Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

  “Right,” I choke out.

  “Look. I’ll get to the point.” Her eyes meet mine over the wine glass as she takes a sip. “I will never, ever date a man again who’s committed to someone else.”

  Good thing I’m not drinking. “What?”

  “You heard me.” Her eyes are hard and cold, like brown rocks. Yet somehow, I feel her pleading with me underneath.

  “I’m not with anyone else. I’m not,” I add, a hard edge to my voice. The stakes are high here, but there’s more. If she can’t trust me, we can’t continue. I won’t grovel.

  “I know.” She tips her head down. “I know I’m projecting some of this. After the choice I made – the stupid choice – to stay with Joe for so long, I find myself unable to find true North.”

  “North?”

  “My compass is a little bit broken. The piece inside you that guides you. Except with Holly.” She beams.

  I set down my wine glass and take her hand. She lets me. It’s cold, and I envelop it in both of mine. “I’ll get to the point, too. I don’t play games. That’s not my style. For fifteen years I’ve stayed out of entanglements. My kids came first. I came second. I didn’t want to be with someone who would complicate my life. That was before I met you.”

  She’s listening. It’s a start.

  “You walked into the damn conference room so poised and self-assured, smart and funny – damn it, Chloe, you’re the whole package. And then the baby…”

  “The baby.” The words come out of her like bubbles, floating on the wind.

  I stand, realizing some music would help. I’m all drumbeat inside, wanting to say the right words, but trying to make sure I don’t lose too much of myself in this. I’m done compromising to the point of loss. I put on some Miles Davis, Kind of Blue, and she closes her eyes, leaning her head against the back of the couch.

  She is breathtaking.

  I continue, standing behind her, watching.

  “Holly is everything to me, Nick,” she says, her voice dreamy. “I had no idea you could find so much of yourself in raising a child.”

  My chest loosens.

  “It’s not like you lose yourself in them. It’s like you find yourself in new ways. I know she’ll be grown one day.” Chloe yawns. “And I’m excited to know my job will fade out as a parent. Our job is to raise them to be independent souls, right? I don’t want an adult child who needs me. I want to have one who wants to spend time with me.”

  She chuckles softly. “But right now, I’d settle for three hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

  I smooth a strand of hair behind her ear. She sighs into the touch. She finishes her wine and sets the empty glass on the end table next to her, eyes still closed. Her breathing evens out.

  “I sacrificed,” I tell her. “Put my kids’ needs first. Lost my marriage and a fair number of friends along the way who couldn’t understand that. Made plenty of new friends who did.”

  “Umm hmm.”

  “But I never met a woman who got it. Who would enter my world and let me enter hers and share the kind of love you only find through family.”

  “And I’m that woman?”

  Time stops. Seconds tick by. Then a full minute, as I close my own eyes and listen to the voice inside me that wants to say what’s true.

  Yes, my heart beats.

  I open my mouth to say it, and—

  She’s fallen asleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chloe

  We all knew this day was coming, right? The official First Day Back to Work. I stretched my maternity leave as far as I could, stacking accrued vacation and sick leave into a longer break than most moms receive in the United States. Leaving home for ten consecutive hours feels like preparing for a space mission. Five o’clock tonight might as well be ten years away. I can’t even foresee returning.

  I read that something like seventy percent of mothers in the US work outside the home. Know how many women that is? Thirty-one million. A few lines below that statistic, this caught my eye: “Eighty-six percent of working mothers say they ‘sometimes/frequently’ feel stressed.”

  So it’s not just me.

  On the other hand, the percentage of working mothers who report being ‘very happy’? Eighty-five percent.

  Deep breath. I can do this.

  News flash, Chloe: you have to do this.

  My original idea was to reappear in my office today looking pretty much the way I imagine Victoria Beckham looks when she turns up at her office to design her next collection. Cool and calm, fully accessorized, immaculate. She has four kids, right? (I know, probably eight nannies, too, but still.)

  Well, that was the concept.

  I laid out an outfit last night after Holly went to sleep, but it involved a silk tunic, and I quickly realized that would result in a trip to the dry cleaner. I have no time for another errand. So I rearranged, based around a little cashmere cardigan, but if she spits up, cardigan ruined, so no.

  Okay, Round Three. Black knit dress, washable. Black patterned tights, washable. Black boots, waterproof. Something tells me this is my new uniform. I can just be hosed down at the end of the day.

  There’s probably a special booth for that at O.

  Alarm goes off at five a.m. I shower, find the hairdryer, blow my hair dry. Put on full makeup for the first time in months, eye shadow, mascara, red lips. The face looking back at me from the mirror looks both familiar and very strange.

  Then Holly wakes up, and I can hear her over the baby monitor, cooing to herself. I go in to pick her up. She is laying on her back, touching her fingers together in wonder, perfectly happy. I appear in her line of sight and her face lights with a joyous smile of recognition, and now I am perfectly happy, too. But as I lean over the crib, her eyes – fixed on my face – go round with surprise and consternation. Her little face puckers. She begins to cry. I pick her up, but she is holding herself rigid and is now looking away from me, sobbing.

  Noises in the kitchen tell me that Jemma has just arrived, and a few moments later she peeks in the room.

  “Good morning, what’s going on?”

  “I think it’s stranger anxiety. She doesn’t recognize me with makeup.”

  “Give her to me. I always look the same.” Jem takes Holly from my arms. “Go get ready.”

  By the time I gather up my bag and tote and put on my coat, Holly’s sobs have reduced to just hiccups, but she still refuses to look at me. I hate leaving her this way. I kiss the back of her head and drag myself out to the car.

  Peak commuter time, traffic stopped on the Mass Ave bridge to Boston. Traffic stopped in every direction, in fact. I am going to be late on my first day back. Everyone will already be at their desks, so they will all see me slouching in. Busted.

  And I need to show them that nothing has changed. I can handle it all.

  I reach the final intersection, only one car ahead of me now, when the light turns yellow. Shit! Another light cycle means seven more minutes sitting here. In a minor panic, I gun it and make the left turn just as the light goes red.

  I’m about thirty yards down the street when I see another light in my rear-view mirror, very bright and flashing blue. Oh please, no.

  Yep. Moving violation, $150. Pulled over for thirty-five minutes. The officer was unimpressed with my explanation.

  By the time I pull into the parking garage where O reserves space for employees, I have been awake and trying to get here for four hours. I could have driven to Newark, New Jersey, in that amount of time. I approach my assigned space and just as I am turning into it, I see Carrie’s red junker sitting there. I slam on the brakes just in time. The sudden stop propels my coffee out of the cup holder and across my thigh.

  And still I do not cry.

  I park behind Carrie’s car and blot the coffee from my dress with a Pamper from the glove box. I knew washable was the way to go. I sling my tote bag over my arm and slide out of the car. That was no fun, but it’s over. I’m here.

  M
y professional day starts now.

  I open the trunk to get the emergency umbrella I keep there – see? I am capable and prepared for any conditions. Except the umbrella is now buried beneath a collapsible stroller and a six-pack of paper towels, so I put down everything in my hands and unearth the umbrella. Load up again with tote bag, slam the trunk shut, and at the exact second I hear the car’s automatic locks engage, I remember.

  I set down the keys on the left side of the trunk. Inside it.

  Channel Kelly Clarkson. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

  As I am setting down my bag, Carrie bursts into my office, a look of horror on her face. “Chloe! I forgot you were coming in today! I’ll move my car right away!”

  “Good luck with that,” is all I can muster. “Actually, could you please just get me some coffee?”

  It’s 9:20. I am exhausted.

  “Yes!” she responds enthusiastically. “We have Grind It Fresh! now, did you know? It’s changed my life.”

  “I don’t think I can take any more life changes right now, Carrie. Just black coffee.”

  There is so much stuff piled up in my office, it’s going to take me a month just to clear a space. I get started.

  Open six envelopes, drink coffee – and it really is good coffee, wonder if Holly is taking her nap, check messages, return eleven emails, drink more coffee, wonder if Holly is up from her nap, break down and text Jemma:

  All good?

  Unsatisfying response: All good :)

  Eat energy bar. It doesn’t work. I am just so sleepy. And I’m not used to sitting still and, you know, focusing… Maybe if I open my office door, the air and outside sounds will wake me up?

  As I’m swinging the door in, music comes on the PA system in the hall. That’s new. We never had ambient music before. I pause, swaying to the infectious beat, and listen.

  “Zion,” by Lauryn Hill.

  Henry appears around the corner. He is wearing grey yoga pants and a tuxedo jacket with a pink silk hanky in the breast pocket. No shirt. Must be a party in the spa this afternoon.

  “Hey, girl,” he says. “You gotta see this, come on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me down the hall.

  “Henry, what is it? I have so much to do! Have you heard from Jemma today?”

  “Zion” finishes and Natalie Maines starts singing “Godspeed.”

  He comes to a halt in front of the conference room and opens the door with a flourish. I look in.

  The first thing I see is a banner that reads “O Baby!” There’s a pile of gifts on the conference table, and a cake in the shape of a… is that a pink rabbit? The room is very crowded. I look at them, and they look at me, and suddenly they all start clapping. And whooping. A few whistles. I look at Henry accusingly.

  “Don’t blame me.” He smiles.

  Now, after baby tears and guilt, stress and traffic tickets and exhaustion, it’s the show of love and support from friends that does me in. Tears fill my eyes. Something else spilling on this dress.

  Carrie rushes up to me, wearing a pink feather boa and a huge smile. She hugs me and says, “Chloe, we wanted to do this before the baby came, but it all happened so fast, and then you were gone.” She takes off the boa, wraps it around my neck, and leads me to the head of the table, where she pushes me into a chair.

  She turns to the room and claps her hands. “HellO!” she calls. This is how our employee events typically open.

  “HellO!” they call back.

  It’s kind of like elementary school, I know, but it works.

  “Everyone pick up a gift,” Carrie instructs them. “We’ll open them one at a time. Chloe will start, and then we’ll go around the room. When it’s your turn, please read the card and tell us who the gift is from. At O, we share the love.”

  She winks. They hoot. Mousy Carrie has obviously been experiencing some professional growth while I’ve been gone. Also, the refreshments appear to include wine and beer.

  She bends over and scoots a big, professionally-wrapped box toward my chair.

  I open the card. “It’s from Andrew McCormick,” I read, “and it says ‘Cheers from Anterdec!’”

  I tear off the paper. It’s a case of Dom Perignon. Oh my. The perfect gift for any occasion.

  “Next!” Carrie announces.

  Zeke is first on my left. “This is from the team in Accounting,” he says. Pulling off the box lid, he holds up a garment, adult size. “Oh that’s so sweet,” Zeke comments. “It’s something special for you, Chloe.” Yards of cotton flannel spill out onto the floor. Zeke stands to display it better. It has long sleeves and a high neckline, and as he spreads the top across his chest, we all see that it features various slits and flaps on the bodice. There’s also a pair of fuzzy slippers.

  “I didn’t realize you were adopting,” Diane from Accounting says. “It’s a nursing nightie.”

  “Thank you,” I smile. “You can never have too many nighties.”

  Diane is next in line to open. “It’s from Human Resources,” she says, sounding puzzled. “The card says, ‘We heard what Accounting was giving you.’”

  She rustles the tissue paper and, with two fingers, lifts what appears to be a bright red chiffon bra. In her other hand is a matching lace thong. Diane’s face is the exact same bright red color.

  Zeke laughs so hard he falls off the side of his chair.

  Hayley’s next. She unwraps a package and reveals a soft plush baby doll, cute as a button. According to the box, it is from the “Girl Talk” line of educational toys.

  “Wait,” she says, examining it, “I think it talks!” She hunts around a bit and finds a button, which she presses.

  “No means No!” the doll exclaims in a tiny, android voice. Hayley presses it again. “You’ll have to buy me dinner first.”

  “Next!”

  Next is Ryan, and his gift is from the staff at ONY. A Camelbak Antidote Reservoir, 100-ounce capacity. It’s a backpack-type hydration unit for exercise, fitted with a small tube and a mouthpiece, hands-free. They must think I am a runner?

  Ryan reads the card, written by Jack. “‘We see the moms in Central Park wearing these all the time. Good luck!’” Ryan squeezes it. “It’s filled with something.” He opens the valve and takes an experimental sip. “Gin,” he says, in a voice filled with admiration. “Hendrick’s.”

  “Mommy juice,” someone laughs, but I notice that Ryan tucks the box under his chair instead of putting it back on the table.

  A sunbonnet from the skincare team is added to the pile. Marcy Silverman sent an envelope with a U.Fund College logo on the corner, but I said quickly that I would open it later.

  Finally we come to the biggest box of all, which proves to be from Facilities Management. The card says, “Very popular in Cambridge!”

  It’s my very own MulchingMama. According to the instruction booklet, by using the enclosed sample diapers (refills sold online for $150 per case) and processing the soiled diapers through my MulchingMama unit, I can turn Poop to Profit. And potentially save the planet.

  In my spare time.

  Carrie begins slicing the cake and distributing plates and forks. At first, the cake appeared to be a big pink rabbit, but now that I have a chance to inspect it carefully, I see that it closely resembles a giant penis with long ears, a fluffy tail, and a smile made of M&Ms. I catch Carrie’s eye.

  She shrugs and whispers, “Catering. They did their best.”

  Henry, seated on my right, is last. He’s not holding a gift. Standing, he picks up a bottle of Dom from the case, taps the side of it with his cake fork, and the room grows quiet. He clears his throat.

  “You all may know that Chloe is a special friend of Jemma’s and mine,” he begins. “We go way back. And Chloe did us an enormous honor in giving our name to her beautiful daughter.”

  Tissues are being discreetly pulled out.

  “It’s an honor that can never be repaid, but can only be lived up to, lived into,” he continues. Sniffles are a
udible. “As a sign of our commitment to our extended family, this artwork has been created. It’s forever.”

  He turns his back to the room and drops his tuxedo jacket. On his shoulder, the light catches a brand new tattoo: the leaves and berries of a holly branch.

  There are a few seconds of silence, and then an explosion of applause, cheers, laughter, and joy. Over the PA, the playlist switches to Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely,” and Zeke begins dancing with Diane, who looks like an uncomfortable robot.

  As I am hugging Henry, he whispers in my ear, “Don’t touch it, okay? It still hurts.” At that moment, I see Jemma in the doorway, holding Holly.

  And right now I understand that everything is going to be just fine, forever.

  * * *

  Nick

  The texts are amusing.

  And hot.

  Sorry I fell asleep the other night, she texts. Can I make it up to you?

  Attached is a picture of Chloe, wearing her power underwear, the bustier open and—

  “Damn.” Charlie draws out the word. “What’s that porn site? I’d love to—”

  My elbow “accidentally” connects with his jaw as I move the phone out of sight.

  “Go away,” I growl, feeling like a seventeen-year-old with an annoying little brother.

  “Sexting?” His voice is filled with admiration. “Nice. I guess you can teach an old lap dog new tricks.” He rubs his jaw and steps out of my reach. “Just don’t send dick pics. Take my word for it. They end up on the internet, no matter what.”

  Something in his tone tells me not to ask.

  Come over tonight? I text quickly, trying not to make typos.

  Can’t. Holly has a late pediatrician appointment, and I’m behind on work, she replies, adding a frowny face.

  I’m frowning too, but it isn’t with my mouth.

  Tomorrow? she types.

  I’m gone all the rest of the week, I reply. LA for a design meeting. I’m back late Friday.

  When did life become so complicated? she answers.

  Saturday? I ask.

  Jemma and Henry are away for the weekend, so you’ll have to date both of us, Chloe replies.