It Happened at Cafe Nix

12 Bells and a Baby

“Neither have I,” Tamsin said, picking up two menus and leading them to a table by the window, overlooking the shaded outdoor deck. “What a gorgeous plant,” Tamsin said over her shoulder.

“Thanks.” Kate clutched the pot plant, not caring if soil spoiled the Paradise Print of her Dinnigan belted shirt dress. “Christmas Bells. A florist at Circular Quay was selling them. It reminds me of home. We live in the Snowy Mountains, a town called Swallow’s Fall. Ninety-nine people. Our house is called Silver Bells House. Adorable, huh?” Twelve bell-shaped flower heads bobbed on their sturdy green stems against Collette’s linen. Kate fingered the leaves. “We’ll be taking twelve bells home to Silver Bells House.”

“How sweet,” Tamsin said.

“We’ve just built an extension. My husband’s a stonemason.”

“Same table as this morning?”

“Thanks,” Jamie said, taking Kate’s elbow in the palm of his Master Builder’s hand.

“I’m a fashion designer.”

“I can tell,” Tamsin said as they reached their table. She ran an eye down Kate’s sleeveless dress, her gaze hovering on Kate’s stomach. “So when are you due?”

“Not me!” Kate said, putting a hand on her flat stomach. “Someone else had the child but the bastards didn’t want him.” She flicked her pearly-pink-polished fingertips towards the door as though the bastards were outside, laughing as they did a let’s-get-rid-of-this-child Cha-Cha on the waterfront. “So we’re getting lucky.” Their loss.

“An eleven-year-old boy,” Jamie said, his low, rumbling voice and soft smile telling the world he couldn’t wait; was as proud as any expectant father.

“I’m nervous,” Kate said as she took the seat Jamie pulled out for her and put the pot plant down along with her purse. “I’m about to become the mother of a near-teenager—” She shot a panicked look at Jamie. “Jamie, I don’t know anything about teenagers.”

Jamie dragged his chair out, and sat. “You’ll be fantastic.” He took the menus off Tamsin, put one in front of Kate and opened his, scanning with a frown of concentration.

Kate slipped her shoes off and scrunched her toes. Heaven.

Jamie looked over the top of his menu. “So what are you going to throw up for dinner?”

‘I wasn’t actually sick,” Kate reminded him. “They just made me feel sick. They were wobbling on the plate.’

“Great eggs,” Jamie said. “Loved mine. Loved yours.”

Eggs? Don’t talk to Kate about eggs. What about Kate’s eggs? Where had they gone? Had she had any to begin with?

“I’ve never been a mother before,” she told Tamsin, wondering if they served dry toast. “I don’t have the eggs.”

“Eggs are only on the breakfast menu, actually,” Tamsin said. “But I can ask Chef what he can do?”

Jamie chuckled, and peered at Kate. “Really,” he asked as Tamsin left the table after telling them she’d give them a few minutes. “How are you feeling?”

“Have you noticed how everyone knows our business?”

“That’s because you keep telling them.”

“I haven’t said a word!”

“Kate. How are you feeling?”

Kate shrugged a hot, bare shoulder. “Still sick. It’s nerves.” Except that the nerves had been with her all week. Mostly in the mornings. She hadn’t been nervous with any of the meetings they’d had with the adoption agency, or with their gorgeous young boy. She’d been fine; excited, expectant. Holy knitted baby bonnets. Why had the word “expectant” cropped up? Kate didn’t know what her eggs had been playing at; they hadn’t been whipped up and scrambled by Jamie’s sperm, that was for sure, and she’d long ago given up reading the pamphlets about why not, but really—her insides were screaming at her: we’re here. We’re pushing upstream. Go on, do one more test.