by JJ Knight
“There’s jogging ones. And ones with more storage. Bigger wheels for different terrain.” Arianna keeps listing the various qualities.
“I like this one,” she says finally. “Narrow enough for stores but big enough wheels for a smooth ride.”
“Works for me.” I heft a box into the cart. The two items almost fill it.
“Let’s get the small stuff,” Arianna says. “Maybe we can make a run out to the car and come back in for more things.”
We head to the diaper aisle and I pile more boxes on top. Then formula and bottles and little scrubbies to clean them. Bibs and blankets and burp cloths. Baby soap and brushes.
“This is a crazy racket,” I say to Arianna. “Why does she need her own soap? Do you really need a bib AND a burp cloth?”
She laughs. “You’ll see.”
An employee spots our precariously stacked cart and offers to take it up front and bring us another.
“Huh, you can get service here,” Arianna says. The baby yawns at the sound of her voice and opens her eyes.
“Uh-oh, the tyrant awakes,” I say.
“Your turn,” Arianna says.
Just as the baby starts to fuss, she pulls her out of the wrap and hands her to me. She digs through the tote I’ve slung over my shoulder and produces a bottle. “You can take this one.”
Arianna stretches out her arms and unwraps the purple cloth. Her silk blouse clings to her from the warmth of carrying Grace. I’m momentarily distracted by the depth of her cleavage and how the fabric hugs her body.
Then Grace brings me back with a wail.
Arianna laughs and uncaps the bottle. “Here you go,” she says.
The employee comes back with an empty cart. Arianna takes it. Grace greedily gulps the bottle as we head toward another section of the store. Clothing.
“Sleepers,” Arianna says, holding up a soft pink number.
“Does it have to be pink?” I ask her. “Anything with proper girl things? Like ‘I’m the CEO’ or ‘Glass ceilings are for people without hammers’?”
For this I get another throaty laugh. “You might have to custom-order those,” she says. “Baby clothes aren’t quite caught up to feminism.” She holds up a frilly dress with “Princess” etched across it.
“I’m okay with Princess,” I say. “Just some balance.” I spot a shirt with “Genius” written across the front. “What about that one?”
She turns to look. “That’s for three-year-old boys.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “Put it in the cart.”
She rummages through the rack and locates a smaller one. “Okay, okay. Let me find something to go with it.”
She selects some blue tights with hearts on them to match the color of the letters. “We can make this work.”
We pause in front of a display of one-piece outfits in animal themes. They all have hoods, complete with ears.
“Let me guess,” I say. “The pink kitties are for girls. And the lions are for boys.”
“Pretty much,” she says.
I glance down at the baby girl fiercely downing the formula. “If anybody ever calls you a pussy, I will kill them with my bare hands.”
Arianna slides the lion outfits along the rack and pulls one out. “Her size.”
“Done,” I say.
She watches me as she pushes the cart over to packages of little accessories like socks and hats. I focus on tilting the bottle the right way as it empties so Grace doesn’t suck empty air. Arianna drops more things into the cart.
“You are going to take every dime of mine, aren’t you?” I say to Grace. I realize my voice has automatically taken on a higher, lighter tone and clear my throat. “Just like a woman.”
Arianna looks up from a package she’s examining and lifts an eyebrow. “You want to buy her ‘Genius shirts and then accuse her of fleecing you like a trophy wife?”
I have nothing to say to that. Arianna is far more combative than my usual companions. It’s refreshing, even if infuriating.
The bottle empties. I stick it in the tote bag and lift Grace to my shoulder like I’ve seen Arianna do several times now. “Here comes the sailor belch,” I say.
Arianna reaches out. “I wouldn’t do that on your —”
I hear the burp. “That’s right, baby.”
Then I feel it. Hot and wet and sticky.
“What the hell?” I ask, lifting Grace from my shoulder.
A torrent of white goo streams from her mouth. It splatters on the front of my shirt, my shoes, the floor.
“Yeah, that’s why you need burp cloths,” Arianna says. She breaks open a package and wipes the baby’s mouth. “Here, I’ll take her.”
“No, just get the…whatever it is.”
“Spit-up,” Arianna says. “Sometimes when they burp, the milk comes back out.”
“So this is normal?” I ask.
“Very normal.” She wipes my shoulder. I hold the baby high so she can get the front of my shirt.
She’s close. Real close. Her hand glides down my chest to my belly.
Despite the situation, the baby, the store, the mess, I feel it. And it’s not just the physical thing. Her touch. It’s all of it. The family feeling. The ability to laugh at yourself. The closeness and rolling with the spit-up.
“I think I got it,” she says. “Good thing your shirt is moisture wicking.”
“Yeah, good thing.”
She rolls up the towel and shoves it in the front section of the cart. “I’ll let someone know about the floor.” She heads off toward the main aisle.
I bring Grace down. “I guess it’s just you and me,” I say. I tuck her in the crook of my arm.
She gazes up, all awake and happy now that she’s caused her chaos.
“You think it’s funny, don’t you?” I ask her. That tone has crept back in. The lightness.
I know where it comes from. I remember my dad, talking to my little sister that way. I’m sure he also did it to me. I hadn’t consciously thought about what he must have been like when we were small.
That man decided I was worthless later on. But just now, with this little sprite in my arms, do I realize that maybe, before all that, he did something right.
Chapter 12: Arianna
When I get back to Dell, he’s tossed half a dozen more outfits in the cart. Race car romper. A sleeper with a math equation. A sailboat onesie. He also managed to find a couple girl outfits that he liked. “This princess will end up saving YOU.” And a dress. A beautiful pale yellow number with ribbons and ruffles.
“One of these things is not like the other,” I say, holding it up. He’s gotten the right size, even.
“Well, she is a girl,” he says. “She can be all the things. Pretty and tough. Sweet and smart.”
This amuses me. So there is more to Dell Brant than meets the eye. I had assumed so. Nobody gets where he is by being an asshole all the time. Even Bernard has a soft side in there somewhere.
“I think we’ve done enough damage here,” I tell him.
We sidestep the spit-up as an employee arrives with a mop. I’m sure it happens a lot. It definitely does at the child spa.
When we head back to the main aisle, we pass a nursery set, complete with crib, changing table, and rocking chair, all on a soft gold oval rug. It’s lovely, the mahogany wood, the sweet olive green sheets with swirls and stars.
“We don’t have any of this stuff,” Dell says. “Where will she sleep?”
“The carriage she came in is good enough for that,” I say. “Maybe after Monday you can look into more permanent things.”
He frowns, and it’s as if a spell is broken. He stands more stiffly, back to business. “Makes sense,” he says.
I trail my hands over the smooth polished wood. A soft stuffed star in the corner of the crib matches the pattern on the sheets. Beside it is a little lamb of the same fluffy wool.
I pick it up. “She should have something of her own,” I say. “Not just necessities. I can’t
believe her mother didn’t leave a single sentimental item for her.”
Dell frowns. “She’s three months old. Seems like she should have had an entire trove of things. Clothes. Bedding. Mouth plugs — pacifiers.”
“We should pick up a couple more of those!” I say. “They come in handy.”
I drop the lamb back into the crib. Grace’s permanent mother, whoever she turns out to be, can pick out the sweet items. It’s not like she’s old enough to notice them right now.
We stop by a display of pacifiers on the end of a row and choose several more.
“What is that?” Dell asks.
He points to another display. It’s one of the new state-of-the-art baby swings. It has a million modes to rock the baby in every direction, plus light-up toys at the top. It looks like a space pod.
“Lots of moms like baby swings to help the baby sleep during the day,” I say. “This is just a souped-up version.”
Dell fiddles with the buttons, making the round white oval of the bed move side to side, then front to back. The lights and music come on and he stands back. “Cool.”
Of course it would appeal to him. It’s totally impractical.
“If you want a swing, there are a lot of traditional ones,” I tell him, pointing a couple aisles back.
“This one,” he says, already looking under the display for the boxes.
I sigh. Let him have his way. Maybe the more he connects to the baby world, the more accepting he’ll be if Grace turns out to be his.
As we walk toward the checkout, I don’t even know which way I want this to turn out. Dell is ill equipped for single fatherhood, for sure, but he has money to make sure she is cared for.
The foster system is risky, but for a baby like Grace, she’ll have dozens, if not hundreds, of adoptive families all vying for her. She’ll find a good home. And maybe even be raised by her actual parents, not nannies and au pairs.
So I guess if I’m honest with myself, maybe what’s best for Grace isn’t Dell Brant.
But as he jokes with the checkout lady about the spit-up incident and shows off Grace, I wonder if maybe he doesn’t have fatherhood in him after all.
Chapter 13: Dell
By midafternoon, we’re back home surrounded by an outrageous amount of stuff.
Arianna goes through my spare bedrooms, finally choosing the most neutral one for the baby. It’s pale green and light brown and has a bathroom that connects to another spare bedroom, which can be for the nanny. Nobody has to be traumatized by the African masks.
Bernard helps us shove all the gear into the room. I open the baby swing first, connecting the base to the stand and attaching the accessories.
When Grace lies in it the first time, her face bright and happy as she reaches for the light-up toys, I get a sense of satisfaction that is unfamiliar.
I think about this. I’ve done much bigger, more important things. Acquired sinking companies and made them profitable. Built an empire of investment start-ups. I even snatched a clever little animation firm right from the clutches of Pixar, just because I could.
But pleasing this child provides a pleasure from an entirely different space. It’s curious, and somewhat unsettling.
Arianna sits on the floor and unpackages the clothes to be washed. Bernard has already called in help to clear all the debris and prep everything. The housekeeper, a bright Scottish lady in her sixties, is here, as well as the woman who does the shopping, a tall energetic brunette in her forties.
Grace’s presence has changed the demeanor of pretty much everyone in my employ. Before today, the few times I’ve crossed paths with the housecleaner or the shopper, they’ve been formal and serious.
Now they cluck over the baby, kneeling down to make faces and silly noises. The housecleaner holds up all the little outfits as she prepares to launder them.
“How long until the first nanny arrives?” I ask Arianna.
She glances at her phone. “Ten minutes.”
The room is mostly clear of boxes and trash. I want it all to look good for the nanny, like this won’t be a difficult gig. I need one of them to step in immediately.
“How many are coming?”
Arianna frowns. “There were three, but one asked to reschedule until tomorrow. So two.”
“I guess keep the third in case I can’t handle the one I choose by morning,” I say.
“You probably want to give her more of a chance than that,” Arianna says. “She’ll be settling in, trying to figure out a routine. Things might not go smoothly.”
“No,” I insist. “I’m very good at learning people. Like that Penelope woman you have. She’s good. But when someone is not going to work out well, if they are not confident and communicate clearly, you know that within minutes.”
“I disagree,” she says, her expression set. “I have a few employees who blossomed over time. Take Maria. She started out in housekeeping, did great, and moved up to organization. Now she’s in the baby room.”
“It doesn’t matter if they clean floors or buy airlines, it’s all in that first impression.” I believe this completely. It’s never steered me wrong.
Arianna won’t let it go. “I think there is an entire subset of people who don’t interview well, and relating to someone in a position of power doesn’t come easy. But they are still great to have on your team.”
The housecleaner and shopper make their excuses and leave the room. We’ve obviously spooked them with our argument.
“You’re wrong about that,” I tell her. “If a skill is critical, like interviewing, you learn it. You master it. If you don’t, then you’re not going to succeed.”
Arianna picks up the little bucket of baby shampoo and washing items near her feet. “You do what works for you, Mr. Brant,” she says. “I’ll do what works for me.”
And she disappears into the bathroom.
I look over at Grace in the swing. She’s still awake, but her eyes are heavy.
“That’s why your friend here is stuck with a single business that she has to micromanage,” I tell the baby. “She can’t confidently delegate to her substandard workers.”
“I heard that!” Arianna calls out.
Grace’s eyes snap open.
“You woke the baby!” I shout back.
“You started it!” she says.
Bernard appears in the door frame. “Sir, a Helen Montgomery is here to see you.”
“Send her in,” I say. “Let’s see how she reacts to the baby.”
When Bernard steps aside, I realize she was right behind him and probably heard the entire exchange between Arianna and me.
I jump up from the floor. “Hello, Ms. Montgomery. Welcome.”
The girl is barely twenty, wisp thin, with blond hair down her back. She wears a pair of jeans and a striped shirt.
Not generally interview gear, but maybe she was already in the city when she got the call. I decide to overlook it.
We shake hands. Her grip is light, just the fingertips. I let this go as well. This is not a business transaction.
“Nice to meet you…” she trails off.
I realize she still doesn’t know my name. This is for the best. I don’t fill it in. No use having her spread gossip if she isn’t hired.
“Nice to meet you as well,” I say.
She spots the baby and makes a small ooooh sound. She kneels beside the swing to touch a white socked foot. “Such a pretty dress,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “So what work have you done with children?”
“Are you the father?” she asks.
I do not have an answer for that. Thankfully, Arianna saves me.
“Helen?” she says, stepping from the bathroom. “I’m Arianna Hart, owner of Del Gato Child Spa. My assistant Taylor contacted you.”
The girl seems relieved to see Arianna. “Yes. Thank you. I’ve subbed for you a few times. In the preschool. I’m getting my degree in early childhood education.”
“Wonderful,”
she says, taking a seat on the bench again. “Has your experience working with children been a good one?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “I have six brothers and sisters. I’m the oldest.” She rolls her eyes and flutters her hands. “So it was like job training from when I was old enough to hold a baby.”
I sit back. It’s interesting to watch Arianna take charge.
“Is that what motivated you to seek an early childhood degree?” she asks the girl.
“Sure,” Helen says, turning to look back at the baby. “It’s what I know best.”
Now a sense of annoyance rises in me. “Don’t you want to branch out?” I cut in. “See what else is out there? There’s more to life than spit-up and diapers.”
Both women look up. I’m towering over them, arms crossed, like a damn prison warden.
Arianna looks like she wants to ask me to leave, but technically, this is my interview.
“Oh, I agree,” Helen says. “But this is a good place to start.”
“Where can you go from here?” I ask. “Run a kiddie spa like Arianna here?”
Arianna stands up from the bench. “Mr. Brant has this interview under control.” She leans down to shake Helen’s hand. “Good luck.”
And she storms through the door without a backward glance at me.
Well, damn. “For the record,” I say to Helen as I also head for the door, “I didn’t say it was a bad thing. It was just a question.”
I take off down the hall, catching up with Arianna near the front door. “I didn’t mean that as an insult,” I say.
“Oh, really?” she shoots back. “Is my ‘kiddie spa’ too low a net worth for you? Are the only important people in your world the ones who are arrogant, rich, and total jerks?” She jabs my chest with each of the last few words.
I take her arm and pull her across the living room and into the study to avoid the sound carrying down the hall. “Arianna, you’re saving my skin today. I would not insult you.”
“You just did!”
Her color is high, cheeks flushed pink. I wonder if this is what she looks like after an orgasm. I have to shove that thought in a box to get it out of the way.