by Robin Wells
My mother named me after a deceased family member, but friends always tease me about being named after the character in the Bob Dylan song.
“Thanks. And thanks for coming all the way from the North Shore. Aren’t you due in just a couple of weeks?” I helped decorate her French country home in Mandeville, including the bedroom of her adorable six-year-old boy and the nursery for the new baby, so I’m well aware of her timeline.
She nods. “Sixteen days.”
“Not that you’re counting,” I tease. Lisette and I lost touch after college, then reconnected when she’d read an article in Northshore Living Magazine about my design services and retail store.
“The promise of chocolate birthday cake lured her from nesting mode,” her husband, Luke, says as he kisses my cheek. “She’s forbidden me from keeping any chocolate in the house, but she constantly craves it.”
“I have no willpower around chocolate,” Lisette moans.
“Who does? And anyway, it looks to me like you have the perfect excuse to indulge.”
“It’s too hard to take off the weight afterward.” She rubs her stomach in the way that all pregnant women do—as if they’re unconsciously caressing their unborn babies. “I learned that with Ryan.”
“Where is the little guy?” I ask.
“My parents are watching him,” Lisette says. “They just moved to Mandeville to be closer to their grandkids and help us out.”
I feel a pang. Not only is Lisette blessed with a loving husband, a beautiful child, and another one on the way, but she also has caring, involved parents.
Do you have to come from that kind of family to create one of your own? Oh, I hope not. My own mom never had many maternal instincts, and the few she had disintegrated after the divorce. At least she remembered my birthday today, although I suspect it was a last-minute reminder by Siri or Alexa. I’d received a gift card online this morning and a brief phone call this afternoon from Dubai, where she lives with her oil executive third husband.
My father, as usual, either completely forgot or ignored the occasion. It no longer hurts very much, now that I know not to expect anything from him. When I was younger, it used to cut me to the core.
But I’m over it. I have a full life with a thriving career and great friends. Brooke, Lily, and Miss Margaret are my adoptive family. When Brooke took me home with her that first Thanksgiving after we met, her grandmother welcomed me like long-lost kin, and I’ve spent every holiday with them ever since.
Last year, for my thirty-fifth birthday, Brooke arranged a lovely girls’ night out, with cocktails at her house, dinner at Arnaud’s, and a boisterous French Quarter pub crawl. It had been high-spirited and fun, and for the first time since my breakup with Tom, I’d felt full of optimism for the future.
Thirty-five seemed a celebration-worthy age; thirty-six feels like a whole different story. I’m on the dark side of the decade now, closer to forty than thirty, without a romantic partner in sight. I’ve spent nearly two years spelunking the endless dark caverns of internet dating. My dreams of love, marriage, and a family are dwindling as quickly as my egg supply.
To commemorate my thirty-sixth year on the planet, I’d sat down at my desk at Verve! that morning and actually crunched the numbers. It was an exercise in grim reckoning.
Even if I meet my ideal man tomorrow, we’ll probably need to date for a year or two before we become engaged. An engagement will likely last six months to a year, and most men will want to be married for a year or more before trying to start a family. That will put me dangerously close to forty—an age when the likelihood of getting pregnant and having a healthy baby becomes terrifyingly small. Not for all women, of course—statistics are averages, meaning some women fare far better than others—but still, the odds are not good after forty. And since I haven’t dated anyone in all my thirty-six years who actually turned out to be marriage material, the cold facts are icily glaring me in the eye: Prince Charming is unlikely to arrive in time to help me create the loving family I’ve always wanted.
I try to push this disheartening realization to the back of my mind as I greet my other guests, but I can’t help but notice that almost everyone has a child or a husband or both. The uncharacteristic despondency that has dogged me all day now makes me want to run to my bedroom and bawl.
Instead, I drink wine, accept everyone’s good wishes, eat jambalaya and salad, and blow out a birthday candle.
“Thanks for a great party,” I tell Brooke when everyone has left, we’ve wrapped up the food, and we’re carrying some of the plastic containers of leftovers to her house, just a couple of blocks away. This part of New Orleans is so quiet it’s easy to forget you’re in a city. Tree frogs chirp in the large live oaks and night jasmine scents the air. Neighbors sit on their gaslit front porches and wave to us as we pass by. “It was wonderful.”
She shoots me a knowing look as she pulls out her keys while Lily skips up the porch steps. “I wish I believed you meant that. What’s wrong?”
Once we get inside and Lily heads to her playroom, I set the food containers on the kitchen counter and give Brooke the rundown on my come-to-Jesus about my prospects for marrying and having a baby. Her expression grows so somber that I find myself wanting to cheer her up.
“Hey, on the plus side, now that I’m thirty-six, I’ve known you for half of my life, so that’s definitely worth celebrating,” I say. “Half a lifetime officially makes us family.”
“But we’re already fam’ly,” Lily declares, wandering back into the room with Sugar Bear dangling by a leg from her fist. “You’re my aunt an’ godmother.”
They’re both honorary designations, but I fully embrace them. I embrace Lily as well. “And you’re my honey.”
“And you’re the sister I never had and always wanted.” Brooke joins in to make it a group hug.
“I want a sister,” Lily says as we break apart.
“One day you’ll find a special friend like Aunt Quinn,” Brooke says, picking up one of the plastic containers and opening the refrigerator.
“I mean a real sister, like Alicia has.”
Brooke places the plastic bowl on a shelf in the fridge, then turns to take the next one as I hand it to her. “Sorry, sweetie, but I can’t give you one of those. Remember how I explained to you that my baby-making parts are broken?”
Lily’s head bobs. “That’s why I have a donor instead of a live-in daddy.”
“That’s right.” Brooke places another container in the fridge.
“Well, maybe Auntie Quinn can give me a real sister.”
“Oh, honey—it doesn’t work that way,” I say.
“But you could have a baby.” She turns her big blue eyes on me. “You could get a donor daddy like Mommy did.”
“We just call him a donor, not a daddy, remember?” Brooke gently corrects.
“Grams says he’s my daddy, too.”
Brooke’s face takes on a bit of an edge. “Well, things have changed since Grams’s day.” She points at the kitchen clock and gives an exaggerated gasp. “Oh, my, it’s way past your bedtime! You need to run right upstairs and brush your teeth, sweetie.”
I listen to Lily’s footsteps thump up the staircase. “Is something up with Miss Margaret?”
Brooke sighs. “Just the usual. From time to time, we have the same old discussion.” She holds her up hands and uses them like talking sock puppets. “She’ll say, ‘Lily’s father should be a part of her life,’ and I’ll explain, ‘He signed up for sperm donation, not fatherhood.’ She’ll say, ‘He’d feel differently if he knew her,’ and I’ll say, ‘The contract says he can meet Lily when she’s eighteen if she’s interested.’ She’ll say, ‘You should try to contact him now,’ and I’ll say, ‘That’s not part of the arrangement.’ Then I’ll sidetrack her by telling her how grateful I am that he made Lily’s life possible and how fortunate I feel
to have such a wonderful daughter, and I’ll mention some funny or amazing thing that Lily said or did, and the conversation will mercifully drift toward Lily’s overall fabu-losity.”
I smile. “If I knew for sure I’d have a child as wonderful as Lily, I’d go for donor insemination, too.”
“You can, you know.”
“Consider insemination?”
“Have a child as wonderful as Lily.” She places the last plastic container in the refrigerator. The door closes with a soft thud that echoes off the kitchen’s hard surfaces. “A genetic sibling.”
“Huh?” The air in the kitchen suddenly seems heavy, as if it’s carrying the weight of something important. Goose bumps form on my arms, confirming the significance of the moment. What, exactly, is she saying?
Brooke picks up a blue dish towel, walks to the other side of the kitchen island, and starts wiping the granite. She avoids looking me in the eye. “I still have some frozen sperm at the cryobank.”
“What?” Goose bumps spread up my neck, then down my legs.
Brooke looks over and meets my startled gaze, her blue eyes steady. “I have sperm left over from Lily’s donor,” she says. “If you’re interested, you can have it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Quinn
Friday, May 10
“JUST LOOK AT Brooke’s linen closet,” Miss Margaret says. “It’s like a picture in a magazine.”
I peer over the older woman’s stooped shoulder at the neat stacks of sheets and pillowcases and towels and washcloths, all color-coordinated and precisely aligned, with the folded sides out. I can make a closet look like this once, but Brooke maintained this orderly perfection all the time. “She was the most organized person I’ve ever known,” I say.
“Me, too, and I’ve got some years on you.”
I’m helping Miss Margaret sort through Brooke’s belongings and put stickers on things that are to be moved, stored, or donated. She and Lily arrived in New Orleans yesterday afternoon and will be here for a few days. We had dinner together at Joey K’s Restaurant on Magazine Street, then Lily came home with me for the night. I invited Miss Margaret to stay with me, too, but she’d insisted on sleeping at Brooke’s house.
“It’ll help me say good-bye,” she confided.
While waiting at one of the restaurant’s outdoor tables for our order to arrive, Margaret asked Lily if she wanted to visit her old house.
“Is Mommy there?” Her little face peered up, her blue eyes heartbreakingly hopeful.
“No, honey,” Miss Margaret replied. “She’s dead, remember?”
Lily clutched Sugar Bear to her chest. The bedraggled stuffed animal is never far from her grasp these days. “I thought she mighta come back.”
“She can’t, sweetie,” Margaret said. “That’s what dead means.”
Lily’s bottom lip trembled. “I don’ like dead.”
“None of us do, honey.” I put my hand on her back.
“Do you want to visit the house?” Margaret asked again. “I think it will make you sad, but we’ll take you if you’d like.”
Lily shook her head. “If Mommy’s not there, I don’ wanna be there, either.” She stuck her thumb in her mouth—another bit of regression that had occurred in the last month.
It was late when Lily finally fell asleep in my guest room, but she’d slept soundly through the night. This morning she was upbeat and excited when I dropped her off at her friend Alicia’s house before I came here to help Miss Margaret.
A moving company is scheduled to arrive in a few hours to start the actual packing. We’re leaving the furniture and accessories in place while the house is on the market, but the movers will box and remove the contents of the cabinets, drawers, and closets.
Dismantling Brooke’s home is a heartrending task, made worse by the fact that I remember the joy of helping her move in.
She’d been pregnant, and I’d flown in from Atlanta for a long weekend. I’d already made a few trips to New Orleans to help her with renovation and design decisions. As we unpacked, we played loud music, danced around, and talked a mile a minute. Everything was new and exciting. I set up the nursery while Brooke unpacked the kitchen, and I refused to let her see the baby’s space until it was all finished.
When everything was in place, I led her to the closed door. “Ready?”
“More than ready.”
“Welcome to your baby’s nursery!”
She gasped when the door swung open, slapping her cheeks with her palms. I laughed, because I’d never seen someone actually do that in real life.
“Oh, Quinn—this is amazing!” Her eyes teared up as she walked around the room, taking it all in. “I can’t believe how talented you are. This is just what I wanted and didn’t know how to describe.” She touched the canopy over the crib, then reached out and hugged me.
I hugged her back, thrilled that I’d made her so happy.
“You know what’s even more amazing than this room?” she asked as we drew apart. “You. You’re a wonderful, wonderful friend, Quinn. I feel so blessed to have you in my life.”
My throat grows thick at the memory.
“I don’t know how Brooke managed her job and a child and everything else she had going,” Miss Margaret says now. “Why, when I was a newlywed, all I did was keep house, and I didn’t do it nearly as well as Brooke.”
We stand there and gaze at the closet for a reverent moment.
“It feels terrible, tearing apart her home.” Miss Margaret’s voice warbles a little. “I thought nothing would ever be as painful as going through my daughter’s home after that accident, but this feels just as awful.”
I don’t know what to say, but I ache to console her. She looks frailer than she did just a few weeks ago. “Brooke would want us to move forward,” I finally manage.
“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” She draws a deep breath and stands a little straighter. “Well, do you want to take any of these towels or sheets? I have more than enough linens.”
“I’ll take a few of the white towels.”
“I suppose we should donate the rest,” Margaret says.
I nod. “I know several places that can use them. I’ll take care of that for you.”
“Thank you, dear.” She bends down to put a sticker on the bottom shelf, then loses her balance and topples to the floor.
“Miss Margaret!” I squat down beside her, alarmed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She sits up and straightens her pink button-up shirt. “Just fine. Nothing hurt but my pride.”
“Well, let me help you back up.” I reach out a hand.
“Thank you, but I can do it on my own.”
It’s an assertion of independence. She gets to her knees and places one black Easy Spirit lace-up on the floor, then staggers to her feet, puffing out hard little breaths.
The fault line in my heart widens a bit more. I hate that she’s getting feeble, both for her sake and for Lily’s. Regardless of whether or not she wants to acknowledge it, her age is catching up with her. It’s important that I stay close to Lily, because the day will inevitably come when I’ll need to take over guardianship.
I debate again whether or not I should tell Miss Margaret that I’m pregnant. If she knows I’m having Lily’s half sister, maybe she’ll be more inclined to let Lily come stay with me for extended visits.
On the other hand, it’s very early days, and I want to wait until I’m safely through the first trimester before I announce my pregnancy to anyone outside of the single parent group. I’m especially concerned about Lily; the last thing I want is to get her hopes up and then dash them. And as for Miss Margaret . . . well, today seems laden with enough emotional baggage. It’s probably best not to add a new complication.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Oh, my. Do you suppose that’s the moving
company already?” Miss Margaret asks.
“I’ll go check,” I say. I can tell that she’s still out of breath from her fall.
“Thank you, dear. I’ll finish placing stickers in this closet.”
I head down the stairs into the foyer. Through the front door sidelight, I see a broad-shouldered, brown-haired man standing on the porch. He’s just wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans, but he somehow looks too well dressed to be a mover. I glance at the driveway and street. I don’t see a moving truck, but a BMW is parked in front of the house.
I open the door. The guy is tall—probably six foot one or two—and fit, like a runner. He’s clean-shaven and good-looking. “Hello,” I say.
“Hi. I’m Zack Bradley.” His eyes are like little pieces of sky, and a dimple winks in his jaw as he smiles. The smile transforms him from attractive to devastating. “Are you Brooke Adams?”
Chill bumps chase up my arms, and it’s not cold outside. He looks familiar, but his name doesn’t ring any bells.
“Uh, no. She’s not here right now.” For some reason, I can’t bring myself to say, She’s dead.
His smile fades into disappointment. “Can you tell me when she’ll be back?”
“Not, um, really. Is there something I can help you with?” I realize I sound like a clerk at a shoe store. I smile and stretch out my hand. “I’m her best friend, Quinn Langston.”
“Nice to meet you.” He takes my hand, and my palm is encased in warmth. More goose bumps instantly prickle up my neck. It’s definitely a sign of something, but I don’t know what.
“Her phone doesn’t seem to be working,” he says.
Miss Margaret has Brooke’s cell phone. I’m not sure if she’s already suspended service or just turned it off.
“The number I have is a landline,” he continues, “and I thought maybe she doesn’t use it anymore.”
I nod. Like many New Orleans residents post–Hurricane Katrina, both Brooke and I keep landlines because they’ll work in emergencies, but neither of us keeps the ringer on.