by JJ Knight
“Maximillion is the best-behaved dog in Manhattan.”
“He was running around like mad at first. You should be careful.” I lift my chin. Dell glares straight down at me, and I don’t budge an inch. “I’m just worried about Grace.”
“Well, don’t. Maximillion has his own part of the house.”
This does make me relax. “Do you ever visit him?”
“Every morning for breakfast and in the evening for a review of his training commands.”
“You know a baby isn’t going to have a schedule like that, right?”
He sighs. “When is the doctor appointment?”
I glance at my watch. “In an hour.”
He nods. “What about these nannies? Are they good? Available now?”
"I have good people," I say. "I can't promise they'll drop everything for you, though."
Grace squirms in my arms, so I walk across the room, patting her back. “Most people secure their nanny during pregnancy. We’ll have to take what we can get at first.”
“Should I choose a business like yours instead?” he asks.
“Not unless you want to handle the middle-of-the-night feedings.”
“It doesn’t sleep?” he asks.
“She’s Grace,” I shoot at him. “And no, babies do not sleep all night. When they start eating solids, they will sleep all night.”
“When is that?”
“Your pediatrician will advise you. Normally around five or six months.”
“So she isn’t going to sleep all night for another three months?”
Dell’s expression is so shocked that I have to laugh.
“Welcome to fatherhood.”
He paces the floor in front of the fireplace. “I suppose I will have to prepare a room. My African tribal mask guest room will probably give her nightmares.”
“It might give me nightmares,” I say. “Do you have space for a live-in nanny?”
He waves his hand. “Probably. I don’t really wander around.”
I shake my head. “It’s your home.”
“There are some bedrooms down the hall. Probably more bathrooms.” He braces his hands on the mantel, his head down. “Damn, this is unexpected.”
Grace has fallen asleep again, so I shift her more securely in my arms and approach Dell. He looks like a lost kid himself right now.
“Look at me,” I say.
He turns, and I have to quell the stirring that heats up inside me once again. He’s beautiful.
“Let’s see if there is a resemblance,” I say.
I examine his ears. “Both of you have detached lobes and your ears lie flat.”
He laughs. “Is this an expert opinion?”
“Yes!” I reach out and touch his jaw. My finger sparks where we connect. “The chins don’t match, but then she is a girl. Yours is rather manly.”
Dell grunts. “Her eyes are blue. Mine are brown.”
“Most Caucasian babies are born with blue eyes,” I say. “She won’t show her true eye color for several months yet.”
“That’s inconvenient,” he mutters.
“Babies are rather inconvenient beasts,” I say. My arm is starting to fatigue with her weight. I’m not used to carrying babies for more than a few minutes here and there.
I walk over to the carriage to set her down, but Dell says, “Give her to me.”
This is a surprise. I turn back to him. “You want to hold her?”
“I don’t want to look completely incompetent at the doctor,” he says. “No sense setting off any more alarms than they will already have.”
He’s right. “Are you afraid they will take her when you don’t have any paperwork?”
“I already have my lawyers working on this,” he says. “I plan to keep her a secret until the test is done, but we might get spotted with it.” His eyes pop to mine. “Her. Grace.”
I nod. “Well, let’s work on this, then.”
Dell steps close, his arms all elbows as he tries to recreate the position he took at the child spa earlier.
“Relax your arms,” I tell him.
He doesn’t make a smart remark this time, just drops his hands to his sides.
“Move your arms to the baby, not the baby to your arms,” I say.
As I move Grace near, Dell’s arms lift to receive her. This time she nestles against him more naturally.
“See, your body knows what to do instinctively, if you don’t overthink it,” I say.
“She didn’t wake at least,” he says. He walks across the floor, his dress shoes much quieter than my heels. I sink into the sofa, suddenly exhausted from the tension of the past hour.
I watch him pace the floor. I know a little about him. I looked him up after he bought the building six months ago, worried that he would change the terms of my lease.
It didn’t take long for me to realize how powerful he is. Or how cliché. A different woman at every function. Professed bachelor. Bloodthirsty investor. He’s thirty-six, if memory serves, and that seems about right. He’s got just the right amount of age on him to make him look distinguished as well as handsome.
His black hair is perfect, other than one errant curl that has fallen from the wave over his forehead. I sense him wanting to fix it, but he’s stuck. He’s still struggling to figure out how to hold Grace with one arm.
After some careful shifting, he gets his hand free. But he doesn’t fix his hair or straighten his shirt or check his phone, or anything else I expect.
He touches the baby’s cheek. Gently, like a proud father.
I’m a goner.
Chapter 7: Dell
The time arrives to take Grace to the pediatrician. I refuse to feel anxious. If the pediatrician feels as though she must take the child to protect it, then that is just the way it is.
I’ve made fifty circles of the living room. I’ve mastered holding her.
Arianna stands by the window, checking over the carriage. She isn’t sure it is roadworthy.
“This silly thing is more like a decorative rolling bed than a stroller,” she says.
“Stroller?” Half the time this woman is speaking Greek.
“Normally you walk with something a lot more sturdy and a lot less frilly.” She sets the baby in the cart and pushes it back and forth, bending to look at the wheels.
I force my gaze away from her sweet ass and examine the useless object along with her. “It’s only a few blocks, you said. I suppose she can just be carried.”
Arianna stands and twists her lips in the most adorable way. I squash the urge to run my thumb across her mouth, and ask, “Is that terrible?”
“It’s just hard to carry a baby free-handed very far.”
“She weighs less than my briefcase,” I say.
“Your briefcase has a handle,” Arianna quips. “Babies get fussy if they are handled too roughly, and walking through a jostling crowd isn’t easy.”
“It will be fine,” I tell her. “Once we settle the situation, we’ll stock everything we need.”
Or let it be someone else’s problem, I think, but don’t say it. I have to tread carefully, lest I piss this woman off enough that she abandons me.
But her concern persists. I can see it in her posture, her hand on her hip.
“How about we just take a car?” I suggest. It's more private anyway. I prefer to avoid being spotted with an infant. Particularly by anyone with a cell phone and Twitter. I’m not often a target of the tabloids, but occasionally they decide to shine their glaring light on me. An unidentified baby in my arms would definitely grab their attention.
Arianna takes Grace, holding her high against her neck. “Without a proper car seat, it’s not legal for her to ride in a car.”
Right. Car seats. I hadn’t even thought of that. The whole baby business is a racket. I wonder if I own any companies in this market. Perhaps I should.
Then I shake my head. No doubt all this will be straightened out shortly. Either the child will not be mine, place
d by some desperate building worker who had access to this floor. Or the mother will be located and forced to reclaim her offspring.
I see no scenario where the infant finds a permanent home here.
“If we’re walking, we should probably head out soon,” Arianna says. “I’m sure you like to be punctual. We can stop by the child spa on the way down.”
“Do the five minutes of working apply to you as well?” I don’t mean for my voice to have a hard edge, but it does. Arianna turns to me, startled.
Her reply is measured, as if she is holding her temper. “I’m just going to pick up a baby wrap so we can carry her more securely.”
I don’t respond to that. She knows more about these matters than I do. But my chagrin is pricked. I feel bad for upsetting her. She is going out of her way for a stranger.
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to touch her slender arm. “Thank you.”
She pats the baby’s back. “I’m not doing it for you,” she says. “It’s for her.”
“Fair enough.” I turn to the carriage. “What do we need to bring?”
“Have Bernard fix another bottle. And whatever diapers are in there. We absolutely have to pick up more. The way she’s going through them, we won’t last the evening.”
I like the way she says “We,” as if the two of us are in this together. I suppose we are. I’m not sure what is keeping her here, other than perhaps fear that I will cause harm to the child.
I pick up the bag from her child spa. Arianna continues to hold Grace. I have to hope everything else today works out.
Hope. It’s an unfamiliar feeling. I’m accustomed to everything turning out the way I plan. Foresight. Expertise. Competence. In most things, I can force the issue if necessary.
But nothing has prepared me for this.
We ride the elevator down in silence. Grace makes gurgling noises on Arianna’s shoulder. She seems happy finally. Arianna pats her absently, her mind clearly on other things.
We exit the elevator and turn down a side hallway I’ve never noticed. It’s a service corridor with entrances to the coffee shop, a clothing boutique, and then finally, Arianna’s spa.
She swipes a security card and we enter a small break room. A long cabinet holds a microwave, coffeepot, and other items.
We pass through, and I follow her down another hall. A large digital screen displays a list of names and rooms. She pauses at it and nods with satisfaction.
We pass the woman who changed the baby’s diaper that morning. She seems surprised to see me again, but just says a quiet hello to Arianna and walks on.
Several rooms are filled with children engaged in various activities. Art. Dancing. Singing. Another is darkened, a woman in a rocking chair with an infant. Other cribs line a wall.
Arianna pauses here to watch. For a moment I sense something is amiss, then another woman enters the room with another baby. Arianna sighs and moves on.
“It’s Maria’s first day in the baby room,” she says.
We enter another door. This room is bright white and filled with drawers.
“The diaper room,” Arianna says. “We store everything for the babies here.”
She passes all the drawers and opens a tall cabinet in one corner. She pulls a purple swath of heavy fabric off a hook.
“What is that for?” I ask.
“A baby wrap,” she says. She lays Grace on a smooth pad. I expect the baby to wail, but she doesn’t. She just watches Arianna expertly twist and turn the fabric and tie a knot.
“The baby goes in that?” I ask.
Arianna just smiles as she picks up Grace and tucks her securely in the folds of the fabric. Within seconds, the baby is yawning and closing her eyes.
“Incredible,” I say, but I get it. She’s snuggled up against Arianna’s chest. I could get lost there myself.
As we walk through the facility, I have to admit to being impressed by the scope and quality of what I see. Babies. Toddlers. Small children. Everyone is calm and happy. Everything is perfectly organized and clean.
“You run a solid business here,” I say.
“I do.” She presses a code on a door and we’re back in the foyer where we met.
The girl behind the desk looks up, her expression also giving away the shock of seeing us together. These people would never make it in a boardroom. The infants have better poker faces.
“Let me know if anything is amiss,” Arianna says to her.
The girl simply nods.
Then we’re out in the warm air of a Manhattan summer.
I’ve come to appreciate the lack of searing heat you find in the south. Nothing in these months compares to the shimmer off the asphalt on a hot Alabama day.
I do not remark on this out loud. No one knows about my upbringing, not here. Everyone says they love a rags-to-riches story. A poor shit-shoveling kid hitting the big time.
In reality, they like tradition. Old money. Pedigrees. So I changed my name at age twenty-three. My past remains a mystery.
The sidewalks aren’t too packed, so Arianna and I walk in companionable silence along the city streets. We pass small businesses, a bakery, a florist, a jeweler. I picture her inside each one, examining a necklace, sniffing a rose, choosing a pastry.
I don’t make small talk. I’m not able to categorize her properly, so I don’t have a script. She’s not a date or a conquest. Not a business partner. Not an employee or service provider.
She’s just… Arianna. The sun glints on her hair as she walks, occasionally looking down at the baby’s head peeking out from the bright purple wrap. An oddly contented feeling washes over me, looking at the two of them. There’s no strain here. No push-pull of conflicting interests.
Just a walk. A baby. A woman.
My loins stir and I drag my attention away from her. We pause at a crosswalk, and the exhaust of taxis brings me back to the New York I know.
This is just a walk to a doctor. The fate of the child will be decided by a test. Only if she is actually mine do I have any additional decisions to make.
And the likelihood of that is virtually nil.
Chapter 8: Arianna
“This is it,” I say to Dell as we approach a tall brownstone that has been converted to a medical office.
He holds the door open for me. I’m hit with the smell of antiseptic. A couple other mothers glance up at us. The waiting room is colorful and neat, cushioned chairs lining the walls.
We approach the front desk, where a bright-faced young woman looks at us expectantly. “And who is this?” she asks, standing to peer at the baby.
“Grace,” I say, then decide to shut up. I don’t know what to do about a last name. I’ll let Dell handle that.
“Hello, Grace,” the girl says, then sits again. “Date of birth?”
Dell and I exchange glances.
“This one is a … situation,” I say.
Her eyes get big, and I sense other mothers in the waiting area shifting in their seats.
I lean forward. “I believe my assistant spoke with your office manager about this.”
The girl pushes back in her chair. “Just a moment.”
I straighten and turn back to Dell. His face is an iron mask, his jaw clenched.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods in a small tight gesture.
The girl comes back and drops into her chair. “Just fill out what you know,” she says, passing us a clipboard. “I assume this will be self-pay since she isn’t currently on insurance as far as you are aware?”
This is horrible. I glance around the room. The other mothers are pretending not to listen.
Dell leans in to her. “Is your office always such an illegal breach of privacy?” he hisses.
His powerful body, angry jaw, and low voice would scare the spots off a cheetah. This girl is definitely affected.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammers. “Th-these are standard questions.”
“Ask them somewhere else,” he says. His anger is pal
pable. I can feel it in my belly.
He has a point. This girl has just outed our situation and piqued the curiosity of the room. But these are standard doctor questions. Dell just thought he’d be different here.
He takes the clipboard and covers the distance from the desk to a quiet corner of the waiting room in several long strides. I toss a sympathetic smile at the girl and follow him, patting the baby, more for my comfort than for hers.
Dell stares at the page, making occasional hard scratches of writing across its surface. I have no idea what to say. I do feel for him. He’s been thrust into this situation against his will. He could have just dumped the baby on CPS and been done with it.
I sit beside him. “Anything I can help with?” I ask.
He grunts, crossing off big swaths of the page and flipping it over.
Baby history. Birth history. Age. Place of birth. We know so very little.
He gets to the guarantor section. “Can’t I just pay cash and not put my name to this?”
“I think they have laws about privacy,” I say. “They can’t tell anyone.”
He jabs the pen in the direction of the front desk. The girl there carefully avoids looking our direction. “Oh, like the privacy we just experienced?”
“Probably fewer people care than you think,” I say. And that part is true. A man as arresting and handsome as Dell would draw attention no matter what he did. The fact that he seemed to be clueless about his own baby is just a bonus.
A door opens and one of the other children is called. Dell crosses through the last section of the paperwork and sits back. “I should have had my office manager come do this,” he mutters.
The baby stirs and yawns. I stroke the downy hair of her head.
“Will her hair change too?” Dell asks. “Like the eyes? Go from blond to something else?”
I shrug. “Lots of small children stay blond. My hair didn’t turn until my twenties.”
He examines my face and hair, and I feel a flush of warmth. “So you were blond as a child and a teen, then it got darker?” He lifts his hand and takes a few strands between his fingers.
“Yes,” I say, breathless now at his nearness. I feel completely out of my element. I’m used to holding randy married men at arm’s length. Not having a single one, and a killer specimen at that, touching my hair.