Anchor Me

by J. Kenner

  By the time I get out the door and into Coop, I'm in the kind of good mood that even the pile-up of traffic on PCH can't shatter. I make it to my office with a full hour to spare before my interview with Laura, a recent engineering grad, who I'm seriously hoping is going to be as awesome today as she was when I did the first interview. Because if so, I'm offering her the job.

  I keep Laura's resume on my desktop while I start working through my list of action items. I'm on number eight by the time eleven o'clock rolls around, and Laura is officially an hour late.

  I skip lunch, just in case she's stuck in traffic and her cell phone is dead.

  She doesn't show.

  At two, I call her. She answers on the first ring with, "Yeah?"

  "Laura? It's Nikki Stark."

  "Oh, hey. Hang on." She must be putting her hand over the microphone because I hear a horrible rustling, then her muffled voice. "No, no, that's going to Goodwill. But that box needs to go into the truck. Sorry about that," she says, her voice returning to normal.

  "You're moving."

  "Um, yeah."

  "You know we had an interview today."

  "Oh, man. I'm really sorry." She doesn't sound sorry. "I'm moving to Silicon Valley, and I need to--no, no, not that box."

  "I'll let you go," I say. "Good luck."

  "Oh, thank--" she begins, but I've already hung up and tossed the phone on the desk in disgust.

  Shit.

  I'm reaching for the phone to call my second choice when it starts to ring. It's Frank, and I snatch it up. "Hi. Aren't you on a plane?"

  "Delayed. I'm at the gate. What's wrong?"

  "Just work stuff." I'm surprised--and a little impressed--that he could tell that I was irritated. It's nice in a weird way. Like he really is a parent. "Why are you calling? Just so I can wish you a good trip again?"

  "Your mother called me."

  I'd been rising out of my chair--but now I plunk back down. Hard. "Oh."

  "You were right. She's in town." He clears his throat. "She--she's rented an apartment. And she wants to see you."

  I clutch the edge of the desk so hard the wood cuts into my hand. "I don't want to see her."

  "I don't blame you, kiddo. But, ah, I probably shouldn't have, but I told her you were pregnant. She got wind of the story out of Dallas, and I just--"

  "It's fine," I say, even though it really isn't. I don't want her to know. It's too intimate a secret. Too special. And I'm too afraid that she'll ruin it. More than that, I'm scared of that tiny part inside of me that--despite everything--wants to hear her congratulations.

  "Yeah, well, I'm not so sure. I regret it now, anyway. She said--well, she said it would destroy your figure." The words sound heavy. As if he wishes he could drop them and let them just sink away.

  "That sounds like Mother. What else did she say?"

  "She wants you to call her."

  "I didn't call her after she moved. I don't know why I'd call her now."

  "Not arguing. Just passing along the message." He hesitates, then says, "I'm going to cancel the trip."

  "The hell you are. You're already at the airport. Your bags are already checked."

  "I should be there for you. What if she comes to your office? To your house."

  "I have Damien," I say. "Plus, I can take care of myself."

  The silence on the other end of the phone is heavy. "I should never have left you. Never left Ashley."

  "Stop it. Just stop it." I manage to keep my voice steady even though my insides are churning merely from the thought that my mother is in the same town as I am. "You're here for me now, and that's true even if you are in Europe. You cancel, and it's like you're giving her the power. Trust me, Dad. I spent way too much time shifting my life around because of that woman."

  "Dad," he repeats, his voice so soft I almost can't hear him.

  With a small shock, I realize it's the first time I've called him that. "Yeah," I say, my voice just as soft. I clear my throat and force a smile into my voice. "So, anyway, I'll see you in a few months, okay. I'll be the one waddling toward you in the airport."

  I keep my voice cheery--and I mean what I say--but at the same time, I'm all twisted up inside.

  She's here.

  She's really here in LA.

  As soon as we hang up, I start to dial the phone again--then stop. Because it's not just Damien's voice I want. It's the man.

  I glance at the time--already three. I know he'll be back from his lunch appointment, and I also know that even if he's in the middle of a conference call or another meeting, if I ask Rachel to interrupt, he'll come to me.

  I hate that I'm even considering interrupting his work. I hate that I'm truly that weak.

  But where my mother is concerned, dammit, I am.

  And if I'm going to get through this--if I'm going to keep my head and my emotions on straight--I need him.

  Dear God, I need him.

  I'm not entirely sure how I get to my car, but the next thing I know I'm on the 101 and I'm headed toward downtown. Honestly, my head's in such a mess, I probably should have called a cab or had Edward pick me up. But I make it downtown without causing a horrific accident, and then take our private elevator all the way from the parking structure up to the penthouse on fifty-seven.

  I get out of the elevator on the office side, then head straight past the reception desk for the closed door to his office. "Is he alone?"

  "He's not here at all," Rachel says. "I'm catching up on paperwork."

  "Not here?" I think back, trying to remember what appointment I'd forgotten. "I thought he was coming back after his lunch."

  "That was the plan, but some sort of crisis came up and he had to go to Santa Barbara. Is there a problem? Do you want me to call him?"

  "I--no." I must look more shaken than I thought if Rachel is offering to call Damien for me. "I just finished work early and thought I'd entice him into the apartment."

  She laughs. "He's going to be sorry he missed out on that."

  "Well, I'm going over there now. When you see him, tell him I'm waiting." I force a light-hearted wink, and she laughs.

  "Will do."

  I make a point of seeming nonchalant as I head back to the elevator. Normally, I'd walk down the corridor that connects the office side to the apartment's rear entrance, but that keeps me in Rachel's sight for longer than I think I can handle. And right now, I'm certain my legs are going to collapse out from under me, and I really don't want her to see that.

  The elevator has doors on both sides, and I know that it's sitting right there, just waiting for me. I want to scream and cry and rant, but I'm pushing all that down, forcing myself to look normal. To act normal. To give absolutely nothing away to Rachel, whose eyes are burning into my back as I press the elevator call button. The office-side door opens, and I step on, then punch in the code to operate the opposite door that enters the apartment.

  It glides soundlessly open, and I step into the familiar foyer, and as soon as the door closes behind me, I quit fighting. A wave of tumultuous emotions crashes over me, and I sink down to the tile with no goal other than trying to control my breathing.

  The only ornament in the foyer is a round marble table topped by a stunning flower arrangement that the office staff replaces weekly. The vase is pottery, and as I climb back onto my feet, I imagine myself ripping at those flowers. Pulling them out and strewing them across the floor, the thorns on the roses scraping my skin and raising a thin line of blood. My arms, lashing out to send the vase crashing to the ground. My knees aching as I kneel on the hard marble floor. As I reach for the shards. As I trace the ragged pottery deeper and deeper along the path the rose cut.

  As I finally--finally--cling to the pain and let it pull me away from thoughts of my mother. From my fears. From all of the anxiety that swirls around inside of me.

  My mother.

  I don't want her in my head. I don't want to see her.

  Most of all, I don't want to lose myself simply
because she's near.

  What I want is Damien. I want him here. I want him next to me. And I hate that I'm unreasonably irritated that he's not here beside me when I need him.

  I swallow, breathing hard, then pull my phone out of my purse.

  I start to dial--and then with one violent sob, I hurl the phone across the room, then watch with pleasure as it smashes against the far wall, bits of glass and plastic scattering everywhere.

  I gasp, choking on a sob.

  I should be stronger than this.

  I am stronger than this.

  But as I crawl to the living room and curl up on the couch, my hand pressed against my abdomen to shield the baby, I know that I'm not.

  And as the tears stream down my face, I can't deny that no matter what Damien says, I'm not really strong at all.

  15

  "Goddammit, Charles, I'm not interested in your best guess. I want some fucking answers. I need to know if she's really--"

  Damien's voice stops, and I stay perfectly still on the sofa, my head still fuzzy from sleep. I realize he must have come in through the rear, and now he's passing the archway that leads into the foyer.

  The foyer where the shards of my phone are still scattered all over the floor.

  "Just get me answers," he says, his voice low and distracted as he ends the call.

  I wait, perfectly still, as he whispers, "Nikki," under his breath. Then his footsteps continue, and I realize he hasn't seen me and is heading for the bedroom.

  A moment later, he's back. I'm still on the sofa, my arms clutching a pillow and my eyes toward the floor. But even without seeing him, I can tell that he's standing behind me. "Oh, baby," he whispers, then reaches over the couch to brush my shoulder. The touch lasts only a moment, but I soak it in like a tonic, and by the time he's come around the couch to sit beside me, I've propped myself up on the pillow and am reaching for his hand.

  "I called you," he says. "I guess now I know why I only got voicemail."

  "What time is it?"

  "Late," he says. "I came back to pick up a few things, and then I was going to head to Malibu. And to you, I thought. What are you doing here, baby?" The question is simple, his voice steady. It doesn't matter. I hear the worry in his tone. And I hear the unspoken question, too--What happened, and are you okay?

  I push myself up, my head full of fuzz. "I came to see you, and Rachel said you'd gone." I rub my eyes, grainy with sleep. My head aches, and I know it's the hangover-like effects of a crying jag. "What was in Santa Barbara?"

  He waves a dismissive hand. "Just work. Just one of a hundred fires that never seem to go away."

  "You didn't text me." Usually, Damien sends me a text whenever he has to head out unexpectedly.

  "Sorry about that. I didn't expect to be gone that long, and I had Charles on the phone for most of the flight there. But I did call. You might not have gotten the message, what with your phone being in a million pieces. Nikki," he says, his tone shifting from light to firm as squeezes my hand. "Are you okay? You didn't--"

  "No." I cut him off firmly, because that answer is absolutely one hundred percent true. "But I wanted to," I admit, because this is Damien. And because he needs to know.

  His body goes tense, and his eyes cloud with worry. "What happened?"

  It takes me a second, but I manage to say, "My mother's here. In LA, I mean. Really, positively here." I wanted the words to come out strong so that it at least sounds like I have a handle on this. Instead, my voice is choked. I sound lost. And the moment I see the mix of anger and loathing and regret on Damien's face, my throat fills with tears, and I sit up so that I can cling to him, letting his body shield me from a reality I really don't want to face.

  "Baby. Oh, baby, are you sure?"

  I nod against his shoulder, damp with my tears. "She called Frank. She wants to see me."

  "Fuck that," he says, his voice so harsh that I actually smile.

  "Yeah," I say. "I guess."

  His brow furrows as he studies my face. "Do you want to see her?"

  "No." My answer is firm and automatic and true. But then my shoulders sag as another truth follows. "But I want to know what she wants."

  "Nothing good, that's for damn sure."

  I draw a breath and sit up straighter because I know he's right. There is no happy reunion scene in the making. No running across a field to hug my mother. No shopping montage. No tender moment where she helps me paint the nursery. I want that, though. Despite everything, I want it.

  And the fact that I will never have it weighs heavily on my heart.

  "Baby--"

  "No." I hold up a hand. "You're right. And I don't want to think about her anymore. I'm done." I plaster on a smile, in the hopes that my actual mood will follow.

  "Why don't we go away after the premiere tomorrow?" he asks.

  "Really? Just run away?"

  He laughs. "Why not? From your mother, from horrible text messages. From everything," he adds firmly.

  I should protest. I should point out that I have to work on the Greystone-Branch project because our little peanut is sapping my energy, and I need all the coherent working hours I can gather. I should mention that I need to keep interviewing, and I should spend part of the weekend culling resumes.

  I should be responsible and just say no.

  But the idea of escaping for a few days sounds too much like heaven. So instead, I nod. "All right," I say. "I'm in. Where should we go?"

  "I was thinking the bungalow," he says, referring to our darling vacation home at The Resort at Cortez. It's a Stark Vacation Property that Jackson designed, and it's amazing. It's also accessible only by boat or helicopter, and just the idea of getting there makes me ill.

  "Veto," I say. "Maybe after morning sickness passes. Not until."

  "Fair enough. The Lake Arrowhead house?"

  I'm tempted, but now that Santa Barbara is on my mind, it's too enticing to ignore. "Why don't we go back to the Pearl?"

  Stark Real Estate owns the Santa Barbara Pearl Hotel, and we'd stayed there recently for Damien's birthday. But that had been a whirlwind trip. "I feel like we only got an appetizer on your birthday," I continue. "Now it's time for the main course."

  "A nice thought," he says. "But let's put that off for a while."

  I lean back to see him better. He hasn't said anything specific, but I know this man too well. His expressions. His tones. His posture.

  "Did something happen there today?"

  "What could have happened?" he asks, which isn't an answer at all.

  "What's going on?" I ask, because now my curiosity is roused. "What was today's trip about?"

  "I told you. Just some business with Charles."

  "And you don't want to go to Santa Barbara because . . .?"

  He stands up. "Dammit, Nikki, why don't you want to go to Lake Arrowhead?"

  "No." I stand up, too, my hands on my hips as I stare him down. I'm not sure if my certainty that he's holding something back is real and rational and based on the fact that I know him so well, or if it's some sort of pregnancy-induced psychosis. All I know is that, in that moment, I am absolutely, one hundred percent convinced that he is keeping something from me.

  "Do not try to turn this around on me," I say, my voice rising. "Tell me what the hell is going on."

  "Nothing," he says in a calmly infuriating way. "There's nothing going on."

  "Bullshit." I slam my hands up against his chest and give him a light shove. "Do you think I'm blind? Deaf? That I can't see your face and hear the tone of your voice. I love you, remember? And I know you think you're protecting me. But dammit, you're not. All you're doing is pissing me off."

  "Nikki . . ." His voice is tight with emotion.

  "You say I'm strong, but then you build these walls to protect me."

  "No--"

  "And you're so busy protecting me that you aren't even here for me." The words burst out, the anger behind them surprising me as much as Damien. "I came back here needing
you, Damien. And you were off chasing some secret bullshit that you won't even tell me about? No--I'm sorry, but no."

  I draw a breath. "We promised each other no secrets--and over and over again you've told me that I'm strong enough to handle all the shit that keeps getting piled on us. Was that all smoke and mirrors?"

  "You know it wasn't."

  "Is it the baby? Do you see me differently now?"

  "Not differently," he says, stepping closer, so that I have to back up to keep some distance. "More."

  He's right in front of me, so close I can feel the energy buzzing off him. "You're the mother of my child, Nikki."

  "And that makes me weak? That gives you the right to keep secrets from me?"

  "No--God, Nikki, no." He starts to run his fingers through his hair, but stops and reaches for me instead, looking more lost than I've ever seen him. I lean toward him, wanting so desperately to fall into his arms. But I know what will happen. I'll lose myself in his touch. I'll drown in his embrace. And I'll forget my fears and my anger and my worries because the bottom line is that I do know that he loves me.

  But I don't want to forget. I don't want to be coddled.

  So I shake my head and lift my chin. I look at him through tear-filled eyes. "You made me a promise once, Damien. No more secrets." I press my hands protectively over my belly. "And no matter what you think, this shouldn't change that."

  I wipe tears away as I rush to the bedroom, expecting him to follow. He doesn't, though, and my insides twist even more, this time with fear. There's a gulf between us right now. A gaping chasm filled with uncertainty and secrets, and it's one that I don't know how to cross. I don't even know where it came from.

  Except I do. And as I press my hand over the baby, my tears start to flow in earnest, because how the hell can we manage as parents if we can't even manage a pregnancy?

  It's a horrible, terrifying thought, and the weight of it pulls me under as I lie there for I don't know how long, listening to Damien pacing in the other room, then his footsteps coming closer and closer.

  He pauses in the doorway. "Nikki?" His voice is soft. "Sweetheart?"

  I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady. I'm tempted to lift my head and roll over so that I can see him, but I'm lost in that space between sleep and wakefulness. And the truth is that I don't want to emerge from it. Not yet. Not even for Damien. And so I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady.