossoms, and the back patio was set with long wooden tables covered in white linen.
It was Lena's baby shower.
There were no photographers from society magazines. No ice sculptures carved with family crests, no awkward speeches about dynasty or bloodlines. Just twenty of our closest friends, my former nursing colleagues from County General, and my brother Daniel, who spent the afternoon happily sitting under an umbrella eating lemon tart and reading the financial times.
Mrs. Rosa Alvarez had flown in from Miami for the weekend. She sat in a plush armchair in the center of the patio, wearing a bright yellow sundress, her face tanned and healthy, her ankle completely healed. She held court like a beloved grandmother, surrounded by my nursing friends who kept topping off her iced tea.
I walked over to Rosa, holding two glasses of lemonade.
"You look wonderful, Rosa," I said, handing her a glass and taking the chair beside her.
"I feel twenty years younger, Ruth," Rosa said, her eyes shining as she watched Lena across the yard. Lena was standing near the hydrangea bushes, her bump now large and round under a light white dress, laughing with her friends. "No more four-story staircases to scrub. No more Miss Vivienne screaming because the silver wasn't polished correctly. Just my garden and my sunshine."
"You deserve every minute of it," I said. "Lena talks about you every day. She’s already decided on the baby’s middle name."
Rosa blinked, surprised. "She has?"
"If it’s a girl, her middle name will be Rose," I said softly. "In honor of the woman who saved her."
Rosa’s hand went to her mouth, her eyes welling with sudden, happy tears. "Oh, Ruth..." she whispered, reaching out to clasp my hand tightly. "I didn't do it for a name. I did it because she is a sweet girl."
"We know," I said. "And that's why she wants to do it."
At four o'clock, as the sun began to dip behind the oak trees, a large delivery truck pulled up to the curb in front of the house. The driver stepped out holding a massive arrangement of white orchids in a heavy silver bowl.
I met the driver at the gate before he could walk into the yard.
"Delivery for Mrs. Lena Mercer," the driver said, reading the clipboard.
I looked at the card attached to the ribbon. The handwriting was sharp, elegant, and instantly recognizable: To Lena. Thinking of you on this day. - Victoria Ashford.
I took the card off the ribbon, tore it into four neat pieces without opening it, and dropped the pieces into the garden recycling bin by the gate.
"Take the flowers back to the shop, please," I told the driver calmly. "Or keep them for yourself. We don't accept deliveries from that sender."
The driver blinked, surprised by my flat tone, but nodded, turned around, and loaded the three-hundred-dollar orchid arrangement back into his truck.
I walked back to the patio, wiping my hands on my apron. Lena looked up at me from her chair, her eyes asking the question without saying the name.
May you like
"Just some trash at the gate," I said with a smile. "I took care of it."
Lena smiled back, a deep, knowing look passing between us. She didn't need to ask anything else.
