“I thought I told you…my boss is going to Punta Cana and needs me to accompany him.” Linen skirts were a good choice, comfortable and cool. She stuck two in her open suitcase.

“Punta Cana? Isn’t that in the Caribbean? That doesn’t sound safe in your condition. They don’t wash their fruits and vegetables there, you know. And no air-conditioning, rough roads, huts…”

Mandy rolled her eyes, glad her mother couldn’t see her. “Mother, I’m not staying in a hut. It’s a resort, catering to Americans and Canadians.”

“Just as bad. Think of all those French-Canadians in thongs, dear.”

Now she did laugh, tossing her blow-dryer into her bag. “There’s nothing wrong with wearing a thong. It means they’re comfortable with their bodies. It’s probably very liberating. Maybe we should try it—I’ll get Daddy a thong for Christmas, and he can wear it to the lake.”

Mandy knew she shouldn’t tease her very proper mother like that, but she was feeling so much better, she was almost giddy. It was as though the minute her pregnancy hit the sixteen-week mark, the curtain on her fatigue had lifted. And her stomach had popped up like a waffle in the toaster. She rubbed her waist, the Capri pants she was wearing digging into her flesh.

“Mandy, you’ve lost your mind.”

“Possibly. Do you think I should go topless on the beach? I finally have a chest worthy of baring.” Not that she would, ever in a million years, but shocking her mother brought a sick sort of glee.

“On a business trip! Good God, you really have gone off the deep end. It’s the result of being left pregnant and alone by that old man you were dating. You never should have gone out with a man so much older than you. They’re all having their midlife crises in their forties…it doesn’t surprise me he didn’t want a thing to do with real responsibility.”

The conversation was no longer amusing.

But before she could tell her mother to take a long walk off a short pier, she followed up with a slur on Mandy’s toy shop.

“At least you finally have a real job. I know you’ve always enjoyed your hobbies, dear, but now is time to settle down and do what’s best.”

What made her feel the lousiest was that she really couldn’t argue with her mother. The shop had never felt like a hobby, but after diddling around with it for three years, it hadn’t turned a profit, and she couldn’t say that she had ever really aggressively sought its success. It had been a hobby.

“I still wish you’d come home and let your father and I help you out.”

About as appealing a prospect as self-mutilation with a rusty knife. Thanks, she’d pass.