by Julia Kent
“I can’t believe you did this! It’s amazing!”
“I dialed the number on the menu,” he laughs. “I didn’t cook it myself. Any ten-year-old could produce the same meal, if they can pronounce ‘tom yam goong.’”
“Ten-year-olds can’t pop a Champagne cork, though,” I say, accepting a glass, “and Holly is not allowed to light candles until she is twenty. At least.”
“All three of my children could open a Champagne bottle properly by age eight. No big pops. Just a tiny puff of air. We just have to teach her to point the cork away from her face.”
That “we” hangs there in the air for a moment.
“Let’s eat,” I suggest. I kneel on the floor and pull open the paper bags. Inside are six appetizers and four main course dishes in plastic containers.
“Are we expecting other people?” I ask, confused.
“I wanted to be sure there was something you liked.”
I look in his eyes, and a smile spreads across my face.
“There’s definitely something I like.”
And the food is good, too.
Eventually I lay down my chopsticks, unable to take another bite. Nick stands and picks up our plates.
“No, no!” I protest, unfolding my legs and trying to get up from the floor. “I’ll clear. You’ve done everything so far!”
“Sorry,” he says. “House rule is that mothers of children under three months do not wait on adults. I’ll be right back.”
“But it’s my house!”
“But it’s my rule,” he smiles.
“Wish you had explained that rule to Charlotte,” is all I can say. But I settle back down and enjoy the luxury of being taken care of, just for one night. I am stuffed. Content. As Nick leaves the room, I let myself fall backwards on the carpet, the food and wine and warmth all washing over me.
* * *
Nick is seated on my sofa, reading on his iPad. I’m looking up at him from an odd angle. Why?
He notices me. “Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” I answer, sitting up stiffly. “Oh no—I fell asleep? I am so sorry!”
“Nothing to be sorry about. You’re exhausted. Come up here.” He touches the sofa next to him, shifting to wrap his arms around me as I sit. He rests his chin on top of my head.
“Soon she’ll sleep through the night. And then she’ll be a teenager, and she’ll sleep till one in the afternoon, and you’ll be trying to wake her up all the time. Every stage has its challenges. As soon as you figure one stage out, they pass through it, and you have to figure out the next one.”
“And you did it alone too. With three of them.”
“Yes, and only two hands.” He chuckles.
“What was the hardest part?”
“Oh, without a doubt, the times when there was supposed to be a mother on the scene. You know, school events, proms, awards. Milestone things. My parents would come sometimes, but it wasn’t the same.”
“Your parents?” I realize I don’t know much about Nick, but I did date his brother.
“My dad died a few years ago,” he explains.
“Oh!” A memory of Charlie’s parents flickers through me. Norm was a tall, lean guy with big hands who spent a lot of time doing woodwork in their garage. Their mother, Celia, was a tough-as-nails kindergarten teacher. “I’m so sorry. What about your mom?”
“Retired. Lives in Florida now.”
“Sounds like they really helped you when the kids were little.”
He shrugs.
I turn and look at him, heartbreak on my face.
“Will it be like that for Holly? Will she miss having a dad terribly?”
The contemplative way that he takes his time before answering is endearing, and it makes me listen carefully. “To be honest, I think it was a lot harder on me than on the kids. For them, it was kind of normal. But as a parent, you just can’t stand for anyone to hurt your child. And I had a lot of anger towards Simone that I had to keep hidden.”
A quiet moment passes, as I think about what he’s told me. This exceptional man.
“I think it’s going to be a little easier for you and Holly. I think there’s more of an understanding now that families look different in many ways, but it’s only the love that matters.”
He picks something up from the floor beside him.
“You started to open this earlier, but you didn’t finish. It’s for Holly.”
He looks so excited, like it’s a gift for him. I separate the tissue paper in the bag and find a flat gift. I pull off the wrapping paper and see that it’s a children’s book with a bright cover featuring an illustration of a little girl and a big dog. The little girl is holding her nose.
“Walter, the Farting Dog,” I read aloud.
I look at Nick.
I am speechless.
“I know I said ‘no princesses,’” I begin, “but...”
He’s shaking with laughter.
“Best. Children’s. Book. Ever.” he manages. “This book got me through story time for years. I can’t wait to read it again.”
“But...” I begin.
“Listen to this!” he interrupts me. “Backstory—”
“Backstory? A children’s book with backstory?”
“Yes! That’s why this is the greatest children’s book known to man. Poor Walter got depressed and ate a twenty-five pound bag of low-fart dog biscuits.”
I’m trying to follow this. I really am.
“Low-fart dog biscuits?” I ask, eyebrows hitting the moon. Note to self: time to get threaded.
“And poor Walter tries to hold in his gas, but then burglars arrive. So he lets it go.” Nick picks up the book and points to the page, trying to read. The man is shaking so hard from laughing that he can’t speak.
“Ah,” I say. I am really trying to understand.
“Look at this picture!” He points to an illustration of a dog actually farting on a veterinarian, who is peering into the dog’s, uh… backside. Tears are now running down Nick’s cheeks.
I suddenly understand what he meant earlier, when he said he could be gross.
I take the book from him and leaf through the first few pages. Where I see this introduction: “For everyone who is misjudged or misunderstood.”
He’s right. This is a book we need on our shelves.
And did he say, “I can’t wait to read it again”?
“Thank you,” I say sincerely. I put the book on the cocktail table. “Thank you,” I whisper, and kiss him.
He’s not laughing now. He’s kissing me back, the kind of kiss that wants more, wants everything.
He’s not laughing as I slide to my knees in front of him.
He’s not laughing as I unbuckle his belt. Unzip his pants. Gently free him, and just in time. He’s rock hard.
“Chloe,” he gasps, as I circle him with my tongue, teasing for a moment. I inhale his intimate scent.
My lips are around him now, moving and sucking, enjoying the connection and the power. Then he begins to move too, fingers threading in my hair, his hands guiding me to his perfect rhythm until I hear him moan and he bursts into my mouth, masculine and delicious.
This is as close as I can get to experiencing what he feels, and I love it.
I love that he loves it.
“That was worth waiting for,” I say, and I smile to myself.
“Incredible,” he’s saying, his breathing ragged, “unbelievable.”
“Come to bed,” I tell him. “You can read Walter at three a.m.”
He gives me a sad smile. “An hour ago, I’d have had to decline, because I had plans with my son. But he texted me.”
“He ditched you?”
“He postponed.”
I stand up and reach my hand toward him. “I’m sorry he did, but his loss is my gain. Now you don’t have to postpone with me.”
Nick stands and grins, following my lead.
And just as we tiptoe past Holly’s room, she begins to cry.
> Chapter 16
Nick
“Nick, darling,” Simone says, Jean-Marc carrying her luggage into the guest bedroom. “Guest bedroom” is a stretch – Jean-Marc gave up his bedroom and is crashing on the sofa bed in the living room, home from fall semester for a break in honor of his mother’s appearance. Charlie is couch surfing with a friend. He and Simone were never exactly close.
That’s like saying Donald Trump is just a tad unpopular in Scotland.
“Simone.” I embrace her, kissing both cheeks, polite to a fault. She wears the same perfume, her style unchanged after all these years, body tight and slimly compact, no extra movement wasted. Her dark hair is pulled back into a chic knot at the nape of her neck. She wears bright red lipstick, with tiny wrinkles lining her mouth. Her lower lids bear thick eyeliner, and all those years of narrowed eyes have left her with a cat-like appearance and what would be called “laugh lines” on anyone else etch deeply into her face, like a series of angry scratches.
“You look the same. How long has it been?” Her question is rhetorical. She knows.
“Nearly four years ago. When the twins graduated high school.” Rolf was with her. We spent three hours together. Three hours of watching my kids paraded around for pictures and accolades. Simone excluded me from the rest of her visit on the grounds that Rolf was “too jealous and unstable.”
She didn’t bother to attend Jean-Marc’s graduation, instead flying him and a friend of his choice to spend a special week in Paris with her.
“Four years!” Her smile plays at the corners of her mouth like a surgeon’s thread and needle, stretching as it tightens with precision. “Time has been good to you.”
The leading compliments aren’t designed to flatter me. They’re designed to trigger a similar response from me.
But I’m not Pavlov’s dog any longer.
And Simone’s bell doesn’t work.
“How was your flight?” I ask, gesturing toward the living room, where sofas and Jean-Marc await.
Her lips part, my offensive behavior duly noted as her tongue saves the day, hiding her reaction, tickling the upper line of teeth. One front top tooth slightly overlaps the other, just enough to be endearing. When she smiles, she is symmetrical, her face so aligned she might have been designed rather than born. The curved tooth always added extra charm. Even Simone had a flaw.
“Tedious, as always. Everyone sits with their face in a screen. First class is no different now. And people wear sweatpants.” Her nose crinkles in distaste.
“Maman? Espresso with lemon?”
“Now that is a young man who knows how to treat a woman,” she says with a wink, her red lips spreading with a smile, chin upturned as she calls out to our son. “Oui! And a small glass of cognac, s’il te plaît.”
I say nothing.
“You’ve kept the place exactly the same,” she says in a tone that makes it clear this is not a compliment. “If I look in your closets, I will find the same suits I helped you choose before the children were born.” Her eyes crawl up my body as I stretch on the sofa, one arm across the back, the other clinging to my beer like a life raft. She is cataloguing me in a methodical, seductive manner that would be incredibly arousing if it were any other woman.
If it were Chloe, I would be hard by now, shifting in my seat to adjust myself, mind whirring through all the possibilities such a gaze offered.
But that’s not happening now.
Because it is Simone.
She’s waiting for me to reply. I’ve been in my head and memory too long.
“You would,” I admit. “You had good taste.”
“Had?” She gestures to her dress and earrings, primping her hair jokingly. On the surface, it’s all in good fun.
But I know the Simone underneath, and this is anything but fun.
It is a game, though.
“Have.” I’ll be the gentleman. It costs me nothing.
“We bought this place with nothing, didn’t we?” she says looking around with sad eyes. “My trust fund, your graduate school stipend.”
“And the trust from my accident,” I add. When I was in eighth grade, Charlie and I were playing street hockey one day, out in the street where we grew up in Westwood. A drunk hit us. I broke my arm, Charlie broke a leg, and our parents put the insurance settlement money into a trust for us. When we each turned twenty-one, it was ours.
I invested mine in a down payment for this place.
Charlie’s money went into his first failed business.
“How timely,” she says with a smile. “You received the money from that car accident in your youth just a week before we learned about the twins.”
“And you insisted on buying a home.”
“It was a good investment.”
But I wasn’t, I think, struggling to control two people inside my mind, one trying to override the other, the angry half winning.
“You hated this place from the start.”
“It was a starter home, Nick.” She shakes her head sadly. “Not meant to be a forever home.”
“Was I a starter husband, then?” I say lightly, standing and reaching for the espressos Jean-Marc offers us both, his face neutral, eyes on me.
I don’t do this.
And he’s picking up on it.
He goes back to the kitchen for Simone’s brandy.
You raise babies into toddlers, then preschoolers to tweens, and finally teenagers become young adults, all the while fully formed in their humanity, just needing time to mature and grow. Roots and wings, the saying goes. Children need both.
I’ve given them roots.
Their mother cared more about her own wings than theirs.
“Starter husband? What an American concept,” she says disdainfully, drinking her espresso quickly.
“I think you gave it a French twist,” I add, going into the kitchen, grabbing another beer.
Jean-Marc’s face lights up. “Dad?” He’s looking at the bottle in my hand.
“Of course you may,” Simone interrupts, waving her hand. “Drink. Another stupid American concept. You can fight in a war but not have a glass of wine.”
It’s the first time Jean-Marc’s asked since he came home from college. He’s nineteen now.
“Sure,” I concede. I need all the points I can get.
Simone watches me, eyes calculating, taking in the change. “Why don’t you drink some Cabernet, Jean-Marc?”
He cracks a beer and stands next to me across the living room.
Solidarity takes on many forms.
“Maman!” The moment is broken by Elodie and Amelie’s twin shrieks as they barrel through the front door, glomming onto Simone like barnacles. She gives them double-cheeked kisses and fusses with Amelie’s new haircut.
“Trés chic!” Simone declares, holding Amelie’s chin between her thumb and index finger, checking the angle over and over. “You look five years older!”
Amelie beams.
I unclench a millimeter. The kids are always happy to see Simone.
“And Elodie, I expect to meet Brandon. You’ve told me so much about him.”
Elodie’s eyes instantly grow shiny with unspilled tears. “Oh. Um, we broke up.”
“When?” The question comes out like an accusation.
I re-clench.
“Three weeks ago.”
“Oh. Well, you are a beautiful, intelligent young woman. He was stupid to leave you.”
“I dumped him, Maman.”
“Why?”
“Because he hooked up with someone else.”
“Hooked up?”
“He screwed someone else,” Jean-Marc announces, giving Elodie the side-eye.
“Shut UP!” The two begin squabbling.
Simone and I exchange a rare look of sympathy.
And then we laugh together for the first time in fifteen years.
It doesn’t last long, as Jean-Marc, Elodie, and Amelie stop dead in their tracks – both physical and verbal. Simone reac
hes for my arm, the butterfly touch of her fingertips against my wrist making electricity shoot through me.
Not the kind I like.
The kind that says you’re being stalked by a wild game animal.
The laughter dies in my throat as I realize three sets of curious, very wary eyes are on us.
Our children have not seen us in the same room together in years. Once the girls turned sixteen, they insisted on being independent with their flights to France. I no longer accompanied them. Simone came for their high school graduation nearly four years ago. That was the last time the kids saw us together, and the day was interminably fake.
Of course it was.
Rolf was there.
This feels odd. Off. My protective sense goes into high gear, ears perked, arms and legs filling with pumping blood, ready to shift into danger mode. Simone smiles, her face sweet and genuine for a flicker of time, just enough to make me think of how she looked the day we met on campus during my freshman orientation at RISD, her senior year. The age difference never bothered me; she seemed to enjoy it.
She is from a family with money, a long line of famous sculptors to royalty throughout Europe.
She was a rare bird, exotic and alluring.
I was the solid American, dashing and new.
New World met Old World.
She colonized me.
“The concert starts in three hours. I have to be there early!”Amelie says, making me pay attention to her. Dressed in a classic black suit, the jacket high-waisted, the skirt long and flowing, she’s elegant, hair perfect, face done with makeup that is understated and nuanced, designed to show off high cheekbones and a stateliness I’ve never seen in her before.
“We’ll be right behind you,” I tell her with a smile. Simone watches me.
Not Amelie.
“You have VIP tickets, so you don’t have to rush, Daddy.”
Simone stiffens at the word Daddy. She’s always preferred Papa.
Which is why I’m Dad and Daddy. She got to name the kids. I chose what they call me.
“But we need to park,” Jean-Marc adds with a laugh, then a small belch. I notice his beer bottle’s empty. “And the nearest garage is a hike.”
“I’ll drive,” I say, raising my eyebrows at his bottle.