When I pulled out the stick, it was a bright, beautiful pink.
"Steve. I love you. It's—"
"Max." He didn't realize it, but his voice had just gone up an octave.
"What?"
"That's my dad's middle name. I want to name him Max. It's an old family tradition."
"And what if it's a girl? Don't say Maxine or I'll divorce you before you even make an honest woman of me."
"Nope. If it's a girl, then you get to pick."
I couldn't believe I was finally having this conversation. It was something I'd dreamed of for years.
It then got too maudlin to repeat. He was coming home in eleven days, and we planned the celebration. Dinner at Le Cirque and then an evening at Cafe Carlyle. For a couple of would-be New York sophisticates, that was about as fancy-schmancy as this town gets.
I was crying tears of triumph by the time we hung up. By then it was late enough I figured Arlene would be home from her exercise class, so I decided to call her and break the happy news once more. Who I really wanted to call was Betsy, on the Coast, but I knew she'd still be driving home from her temp job. Arlene would have to do. Telling her would be the equivalent of sending an urgent E-mail to the entire office, but I wanted everybody to know. Two birds with one stone.