Before You Get To Baby...

“Guys like long. We don’t care if it’s fashionable or not.” Drew gathered his booty in front of him.

Frannie covered her plate with plastic wrap and rose. “If you don’t care about what’s in, why is your hair so carefully mussed up today, in that bedhead style guys are so into right now?”

Drew sat back, disgusted. “You asked, I answered. Leave my hair out of it. How big is your waist?”

“My waist?”

Drew waved away her puzzled look. “Never mind. We’ll get into it come Friday.” If he couldn’t get any more cookies out of her right now, he wasn’t going to waste his ammunition.

“What about my waist?” Frannie wanted to know.

“Friday,” Drew reiterated and shooed Frannie out the door so he could enjoy his treat in peace. Women. Go figure. Tell them what they want to know and they argue. Drew shoveled a cookie up and into his mouth feeling slightly aggrieved. Now he had to spend the next few days thinking up ways for a member of the opposite sex to trap one of his own. Talk about disloyal. He’d sold out to the enemy with barely a whimper. A handful of cookies was all it had taken. Disgusted, he crunched down hard on another one. “Well, too darned bad. They’re all grown men. They can fend for themselves. If one of them gets caught, he probably deserves it for being so stupid as to fall for all those female ploys.”

Frannie drove home proud of herself. She’d started the process. Subtlety was lost on a man like Drew—actually on most men, she decided as she signaled a left turn and left his street behind. You had to hit them over their hard, fat heads to get their attention. She’d done that.

“Ought to be interesting to see what he comes up with,” she told herself as she turned again, right this time. Frannie came up to a red light, drummed her fingers as she waited. “At least I’ve got him thinking about marriage. That’s something.” She accelerated as the light changed. “And if he still refuses to open his eyes and see what’s right in front of them, I swear I’ll use whatever he tells me to find myself somebody who will appreciate me. See if I don’t, the unappreciative bum.” Frannie pulled into a spot in front of her neat little frame one-story. “And I’ll tell you something else. When and if that man does wake up, he’s going to have some serious making up to do. Serious making up.” And she sniffed in self-righteous justification as she walked up her front walk.

Late Friday afternoon she was still sniffing at regular intervals at the male population’s thick-headedness in general, one Andrew Wiseman’s in particular. “Wiseman, hah!” Frannie spat as she pounded the sofa-back cushions back into shape in anticipation of his arrival. Setting the scene was important, after all. “There’s a misnomer if ever there was one. Blindman is more like it. Andrew Stupid-head has a certain cachet as well.” The sofa beaten into submission, Frannie surveyed the room, hands on her hips. Even if it was on a subconscious level, she wanted Drew to see the kind of home she could create.

Satisfied with the room check, she started down the short hall to her bedroom. “Obviously, I must have a very perverse nature to find the man this appealing. But I’ve got to make my play now before somebody else snaps him up. He’s within shouting distance of thirty, for heaven’s sake, he should be more than ready to settle down. I’d always planned to be the one standing in front of him when he woke up. Where the heck did that silk teddy go? Ah, there it is and my…yes, got that too.” She headed out of the bedroom and into the bath.

“Well, I just can’t wait any longer,” Frannie said as she reached in to turn on the shower. “His social life is too darn active and he still treats me like I’m his little sister. Not after tonight,” she vowed as she stepped into the steaming stall. “Not after tonight.”

Drew fidgeted out on Frannie’s front stoop before he rang the bell. He checked his fly, made sure his shirt was tucked in and even checked his hair in the reflection in the front door’s small inset decorative glass pane. Disgusted with himself, Drew poked the buzzer. It was just Frannie, for God’s sake. Still, for some odd reason he’d felt compelled to go home after work for a quick shower, his best jeans and a clean shirt. When he’d stopped at the supermarket to pick up the steaks he’d had the most inexplicable, ridiculous urge to pick up a bunch of flowers. Now what had that been all about?

Drew shook his head as Frannie opened the door. A couple of the guys at work had been passing around some kind of bug. Maybe he was coming down with it. That could be why he felt so weird, couldn’t it? Look at Frannie, she hadn’t fussed, for God’s sake. She was covered from neck to below her knees in some kind of voluminous apron thing. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear an apron before,” he said as he dubiously studied the object. She was all but drowning in yards of fabric but then again, she was a little bit of a thing.

“I had a conference with a parent after school,” Frannie blatantly lied. All was fair in love and war, after all. Not only had there been no conference, she’d never have worn the tight, short skirt hiding under the apron to school at all. She taught second grade. If Drew thought about it once he got a gander, he’d realize that with all the floor work she did with such young children any kind of skirt, let alone this abbreviated version, would be fairly impractical. But Drew’s thoughts rarely ran along the mundane or everyday practicalities of living. If it didn’t have to do with recycling sludge, it got no more than cursory notice. She figured she was safe. “I didn’t have time to change from my good clothes if we were going to eat on time, and I do have a tendency to be a bit messy in the kitchen.” Truth was, she’d put the skimpy hug-your-rear thing on just to bother Drew.

Frannie was sloppy when she baked. He’d have hated her for a lab partner, true enough, even though her product was worth the mess. It was a logical explanation and Drew nodded. Then Frannie turned around and walked in front of him. Holy cow! Thank God he was still holding the beer he’d bought instead of drinking it, Drew thought. He’d have choked for sure. He sputtered anyway. “Uh, it was a conference with a mother, right?”

“Hmm?” Frannie rolled her hips even more with her next step. The contrast between the loose apron and the peeks he got at her snugly encased rear with each step she took had been carefully checked for effect in the mirror. She hoped he swallowed his tongue. Look at him standing there in those tight jeans and that white knit shirt with the camel-colored stripe right across his pecs. He’d done that on purpose. Everybody knew light colors made you look bigger and that horizontal strip was nothing but a blatant attempt to draw attention to the breadth of his chest. Well she’d noticed. A long time ago, she’d noticed. Frannie wasn’t the slow one here.

“What is that thing supposed to be under there, a skirt? It’s missing the whole bottom half if it is.” He stared at her butt and cleared his throat. “A mother conference, right? Not a father conference?” Drew inhaled much-needed oxygen. “They let you wear stuff like that around little kids? Oh, boy.”

“Drew, this skirt is no shorter than a pair of shorts and you’ve seen me in those before. Surely you knew I had legs.”

“Well, yeah, but…” He gave up.

Dinner was eaten in a not-quite-companionable silence. Drew was on edge, like he was on a first date or something, but couldn’t understand why. By the time dessert was produced Drew was sure he was coming down with something. He’d been feeling hot ever since Frannie had finished fussing in the kitchen and taken off the apron thing. Of course, Frannie had had him going in and out of the cold grilling the damn steaks and everybody—other than Frannie evidently—knew that wasn’t good for you. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen her dressed up before. Frannie tended to live in jeans or shorts and an oversize T-shirt. But surely, in all those years, there must have been some other occasion when she’d gussied herself up when he’d been around.

Eighth-grade graduation, Drew remembered. A white dress with a big sash and daisies in her hair.

Frannie’s body had changed since eighth grade. Big time, it had changed.

Andrew had sighed in relief when he’d seated her. The table hid that cute little rear he’d had no idea she had. But his relief was short-lived. Taking the chair across the small table from Frannie he was faced with her, um, Frannie’s um…well, chest.

And what a fine chest it was. Nicely delineated and showcased by a snug, thinly knit sweater. Drew had a hard time not staring. Surely that hadn’t cropped up overnight. He wasn’t just getting sick. Those two handfuls had taken a while to appear. He’d evidently been out of it for quite some time if he was just noticing now that Frannie was a woman. Damn it, he didn’t want to think of Frannie as a woman. She’d been like a sister to him for years. Suddenly he felt awkward around her. It wasn’t right for him to be noticing her chest. Not right at all.

“…other night.”

“Hmm? what?”

Frannie sighed and set a nice big warm chunk of gingerbread slathered with real whipped cream in front of Andrew. “Are you feeling okay, Drew? You’ve been in your own little world most of the night.”

Drew grabbed her hand before she could retreat. “Feel my forehead, will you, Frannie? It’s warm, right? I feel hot. I think I’m running a temperature.”

Dutifully, Frannie felt his forehead with the back of her hand. Then, just to be mean she brushed a lock of hair back off his brow. His answering little shiver pleased her. “No, you don’t feel overly warm. Must be something else. I’ll check the thermostat, but I know it’s set at seventy.”

Drew didn’t think he could stand watching her hips swing in that excuse for a skirt. “No, that’s all right. I’m okay. Sit down. Let’s talk.”

So Frannie sat. She also deliberately leaned slightly forward and pressed her arms together. Color rose on Andrew’s cheeks as cleavage popped.

He cleared his throat. “So, anyway, I, uh, thought of something.”

Frannie gave up torturing him and dug into her gingerbread. “The waist thing?”

“Right. That. Now, as I recall, waist measurement is supposed to be a certain percentage of the hip measurement in order to attract a guy.”

“What?”

“Yeah, seriously. Sixty percent, I think, but it could have been seventy. Whatever, it was important to a guy who’s looking for someone who can successfully support a pregnancy. On a subconscious level, of course.”

“Of course.” Even on a subconscious level, men made no sense. “So it doesn’t matter how thin or fat you are so long as your waist-to-hip proportion falls into the right category?”

Andrew thought about it. “I guess. I mean, it’s not like I’m a sociologist or anything.”

No, it wasn’t like he was a sociologist or anything. Drew Wiseman was an environmental engineer, and a darn good one at that. Fifteen years ago, when he’d first started coming around, Frannie had been nine and in the third grade. Drew had been fourteen and starting high school a year ahead of schedule. Skinny and small, he’d needed a friend, and her brother had taken the new kid under his wing. In exchange, Drew had seen Rick through four years of math, chemistry and physics. Oh yeah, Drew was bright and he’d been unfailingly tolerant of Rick’s little sister. For Frannie, Drew had just been sort of…there, another male in her life trying to tell her what to do, just like her four brothers.

Drew’s growth spurt had come late, not until seventeen. Girls matured earlier than boys and Frannie had been a bit advanced anyway. Her hormones had kicked in right around that same time. She’d noticed him all right and had harbored secret hopes for twelve long years. Secret hopes she’d never told another soul, certainly not her brothers, who’d have teased her unmercifully.

Well, a dozen years later, she was seriously considering giving up. Drew seemed hopeless, although she thought there’d been a few positive signs tonight. Still, the bottom line was Frannie wanted a family. Time to go to plan B.

Frannie smiled to herself. Putting plan B into motion had the plus of making Drew squirm as she asked personal questions. It also had the added advantage of letting him know she was soon to be off the market. Maybe, just maybe, it would wake him up to the positive gem that had been right under his nose all these years. Oh yes, she intended to enjoy this.

Chapter Two

The following Saturday night, Andrew settled in to try and watch the Final Four with his buddy Rick. The March Madness Collegiate Basketball Tournament, he’d decided, was a guy thing. Imagine kicking somebody out at half time. So he’d yelled a bit. Heck, he’d learned everything he knew about sports from Frannie’s brothers, the prime bit of information being all referees needed glasses. Frannie should be used to it. She was just on edge, Drew surmised. After all, how could you disturb the neighbors when Rick had assured him every household in the country was tuned in? The neighbors were no doubt watching the same game, disparaging the same referees. Frannie, who’d grown up in a house full of males, who could yell and criticize the umps with the best of them, was forgetting her roots. That was all.

“Your sister’s gone wacko,” he informed Rick as they settled onto Rick’s living-room sofa, each with his own steaming bag of microwave popcorn and a beer. Andrew dragged a section of old newspaper over to the beaten-up end table and set his beer on that. Coasters were for girls and the day Evie talked Rick into using them was the day he and Rick stopped being friends.

“I’m serious,” he said when Rick merely grunted at his diagnosis of his sister. Drew had sort of bought into this sports as appropriate male entertainment thing, but Rick needed to understand that some things, his sister’s mental deterioration, for example, took precedence over basketball.

“Shh, I don’t want to miss the tip-off.”

“She came by my place last week. Knowing I’d just come back from being out of town, she brought homemade cookies. The woman’s devious, I tell you. Devious. She knew I’d be weak. She knew I’d do or say just about anything to get my hands on those cookies. They were fresh out of the oven, Rick. They were still warm. You should have smelled them.”

“Hang on just a second.” Rick gestured at the screen with a disgusted hand motion. “Aw, man, did you see that? What was that guy, sleeping standing up?”

“Honest to God, all the woman talked about was this bizarre husband hunt she’s on. She gave me less than a week to do a bunch of research for her. Otherwise she was going to freeze the rest of the cookies all for herself.” Drew was getting incensed all over again just thinking about it.

“Hell,” Rick grunted. “You’re good at research. You no doubt did a great job, so quit your bellyaching.”

Drew slanted a disgusted look at the television. Honest to God, who could care about basketball just then? Another crime he could lay at Frannie’s doorstep. She’d ruined the sport for him. “I don’t think you’re really listening here, Rick. I’m telling you, she’s dead serious about this garbage. I’ve never seen anybody so focused. That general, you know, what’s-his-face Schwartzkopf should have been half as focused during Desert Storm. They’d have pulled the entire war off in a day and a half.”

Rick jumped to his feet, both hands in his hair. He pulled them straight out leaving his hair standing straight out in spikes on either side of his head. “Charging on Gonzaga? I don’t think so! The Wisconsin player wasn’t set. He wasn’t set, ref. Where’s the instant replay? I want to see the instant replay. Do you believe that?”

Andrew’s eyes flicked to the TV screen. “Twenty-four was set.”

“Hey, remember me? I’m the one taught you everything you know about sports. I’m telling you, he wasn’t set.”

“Yeah, he was. Sea foam and apricot, Rick. I’m telling you, she’s already got the damn colors picked out for the wedding. And what kind of colors are those, anyway? Some guy’s going to go into a tux shop and ask for a sea-foam-green cummerbund? Or even worse, ‘I’d like an apricot cummerbund and matching handkerchief, please.”’ Andrew rolled his eyes at both the play on the screen and the painful mental image. “Like it’s not bad enough you have to wear patent leather shoes with a tux. Hell, it’s bad enough you have to wear the tux at all. If you have to get married, what’s wrong with being comfortable? Jeans and sneakers, something that’s not going to literally choke you while you put the proverbial noose around your neck.”

Rick watched the TV intently. He didn’t sit until the end of the replay. “It might have been charging,” he admitted grudgingly. “Maybe.” He flicked a glance at Andrew. “Now would you kindly shut up about Frannie and her fictitious wedding plans? I’m trying to watch a game here. It’s not like anybody’s asking you to wear an apricot cummerbund.” Rick leapt back to his feet. “He stole the ball! Look at that, would you? He’s going all the way. Two points, yes!”

Drew was just pushing himself off the sofa to turn the television off and force Rick to listen to him when the doorbell rang. Rick’s eyes didn’t even flicker. Drew sighed and went to answer it himself.

He smiled and nodded recognition. “Ladies. What an unexpected treat. Come on in.” Somebody had to play host after all. It was obvious Rick wasn’t up to the task. “Uh, Evie, was Rick expecting you?” After his last frustrating half hour trying to get Rick’s attention, Drew wondered if Evie knew what she was up against. In fact, Drew briefly considered telling Evie her fiancé should come with a label—Rabid Sports Nut.

“Hey, Drew,” the vivacious redhead said as she sailed into the entrance hall, Frannie following in her wake. “Is he here?”

Evidently Evie wasn’t expected. This should be interesting. “Yeah.” Drew jabbed a thumb in the direction of the living room. “In there. Follow the noise.”

Evie crinkled her nose and laughed when she heard a whistle blow, the roar of a crowd and the bellowing of her fiancé.

“Put on your glasses, ref.”

“The tournament isn’t over yet?”

“Ah, no. Not yet. They’ll be down to two teams after tonight. Only one more game.”

“Hallelujah.” And Evie planted herself right in front of the television. “Hi, lover.”

Rick leaned to one side, then the other. “Hey, I can’t—oh. Evie. How’s it going, sweetie?” Rick’s eyes shifted from his fiancée to the corner of the screen left unblocked by her body and back to his fiancée. He sighed, picked up the remote and clicked the TV off.

“The wrong guys were winning anyway,” he announced philosophically.

Drew’s eyes goggled as Rick stood and with a strained smile, gave Evie a kiss and asked, “What’s up?” Must be true love, was all he could figure. Scary.

“Frannie and I were out doing wedding stuff. We figured we’d stop by and get your opinion on a few things.”

Rick gazed longingly back at the television. “Just a few things?”

Evie held firm. Start as you mean to go on. “Yes. I’d like your input on the color scheme, floral arrangements, the men’s tuxedoes, why you have this need to always be on top—just a few little things like that.”

Rick was still lovingly stroking the remote control with his thumb. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, sure babe, whatever you want. You know that.”

Drew stifled a laugh and whispered to Frannie, “This could get interesting.”

Frannie flushed. She grasped Drew’s arm and tugged. “Let’s you and I go in the kitchen. Give them a little privacy.”

“Not on your life,” he shot back quietly. “What’s wrong with the man being on top, I’d like to know? I kind of like it myself.” Then more loudly, “Hey, Evie, about the men’s tuxes, basic black, right? I mean, since I’ve got to wear one—”

Frannie stomped on his foot. “Hush, this is none of your business.” She tugged harder, but it reminded her of the last time she’d had to move the refrigerator to clean behind it. Just about impossible. She braced herself and yanked again. Drew barely budged. She was going to need reinforcements, just as she did for the refrigerator. “Come on, Drew.”

“Don’t sweat it, Drew. Black is fine. For the jacket and pants,” Evie said.

The hair on the back of his arm stood up. Planting himself more firmly against Frannie’s surprising strength, Drew quickly questioned, “For the jacket and pants? What does that mean? What else is there? I mean, the shirt’ll be white. Dress shirts are always white. And the cummerbund. Black, right?”

“Welll…” Evie hesitated and Drew panicked.

“I was kind of thinking…”

God save him from women who thought. “What? What were you thinking?”

“Well, you know how men’s formal shirts have those rows of ruffles down the fronts?”

Drew was getting a very bad feeling here. “Yeah? Maybe we could just wear plain white shirts. I don’t see why that wouldn’t work, do you, Rick?” He turned to his best friend, hoping for salvation but finding only a wicked grin.

“It’s only for a few hours, old buddy. Whatever she’s got in mind, it’ll only hurt for a little while. Promise.”

Frannie huffed, “Honestly, what a couple of babies.”

“I’ll make a deal,” Evie said. “No ruffles on the shirts, just tucks…”

“Tucks?”

“Tucks,” Evie repeated firmly. “In exchange for which you will, without complaint, wear a cummerbund that matches the bridesmaids’ dresses.

“Take it,” Rick advised. “It’s a good deal. Think of it as the fee us guys have to pay to get exclusive rights.” He gave his fiancée a sick smile. “We’re both going to live.”

Then he whispered quietly, “Just agree, will you? The quicker they’re satisfied, the quicker we can get back to the game.”

Drew took a deep breath. “Okay, so what’s the color scheme?” He wasn’t at all sure he really wanted to know.

“Well, I really, really love pink, you know…”

“Pink?” Drew exploded.

Frannie rolled her eyes.

Evie patted her hair. “But I think it would clash with my hair so Frannie and I have decided on lettuce.”

“Lettuce? That’s a color?”

Frannie patted Drew’s arm. She’d all but given up on dragging him out of the room. “A very pale green, Drew. Nothing too threatening, just green. Evie and I thought that since her hair was red, we should surround her with its complementary color, green. The wedding pictures are going to be gorgeous.” No need to tell him pink had never really been in the running. It had only been thrown in to make the green sound good by comparison.

“Evie’s beautiful no matter what she wears,” Rick declared loyally.

“Very good, dear,” Evie said and kissed him soundly. “That got you two extra brownie points.”

Rick hitched up his jeans. “Yeah? How many do I need for another round of me on top?”

“You were listening.”

“I always listen to you, sweetheart.”

It was difficult to feminize a snort, but Evie managed. Frannie was impressed.

“Okay, so lettuce is a girl word for green, right? I can live with green.”

“For heaven’s sake, Drew, your masculinity will survive.” Frannie gave him a hard tug, caught him by surprise and actually moved him. “Now, come on.”

“No, Frannie, wait. This is a learning experience. I want to hear more about this point thing.”

She pulled again, gained another few inches. “We are not going to stand here and listen in like a couple of voyeurs while they discuss the merits of…whatever. Remember my virgin ears. Now come on!”

Frannie finally got Drew into the kitchen. “Here, sit down.” She pulled out two chairs from the kitchen table, pushing him into one. “I’ve done some figuring. Tell me what you think.”

Drew rested his head on his hands. “About what?”

“I went out and bought a tape measure.”

“Yeah?” Drew was thirsty. He thought about getting up and checking the refrigerator for another beer but it seemed like an awful lot of effort.

“Yes. So I measured. My waist is twenty-four inches. I wasn’t too sure exactly where to get the hips, but I figured take the biggest measurement, right?”