The late afternoon sun was blotted out by heavy clouds and the streetlights cast silver shadows on the road below. The scene beyond the frosty windowpane reminded her of the fabric Jasminda had shown her during their Skype conference.
“That’s it!”
Grace shot back to the kitchen table and grabbed her iPhone and sketch pad. She snapped a couple dozen shots of the snowfall, the street, the houses and the trees.
Then she sank to the floor and started sketching a line of winter sport clothes, dressy pants and blouses, and evening dresses and shoes. Instead of her usual brilliant colors, tropical hues and exotic florals, she chose black and white. Gray, charcoal, slate, pewter, midnight blue and Mediterranean blue—the color of Mica’s eyes.
She knew an English cashmere manufacturer in Yorkshire who wove wool that draped like crepe. She would use their nearly gossamer wool to execute black, wide-legged, high-waisted party pants encrusted with jet beads. To pair with them, a white blouse with snowflake-pearl buttons, and the silk would come from Lyon, France.
Grace flipped the page and sketched skinny, snow-white pants with knee-high boots and a faux-fur-trimmed white-and-silver poncho.
Next, she drew a charcoal wool pencil skirt to be worn with a blue-black angora sweater with cap sleeves and a knee-length, gray-and-blue silk scarf from a fabric she’d found in Lake Como, Italy, on one of the few holidays she’d ever taken.
She had just started another drawing when she heard footsteps behind her.
“He’s asleep.”
“Huh?” She looked up and blinked, startled to see it was already getting dark. Grace had been so immersed in her creative dimension that she’d forgotten about Mica. Jules. The world. Her worries. It was times like this that frightened her just a bit. She was capable of retreating into her work for an entire day. She didn’t want to admit it, but she feared she might fail to take care of Jules properly.
What if he needed her and she wasn’t paying attention? What if he hurt himself, or he grew up feeling like she cared more about fashion design than about being his mom? What if? What if?
Grace knew she was getting ahead of herself, imagining tragedies that hadn’t even happened. Did all mothers do that?
“I gave him his bottle, which he finished quickly. Then he fell asleep. I laid down with him and just watched.” He smiled. “I knew you were busy, so I stayed with him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Lying on the bed...” He gestured toward the bedroom.
“Oh. I have to put him in his carrier, otherwise he’ll roll off. Without a crib here...” She rose stiffly from the floor. “I guess I lost track of time.”
“No, you stay here. I’ll take care of him,” he said, offering his hand to steady her.
She took it.
A simple thing, wasn’t it? Holding someone’s hand. But not for Grace. His grip was firm, his strength apparent in that he nearly lifted her completely off the floor with one arm. And the feel of his palm against hers was electric.
His scent—a spicy soap with a hint of vanilla—lingered as Grace went back to the computer. She took photos of her sketches and emailed them to Etienne. Then she started an email detailing her ideas, the course of action they should take and which designs she wanted to concentrate on first.
She requested that Jasminda contact the cashmere manufacturer in Yorkshire the next day, once businesses were open after the holiday. If she could purchase that fabric, then they’d move forward. Grace told Etienne to use her credit card for the purchases. Her business account had run low the closer they got to Fashion Week. She was gambling a lot on her designs and she believed in her talent. She had to dip into her personal money to keep the business going. Again.
Mica came back to the kitchen. He put her hands on her shoulders and peered at the computer screen.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“I—”
The lights went out. The computer shut down. The whir of the little space heater from the bedroom halted.
“What’s going on?” Grace asked.
“Power’s out.” Mica went to the window. He turned back to her. “The whole block is down.”
“What?” She shot up from her chair. “Does this happen often?”
“No.” He took out his cell phone and punched out a number.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Calling the power company to make a report. And to see if there’s any news about this outage.”
She glanced over his shoulder to the window. The streetlights were out, but she could see that the snow hadn’t abated at all. It was still coming down in waves of fat, white flakes.
“What’s the address here?”
“Eleven twelve Maple Boulevard,” she answered.
Mica gave the information to an automated-response voice mail. Then he used his phone to check the local weather alerts.
“This isn’t good,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“There’s a state of emergency. They aren’t letting people drive in this storm unless it’s an emergency.”
“You’re kidding. They can do that?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I’m surprised your family didn’t call to tell you.”
“Actually...” He grimaced and held up his phone. “They did. I turned off my notifications when I went to change and feed Jules. I didn’t want anything to wake him up.”
“So, we’re snowed in?”
“Seems like it,” he replied, looking around. “Are there flashlights up here? We can use the app on our phones in a pinch, but we should try to avoid draining the battery. You got any spare blankets?”
“Not that I know of. As you can see, there’s not much of anything up here. And we’re expected downstairs for dinner—” she looked at her watch “—in fifteen minutes.”
Mica rubbed his chin. “Doesn’t Mrs. Beabots have a wood-burning fireplace in her library?”
“Yes. A big one.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the bedroom. “Come on.”
“What are we doing?”
“Getting Jules and every bit of his supplies—diapers, bottles, warm clothes. All the blankets you’ve got up here. Then we’re going downstairs.”
“Right. For dinner. But why all the stuff?”
“I need to make sure we survive the night. I don’t like the idea of Mrs. Beabots alone down there, either. We might be stuck here for days.”
“Days?” Fear bolted through her. “What are you saying?”
“The last time we had a power outage on the farm due to a snowstorm, it didn’t come back for four days.”
“Are you serious?” She glanced over at her computer. Her battery would barely last four hours. Let alone four days. “This is a disaster.”
“It is,” he said. “We have to keep Jules warm.”
Grace dropped his hand and rushed past him into the bedroom, guilt descending on her like the wet, heavy snow outside. For a moment, she’d been more concerned about work than about her baby. “Of course we do.”
* * *
MICA HELD JULES in his carrier and stood behind Grace as she knocked at Mrs. Beabots’s back door. Grace held two blankets, the diaper bag and her laptop.
“Mrs. Beabots?” Grace turned the knob and pushed the door open. “It’s Grace and Mica. Are you here?”
“I am.” Mrs. Beabots came into the kitchen from the dining room holding a five-branch, silver candelabra with all the candles lit. The kitchen was bathed in light. She smiled as she put the candelabra on the island. “I’m so glad I believe in candles everywhere.”
“So am I,” Grace said. “I think we’ll need them.”
“Oh, Mica. Thank goodness you’re here and not out driving in this s
torm. I thought I saw you drive in earlier. Now hurry in and shut the door. We don’t want to lose any heat.”
“I was worried about you, Mrs. Beabots,” Mica said, lifting Jules’s carrier to the island. Grace had placed a baby blanket over the top of the carrier to keep him warm. Mica lifted the edge to make sure his son was still sleeping.
“Oh, pish posh,” Mrs. Beabots said. “I’ve been through many a power outage. I should have had a generator put in this old house years ago, but I didn’t. What I did do was buy an extra cord of wood this fall. Lester MacDougal delivered and stacked it for me.”
“You’re reading my mind,” Mica said. “I was thinking I’d build us a roaring fire. We can crowd around it until the power comes on.”
“Absolutely,” Mrs. Beabots said. “The good thing is that my soup is ready to ladle out. And I made homemade bread to go with it. We’ll have a fine feast for this evening.”
“All right, then.” Mica looked at Grace. “You get Jules settled in the library. I’ll go bring in the wood.”
Mrs. Beabots lifted the candelabra. “And I’ll light more candles. Mica, there are fire starters, kindling and a butane lighter in the box next to the fireplace.”
“Excellent,” Mica replied and headed for the back door. He stopped and realized he only had one arm, not two, to bring in the wood.
He turned back. “Mrs. Beabots. Do you have a tote or a carrier I could use?”
“I do. In the library is a leather sling in a metal frame. It’s easy to carry.” She cast him an easy smile.
He appreciated her not making reference to his arm. And he liked the fact that she expected him to take care of all of them.
“Got it,” he said, his chest puffing with pride.
He entered the stately library. Along the mantel and on the end tables, Mrs. Beabots had lit tall white tapers. The flickering light across the velvet chairs and Victorian settee made Mica feel as if he’d stepped back in time. This had to be how the house looked a century ago, minus a gas lamp or two. Mrs. Beabots’s portrait over the fireplace caught his eye. For years he’d been invited to this house for holidays and special dinners with his family. He’d enjoyed the food and the company, but he now realized how unobservant he’d been.
Everything in this room, from the chicken-wire glass doors on the bookcases, to the Bergere chairs, the needlepoint footstools and the paintings of Paris street scenes, was French. The portrait was stunning. He remembered that Mrs. Beabots had mentioned once that this painting was from her days in Paris, too. Her stylish clothing was probably made by someone with Grace’s talent.
And that person’s design had been immortalized in this painting.
Riveted, Mica realized he knew so little about Grace. She had depths to her that he couldn’t and hadn’t begun to fathom.
Was Grace looking for fame? For her name to garner respect? Admiration?
And if she did, was there anything wrong with that?
What drove her to work so hard? What gave her the motivation and the ability to block out the rest of the world and focus so intensely on her work? He would give anything to find that kind of concentration.
Maybe Grace had been right about him—he’d been so self-centered that his creativity couldn’t break through. He was, quite possibly, his own worst enemy. Was he a self-saboteur? Or had he just not found his niche?
And where would Grace be now if it hadn’t been for the time they’d spent together last October? If it hadn’t been for their...mistake?
“No,” he said aloud. He would not believe Jules was a mistake. No child was. Babies were miracles.
A draft made the candlelight flicker, and Mica shook himself out of his thoughts. He went to the flue to make certain it was open.
He found some newspaper and kindling and piled them on the grate, then grabbed the sling and headed back through the kitchen.
“Please be careful out there, Mica,” Grace said as she pulled bowls out of the cabinet. “I can hear the wind picking up.”
“Here’s a flashlight,” Mrs. Beabots said, handing him an LED lantern with a handle.
He thanked her and went out into the storm.
Grace was right. The wind had kicked up and sank what felt like frigid needles into the back of his neck.
Mica pulled the tarp off the woodpile, propped up the lantern, then tightened the sheepskin collar of his jacket around his neck.
Tonight, there were three people inside who were counting on him to keep a fire blazing. The warmth from the fire would keep a little baby and an elderly woman alive. It was no small thing. He would keep his arm around Grace and hold her close all night.
Yes, he thought. He believed in miracles. Even ones that called themselves a snowstorm.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“HOW WILL I warm Jules’s bottle?” Grace asked Mica as they finished the tasty cream-of-shrimp-and-leek soup that Mrs. Beabots had made. Grace sat on the floor near the fire and held Jules in her lap. Jules played with a rubber SpongeBob toy.
Though she’d grown up with Chicago’s bitter winters, she didn’t remember any power outages. Once in New York during college there’d been a brownout, but it had lasted one day. And she didn’t have a baby who depended on her. Mica ripped a hunk of bread off the loaf and said, “I’ll get a pan, put some water in it and heat the bottle over the fire.”
“But the bottle is plastic. It will melt.”
“Then we put the formula in the pan, heat it and then pour into that little sack when it’s cooled down a bit. Doable.” He munched his bread and winked at her.
Mrs. Beabots looked up from her bowl. “Would Jules like a bit of my soup? I don’t know what you’ve introduced to him, but he’s got a couple teeth, so...”
“Good idea!” Mica said before Grace could protest.
Mica dipped his spoon into the broth and held it out to Jules, who leaned forward and bit. Half the soup ran down his chin onto his bib, but he swallowed the other half.
Jules smacked his lips and stared at Mica as if considering the taste. Then he squirmed in Grace’s arms and reached for Mica.
“I think he wants another try,” Grace said.
Mica obliged and this time Jules got a piece of soft carrot. He swallowed, looked at Grace and smiled. He clapped his hands. “Da!”
“Great,” Mica moaned. “He probably thinks I made this gourmet concoction and I can barely even microwave pizza.”
Mrs. Beabots clucked her tongue. “If you’re going to be a father, Mica, you’re going to have to acquire a great many new skills.”
“I’m seeing that,” Mica said, sharing two more spoonfuls with Jules before finishing off his soup.
“Here,” Grace said. “You take Jules. I’ll go wash these dishes.”
Grace placed Jules on Mica’s lap and once again, Jules crawled up Mica’s chest like a monkey. Jules picked up his pacifier, which was hooked to his navy blue sweater, and tried to shove it into Mica’s mouth.
“Uh, no thanks, Jules,” Mica said. “Maybe later.”
Mica put the pacifier in Jules’s mouth, but Jules thought it was a game and popped it out again. He giggled and tried to share with Mica.
Grace gathered the bowls and spoons. Only a few feet away from the fire, the chill in the rest of the house made her shiver. In the kitchen, the wind howled against the north-and west-facing windows and seemed to cut right through the glass. She had a mind to go back and get her jacket.
Instead, she put the stopper in the sink and used as little hot water as she needed to wash up.
She looked out the kitchen window and saw candles burning in Sarah’s house next door. Suddenly, she remembered that Sarah had a new baby as well. She glanced up at the chimney and saw that Sarah and Luke had a fire going as well.
She had to admit there was
something cozy about this situation. But if the storm kept up, there was no telling how snarled the Chicago airport would be. She remembered winter storms like this when it could take several days to get a flight out. She couldn’t afford to be away from the atelier any longer than she’d planned.
Grace went to the island and pulled up Sarah’s number on her phone. She glanced at her remaining battery. Twenty-seven percent. She hadn’t recharged it all day. She wondered if Mica had much power left, either.
It was all so oddly silent, this cocoon of snow that surrounded them. There was no one out on the street, the plows had not appeared and she hadn’t heard a single car pass.
It was as if there were no people left in the world except the four of them.
“Hello?”
“Sarah, it’s Grace. I’m at Mrs. Beabots’s kitchen window. How are you doing over there?”
“We’re fine. Luke’s got a fire going. The kids are putting a puzzle together and Charlotte has already fallen asleep.”
“Do you know anything about what happening?” Grace asked anxiously.
“Luke has one of those military-issue radios that gives everything from the marine forecast on Lake Michigan to national weather. The good news is that the snow is supposed to end within the hour. He’s pulled every string he can to find out when the power will come on, but there are several transformers out all over town. We just have to wait our turn.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mica said that their power went out for four days once. I can’t lose four days,” Grace said frantically.
“That must have been out at the farm. We’ve never lost it for more than two days here in town.”
“Oh, that’s good news. I’m glad I called. My phone is nearly out of juice and Mrs. Beabots’s landline is dead, so I should go. I think Mica has power on his phone in case you guys need anything.”
“Grace. Don’t worry. We’ll all be fine. We can always walk over to check on each other. Tell Mica I talked to Maddie and she said Nate got home from the hospital before the storm hit. I guess Gina was worried. I haven’t talked to Gabe or Liz. Did Mica?”
His Baby Dilemma Page 15