The Big Bang Read online

  The

  BIG BANG

  a novel

  Linda Joffe Hull

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Part I: RABBITS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Part II: DEAD RABBITS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Part III: MORNING SICKNESS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Part IV: COMPLICATIONS

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Part V: BIRTH

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Part VI: AFTERBIRTH

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For Brandon,

  No such thing as a better half any better than you.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, first and foremost, to my editor, publisher, fellow writer, and dear friend, Ben LeRoy. Your spirit, guidance, intelligence, and friendship are a daily blessing.

  Thanks to Josh Getzler for believing in me and being an all-around mensch.

  I am forever indebted to Monica Poole for showing me the way from the very start. To Kay Bergstrom, Joel Reiff, and Terri Bischoff for your friendship and constant support. To Alison Dasho for your superior editing skills. To Cary Cazzanigi for making everything work so I can. To Becky Stevens, Carleen Evanoff, and Julie Goldsmith for a million reasons.

  I could not have written, much less finished this or any other book, were it not for the help of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, the Hand Hotel gang, and especially the Capital Hill critique group, including (but not at all limited to) Scott Brendel, Robert Buettner, Janet Lane, Chris Jorgenson, Terry Wright, Alex Kalinchuk, Jedeane McDonald, Steve Reinsma, Dave Jackson, Luke Dutka, Brianna Martray, Jan Gurney, and Mark Stevens.

  To Piper Stevens, Ellen Rosenblum, Wendy Kelly, Doug Webster, Caryn McClelland, Rick Anderson, Angie Lancaster, Judy Bloomberg Schenkein, Rachel Greenwald, Sue Aaronson, Beth Hooper, Marc Kerman, Susan Hennes, Ruchi Brunvand, and the gang at OMHD for being there in a variety of ways, some of you for a long time.

  To Bill Joffe, Elizabeth Heller, Bob Moskowitz, Ron Hull, Naomi Hull, Kathryn Hull, Brian Hull, Kevin Hull, Dan Mitchell, Donavon Mitchell, Jacob Hendrickson, and Elliot Springer. Love you guys!

  To my sisters Nancy Mitchell, Laura Hendrickson, Jenny Springer, and Rachel Moskowitz—thanks for always agreeing to listen, read, give feedback, and play sisterly shrinks.

  Special thanks to my mom, Marjorie Moskowitz—your enthusiasm, input, and insight have been beyond invaluable.

  To Andrew, Evan, and Eliza for believing in me through it all. I can’t believe how lucky I am to be your mom.

  And, finally to Brandon. Thank you for the years of love, encouragement, patience, unflagging optimism, and never, ever buying into Lawndale as the path of development.

  A breathtaking Rocky Mountain vista sets the backdrop for your dreams at Melody Mountain Ranch, a Henderson Homes master-planned community. Choose from six dazzling floor plans in the Colorado Birdsong Collection and revel in arresting architectural features including dramatic foyers, standard-plus living rooms, gourmet-style kitchens, and expansive master suites.* With a state-of-the-art family recreation center, ample green space, and tree-lined parks,** there is no better place to call home.

  Melody Mountain Ranch—Life in Harmony with Your Dreams

  *Upgrades available at additional cost

  ** Planned

  Part I

  RABBITS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Melody Mountain Ranch Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions: Restriction 8.7.41. Window Coverings: All windows shall be covered with curtains, drapes, or other acceptable coverings necessary to maintain privacy.

  From the moment Hope first looked into Jim Jordan’s blue eyes, all she could think about were the gorgeous, flaxen-haired children he’d make.

  They’d make together.

  The tongue-tied awe he inspired in everyone, from her sorority sisters to store clerks to even her mother’s friends on their wedding day, kept her from admitting the one thing she suspected from their first conversation: God had been so taken by the sheer magnificence of Her creation, She figured there wasn’t much more needed in the way of filler.

  If only he had a little more in the way of get-the-job-done sperm.

  Hope Jordan capped the ovulation prediction test and carried it from her bathroom toward her walk-in closet. Lifting the false drawer at the back of her dresser, she opened her keepsake box and replaced last month’s disappointment with this one’s promise. The most promising yet, thanks to the optimal dosage of Clomid now flowing through her system.

  In the drawer above, wrapped in a cushion of lavender tissue, was the most potent fertility-enhancing lingerie in her arsenal. She lifted the La Perla sticker without causing so much as a hairline tear in the paper and removed the black silk and lace babydoll top and matching panties.

  Clipping the tags with a snip of her nail scissors, she lifted the top over her head, settled into the lace cups, set the spaghetti straps atop each shoulder, and stepped into the tiny triangle of panty. Before she turned for the mirror, she closed her eyes, and as she’d done for the last nine ovulation cycles, visualized the onslaught of robust candidates all vying for her big, healthy, ripe egg.

  She opened her eyes, turned for the mirrored bathroom wall, and smiled at the overall effect. In a year, she’d happily weather the extra pounds, loose skin, and stretch marks. But for now, if she couldn’t get pregnant wearing this…

  She grabbed some roses from the bouquet on her nightstand, plucked the petals, spread a handful on the bed, and left a multicolored breadcrumb path behind her as she started toward the open bedroom door.

  ***

  Will Pierce-Cohn scraped a stray chunk of Mini-Wheat from the front of his shirt, zipped his Patagonia fleece, and headed for a house identical to his own, except for the Sunset Taupe acce
nt trim.

  And the woman who lived inside.

  For once, Will Pierce-Cohn wished Hope Jordan lived anywhere else but across the street. The thought of her forced smile made his guts churn, but he had to get his playground petition in front of every neighbor in the development before the April homeowner’s board meeting. Before reverend-cum-homeowner’s-board-president Frank Griffin waxed too eloquent and the HOB rubber-stamped his environmentally questionable, proposed location change.

  Will took a deep breath.

  Starting with Hope.

  Before he stepped onto the top step to equalize any height disadvantage, Will allowed himself a quick peek through the potted plant on her front steps and into her accent window.

  He made a point not to look at other women in that way.

  Especially her.

  If he spotted Hope across the grocery store in low-rise jeans, he waved and diverted his cart in the other direction. At aerobics class, he only allowed himself a split-second glance at the silhouette of her butt in yoga pants before dropping his Bosu Ball and weights behind hers. He even saved friendly conversation for the odd morning when she appeared at the community mailboxes in loose sweats.

  Before he could knock, he spotted her on the landing at the top of the steps.

  He gasped silently.

  She definitely wasn’t wearing sweats.

  Backlit, with her golden hair billowing around her head like a halo, Hope wore nothing but a flowing, sheer black top.

  And matching panties.

  He thought about averting his eyes.

  Should have.

  Couldn’t.

  Clearly, she was dressed for a fertility day coffee break with her husband. She’d told him months ago they were trying to get pregnant. Still, how many times had he accidentally imagined her creamy skin and the pale blush of her nipples, perky through her sweat-dampened sports bra? To see her, all of her, in near touching distance—more spectacular than he’d ever dared imagine.

  Sheer lace clung to her narrow waist.

  Her flat belly.

  If Meg ever wore anything to bed besides a T-shirt… if, every so often, she came home from work thinking about his needs instead of her own… if, for once, she let him make the first move before reaching for his…

  He let his gaze drop to Hope’s downy landing strip.

  His clipboard slipped from his hand and clattered on the concrete stoop.

  Hello echoed through the hallway.

  There was no time to duck. It was too late to make a run for it. If he didn’t do something quickly, she was going to find him standing there like a garden-variety peeper with an erection. Beads of sweat dribbled down his back.

  Astros, Mariners, Cardinals, Rockies…

  He stood like a statue, unable to force his knuckle to the door.

  The dead bolt flipped open with a familiar hollow metal plink.

  In a surge of arousal-deadening panic, he managed a split-second trouser adjustment, placed his clipboard at a strategic angle, and attempted a casual expression.

  The door opened a crack.

  Hope’s lips, pink, pouty, and full, shimmered in the morning sun. Her sweet floral scent intermingled with the early spring air and the heady aroma of warm, baked goods.

  “H… Hope. I…” He hadn’t stuttered since elementary school. “You answered before I had a chance to knock.”

  “This isn’t a great time, Will.”

  “Sorry,” he said. The thought of her body pressed against the opposite side of the hollow door separating them sent a heat wave across his face. “I’ll only take a second.”

  His face felt engulfed in flames.

  “Is this about the ice cream truck ban?”

  “No, no.” Thanks to Frank Griffin and his mini-sermon on vanishing Americana, Will’s solution to sobering statistics about ice-cream truck operator DMV and criminal records was voted down at the last homeowner’s board meeting. Will turned away toward the empty parcel of land next to the Estridge home to compose himself as much as to make his point. “The playground.”

  “I see,” she said, not looking.

  Will’s practiced talking points about his concerns for the environmental impact and the reason for the developer’s lack of plans to develop prime residential sites at both Songbird Canyon and Warbler Valley Drive vanished from his brain. He couldn’t form an intelligible sentence questioning the sudden switch from the planned super-playground proposal on the vacant, commercial land at Wonderland Vista Way and Melody Mountain Ranch Parkway.

  A white-tailed rabbit scurried across the pavers separating the Jordan and Estridge properties and loped toward a snow-dusted mound of dirt on his or her proposed former home.

  “The bunnies,” he uttered.

  “The bunnies?”

  “Rabbit habitat.” He took a silent breath to compose himself. “Too marshy to accommodate—”

  “You want me to sign something?”

  “Please.” He handed her the petition bearing, so far, only his name. “I know for a fact I have support on both Weeping Willow Way and…”

  As Hope reached for the clipboard, her fingernail scraped the tip of his thumb and sent another surge of desire through him.

  Astros, Mariners, Cardinals, Rockies…

  She signed on the first line and handed back the petition. “See you at aerobics.”

  Before he could say thanks, the door closed and she was gone.

  So was he.

  ***

  From her bathroom window, Maryellen Griffin watched Will Pierce-Cohn, clipboard in hand, head from Hope Jordan’s house toward the empty lot where he leaned over to inspect a patch of dirt. The futility gave her an anxious pang, causing her to shift and throw off her daily weigh-in.

  Maryellen stepped off the scale, reset the button, and stepped on again to the same dismal 102. Before the blasphemous flashing faded to black, she grabbed her robe and cinched the waist tightly around her middle. She crossed the master bath and plucked the honey-do list from the usual spot on the mirror above her sink.

  Morning Mel,

  Help us face the day with gladness, O Lord, for today comes

  as a fresh new page.

  Before you embark on what is sure to be a blessed day, please take care of the following:

  1. We are nearly out of orange juice.

  2. I am low on Avon Derek Jeter shave lotion. Please call Laney Estridge to reorder.

  3. Check to see if Young Christian Leaders received summer camp nomination for Evangeline.

  The dull ache at the base of her neck radiated upward as she scanned the rest of Frank’s fussy scrawl. Need more X-14 for mold in basement shower.… Speak to Evangeline re: missed youth choir practice…

  Eva might not show up for choir again if he didn’t stop calling her Evangeline. Never mind her reaction when he so much as suggested she go to a leadership camp this summer. Maryellen took a breath and skipped to the last item on the list:

  I’m meeting with Henderson Homes late afternoon to finalize playground details. Would love to celebrate with a pot roast for dinner!

  Yours,

  Frank

  Her stomach turned at the thought of loading cow rump into the Crockpot at 7 A.M. If he wanted her to celebrate the big land swap he’d been negotiating with Henderson Homes, why couldn’t he spring for take-out? Eva was on a vegetarian kick and wouldn’t eat a bite anyway. Besides, he knew she had to close at the library.

  She folded the note, stuffed it into her pocket with a week’s worth of others, and started her morning routine with a flip of the faucet.

  The base of her electric toothbrush fell onto its side as she yanked a little too hard and squirted on a blob of Colgate. As the bristles met her front teeth, she savored the mint flavor on her tongue like peppermint candy. There’d be no real sweets until the scale bestowed a double-digit number. No dab of ice cream would pass her lips, no cookie crumb, and no sugar of any kind. She certainly couldn’t eat a dinner of fatty mea
t and grease-soaked vegetables.

  After the dentist-recommended two minutes, she spit into her sink, rinsed with a handful of water, righted the overturned base, and set her Sonic Care carefully within.

  Then, she grabbed Frank’s toothbrush.

  Warmth encircled her toes as she padded across the heated floor to the toilet.

  She paused for a moment to picture him, running his hands through his dark, gelled hair, still hopped up like Napoleon from one-upping poor Will Pierce-Cohn over the playground. In anticipation of climbing into bed to celebrate some more, he’d pick up his toothbrush and brush the pot roast with carrots, potatoes, and pearl onions from his teeth.

  No doubt he’d be extra talkative tonight but at least the chatter would keep the overexuberant kissing to a minimum.

  She opened the door, leaned over the bowl, and dipped in his toothbrush.

  ***

  Laney Estridge parked her Land Rover at a strategic angle to both highlight the FOR SALE sign featuring her professional glamour shot and block the view next door. Her head, aching from an impending sinus infection, began to throb as she exited the car and started up the front walk. It was bad enough her sellers insisted on pricing their wildly overdecorated, almost two-year-old home nearly on par with the brand new models in the Melody Mountain Collection. Now, to add insult to injury, the neighbor’s driveway featured a room’s worth of wall-to-wall carpet lying on the concrete like a soapy gray beard.

  As small streams trickled from the edges and joined the river of bubbles emptying into the storm drain beside her car, she grabbed her cell, autodialed the community violations hotline, and left a detailed message.

  She tucked a stray strand of newly copper-and-honey highlighted hair behind her ear and straightened her plum-hued jacket. She’d managed to sell the property on Winding Valley Circle by downplaying the minor explosion that resulted in $30,000 of meth lab cleanup costs. No reason she couldn’t do the same for a listing that included the charm of do-it-yourselfers for neighbors.

  With her home equity line hovering at the limit, she had to.

  A car neared the entrance to the cul-de-sac.