What Came First Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part 1 - JANUARY

  Chapter 1 - Laura

  Chapter 2 - Vanessa

  Chapter 3 - Wendy

  Chapter 4 - Laura

  Chapter 5 - Vanessa

  Chapter 6 - Wendy

  Chapter 7 - Laura

  Chapter 8 - Wendy

  Chapter 9 - Laura

  Chapter 10 - Vanessa

  Chapter 11 - Laura

  Part 2 - APRIL

  Chapter 1 - Vanessa

  Chapter 2 - Laura

  Chapter 3 - Wendy

  Chapter 4 - Laura

  Chapter 5 - Vanessa

  Chapter 6 - Laura

  Chapter 7 - Vanessa

  Chapter 8 - Wendy

  Chapter 9 - Laura

  Chapter 10 - Vanessa

  Chapter 11 - Laura

  Chapter 12 - Vanessa

  Chapter 13 - Wendy

  Chapter 14 - Laura

  Chapter 15 - Vanessa

  Chapter 16 - Laura

  Chapter 17 - Vanessa

  Chapter 18 - Laura

  Chapter 19 - Wendy

  Chapter 20 - Vanessa

  Chapter 21 - Laura

  Chapter 22 - Wendy

  Chapter 23 - Laura

  Chapter 24 - Vanessa

  Part 3 - JULY

  Chapter 1 - Wendy

  Chapter 2 - Vanessa

  Chapter 3 - Laura

  Chapter 4 - Wendy

  Chapter 5 - Vanessa

  Chapter 6 - Laura

  Chapter 7 - Wendy

  Chapter 8 - Vanessa

  Chapter 9 - Wendy

  Chapter 10 - Laura

  Chapter 11 - Vanessa

  Chapter 12 - Wendy

  Chapter 13 - Laura

  Chapter 14 - Wendy

  Chapter 15 - Laura

  Chapter 16 - Vanessa

  Part 4 - OCTOBER

  Chapter 1 - Wendy

  Chapter 2 - Laura

  Chapter 3 - Vanessa

  Chapter 4 - Wendy

  Chapter 5 - Laura

  Chapter 6 - Vanessa

  Chapter 7 - Wendy

  Chapter 8 - Vanessa

  Chapter 9 - Laura

  what came first

  TITLES BY CAROL SNOW

  More praise for the novels of Carol Snow

  Just Like Me, Only Better

  “A divorced Orange County suburbanite’s life gets a delicious jolt in Snow’s superb romantic comedy . . . wonderfully witty.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Here Today, Gone to Maui

  “Smart, funny, and as breezy as a Hawaiian night . . . I loved it!”

  —Jill Smolinski, author of The Next Thing on My List

  Getting Warmer

  “With its entertaining combination of a realistically flawed heroine, sharp writing, and tart humor, Getting Warmer is absolutely delightful.”

  —Booklist

  “Carol Snow does a wonderful job creating realistic, likable characters. Natalie is genuinely flawed, and readers can’t help but like her for it . . . I’ll be waiting on pins and needles for her next release.”

  —Curled Up with a Good Book

  Been There, Done That

  “Snow’s humorous, wise debut serves up romance with a bit of social commentary on the state of singledom and the benefits of maturity in a youth- and romance-obsessed society.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] witty, entertaining read.”

  —Kim Alexander, XM Satellite Radio

  “Carol Snow dares to explore some ‘what ifs’ of college life in a novel full of zany adventures, reflecting the wisdom of an adult revisiting the past and trying not to make the same mistakes . . . insightful and fun, with a hint of mystery and romance.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  TITLES BY CAROL SNOW

  What Came First

  Just Like Me, Only Better

  Here Today, Gone to Maui

  Getting Warmer

  Been There, Done That

  TEEN FICTION

  Snap

  Switch

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2011 by Carol Snow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / October 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Snow, Carol, date.

  What came first / Carol Snow.

  p. cm.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-55860-7

  I. Title.

  PS3619.N66W47

  2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2010054196

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my mother, Peggy Snow

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, yet again, to my wonderful editor, Cindy Hwang, for her sharp eye and smart insights on this, our fifth book together. I am grateful for the hard work of the many talented people at Berkley Books, with a special shout-out to Leis Pederson for her competence, responsiveness, and overall niceness.

  Thanks to Stephanie Kip Rostan for representing my books, guiding my career, and being my friend. Everyone at the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency has been a delight to work with; I especially appreciate the efforts of Monika Verma, Miek Coccia, and Melissa Rowland.

  As usual when writing a book, I had to hit up friends and family to fill in my sizable gaps in knowledge. Thank you to Ted Bacon for sharing legal expertise; Jill Smolinski for filling me in on the Hermosa Beach area; Rafael Suarez for providing Spanish translations; and Tracey Scott for getting and keeping those crazy chickens. My husband, Andrew Todhunter, not only supplied engineering lingo but was also kind enough to take me to lunch at Hooters. Thanks, honey. You’re the best.

  I am indebted to numerous friends who, over the years, have shared concerns about declining fertility and stories of assisted reproduction. I could never have written this book without them. For information about assisted reproduction in general and donorship in particular, I turned to the Internet. (While I will miss Laura, Wendy, and Vanessa, I’ll be glad to get “sperm” off my history browser.) The Donor Sibling Registry website (www.donorsiblingregistry) was an invaluable resource for learning about the unique issues facing donor families.

  Finally, thanks to my readers. I hope you like this one.

  Part 1

  JANUARY

  1

  Laura

  The chickens are getting restless.

  It is just past sunrise on a chilly Saturday morning in January, and insomnia kept my brain whirring until after two A.M. Now all I want to do is stay buried under my hypoallergenic faux-down comforter and return to the dream that is already slipping away.

  But the chickens have other ideas—assuming their primitive little brains are capable of anything that can be termed an idea. In their coop (which is far too close to my bedroom: poor planning on my part), the birds shriek and cry and say bock-bock-bock, their clucks growing more frantic as the sky grows lighter. Each morning it’s the same, as if they’ve never seen the sun before—which is patently absurd. We live in Southern California; they see almost nothing but sunshine.

  In the dream, I’d been kneeling next to a man on a black sand beach, both of us digging up giant clams with our bare hands, prying the shells open and eating the mollusks raw. And yes, I know that sounds like raunchy symbolism, but I’m just extremely fond of shellfish. The man was wearing a tuxedo. And I think he had a tiara on his head. But that was okay because he li
ked me and I liked him, and my nightly pseudo-erotic dreams are the closest things I’ve had to a date in five years.

  Eyes shut, I turn away from the window. Alfredo, the cat, a twenty-pound Maine coon named for my son’s favorite pasta sauce, slinks up from the foot of my bed, settles himself on the pillow next to me, and starts to purr. And then I remember: if you have an independent source of income, reliable domestic help, and an affectionate cat, you’ll never need a man. I didn’t even need a man to get pregnant. At least, not one that I ever met.

  So screw the guy in the tiara.

  I sense Ian before I hear him, as if the air softens and warms the instant he tiptoes into the room. “Mom! You awake?”

  “I am now.” I open my eyes and drink him in, my bony eightyear-old boy with his too-big front teeth, his army-green eyes, and his shaggy brown hair, still shot with leftover streaks of summer blond. He is the sweetest, smartest, most beautiful person I have ever known. There is no one in the world I would rather spend time with. Some days, I still can’t believe he is mine.

  But right now, I really wish he would go away.

  Monday through Friday I get up at 6:15 A.M. so I can take a too-short shower, put on a conservative skirt, blouse, and controltop panty hose, and join Ian for a hot breakfast (eggs, usually) before heading off to my office in Santa Ana, where I practice estate law while downing countless cups of mediocre coffee. Carmen, our nanny/housekeeper, takes Ian to school.

  Unless Ian has a soccer game or other activity, weekends are my time to sleep a little later, trying in vain to recover from my increasingly common insomnia before launching into household projects. Single parenthood can be exhausting at times, but I chose this life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

  “Feed the chickens,” I mumble. “Then let them free-range.” The chickens are quieter out of their coop; perhaps I can sneak in a little more sleep.

  Ian puts his head next to mine on a tiny patch of pillow and reaches over my shoulder to stroke the cat. “You said we could sit outside this morning and watch the chickens lay eggs.”

  Ian has become obsessed with catching the chickens in the act of laying. It is vaguely disturbing.

  “I said some morning. I didn’t say today. It’s cold out.”

  “Please, Mommy?”

  These days, Ian only calls me Mommy when he wants to soften me up. But then, the chickens were Ian’s birthday present from me last spring, so I deserve this.

  I reach my arms around his angular body, luxuriating in his warmth and little-boy smell. “You win. But you need to put on a coat. And I need to make coffee. You want hot chocolate?”

  “With whipped cream,” he says. “And marshmallows.”

  I kiss his shaggy hair. “Anything for you.”

  It’s not just an expression. I really will do—in fact, pretty much do do—anything for my son. During his cheetah phase, I took him to the San Diego Wild Animal Park. When he moved on to dolphins, we headed to Sea World. I have seldom turned down a request for a playdate, sleepover, or pool party, and we take a vacation every August. In the years before Ian received chickens and a coop for his birthday, he racked up a Wii, an iPod, a fully stocked saltwater aquarium, and Alfredo the cat. For Christmas I gave him a piano.

  More than things, though, I give him time and love and attention. Although I practice law, we are not wealthy. I took myself off the partner track when I became pregnant and have been content with regular hours and a solid, steady income. We live in a three-bedroom ranch house in Fullerton, a pleasant suburban town in north Orange County, California. I drive a five-year-old Honda Accord. It is enough. No, it is more than enough.

  Of course, I worry that I’m spoiling Ian, that he will suddenly turn bratty and ungrateful or that he will crumple in the face of life’s disappointments. But here’s the thing: the more I give him, the greater he shines with curiosity about the world, the more he trembles with appreciation for all living things.

  So, yes, I will do anything for my son. Because I love him so very much. And because the sad truth is that the one thing he really wants, the only thing he’s requested for every birthday and every Christmas since he was old enough to talk, is something I haven’t been able to give him.

  Ian wants a sibling.

  2

  Vanessa

  Today is my birthday, and ever since I woke up this morning, I’ve had this feeling. Eric is going to ask me to marry him tonight. I thought he might do it at breakfast, but he had to work the early shift today, so he was already gone when I got up. He left me a note on the counter, though: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, V. HAVE AN AWESOME DAY & I’LL SEE YOU AT DINNER.

  Eric is good with stuff like that. You know, leaving me notes or buying me little things. He’s going to be really romantic when he asks me to marry him, write me a poem or maybe even a song, which is something he used to do when we first started going out, before he gave up the guitar. I’m not sure about the ring. Part of me thinks he’ll want to pick it out together, and part of me thinks that since he works at Costco, he could get a good deal on a diamond.

  I have searched through all of his drawers and jeans pockets, but haven’t found anything. He must want me to help pick out the ring. Or maybe I haven’t looked hard enough.

  This feeling I’ve got, that today is the big day, is different from how I felt last month at Christmas. That time, I thought he would slip a ring onto a branch of our tree, which was actually just a ficus strung with silver and gold garlands. It’s different, too, from how I felt on New Year’s Eve, when I decided he’d drop the ring into a glass of champagne and wait for me to notice it till after we’d toasted.

  At eleven o’clock on New Year’s Eve, I asked Eric, “Do you want to open the champagne?”

  He said, “I didn’t buy any champagne. Did you?” And then, when he figured I wasn’t going to put out, he went to bed.

  My hands shake as I turn the key to our apartment. It’s different this time. I can sense it. Today is not just any birthday. It’s my twenty-ninth. Meaning, if I’m going to get married before I turn thirty, I have to get engaged right now.

  During the three years I’ve lived with Eric, every one of my high school friends has gotten married. Every single one. For a while there was a wedding like every weekend. I’m a regular in the T.J.Maxx dress department. Time after time, Eric and I drive out to Riverside just to have people tease me about catching the bouquet or to say, “You guys must be next” or whatever. I’ll laugh like that’s funny even though it’s so not, and Eric will just look uncomfortable.

  If he doesn’t propose tonight, there’s always Valentine’s Day.

  The apartment smells of tomatoes and garlic. Jason Mraz is playing over the speakers connected to Eric’s iPod. Eric and I have totally different taste in music, but we both like Jason Mraz. Eric calls him a “Universal Donor” of music. I don’t really get what he means by that, but whatever.

  I love living with Eric, at least most of the time, but our apartment sucks. It’s dark and small and doesn’t have enough closet space. The dinky living room has dirty beige carpet, and it opens to a kitchen that has brown cabinets made of this plastic-y stuff that is supposed to look like wood but doesn’t. Rents are high in Redondo Beach. This was all we could afford. Eric likes to surf, so he doesn’t want to move inland.

  Eric is at the sink, filling a big pot with water. He dries his hands on a dish towel and meets me by the front door. He’s wearing what he wears every night, a faded T-shirt and his oldest, softest jeans. Eric’s not too tall, but his shoulders are square and his hips are slim. He looks good in jeans.

  “Hey, birthday girl.” He cups my face in his hands and kisses me. All of a sudden I’m not nervous anymore. Everything is going to be okay.

  “Eggplant Parmesan?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh.” He kisses me again.