Anchor Me

by J. Kenner

  I've just decided to make a break for our bedroom to quickly primp, when they step into view. I freeze in the middle of the kitchen, confused. Because Damien is standing with Noah Carter.

  "Hi," I say, looking between the two men and wondering why Damien didn't tell me we were having company. "Did you guys have a meeting planned?"

  "You said you needed more time," Damien says. He gestures to Noah. "I brought you the next best thing."

  I stare at him, then at Noah. Then back to Damien. "All right, I'll bite. What are you talking about?"

  "I have a month before my contract starts with Stark Applied Technology," Noah says as if that explains everything.

  It doesn't.

  I look to Damien, then hold out my hands in an expression that says I got nothing.

  "Hire him," Damien says. "I promise you won't regret it. You have coding to blow through? The man's a genius."

  "Hire him," I repeat as I let Damien's suggestion sink in. Then I smile, first at Noah, then at my husband. "You really are amazing."

  Damien grins. "So they say."

  "All right," I say to Noah. "You're hired."

  "Excellent." He cocks his head. "You do have major medical and a decent severance package, right?"

  I roll my eyes and point to the kitchen table. "Your workstation. Come on, I'll show you what I'm doing, and we can set up a file-sharing protocol."

  He nods and follows me. Damien lingers, leaning against the refrigerator. "Don't look so smug," I say. And then I mouth, thank you.

  He actually does look a little smug when he leaves, but I realize I'm smiling, and since that feels pretty good, I decide to give it a pass.

  Noah's as sharp as advertised, and having him around gives me a little time to breathe. Over the next few days we hit the deliverables, outline the next phase, and I even have some time to poke around on the Internet, exploring a few ideas that have been bubbling in the back of my mind.

  And for the first time in a long time, I genuinely feel good.

  I pause for a moment, just to let the pleasant emotion linger. It's been far too rare lately, and although it's wonderful to feel my heart lighten, there's a little bit of guilt there, too. Like I shouldn't be ready to laugh again yet.

  I push the guilt aside, though. I don't need it. Not yet. Not when the sorrow still comes in waves.

  The intercom buzzes, and I leave my seat across from Noah to go and check in with the guard. "Hey, Jimmy. Do we have a delivery?"

  "A guest, Mrs. Stark. She says she's your mother?"

  He says it as a question--one I don't particularly want to answer.

  "Oh. Well, okay. You can send her down."

  Damien's in the gym, but I call him over the intercom, and by the time I transfer a couple of files to Noah and head downstairs, he's waiting for me in the entryway in gray sweats and a UCLA T-shirt.

  "I can send her away," he says. "You don't even have to see her."

  I shake my head. She'd been on my mind before, but since the miscarriage, I've been thinking more and more about family and parenting and mothers and daughters. "No," I say. "No matter what else she is, she's my mother. She's family."

  "She hurt you."

  I nod because there's no denying that truth. "I know. But Sofia hurt you. She hurt both of us." I lift my head to look at Damien. "She's family, too, right? Isn't that what you said?"

  I can see on his face that he wants to argue--and honestly, I know the arguments he'll make because I can make them, too. That Elizabeth Fairchild was never a real mother to me. That I was a pretty dress-up doll to her, never a little girl. And that, once I became inconvenient, she had no use for me. At least not until I married Damien. Only then did I become interesting--and even then, only until she realized she wouldn't be getting any of Damien's money.

  I know all that--I do. And yet there's still a hole in my heart that is the shape of a mother's love. And though I know that my sister fell through that hole and never managed to crawl out again, I can't escape its dogged temptation.

  "Sweetheart," he says, but in a voice that makes it clear he knows I've already decided. "You're going to get hurt."

  "Maybe," I admit. "But you'll be here if I do."

  When the doorbell rings, I jump, then hurry to let her in, pausing only for one deep breath before I open the door wide.

  "Mother." I hesitate, then step to the side. "Come in."

  "Elizabeth," Damien says. "What brings you here all of a sudden?"

  She flashes her most charming smile at him. "You look as dashing as ever, even in such unappealing attire. And, of course, I came because of the tragedy."

  She turns to me. "I saw you at the premiere," she says, sweeping inside then standing still as she tilts her head from side to side, taking in the whole, huge room. "I was one of the plebeians in the crowd. I called out to you--did you hear?"

  "I heard you, Mother. I was a little preoccupied, what with losing my baby and all."

  She makes a tsk-tsk noise. And though she says nothing else, I get the distinct impression that she's criticizing me for making such a spectacle of myself.

  I hold tight to Damien's hand, grateful when he says nothing, but simply squeezes back.

  My mother sighs heavily as she crosses to the sofa and takes a seat. "I wanted to come see you at the hospital, but I didn't know how long you'd be there."

  "It's fine," I say. "I wasn't in the mood for company."

  "You mean you didn't want to see me. No, don't argue," she says, though I've made no move to contradict her. "You probably still don't, but there are times when a girl simply needs her mother."

  I press my lips together and nod, and all the ways I've healed over the last few days seem to slip away from me as tears fill my eyes. Because she's right. I wouldn't trade Damien and my friends and all of their support for anything, but I can't deny that I would have liked a mother's arms around me through all of this.

  I'm not so foolish, though, to think that the mother in my imagination is Elizabeth Fairchild. But even so, there's a tiny little bud of hope growing inside me, and I don't know whether to nurture it or crush it under my heel before it once again grows thorns.

  "You sold your house," Damien says, presumably to fill the silence that is starting to grow. "Have you moved to LA?"

  "I have," she says, then offers me a picture-perfect smile again. "I've been here for a while."

  "Where are you living?" he presses.

  Mother looks annoyed, but she smiles prettily. "I haven't settled yet. Right now, I'm in a small rental in a darling section of the Valley."

  He nods as if she's said something fascinating.

  I assume he's just trying to be polite. I'm much bolder. "You've been watching me," I accuse.

  Her fingers twist in her lap. "Yes, well, you must admit that our last time together didn't end well. I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me. But I very much wanted to see my little girl. I wasn't certain you'd noticed me. I hope I didn't disturb you?"

  "No," I lie, fighting a frown, because she might be telling the truth. I sent her back to Texas before our wedding, making it perfectly clear that she had no business meddling in my life. "Not in the least."

  Mother clasps her hands in her lap. "Yes, well, despite everything, I had to come. I'm of an age now, you see. And one thinks about such things." She looks at Damien, and her voice trembles as she speaks. "I want very much to repair my relationship with my daughter."

  She looks down, and in the brief moment that I can see her eyes, I think I see tears.

  My stomach clenches, and I think of Sofia, who I believe, and my mother, who I want to believe, but I can't quite make the leap.

  "I don't want to disturb you," she says. "I know how much your work means to both of you, and it's the middle of the day. I just wanted to say that I'm here. And I wanted to give you this." She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small box, then hands it to me.

  I open it and find a familiar gold necklace with an engraved charm han
ging on it. A heart with the initials NLF.

  "You're still my little girl," she says.

  "I remember this," I say. "I thought it was lost."

  "It's been in my jewelry box for years," she says lightly, as if I should have thought to look there when I was nine and had believed the gift from my sister had gone missing. "You refused to take it off even for school. We couldn't let it get lost, could we?"

  I feel a slow burn begin inside me, and I clench my fist tightly, letting my fingernails dig into my skin. I'd been frantic about that necklace, which I'd believed really had been lost. I feel wrong and unbalanced, and I know that without Damien beside me to hold my hand and keep me centered, the first thing I'd do after my mother left, would be to find a blade and cut until this horrible feeling flows out of me.

  I stand quickly, scared by the direction of my thoughts. "I--I should get back to work."

  My mother's brows rise, the silent equivalent of an order.

  "Thank you for the necklace," I say dully.

  "Walk me to the door, sweetie," she says, then looks at Damien. "You don't mind, do you?"

  It's clear that he does, but I just nod, signaling that it's okay, then fall in step beside my mother.

  "You must know that things happen for a reason," she says as we pause in the open doorway. "Babies take so much time, and we both know how selfish you can be about the things you want to do."

  I just stare at her.

  "Now, Nichole, you know I'm right. You mangled your own body simply because you wanted to inconvenience me."

  I stand frozen--stunned by her words. Inconvenience her? I was drowning in the pageant life. Forced to be her wind-up toy, her performing monkey. I'd begged to stop, begged to cut down to only one pageant each year. Begged for any kind of relief she'd allow me, but she'd denied me everything.

  I'd already started cutting by then--it was the only way to hold onto my sanity. To keep myself anchored to the ground and not flying off into some horrible, melancholy nightmare. But I'd been careful, never using a blade where it might be revealed in an evening gown or a swimsuit. Because I knew what the fallout would be if my mother learned of my weakness.

  Finally, though, I'd had enough. And when I knew that I simply couldn't take it any more, I'd taken a blade to flesh that would be exposed. My hips. My thighs. The worst is on my inner thigh--a still-angry scar from when I cut too deep and, frantic, had rendered my own First Aid with superglue, duct tape, and an Ace bandage.

  That was the end of my pageant career. And, as far as my mother was concerned, a huge affront to her reputation and social standing.

  "But, of course, you're very successful," she continues calmly, as if she's not tossing words out like grenades. "Your business. Your rich husband." She leans in to kiss my cheek, and though I cringe back, I'm stopped by the doorframe. "Just remember what happened to Icarus when he flew too close to the sun. Maybe losing this baby was your way of crashing back down to Earth."

  I want to lash out--to tell her she's a fool and wrong and a terrible excuse for a mother.

  But I can't find the words. All I can think of is how much I craved the blade over the last few days. How much I wanted the release it would bring. How much I needed it to get me back to center.

  And so I just stay quiet. Because if she's telling me I have no business being a mother, then she just may be right.

  24

  Damien rests his hands on my shoulders as the door closes behind my mother. Slowly he begins to knead my muscles, and I sigh, wishing he could squeeze out every bad feeling she's left inside me.

  "Do you want to tell me about it?" he asks.

  I close my eyes, from both the ecstasy of his touch and the agony of her parting words. "Yes. No. Later." I draw a breath. "It's just my mother. Just the usual."

  He stops massaging. "Are you sure?"

  I keep my back to him, because if I turn around, he'll see fresh pain in my eyes, and we've both suffered too much already. "I just want to get back to work," I say truthfully. "I don't want to think about her another minute."

  He turns me in his arms, his eyes searching my face. I'm not sure he's convinced, but he knows me well enough to not push. At least, not yet.

  Since work really is the best remedy for my mother, I go back upstairs to where Noah is still deep in the thick of it. I check in with him, then dive back into coding, losing myself in the architecture of the project and letting the rest of the world simply fade away.

  There's so much to do that it's easy to fall into a rhythm and let work rise to the top, acting as a balm against the lingering pain.

  We work steadily for the rest of the week, and by the time Friday rolls around, I'm confident this thing is going to come in on time. For that matter, everything is looking better. Life has slid back into a rhythm. Damien's started going to the office again instead of working from home, I've had four excellent phone interviews with potential new hires, and Noah and I are moving through tasks in the Greystone-Branch project outline with a pace that exceeds my expectations.

  We've just competed another milestone, in fact, when Noah rises to stretch. I stand, too. "You know what?" I say. "Let's knock off early."

  He leans to the side, his head cocked and his brow furrowed as he looks me up and down. "You look like Nikki Stark . . ."

  "Ha, ha." I grab my coffee cup and head over to the coffeemaker to refill it. "We're on track and doing great. So let's take a step back and enjoy it. Take the afternoon off. Then over the weekend Damien and I can move this mess to my office," I say, indicating the spray of papers and stacks of file folders. "We can finish out the month there, and before I send you off to work at Stark Tower, I'll get you to help me prep for my first progress presentation in Dallas. Sound good?"

  "Sounds great. And I'm happy to have an afternoon and weekend."

  "You should do something fun. Go to the beach. Learn to surf. Or I could find someone to show you around. Who knows where it might lead."

  I hope he takes me up on it. The more I get to know him, the more I like Noah. He's sharp and funny and focused. But he's also quiet and haunted.

  "Thanks for the offer," he says. "But I promise I know how to fill a weekend."

  I bite back a frown, because I really don't believe that. Still, I remember what Jane told me about his missing wife who has only recently being declared dead. Even if Noah had been on the verge of moving on, I can see that change in the status quo stopping him in his tracks.

  But I like him well enough that I wish I could help.

  "Are you sure you want to wrap for the day?" he asks as he packs up his stuff, pausing to reach down and scratch Sunshine on her head. "I can stay. We can blow through another chunk."

  "No," I say firmly. "Break time."

  I happen to know that Damien has a light schedule today. And now that the world is starting to look brighter around the edges, I intend to take a different kind of break from work.

  "Fair enough." Noah takes off his glasses and tosses them onto the table, making me think of a superhero shedding his mortal persona. And when he flashes a charming smile, it only cements my belief that it's a shame he's not interested in dating. Because I can think of a dozen girls at Stark International who would fall for him in a heartbeat.

  He grabs his laptop bag and heads for the stairs, all the while running through a list of things we need to be sure to tackle on Monday.

  "Go," I say laughing. "And try to spend at least five minutes this weekend doing something other than thinking about computer code or engineering or whatever new gizmo you're inventing in that mind of yours."

  "Yes, boss," he says, and I roll my eyes, biting back a grin.

  As soon as he's gone, I sit at the table again, then reach for my phone. Sunshine trots over and leaps up onto my lap, and I rub behind her ears, getting her little motor going, then call Damien.

  He answers on the first ring. "What can I do for you, Ms. Fairchild?"

  "I sent Noah home," I say, in the tone of a
n invitation.

  "Did you?" I hear the rising heat in his voice and feel my own body tightening with need. "That's very interesting information."

  "From what I hear, you're an expert at taking information and turning it to your advantage." I lift Sunshine and deposit her on the floor so that I can stand. I'm anxious to move, my mood brightening simply from this heated flirtation with my husband.

  "It's a reputation that's well-earned. I may have to prove it to you."

  "How fast can you get here?"

  "Time me," he says, and I can't help but laugh.

  "The clock is ticking, Mr. Stark."

  "Soon, Ms. Fairchild." And then he's gone, and I'm left grinning like a crazy person in my kitchen, because it feels like we're really healing. That we're shifting back to us again.

  I hum as I open up a bottle of wine, then pour myself a glass. I've just taken a sip when the doorbell rings, and I frown because that makes no sense. Since Gregory is at the market, I start down the stairs. I'm just about to call the gate to ask how someone got all the way to the door when a text from Jimmy comes in telling me that there was a delivery and he authorized them to leave it on the porch.

  Curious, I pick up my pace. I'm actually wondering if Damien arranged a surprise as I open the door--and then I freeze when I see the thick, flat box and the words stamped on the side: Baby Crib, White, Zoo Animal Design.

  An unexpected punch of grief hits me with the force of an attacker. My body goes limp, my wine glass slips from my hand, and I stumble backward, my hand going over my mouth as tears stream down my face.

  No.

  The word slams through me so damn hard that I feel bruised inside. And that's all I can think. Just--no. There's nothing else. Just gray. Just loss.

  Just my feet pounding up the stairs and my body moving through the house, and my knees aching as I fall hard on the floor of my closet, because I want to get away. I want to hide.

  Everything was getting better. I'd believed I was getting better. But I'm not.

  Dear God, I'm not.

  One symbol, one memory, and everything's fallen apart. And the world is rushing in around me, proving that all the healing we've done just was camouflage. I'd believed that my return to work was proof that I was getting better. But it was just a mask. A salve for the pain. And now that the bandage has been so brutally ripped away, I'm not sure that I can stand it.