I slide into my chair and adjust my Panama hat. The sun flits through the open space; a few tourists file in. I smell bacon, and it’s making me mildly nauseous. Against my will, I estimate what it would be like to be pregnant for Elodie and smell bacon. A server—slim, buff, with purple highlights at his hairline and a man bun—hovers over us, holding a coffeepot in his right hand.
“Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I say.
“Tea, latte, cappuccino?” His voice is quite deep; I bet he is an actor. L.A. would be better for that, but I’m sure he’s found some venues in South Florida. He could be here for family, secretly glued to a sister or his mother, who are only a ride north or south on the I-95. Sort of how South Beach works for music and for me. The seventy-five miles are close and far, although Elodie and Mom don’t quite get why I’m here. I’d like to say to him, Stick to your plan. Keep the distance.
“A latte,” I say.
A crew sets up lounge chairs around the pool area—hushed and uninhabited by guests at nine A.M. The Art Deco building, originally a Dempsey-Vanderbilt Hotel back in the thirties, is Tyler’s spot. He’ll come here for a lunch or drinks meeting and comment on the crowd, the atmosphere. Which puzzles me a bit, since the hotel calls itself “bespoke” and rooms with views of the ocean are pricey and exclusive. Not Palm Beach–style luxury, but luxury all the same.
A text bings and my father glances at his iPhone, then scowls beneath his square-frame glasses—prescription glasses that turn darker in the sunlight. He texts back like older people do, his right hand flying, forefinger punching. I shuffle around in my chair, watching the waitstaff. When I’m at a place like this, I make a deal with myself about how I’ll get through and be independent. Had Tyler not offered me a partnership, I’d be that way now. I’d be telling myself that if I didn’t place enough musicians in the next six months, I could work at a hotel part-time. My family would hate it; they’d make excuses, tell lies in Palm Beach about my “career.” I’d do it anyway and try not to ask for anything. Except today I’m thinking instead about a band I’ll place called Arnsdale, a female vocalist and her backup, and then another and another. Already we are soaring with Dirk O selling out nightly at Pascha’s. That’s why it’s empty for breakfast; guests who came to hear him last night are sleeping in.
The man bun reappears with my latte. I haven’t eaten so early in the day in years. Did I ever? Looking cuter than before, he hands us our menus. It’s nice to notice without its being anything more. Life is all Tyler.
“Thank you, perfect.” I try to sound light.
“I’ll have whole-wheat toast, dry, and scrambled egg whites.” My father hands the menu over without saying please. Or thank you. Maybe in Palm Beach it isn’t done. At Longreens, the Harbor Club, Mar-a-Lago, or Trump International, my parents know the staff. They ask about their families—Mom tried to help some of the women who work in the locker room at Longreens through the charity she founded, Mothers and Children. Her goal was access to scholarship money for local colleges for their kids. Two of the younger children had autism and she could help with experts and classes. Then another member heard the conversations and complained that Mom was too intimate with employees. Mom helped anyway.
“Aubrey? What will you order?”
“Pancakes with blueberries and walnuts, please.” I hand over my menu and smile.
My father watches our server exit toward the kitchen, making certain he’s gone. The wind kicks up, flaps around our chairs.
“You do know why I’m here,” he says.
“I’m not sure.” My chest wall feels thin; every second my heart taps an extra beat.
“About Elodie. I know what she is asking you to do for her, Aubrey. Your mother has told me.”
Who can trust my mother and father not to trade secrets, including their daughters’ secrets? I’m only dumbfounded that my father would drive to South Beach about it.
“Are you considering this for Elodie? Carrying her child, your child, literally.” My father’s voice isn’t often this droning.
“Yeah, well, I’ve gone over the ways to define a baby I’d carry—impregnated by my sister’s husband. Someone who is sort of a big brother to me. It’s grotesque, isn’t it?”
“Your sister has no right to ask this of you.” He keeps scowling.
“She can ask me anything she wants. It’s that I don’t know what to say.”
“Then your answer is no. Is that correct?” Now my father sounds like he needs a cough drop or at least a sip of water. He doesn’t move, waiting for my answer. Who knew it mattered to him? Most conversations are with my mother; most problems are snuffed out by her.
“I feel pressured by her request. I wish she’d never asked. I mean, I finally have a life. I’m in Miami, I’m with Tyler, we’re booking good performers. I get to be in the music world. A mini music world.”
“All the more reason to refuse her. To remind her there are many other surrogates to choose from.”
“Wow, Dad, I’m not sure what Mom said. What did she tell you? Why are you against it?”
“I believe that for one thing, Elodie isn’t considering you, Aubrey. Your relationship with Elodie after this, with James, too. You will be the aunt and the biological mother.”
“I know, I know.” The last few days have been an out-of-body experience. I sip my latte, tempted to pour in a sweetener. Maybe I’d better do a real sugar; it’s healthier.
“I find it outlandish,” he says. “With real repercussions.”
“Dad, what is it? Is there something more to this? I looked it up, googled it, it is natural in some ways for sisters to do this. In the nineties it was really popular. There were these stories in a book I found, where one of the sisters was the ‘oven’—y’know, she carried the baby, but it was her sister’s egg. Then there was this article about a sister who had three kids of her own and felt guilty about her sister. They used her egg and her brother-in-law’s sperm.”
“I view it as abnormal.” My father’s tone reminds me of when we were small and he’d be on a business call at home. That steely, dismissive voice.
Abnormal? Before I can argue, say he’s biased, he continues.
“Your mother and sister have not thought it through—it’s a fantasy for them. They haven’t considered what people will say, what they’ll whisper through the clubs, up and down Worth Avenue.”
“Worth Avenue?”
“Anywhere and everywhere, they’ll talk,” he says. “Mom won’t like it. Mimi won’t be happy. This might hurt Elodie’s work.”
“Then Mom will figure it out. She’ll find a way with Mimi, what to say. Is that what matters? We’re not some divided family, like it’s them against us. It’s about Elodie. Remember how she was when she miscarried? It was horrible.”
The server comes with our food, and although he is well trained, he clanks about our table. We say nothing until he is gone. I wish he could finish the meal with us, be a third person at the table. He could deflect talk of our family.
My father begins to eat quickly, jabbing at the eggs with his fork. He hasn’t eaten so fast before, his bites sharp and angled. “Your mother is pleased that you drive up so much. She loves knowing you are nearby. How is Tyler’s work going?”