by J. Kenner
"Hey," I say, easing beside him and sliding my hand into his.
"What do you see?" he asks, nodding toward the room's interior.
"Boxes I need to sort through. I think some of those have clothes I'm never going to wear again." I tilt my head to look at him and the wistful expression on his face. "What do you see?"
"The crib we bought yesterday against the far wall," he says, pointing to the spot he's chosen. "It's close enough to the window for the ambient light, but far enough away that the sun won't shine in the baby's eyes." He turns to me. "Can you see it?"
I nod, thinking about the sturdy white crib we'd decided on after looking at every single one on display in the upscale baby furniture store. None of them had been quite right, but then we saw one with a headboard design that had two elephants, their trunks twining into a heart shape, and a line of zoo animals stenciled on the outside. It's absolutely darling, and both Damien and I fell in love with it immediately. It's a special order, but it will be delivered soon.
"It has a mobile hanging over it," I say. "Another zoo theme." I imagine a musical mobile hanging above the crib, tiny giraffes and lions and penguins going around and around above our little girl as she coos and kicks and reaches for the pretty animals.
"And my rocker by the window," I add. It was the only other piece of furniture we bought yesterday. When we'd set out, Damien had said he wanted to spread out the shopping. To take it slow and savor every moment and only buy one piece per trip.
I was all for that plan until afternoon exhaustion snuck up on me, and I ended up sitting in the most amazing rocker in the history of the universe. And then I informed Damien that there was no way I was leaving that store without being absolutely certain that the rocker would soon be mine.
"We need to figure out colors next," I say. "And we need a changing table and a chest of drawers and maybe a rocking horse."
He grins at me. "I don't think we need the rocking horse just yet."
"Okay, then. A giant stuffed bear. In fact, a whole menagerie of stuffed animals who can watch over her at night."
"And a bassinet," he says. "Because she's sleeping in our room at first."
"Definitely," I say, as he starts to lead me away from the room toward the stairs. "And a baby monitor. Audio. Video. And a backup system."
"You read my mind."
We continue describing her room as we walk. What I want stenciled on the walls. Where to install speakers so we can play her soothing music. The colors for her bedding.
"Only about seven more months if Dr. Cray is right," I say.
"We'll know Monday."
I nod. I don't have to ask if he's going with me to the appointment. There's no way he'd miss it. And just that simple reality has me smiling again.
"What?" he asks.
"Just thinking how much I love you."
"Careful, or I might not let you out of the house. And I think you told me you had a full schedule today."
"I do," I admit. "Today and tomorrow. I'm trying to get ahead of the game so that we can enjoy Friday."
"In that case, I suggest a sensual evening of working together in the library," he says. "Two glasses of sparkling fruit juice. A coffee table littered with spreadsheets and computer code."
I laugh. "Sounds like the evening will have all the makings of an epic romance."
"So long as you're with me, then yes," he says, then pulls me close and kisses me hard. "You're seeing Frank this morning?" he asks when he breaks the kiss, referring to my prodigal father. "Do you want me to come with you?"
"Desperately," I admit. "But I think this is one of those things I should do alone."
Frank Dunlop--who used to go by the name Leonard Frank Fairchild--may be my father, but I haven't known him for very long. He left when Ashley was a little girl and I was just a baby, and he recently made a somewhat tumultuous re-entry into my life.
Though it took Damien longer to trust him--and that trust was earned following some intense background checks--my wariness vanished pretty quickly. Possibly faster than was smart, but I'd desperately wanted to believe that Frank had returned only because he wanted to get to know me. And after he explained that he'd left because of my mother, we'd forged a truce that has since grown into a deep friendship. Maybe even love. I'm not sure yet.
All I know now is that he's in our life, and both Damien and I genuinely believe that he's a good man who made a mistake by leaving his children behind when he left his wife.
I take Damien's hand and put it on my abdomen. "I'm still getting used to him being my dad, you know? But maybe telling him he's going to be a grandfather will make it all seem real."
"Do you want it to?"
His voice is hesitant, and I understand why. Even with all the horrific things my mother has done, I still have moments when I think that maybe, just maybe, we're going to turn a corner and everything will fall into place. She'll feel like a mom, and not like the wicked witch.
I think it--I hope it--and time and again I'm disappointed.
And Damien, I know, is afraid I can't handle more disappointment on the other side of the parental wall.
Honestly, I'm a little scared, too. But I also know that I like Frank, and I respect him. And unlike my mother, he wouldn't intentionally hurt me.
He deserves to know he's going to have a grandchild. More, I think it will matter to him. And I want to know what it's like to share special news with a parent and have them be really, truly happy for me.
I've never had that experience before. And I really hope to have it today.
I left the house before Damien, who's spending the morning working at home. Now I'm sitting in Coop, my convertible Mini Cooper, at a congested intersection on the Pacific Coast Highway when my phone buzzes.
I grab my phone with trepidation, afraid it's going to be a new vile text, then immediately sag with relief, my mood shooting straight back up toward awesome when I see that it's from Damien.
Miss you already. See you tonight. Until then, imagine me, touching you.
I smile the rest of the way to Santa Monica, and I'm still smiling when I step inside the studio that my father shares with Wyatt Royce. My father's a photographer, and when I first met him, he was looking for a studio to sublease. I hooked him up with Wyatt, a photographer and friend who'd been looking for someone to share his massive studio space.
"I'm so glad to see you're looking good," Wyatt says, entering from his private office with a telephoto lens in his hand. With his tousled golden hair, chiseled jaw, and confident air, he looks like he should be the model rather than the photographer. "I saw that you fainted in Dallas," he adds.
"Just the heat," I say, fighting a smile. "And it's always unpleasant to have the tabloids getting in and reporting stuff without your permission."
He cocks his head, obviously considering my words. "Then you're really--"
"Here to see my father," I finish. "I've got some important stuff to tell him."
He grins, and I look away, because I don't want him to see the smug acknowledgement on my face. As I do, I notice that with the exception of the few prints that have been on the walls for as long as I've known Wyatt, every work surface is covered.
A few months ago, he'd told Jamie and me that he was working on a project that he thought would make a big splash, and now I assume these covered walls are part of it. The weird thing is that if he wanted to, Wyatt Royce could make a big splash simply by breathing. He's the grandson of Anika Segel, one of the last living mega-stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood. And his great-grandfather founded one of the studios.
In other words, he comes from Hollywood royalty. All he has to do is snap his fingers to have publicists drooling over him, and yet he's never once played the family card. He doesn't deny them--and as far as I know he has a great relationship with all of them--he just never mentions them.
Instead, he's consistently flown under the radar. He started at the very bottom of the heap as a photographer, then climbed
through the ranks by skill and talent alone. I admire him for that, but it's also a bit baffling. Especially in a town like LA.
He'll even be at the premiere on Friday--but that's because the Stark Children's Foundation has hired him to be the official event photographer. Which means he'll be wearing a tux to blend in--not because he's going to be the one in the paparazzi's sights.
I gesture to the draped prints. "So, this is the secret project? Any chance you'll give a hint to a good friend?"
"None at all. I trust you, but I don't want to risk a leak before I'm ready." He looks at me meaningfully. "I'm sure you understand."
"Yeah," I say, putting a hand on my belly. "I do."
I'm smiling as I head to the back of the studio and the stairs that lead to the much smaller area that Frank has sublet.
He's standing over a light board, using a magnifying loop to review strips of negatives. He's in his early sixties, with hair that's gone gray at the temples. He has the ruggedly handsome, weathered face of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. And when I look straight at him, I can see my own blue eyes looking back at me.
"I thought you shot digitally," I say as I cross the room to look over his shoulder. Photography has been my hobby since high school, and though I love working with film, in this day and age, it's become impractical. I also hate dark rooms--too many memories of my mother locking me in my room at night and disabling the light switch. And while I know Damien would build me the biggest and best darkroom in the history of photography, I do so little behind the camera that it doesn't seem worth asking.
Besides, I've gotten pretty proficient with editing on the computer, and that's fun, too.
"Mostly digital," he says, as he passes me the loop so that I can take a look. "But sometimes you just need to go retro."
I laugh as I bend to look at the lush photos of Santa Monica at night, and even from looking at the negative, I can see that he's captured an aspect of dark and shadows that you simply can't claim with a digital format. "These are wonderful," I say, returning the loop to him. "Are you going to print them?"
"When I get back. I have the trip, remember?" He glances up at me. "That's when I'll shoot digitally. And when my app comes in so handy. I would have come to your office today. I'm the client, remember?"
"True enough. But I wanted to see you here."
Frank is a travel photographer, and so he spends most of his time bouncing around the globe. He recently hired me to design an app by which he could display and sell his work even when he's on the go, and I came today ostensibly to go over some of the tweaks in the programming with him.
"Is something wrong?" He looks at me with a furrowed brow. "I've got a lot of subscribers now--we're not going to have a chunk of downtime while I'm in Europe, are we?"
"The app's fine. Honestly, it doesn't even need any tweaks. I just wanted to talk to you."
"Oh." He stares at the loop in his hand, then puts it down on the table before looking at me. "Are you okay? I heard about you fainting. In Dallas."
I make a face. "On the front lawn of our old house."
"You're sick?"
There's so much concern on his face that I'm certain he hasn't heard any of the other rumors.
"I'm not sick," I assure him as I keep my eyes fixed on his face. "I'm pregnant. You're going to be a grandfather."
At first, his expression is entirely blank, and I'm afraid that I've made a horrible mistake. That he's been fine knowing me--a daughter who's really more of an acquaintance. Someone he can point to and say that he has some connection with, but nobody real. Somebody he can just walk away from again if he feels the urge.
But a grandchild will be different. So small and trusting. So easily hurt.
My breath hitches in my throat. I'd been a baby when he walked away. And it's with a sudden burst of horrible clarity that I realize the risk I've taken opening my heart even a little bit to this man. It's one thing for him to walk away from me, but I don't know that I could survive the pain if he eased his way into my child's life, and then blithely turned his back.
"I--" I'm planning to say that I'm sorry. That I shouldn't have presumed he would care.
That I never should have come at all.
But he cuts me off, and when he speaks, I see that his eyes are glistening. "Nikki--oh, Nikki, that's wonderful. I can't--" His voice breaks and he clears his throat. "I'm very, very happy."
A wild, crazy relief cuts through me, and I realize a tear is trickling down my own cheek. I wipe it away, sniffling a little, but smiling. "Wow. We're kind of a pair, aren't we?"
He chuckles, then pulls me into an awkward hug. For a moment, I'm limp, and with a quick shock, I realize that this is the first time that he's really held me like a daughter. I draw in a breath filled with hope and love, then squeeze him tightly. "Thanks," I whisper.
"For what?"
I lift a shoulder, not really sure myself. "For coming back."
"No," he says. "Thank you for letting me back in."
I sit down on one of the gray, folding chairs, feeling a little wobbly and emotional, then wipe my nose. "I thought I saw Mother yesterday."
It feels like a complete non sequitur, but Frank seems to understand the way my mind works even better than I do, because he cocks his head, pulls a chair close to me, and says, "Do you want to let her back in, too?"
"No."
The word is sharp and fast and firm, but even as I say it, my heart aches. Now that I'm going to be a mom, the absence of my own mother seems doubly painful.
"No," I repeat, this time with less certainty. "But I want to know what she's doing. She left Dallas. I think she came here. I think she's watching me, and I don't know why."
He rubs the side of his mouth with his thumb, something I've noticed that he does when he's about to say something he's not sure I'll like. I first noticed it when he asked me to change the menu configuration on the app. I didn't mind doing it, but apparently he thought I'd be irked that he didn't care for the way I'd laid out all the elements.
"What?" I press, when he stays silent.
"Now, don't take this the wrong way, but maybe you imagined her. Your mother's not exactly the type to hide in the shadows, is she?"
I hesitate, because the times I've seen her she's seemed so real. But he's right--Elizabeth Fairchild is not the kind to hide. "I don't know," I say. "But you might have a point. I'm not keen to think I'm hallucinating, but that's better than having her be real," I tilt my head from side to side. "So thanks. I think."
He chuckles. "That's what fathers are for." As soon as he's said the words, I can see that he wants to take them back. He is my father, but we've never really gone there. And in this one conversation, I've had a fatherly hug and this paternal support. Obviously, he's thinking that maybe he's taken it a step too far.
But he hasn't. Just the opposite, in fact. And when I say, "Yeah, that's exactly what dads are for," I hope he understands.
He clears his throat. "So, ah, I know you don't need me right here--you did just fine over the years without me--but I'm wondering if now, well, with you being pregnant and all--" He pauses to take a deep breath. "Well, I was just wondering if I should postpone my trip."
"Oh!" I hadn't even thought of that. He's leaving for Ireland tomorrow morning, and from there, he's going to the Cotswolds and then Paris and Prague and a bunch of different destinations in Germany and Italy. It's a six-month-long itinerary, and he's not just traveling to shoot stock, he also has some specific gigs lined up.
"No," I say. "You should go. I mean, I want you here, of course, but it's not like anything much is going to happen for a while. And you'll be back before I'm due."
"I don't know . . ."
"I do," I say. "This is your livelihood. I'm not going to stop working. You don't need to either."
His mouth thins and he nods. "All right. If you're sure."
I nod, but part of me isn't sure. Part of me wants him here. Part of me thinks that's what parents do.
And part of me wonders how I can actually be a parent without understanding the nuances at all, having never really experienced them.
"I'm sure," I repeat, and then nod, because I know it's the right decision. "And thanks, Grandpa."
14
I spend the rest of the afternoon tweaking Frank's app because I want it to be fully functional before he leaves the country. Fortunately, I finish it at the office, because by the time I get home and am ready to settle in with Damien, I'm pulled under by exhaustion again. I end up dozing on the couch with my feet on his lap while he alternates between reading science journals and financial reports.
"This is tops of my list," I murmur when I manage to peel open my eyes.
"What's that, baby?"
"Questions for the doctor. This one is at the top. When does it end? I feel like I'm only living half a life."
"Ah, but it's a half with foot massages," he says, putting down his magazine and rubbing my swollen feet and ankles in a way that makes me think I've discovered heaven. "And I looked it up. It gets better after the first trimester."
"I'm not sure this massage can get any better."
"I meant the exhaustion," he says with a laugh.
"How about the swelling in my ankles and feet?" I've switched to flats, but it's still uncomfortable. "It'll get better after the first trimester, too, right?"
"Actually, it's usually worse later. Apparently, swelling is normal early in a pregnancy, just not common."
"Great." I frown as I prop myself up on my elbows. "You really looked all this up?"
He looks at me like I've just asked the world's silliest question. "Of course I did."
I sigh, feeling satisfied and loved. Yes, I think before I drift off. Of course, he did.
I wake in bed to the sound of a helicopter landing in our backyard and remember that Damien has a breakfast meeting in San Diego. But he'd told me he would be back by noon if I needed anything.
I can't imagine what that would be since my entire day is going to consist of working on the Greystone-Branch project in my office, something I fully intend to jump into after I eat the pancakes that Damien left warming for me in the oven.
So far, I haven't had pregnancy cravings, but if I do, I hope it's for chocolate chip pancakes, because the ones Damien makes are almost as orgasmic as the man himself.