by J. Kenner
What makes you think you deserve it?
Once again, that vile message fills my head.
I toss the phone on the desk and put both hands over my baby, then force myself to take deep breaths.
I do deserve it, I think. I do, I do, I do.
But deserve what?
The job? My baby? My marriage?
"Oh, shit," I whisper, as the synapses suddenly click into place. Giselle. It can't be a coincidence that she showed up right about the time I got the first text. Can it?
I whirl around for my phone. Maybe I've hesitated to tell Damien so far, but I can't wait any longer. Not if it's Giselle behind all of this. Giselle, worming her way into the fundraiser. Into our lives.
But then I think about it, and Sofia seems an equally obvious suspect. Except that she's all the way in the UK. So that probably takes her out of the running.
Either way, I have to let Damien know.
I snatch up the phone, then actually squeal when it rings in my hand.
For a moment, I'm certain that it's her, calling to torment me. To warn me to stay silent. That she has plans for me, and if I'm not careful, she'll spill all of my secrets to the world.
But then I see the caller ID--Ollie.
Eagerly, I press the button to answer the call. At the same time, Marge buzzes the intercom.
"Ollie, hang on. Yes, Marge?"
"Your ten o'clock just called to cancel. Apparently, he had some unexpected travel."
"Tell him thanks for letting us know, and ask him to email me his availability."
"No problem."
She hangs up, and I move around my desk to collapse into my chair. It leans all the way back so that I can put my feet up, the kind of thing that would totally mortify my mother, but that I love.
"Listen to you, big shot," Ollie says. "Bossing around the assistant."
"You are such a jerk," I say affectionately. "By the way, I saw your mom. She looks great."
"You did? Where?"
"I was in Dallas. She didn't tell you?"
"I'm trying a fraud case in New York. I'm wasting precious lunch hour prep to call and congratulate you. And to make sure you aren't a little bit weirded out."
I laugh, then put the phone on speaker so that baby Ashley can hear her uncle Ollie's voice. We've had a few rough patches over the years, but at the heart of it, he's still one of my best and oldest friends. And even though it took him a while to come around to Team Damien, I know that he's not only got my back but that he truly understands that my husband does, too. "I appreciate the congrats. And, honestly, it was a shock at first, but now I'm looking forward to every step along the way."
"Pretty fast, though, right? I mean, it's going to be over before you know it."
"Well, yeah." I frown but decide that his odd questions stem from a Y-chromosome kind of place. "But that doesn't mean I don't want to savor the experience. Besides, nine months is almost a year. That doesn't seem fast to me at all."
"Nine? I thought it was a six-month deal."
"Six? What--" I pull my feet off my desk and sit up. "Wait a sec, what are you talking about?"
"Me?" he counters. "What are you talking about?"
"The baby," I say with a definite tone of duh in my voice.
"Baby?" he asks, and I'm certain I can hear the wheels turning in his head. "You're having a baby?"
"I--yes. Wait. You really didn't know?"
"I had no idea. I told you--I've been buried in this trial. But, Nikki! That's amazing. Congratulations!"
I draw in a breath, only then realizing how nervous I've been about his reaction. I grew up with Ollie, after all, and no one knows the extent of my family issues better than he does. "Thanks. I'm nervous," I admit. "But mostly, I'm thrilled."
"You're going to do great." His gentle voice belongs to the Ollie of my childhood. The one who was always my champion. The best friend before Damien came along. I feel a little twist in my heart. Everything is fine between us now, but it will never be the same as it was. I don't regret that, but sometimes I miss it.
"And you'll be a wonderful uncle," I say.
"Hell yeah, I will."
I laugh. "So what did you call to congratulate me for? There's nothing else going on right now."
"For landing that contract with Greystone-Branch," he says, in a tone of voice that suggests I've lost my mind.
My heart starts pounding, and I roll the chair back away from the desk. "Say that again."
"The job with Greystone-Branch. You'd said you were nervous about it. So I thought I'd call to congratulate you."
"I don't have the job," I say. "I mean, I don't have it yet. And honestly, I'm not sure I'm going to get it. They seemed pretty worried about my ability to get the work done now that I'm pregnant."
"You did get it," Ollie says. "The announcement's in the newsletter they sent out about twenty minutes ago."
"Wait. What?" I dig in my satchel for my iPad only to realize I left it on the counter back at the apartment. Since I haven't yet fired up my computer, I switch over to email while keeping the phone on speaker. Sure enough, there's a newsletter from Greystone-Branch sitting in my inbox.
And three paragraphs in is the announcement of their new software development relationship with the exceptional team at Fairchild Development.
"Holy shit," I say.
"You didn't know?"
"I didn't have a clue. Why wouldn't they call first? And why the hell are you getting the Greystone-Branch newsletter?"
"Can't help you with the first," Ollie says. "But as for the newsletter, I represent one of their competitors, so I subscribed about a year ago."
"Lucky me," I say, but I'm frowning. "Actually, this explains a lot," I say, then tell him about the more-irritating-than-threatening texts I've been getting. "My first instinct was that they were from a competitor. But then this last one came in right before you called, and I started to think it was someone jealous about Damien. Or the baby. Anything but the contract, because why bother when I didn't have the job?"
"But now you're thinking the person saw the newsletter, too."
"Maybe. I hope so." I make a face. "If I'm going to have a text stalker, it would be nice for it to be about my work and not my marriage for once."
Ollie laughs. "You two do tend to make headlines."
Sadly, he's right.
"What does Damien say about the texts?"
"I haven't told him yet," I admit.
"Oh, that's going to go over well."
I roll my eyes. Ollie and Damien may have settled into a friendly truce, but that doesn't mean they're each other's best champions.
In this case, though, Ollie's probably right.
"I'm going to tell him right now," I say. "I was just about to call him when you rang."
"Then I should let you do that," Ollie says. "And I also need to go. I need about ten minutes with my witness before I put her on the stand."
"Break a leg," I say. "By the way, how long are you in New York?"
"Unless we settle, probably at least another week. Then it'll depend on how long the jury's out."
"We'll do drinks when you get back," I say. "Or you'll drink, and I'll look longingly at your scotch."
"Sounds like a plan. Love you."
"Back at you," I say, and when I hang up, I see that I have a voicemail from Bijan. I call him back right away, and he apologizes that their PR department sent the newsletter before he'd spoken with me. I assure him it's not a problem, we schedule a call for Wednesday to go over the specs and set the first round of Dallas meetings, and I manage to control my squeals of joy and delight until after the call ends.
Then, of course, I call Damien--to give him both the good news and the bad.
"He just left the office for a meeting," Rachel says. "But congratulations!"
"Twitter?"
"Instagram, actually. That picture of you on the lawn of your old house. But the caption was good news, and so I asked Damien and--"
"It's all goo
d," I say, cutting her off. "How long do you think he'll be out of the office?"
"He didn't say. I'm not even sure who he's meeting with. He was over in the apartment, and when he came back, he said it had just come up. Do you want me to leave him a message?"
"No, that's okay. I'll send him a text. He'll call me when he gets a chance."
"Sounds good. By the way, what are you wearing to the premiere? I've never been to a red carpet thing before."
"I'm wearing a white dress with black trim on the bodice and a completely unreasonable slit up the thigh. I was excited about it before, but now I'm thrilled. I figure I should take advantage of the occasion since pretty soon I'll be in maternity clothes. But as for you, you can do a gown or a cocktail dress. Either one's appropriate."
"Gown, duh. It's not like I get the chance that often. Besides, I think Graham Elliott might be there," she adds, referring to the A-lister she actually met once for about seven seconds. "He and Kirstie Ellen Todd broke up, you know, so maybe I have a shot now."
"Maybe you do," I say encouragingly.
"And if not, there's always Lyle Tarpin."
"He'll definitely be there," I say. "He's not only starring in the movie, but he's the incoming celebrity sponsor of the Stark Children's Foundation."
"That man is seriously hot. I mean, there's like lava flowing under that whole innocent Iowa boy vibe he's got going."
I fight a grin. "You think?"
"Definitely. Except I think the nice guy routine is real. I mean, you never hear about who he's dating, and he's only recently started going to red carpet things."
"Maybe he doesn't like the whole Hollywood lifestyle."
"Oh, no. That's not it at all. He loves Hollywood. He just values his privacy." Her tone is almost solemn, and I can picture her shaking her head vehemently, then leaning forward and cupping her hand around the mouthpiece of the phone as she shares some big secret.
I adore Rachel, but she's significantly more fascinated with Hollywood than I am. Which isn't saying much, though now that I live in LA, I try to at least pay enough attention that I can follow Jamie's conversations over drinks.
That thought reminds me that I'm meeting Jamie for lunch and I want to get some actual work done before that. I finish up with Rachel, then text Damien. Got the job! Call when you can. Want to share that good news and tell you something else, too. XXOO.
Almost immediately, I get a reply. Never had a doubt. Soon, Mrs Stark . . .
I hug my phone close, because I sure as hell had doubts. But I truly believe that Damien didn't. Where my career is concerned, he is my most ardent fan.
I text Jamie next, telling her I'll be at Art's Deli on Ventura at noon, which only gives me half an hour to go through all my emails and handle any crises.
Except I'm not in the mood to work. Not at all. And since my office is less than a mile from the restaurant, I decide to walk there and do a little window shopping along the way.
In the grand scheme of things, I haven't lived in Los Angeles all that long. But Ventura Boulevard has changed a lot in my time here. More restaurants, more shops. Jamie's condo is just a few blocks off Ventura, so we came down here all the time to grab a drink or a bite or poke around in the bookstore housed in an old, converted theater.
Now, I'm looking at the street with a different point of view. I see toys in windows. A shop with designer baby clothes. A store with what has to be the Rolls Royce of baby carriages and a crib that is the most precious thing ever.
A darling little onesie with a giraffe catches my eye, and I veer toward that window, thinking that it's a shame that it's way too small for Jeffery. Almost the second the thought enters my head, I realize that I don't have to focus my baby shopping on Jeffery--I have my own baby on the way.
I can shop for Ashley.
And so I do.
In under twenty minutes, I manage to do significant damage to my credit card. Or what I would have considered significant in another life. The amount I just spent is probably less than what Damien has in his pocket at any given moment. That's something that has taken me some getting used to--this constant proximity to money. The fact that I don't actually have to think about how much things cost. Not as a matter of survival, at any rate. I still cringe at the thought of paying jacked-up prices just because the store or the designer is trendy.
But the point is, I can.
Which is why my shopping bag is now filled with a variety of undoubtedly overpriced baby clothes, all of which are just so darn cute that I couldn't say no. They're also all unisex, because even though I've started calling the baby Ashley, I'm not completely delusional. I'm just hopeful.
"Congratulations again, Mrs. Stark," the clerk says happily. "Come again soon."
"Thanks, I will." I head out of the store, swinging the pretty yellow shopping bag as I hurry toward the crosswalk because, naturally, now I'm running late.
I pull out my phone as I wait for the light to change, just in case Jamie has texted. She hasn't. I glance to make sure the light is still red before I start to scroll through my emails.
And that's when I see the woman on the other side of the road.
Mother?
A nearby man turns sharply toward me. "Excuse me?"
I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud, but I don't bother to answer. Instead, I step forward off the curb. "Mother!" I say again. "Elizabeth!"
But no one responds. It's just a crush of people on the opposite sidewalk, all hurrying to and fro during the lunch hour.
I curse under my breath and take another step, determined to get across the street. To find her.
But now I don't even see a blond head in the crowd, which is a miracle in a city like LA, and for a moment, I just stand there, defeated.
Until someone screams my name--and I turn toward the voice and see a fast-moving BMW coming right at me.
12
A violent screeching accosts my ears as the smell of burning rubber insults my nose. My upper arm burns from where someone has grabbed it too tightly, and I turn, startled, to face Jamie.
"What the fuck?" she shouts, looking more agitated than I've ever seen her. "Nikki! What the hell are you doing?"
"I--I thought I saw--"
"Come on."
She gives my arm a tug, yanking me back onto the sidewalk.
"But I saw my mom again," I say, stupidly. "She was right there."
I point across the street in the general direction we need to be heading.
"Your mom?" she repeats, and I nod.
I watch as a full spectrum of emotions play over her face. Worry. Disbelief. Shock. Fear.
She squints as she looks that direction, then shakes her head. "She's not there, Nik."
"But--"
"And even if she were, that's not exactly a good reason to get pummeled in traffic. You scared the shit out of me."
"I know. I'm sorry." I scared the shit out of me, too. I draw a deep breath and realize that my hand is resting protectively over the baby. "Jamie, I--"
She holds up a hand. "Hold that thought. Come on."
This time when she takes my arm, it's gentler. She leads me across the street in the direction where I saw my mother, then down a block to the deli where we were supposed to meet.
We sit in silence until she's ordered for both of us, then she leans back in the booth, stares right at me, and says, "What the fuck?"
I don't even know where to begin, but I suck in a fortifying breath and dive in. "That wasn't my imagination. I saw her, James. I'm sure of it. She sold her house, and now she's here."
She leans forward, her elbows on the table, then immediately leans back again because the waitress is sliding coffee cups in front of us. I expect her to say something, but instead she adds about a gallon of cream to her coffee, stirs, and then takes a sip. She puts the cup back down, then exhales slowly. "This has the potential to be seriously fucked up."
"No kidding."
"But if she moved here, why not say something to you?
Why just keep popping up in the background like some freakish version of Where's Waldo?"
"To torment me, obviously."
"Maybe," Jamie says, but she sounds dubious.
"So what's your theory?" I say, leaning back. I want to take a sip of something warm, but I can't do coffee, and I'd been too out of it to change the order to herbal tea.
"Nothing. I don't know. You're probably right. Your mom's freakish enough to think that gaslighting you is a time-honored mother-daughter bonding technique." She isn't looking at me. Instead, she's concentrating on running her finger around the rim of her coffee cup.
"But . . .?"
Her shoulders rise and fall. "It's just that you're the only one who's seen her." She lifts her head to look at me. "I've been with you twice now, and I didn't see shit."
"That doesn't mean--"
"No, it doesn't. But you've never caught up with her, and she disappears like Santa Claus."
"She sold her house."
"Lots of older women do. Maybe she wanted to live in a garden home and use the money she spent on landscapers to travel to Europe."
"Or Los Angeles," I mutter, but Jamie doesn't hear me. "Okay, fine. She sold her house and me seeing her is just a coincidence. Just my whacky imagination."
"Don't act like that doesn't make sense," she says. "You know it does."
She starts to count out the reasons on her fingers. "First you were putting together that Dallas proposal, so she was on your mind. Now, you know she's moved, so duh. Come on, Nicholas. We both know you've got mommy issues. And that's got to be on overdrive now." She glances at the little yellow shopping bag on the seat beside me, then bites her lower lip. "I mean, doesn't it?"
A sharp stab of guilt cuts through me, and I deflate. "I swear I was going to tell you at lunch--we didn't start telling anyone until today. When did you hear?"
She screws up her mouth. "I saw on social media when you were in Dallas. That's why I called, actually. But then you told me about your mom moving, and I thought I should just wait until you told me about the baby."
"Oh." I frown, feeling like a horrible best friend. "Listen, James," I begin, but at the same moment, she reaches across the table to grab my hands, saying, "God, I'm such a bitch!"
She pulls me into an awkward across-the-booth hug. "Congratulations," she squeals, then plunks back down into her seat. "Oh, my God, I'm going to be an aunt!"
"So you're not mad at me?"
"Are you kidding? Not even."
I laugh, happy and relieved and contrite all at the same time. "I really am sorry," I say, but she just waves the apology away.