Ten days ago, Cynthia had telephoned me from her private club, her voice trembling with manufactured, maternal sweetness:
“Audrey, sweetheart, we are all mature adults now. Preston has grown up. He is having a son, and he desperately wants to heal the old wounds before the baby arrives. Please come to the shower, even if you only stay for an hour. It would mean the world to our family to demonstrate that there is no bitterness left between us.”
I had hesitated, the phantom ache of five years of fertility injections throbbing in the memory of my veins. I had agreed only after demanding a solemn, unalterable condition:
“I will come, Cynthia. But on one condition: no one mentions our past marriage, no one brings up our medical history, and no one speaks about the fact that we never had children together.”
Cynthia had promised on her late husband’s Bible: “Your dignity will be absolutely sacred, Audrey. I swear it.”
