The Swap - Robyn Harding Page 0,39
kitchen.
“It’s so dead today,” I chirped. “Let’s close early.”
Low glanced at the clock on the wall. “But it’s only four.”
“I know. But we haven’t had a customer in hours. There’s not much point staying open.”
“If you want to go, I can stay till five thirty,” my assistant offered. “I’ll cash out and lock up.”
Low had worked alone before. She knew the closing procedures and was fully capable of handling them on her own. But Freya’s words rang in my memory. Don’t trust her. And Low may have just lied to my face, may have said those words just to crush me. Until I knew for sure, I couldn’t leave her alone in my store.
“It’s fine,” I insisted. “You can go. I’ll close up.”
Low loped into the back room to grab her coat. Shooting me a resentful look, she left. I immediately texted Freya.
Closed early. Meet me for happy hour?
If she were pregnant, she wouldn’t be drinking. Shouldn’t be drinking, anyway. I tried to remember the last time we’d had alcohol together. Our recent visits had mostly been walks and coffee dates. She’d brought sandwiches to the store a couple of times and we’d had a picnic on the front counter. But I was almost certain that Freya had had a mimosa on a recent brunch date. Maybe she wasn’t expecting?
Her text came back.
Busy in the studio. Coffee tomorrow morning?
Her refusal to meet for drinks meant that she could be pregnant. But I needed confirmation. And I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
I need to see you. It’s about Low.
The message was read, but she didn’t respond right away. My heart pounded as I waited for the shivering ellipsis that prefaced her reply. Finally, they came, followed closely by the words:
Come to the studio.
• • •
I’d been in Freya’s pottery studio a couple of times. In contrast to her pristine home, it was a disaster: dust coating every surface, buckets full of muddy clay on the floor, filthy rags draped over the backs of chairs or the edge of the sink. But in the midst of it all were racks of Freya’s creations at various stages of finish. They were all so beautiful that they compensated for the slovenliness of the space.
Freya wore a large smock, which did double duty in protecting her clothes and hiding her bump. If there was one. She wiped her hands on a cloth.
“Hey, hon.” Freya kissed my cheek.
I decided to dive right in.
“Low says you’re pregnant.”
Freya’s face darkened. “It wasn’t her place to tell you.”
“So it’s true.”
She reached for my hand then, her blue eyes soft. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I knew it would be hard for you to hear.”
“I’m your friend,” I said, through the lump in my throat, “I’m happy for you.”
“Are you sure? I know how much you wanted a baby and I never wanted to be a mom. It doesn’t seem fair.”
But maybe it was fair? I had betrayed my best friend and my husband when I slept with Max. Perhaps karma had played a hand in conception. “I’m thrilled for you. Honestly.”
“Thank God.” She gave my hand a squeeze, then released it. “Because I’m going to need you. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”
“We’ll figure it out together.” I would get over my envy, tamp it down inside of me. I would be there for Freya and her child. My infertility would not impact my support.
“I would have told you, but I was in shock,” she said. “I wasn’t even sure I could conceive. We’d always been kind of lax with birth control. I just assumed we couldn’t get pregnant.”
“How far along are you?”
“I’m at the end of the first trimester.” She smiled then and smoothed the smock over her tummy. Her normally flat abdomen was slightly inflated, like she’d swallowed a small melon. “The baby’s due in May. Spring is my favorite season.”
She was delighted, glowing. Any reservations I’d had about her desire to be a parent evaporated in the face of her excitement.
“Max must be thrilled.”
“He was surprised at first, but he came around. This feels like a positive new chapter for us.”
“A baby is a gift,” I said.
“It is.” Freya’s eyes were sparkling. “I even got back on Instagram. I took a photo of my belly. Just a simple shot, but the lighting was really beautiful, so I thought . . . what the heck. I’ll reactivate my Instagram and post it. I just said: hashtag new beginnings. And I got fifteen thousand likes!”
“Wow,”