Anchor Me

by J. Kenner

  "Oh. I had no idea."

  "She, well, she went missing seven years ago in Mexico. He's been holding out hope, but it's been rough."

  "I imagine," I say, my heart aching for him. I can't even fathom surviving if I lost Damien.

  "It's one of the reasons he's been talking with your husband," Dallas says. "I'll be sorry to lose him, but I'm glad he's coming down here." As he speaks, he puts his arm around Jane's waist and pulls her close. "He's . . . well, he's broken right now. And he's a good friend. If this move is what it takes to help him heal, then I'm all for it."

  Noah and Damien come back, and this time when I look at Noah, I can glimpse the sadness in his eyes. He's an exceptionally good-looking man, with rich, auburn hair and the kind of athletic build that demands attention. So it's easy to overlook the loss that clings to him. But it's there, and it breaks my heart a little.

  The men drift away as Jane and I continue to chat, talking about her movie and the party and all the incredible dresses we're seeing here tonight.

  "Are you hot?" I ask, picking up a program and fanning myself. "I'm dying. Want to walk over to the bar for a drink?"

  She peers at me, then down at my ankles. "Assuming you mean water when you say drink, I'm all for it. Mostly, I think we should find you a chair. You do look a little pale."

  We move to the bar area and snag one of the cocktail tables. Jane heads off to get wine for her and water for me, and while she's gone, Steve and Anderson plunk down in two of the chairs opposite me. "You guys," I say, giddily. "I haven't seen you in ages. I'd hug you, but there is no way in hell I'm standing up again right now."

  "I hear congratulations are in order," Steve says. He's a working screenwriter who never had a movie produced until they hired him to do some rewrites on The Price of Ransom. Now, he and Jane share credit for the screen adaptation of her book.

  "They are. Just a few months and I'll be a parent, too. How's Lily?"

  "Amazing," Anderson says, pulling out his wallet and opening it to show off the picture of the smiling little girl with dark curls they adopted almost two years ago.

  "We're thinking she needs a sister," Steve says.

  "We weren't," Anderson clarifies. "But my sister and brother-in-law just got back from China with their son, Matthew. He's precious. I'd bore you with a picture, but my phone ran out of charge. Anyway, Matthew is the reason Lily may not stay an only child."

  "Lily was privately adopted," Steve says. "But we'd adopt from China in a heartbeat if they'd let us. It's a ridiculous system."

  Anderson pats his hand. "Give it up, sweetie. There are a lot of kids who need homes." He returns his attention to me. "We can't adopt from China," he explains. He leans forward as if to convey a secret. "We share the love that dare not speak its name."

  Steve rolls his eyes. "In other words, China doesn't like that Lily has two daddies."

  "I'm so sorry," I say. "But Anderson's right. There are a lot of other kids who need you."

  Steve waves it away. "Didn't mean to get morose or political on you. Especially when you're on the nest. When are you due?"

  "I'm not exactly sure. My first official appointment is Monday. But the doctor in Texas thinks I'm about ten weeks along."

  "And are you hoping for a boy or a girl?"

  "Either. But I think it's a girl."

  "Well, I have to give a personal thumbs up to little girls," Anderson says. "But don't be disappointed if you're wrong."

  I laugh. "A miniature Damien Stark? How could I be?"

  "A mini-me?" Damien asks, coming up to join us. "Hi, Steve. Anderson. Do you mind if I steal our girl? Jamie wants to do the interview before Lyle and I talk to the crowd."

  "Sure," I say. "Keep me posted," I add to the guys. I'm about to relay our conversation to Damien as we walk away when he tugs me into the shadows. I'm expecting a quick kiss before we go see Jamie. Instead, he says, "I talked with Bruce."

  "My old boss? Giselle's ex-husband?"

  "One and the same."

  I frown. "How does he feel about Giselle being here?" I haven't actually seen her tonight, but since she donated the Glencarrie, I'm sure she's around. "And did you tell him about the texts and the email? What does he think of her state of mind lately? Could she be sending them? Even though she's got money now? She's bound to still be pissed at you and me." My words come spilling out, but it won't make me sad to learn that Giselle's the one harassing me. I'll just be glad to have answers.

  "I did tell him," Damien says. "Considering he went through a lot of the earlier shit with you, I didn't think you'd mind." Damien's right. When I'd worked for Bruce, the paparazzi had basically stormed his office to get at me, all because his asshole employee, Tanner Gates, wanted to make a little easy money by leaking my location--and in the process, punish me for doing my job better than him. Then later, Bruce learned that his estranged wife Giselle had done essentially the same thing, selling Damien and me out to the press in order to make a buck.

  So, no. I don't mind Bruce knowing about the harassment. "Well?" I press.

  "He doesn't think it's Giselle. He confirmed my thoughts, actually. She's happily married now with the bank account to prove it, so any lingering jealousy of your windfall from marrying me has disappeared."

  I see the amusement dancing in his eyes. "What are you laughing at? It really was a hell of a windfall." I ease closer and kiss him lightly, my palm against his chest. "Only I'm not talking about your money."

  He kisses the tip of my nose. "Bruce did have one interesting theory, though."

  I lean back, intrigued by the serious tone of his voice. "What? About the messages, you mean?"

  "Apparently, Tanner was in the running for the Greystone-Branch project. Or at least the company he now works for submitted a proposal."

  I stumble under the force of that revelation. Every message has sounded like a disgruntled competitor.

  "I intend to have a little talk with the bastard," he says, and I grab his arm, shaking my head.

  "Don't do anything rash," I say. "It's not like he's the only one it could be. Please," I add when he gives me a look that very clearly suggests he is not convinced. "Promise me you won't fly off the handle."

  His nod is curt but firm, and I'm just about to pull him into another hug, when Jamie rushes up to us.

  "Hello? What, did you get lost? Come on. We're going to do this outside so we can have the theater in the background. And so we can get a few shots of the crowd. Are you okay?" she adds, peering at me. "Your makeup's about to slough off."

  "I'm warm," I say. "Blame the hormones."

  "My producer has some powder. We'll get you camera ready."

  Damien casts a worried eye my way, but says nothing as we hurry outside. Someone shouts for Damien, then for me. The voices rise to a chorus of indistinct sounds, and my head fills with a high-pitched whine as the producer comes over to dab powder on my face.

  Then one voice stands out. A familiar one calling out, "Nichole Louise!"

  Mother?

  I whip around, my blood going cold, but with the camera flashes, I can't see faces.

  I turn back, then reach out to grab Damien's wrist. "Did you hear?" I ask.

  "What?"

  "I--" I pause, the world starting to shift beneath my feet. "Sorry. Light-headed."

  "We should find you some food. Here, hold onto me."

  "We can wait a few minutes," Jamie says. "It's okay. We'll just--Nikki."

  I look up at her, my stomach cramping violently.

  "Oh, God, Nikki. Your dress."

  I look down--and see that my white dress is stained with blood.

  "Roll camera!" the producer yells.

  "Don't you fucking dare," Jamie retorts. And as she shoves the lens away, Damien scoops me up and sprints for the theater door, all the while yelling for the usher to call an ambulance.

  And throughout it all, the only thing I seem to be able to do is cry.

  19

  A miscarriage.

&
nbsp; Dr. Tyler's words echo through my head, and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to drown them out: "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Stark. You've had a miscarriage."

  A miscarriage.

  They've given me something, and my head feels fuzzy, my body heavy. My arm is cold where the IV liquid is dripping in, and the hand that Damien clings to is numb.

  "Is it true?" I whisper to him. "We've really lost the baby?"

  He closes his eyes, his expression like cracked glass. "It's true," he says as tears trail down my face. "Sweetheart, I'm so, so sorry." He starts to reach for me, but there is a rail on the bed and tubes and rolling contraptions. After a moment, he sits in the chair again, his sigh joining the hum and rattle of the machinery.

  "Why don't I remember getting into bed? I remember the ambulance, but nothing after we got to the hospital."

  The last thing I recall with any clarity is Jamie pointing out the blood on my dress and Damien calling for an ambulance. I know I didn't pass out--I can remember the paramedics, the shrill of the siren, Damien's voice as he called the emergency number for the obstetrician I was supposed to see this coming Monday. But everything I remember is filtered through a drugged, gray haze. And though I recall arriving in the ER, nothing after they started the IV is clear.

  "Damien?" I press. "What did they do to me?"

  He rubs the fingers of his free hand against his temple, and when he speaks, the words come slowly, and I know that he's fighting for control. "Dr. Tyler got here right after we did. He took care of you, sweetheart, but he had to--he had to make sure you were okay, and they put you under for the procedure."

  "Oh." I swallow. "There's something else wrong, isn't there?"

  "Sweetheart, no." He stands, then lets go of me long enough to fiddle with the rail of the bed again, trying to lower it. It refuses to cooperate, and he curses and sits farther down, beside my legs, his hand resting on my thigh.

  "Miscarriages happen all the time, Damien, especially in the first trimester." I have no personal knowledge of this, but I've read enough that I'm pretty confident. "They don't admit you for a miscarriage."

  "They do when you donate as much to this hospital as I do." His hand tightens on my thigh. "There's nothing else wrong." But he says it in his boardroom voice, as if he expects to will it and make it so.

  And while Damien is certainly powerful, even I don't think his control reaches that far.

  The door opens, and Dr. Tyler steps in. He's the obstetrician that Dr. Cray in Texas contacted for us. I hadn't met him before today, and my memory of him from earlier is choppy. But he has kind hands and a warm manner, and his smile is full of comfort.

  "What else is wrong with me?" I demand while he palpates my abdomen.

  "Nikki--" I hear the censure in Damien's voice, but I know I'm right, and my fear is confirmed when Dr. Tyler nods slowly.

  "I'm sorry," he says. He turns to Damien. "I'm afraid your wife is correct. You have a bicornuate uterus," he says, looking at me. "It's a type of Mullerian defect," he continues, although at this point all I'm hearing is that I'm broken. When I hear him say, ". . . of course, the prognosis isn't entirely negative," I tune back in.

  "I'm sorry, what?"

  "I know this is a lot to take in," he says gently. "But even though most women with this condition miscarry with a statistically high frequency, it's still possible to carry a child to term. And if you do make it past the first trimester, the risk of miscarriage decreases significantly."

  "You're saying if I get pregnant again, the odds are that I'll lose the baby before the third month. Over and over and over again."

  My voice cracks as I speak, and I see sharp lines of pain cut across Damien's face.

  "That doesn't sound like a good prognosis at all," I whisper.

  He inclines his head, acknowledging my words. "I know, Mrs. Stark. I'm truly very sorry. You can--"

  But I don't want to hear anymore. So I just roll over, shut my eyes, and let the pull of my own pain drag me back down into sleep.

  I sleep in the hospital until Saturday morning, then doze in Damien's arms at home with our cat, Sunshine, curled up beside me, her low purr filling my mind so that I don't have to dream.

  Throughout the day I drift, getting out of bed only to go to the bathroom. I stand at the sink, staring at my eyes that seem sunken. My skin like paper. Damien's razor sits in a cup on the counter, and I think how easy it would be to just twist the handle and open the compartment that the blade fits in. To take the blade out and run the honed edge gently over my skin. Just a shallow cut. Just enough to make a few beads of blood rise.

  Just enough so that I know that I'm alive.

  But I don't.

  Because right now even that seems like too much effort, and I move like a sleepwalker through the darkened room and back to bed.

  We rarely close the blackout drapes, preferring to keep the door open to the balcony that looks out over the ocean. But today they are closed, rendering the room so dark I can barely see my hand.

  Today?

  Maybe it's tonight. I don't know. All I know is that I want to get sucked under again. I want Damien's arms around me, and I want to drift away, falling far into a place where the pain and the loss can't reach me.

  And so I slide back into bed and mold my body to his. His arm drapes across my waist, and I hear him murmur my name. I don't answer, and as soon as I close my eyes, sleep grabs me once again.

  I don't know how long I sleep, but I wake to the vague sound of movement in the house. A moment later there is a light tap at the door and beside me, Damien stirs, then lifts his head. "Come in."

  The door opens slowly, sending a triangle of light cutting across the room. Gregory, Damien's longtime valet and overall house manager, steps inside. "I'm very sorry to disturb," he says, his voice low, "but Mrs. Stark's mother is here."

  I sit up, pulling the sheet up to my neck like a shield as Damien holds me tightly. "No," I say. "I--I'm sorry. Can you tell her I'm not available?"

  He nods solemnly. "Of course."

  He leaves, and the room returns to black.

  "We don't have to see her," Damien says, stroking my shoulder. "But we should get up, sweetheart."

  "I know. But I can't." I close my eyes against the darkness in the room, and slide down into the darkness inside me. "Not yet."

  He says nothing, but a moment later I feel his lips brush my temple as his arm slides over my waist to pull me closer. And I lose myself in the safety of his embrace and hide from reality for just a little bit longer.

  20

  A day passes. Then another and another.

  I sleep, and I sleep, and I sleep some more. And each time I wake, Damien is there. Holding me. Watching over me.

  I slide in and out of dreams, finding comfort in his presence. In the cool sheet against my hot skin. In the darkness that permeates the room, revealing nothing of the outside world, and hiding even time herself under a fake, permanent night.

  But then my safe cocoon disappears, and I open my eyes to find a room bathed in light. A brisk ocean breeze is blowing in through the open patio door, Sunshine is bathing herself at the foot of the bed, and Damien is nowhere to be seen.

  I have no idea what time it is--or what day it is, for that matter. My eyes ache from the unfamiliar light, and my head throbs in protest of a returning consciousness that is not entirely welcome.

  Still, as much as I'd like to stay hidden, I know that it's time to ease back into reality. To sit up. To put my feet on the floor. And then, finally, to walk out of this room.

  I can do this, I think, and then I push myself upright. I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hand to my belly, then choke back a little sob because there is no child growing there anymore. And that's so sad and horrible, but what makes it worse is the knowledge that there probably never will be. That I'll never have Damien's children. That the life I'd started to see spreading out before me has been shut down so brutally.

  But it's time to leave this bed. I d
on't have to shed the sadness, but I need to start moving through the world.

  I stand, feeling creaky after spending so many hours asleep, then head into the bathroom wearing the loose sweatpants and tank top in which Damien must have dressed me. I splash water on my face and generally try to come alive, and when I emerge, I notice my phone sitting on the table near the bedroom door.

  I pause in the doorway as I scroll through my text messages--condolences from pretty much everyone I've met in my life, either in a text or sent by voice mail. I know I should reply, and I will. Soon.

  Just not quite yet.

  My stomach growls and I try to remember when I last ate. I have a vague memory of Damien bringing me soup, but I don't know how long ago that was.

  I put my phone back on the table, then head out of the bedroom and toward the kitchen, thinking that if I have an appetite that must be a sign that I'm healing.

  I expect to see Damien in the third-floor sitting area, but it's empty. Well, not empty. In fact, every flat surface is covered with flowers and plants and unopened boxes. I blink, staving off tears as the reason for these gifts stabs me straight in the heart. But I look at the cards as I pass. A pot of daisies from Jamie and Ryan. A beautiful climbing vine from Sylvia and Jackson. A spray of wildflowers from Evelyn. And a small bonsai garden on the pass-through bar that opens between the sitting area and the third-floor kitchen.

  There is an unopened card with it, and I slide my finger under the flap, then pull out the thick cardstock. It's from Damien's father, Jeremiah, and there are only two words--I'm sorry. But whether he means about the miscarriage or all the trouble he's caused for Damien and our marriage, I don't know. Still, I appreciate the sentiment.

  I head into the kitchen, and as I walk that direction, I hear Damien's voice drifting up from the mezzanine below. He's on the phone as if it were just another day. But, of course, it is another day, and I'm the one who is stuck. Who wants to just pull the blinds and go back to sleep and run away from it all.

  Coffee, I think. And with a pang I remember that I can actually drink it now. Gallons and gallons if I want.

  There's a pot already brewed, and I pour myself a cup, then take a long, bitter swallow.

  I put the cup down and open the drawer beneath the coffeemaker. It's filled with kitchen knives, the ones with mismatched handles that aren't pretty enough for the knife block that rests on the small island. I stand there, just looking down at those blades, and though I know I shouldn't think it--though I definitely shouldn't want it--I know that they will help.