Tasty Mango by JJ Knight
Havannah
I’m officially jealous of my sister.
She’s currently raiding my closet for a wedding outfit.
“Don’t you have all those fancy dresses from when you were on the talk shows?” I whisper.
Rebel is asleep on my shoulder. Six weeks old and he’s decided sleeping vertically is where it’s at. But as a bonus, I’m getting cut deltoid muscles from holding him in place for hours a day. I’m going to look killer in a sundress.
If one ever fits me again. I don’t understand how two hundred gallons of water poured out of me in a restaurant, then eight pounds of baby, but I weigh almost exactly what I did at my last prenatal checkup.
I may or may not have dropped our bathroom scale off our second-floor balcony into the dumpster behind the building. The crunch may have been pretty satisfying.
Magnolia doesn’t answer until she’s close enough to whisper. “Most of those were borrowed from designers and had to be returned. I need something Anthony has never seen.”
I can’t argue with that. I’ve been known to buy new dresses every weekend when dating someone amazing so he never sees me in the same outfit twice.
Of course, ninety percent of those cute purchases may never fit me again.
“You might as well take ’em all,” I say. “I’ve got a mom bod.”
Mags bends down to kiss Rebel’s noggin. “And totally worth it.” She straightens. “But I don’t want to hear a word of it. Most people would kill for your mom bod.”
“You haven’t seen the stretch marks.”
She returns to the closet and pulls out a red dress with an asymmetrical neckline. When I wore it, people compared me to Alexis from Schitt’s Creek.
Mags holds it up, her golden hair flowing over the shoulder. “Tell me the truth. Can I pull this off?”
Of course she can. She looks amazing. One thing the talk show stylists did for her last year was give her confidence. “You’ll knock everyone dead.”
She turns to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. “I’m nervous. This wedding supposedly has four hundred guests.”
“Wow.” My sister is engaged to the youngest Pickle brother, and the middle brother Max is marrying his girl Camryn next weekend in the South of France.
They’ve rented a friggin’ castle.
Everyone’s going. Mags. Her fiancé Anthony, of course. He’s the best man. Even Mom and Dad are flying out, both as a vacation and to spend quality time with the future in-laws.
Grandmama is staying behind to help me with Rebel, although we have a decent routine. She’s also watching over the delis. She’s had a bit of a rebound in her energy levels since Mags and Anthony got so much publicity last year, and we opened the second deli.
She’s been fired up by the renewed success of her franchise. Instead of hanging out at her retirement community, she’s taken over greeting customers, alternating delis for her shift.
Thankfully, we have solid staffs and great managers at both locations. The family sees this trip as a trial run for when Mags and Anthony have their own wedding. They haven’t set a date or a place, but it’s bound to be a production that takes all our attention.
And I’ll be involved, as well as Grandmama. The Tasty Pepper and Tasty Mango delis will have to run on their own for a few days.
Magnolia pulls out a pale yellow sundress. “This is lovely. Looks like France.”
She has to keep saying that. France, France, France. I’ve never been out of the country. I’ve barely been out of Colorado. I stuff down my jealousy. “It is. Take it. You can’t have too many pretty things.”
She sets it on the stack at the end of the bed. “I’m grateful, H. You sure you don’t want to come? There’s a spot for you and the baby in my room.”
“Twelve-hour plane ride with a newborn? Even I’m not that brave.”
She sits close to us on the bed, running the back of her knuckles across the baby’s wispy hair. “I’m going to miss this little guy.”
“We’ll be fine.”
It seems like she’s going to say something else, but she only presses her lips together. She’s about to stand when I throw out my hand to stop her. “Say it.”
She folds her hands in her lap. “Donovan’s coming. He and Dell and Arianna and Grace.” She bites her lip like she’s divulging some big secret.
“I know that. Donovan is already in Europe. He’s planned several business meetings around the wedding.”
“So you’re still talking to him?” She settles beside me, leaning against the headboard. “You haven’t mentioned it in a couple of weeks.”
“There isn’t a lot to tell.” And there isn’t. I get occasional texts with pictures of clouds from a plane window. He likes to send food images, too. Sometimes there’s a selfie from an exotic location. I save those.
“He must travel a lot.”
“He does.” Rebel stirs, and I stop talking to see if he is going to wake. He settles back in.
“Are you going to see him again?” Mags can never hide her emotions. Her worry is all over her knitted brow, her lips pulled into a frown.
“I have no idea. Look, I know he’s not a real boyfriend or anything. We text occasionally.”
“But you wish he was?”
“Of course!” I say, too loudly, and Rebel makes a soft whine. I pat his back. “Of course,” I whisper. “He’s gorgeous and thoughtful.”
“And rich.”
I smack her lightly with the back of my hand. “So’s Anthony.”
“I’d only call them very comfortable. It’s not like Donovan and Dell. They have a jet!”
“I know.” I close my eyes and tilt my head to the ceiling. “I daydream about it. Me and Donovan, heading up the metal stairs, my scarf flying behind me. We fly to Italy or Paris or a Swiss chalet.”
“It could happen. He’s certainly not dating anyone else.”
I pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “Really?”
She squints an eye at me in suspicion. “You telling me you don’t have a Google Alert on his name?”
I sink onto the pillows. “I don’t have time for random Internet searches.”
She stares me down a moment more, then apparently decides to believe me. “Well, he made a gossip rag last week.” She wriggles her phone out of her jean pocket. “Here, see?” She turns the screen.
New York’s most eligible bachelor off the market?
I know the headline. Of course I have a Google Alert on Donovan. I won’t admit it, though.
“What’s it say?” I ask, as if I don’t know.
She reads it aloud.
Financial magnate Donovan McDonald has been buying tables at all the best charity events, as usual. But instead of attending, he has donated the pricey tickets to lucky volunteers working at New York’s soup kitchens, homeless shelters, and refugee houses.
The dashing billionaire is known for his relationships with powerful femmes fatales, including actress Heather McCabe, district attorney Angela Lisbon, and a string of socialites and prominent family heiresses.
But this year, his splashy arrivals with beautiful women have been notably absent, even for the causes he personally supports. Where is Donovan McDonald, and has some lucky lady taken this favored bachelor off the market?
I can almost recite along. I’ve read the article a thousand times, not even daring to hope that Donovan’s disappearance from big events has anything to do with me.
“He’s traveling like crazy,” I say. “He hasn’t had time. They needed a story, and speculation is fun to them.”
Mags turns off the screen. “Maybe. Seems interesting he had time for them before, though.”
I shrug, holding on to Rebel’s back so I don’t disturb him. Mags starts pulling hangers out of the dresses she’s chosen.
“What time is your flight?” I ask her.
“Eight. So weird to leave at night.”
“I suppose so you can sleep on the way.”
“We’ll see.” Her eyes are bright as she collects the dresses in her arms. “I guess I better pack these. Only a few hours until we head to the airport.”
When she’s gone, I slide down the head of the bed until I’m lying down, Rebel tucked in my arm. If I’m going to go it alone with the baby for a week, I better sneak in a nap while I can.