“You are in charge of the art acquisitions for our homes, now,” I’d reminded her. The return look of love and amazement and wonder made me want to impregnate her all over again.
We’ve moved into our new townhome. Tiny insisted we keep the warehouse but we’re renting it out for the time being. Together we found a five-floor townhome on the Upper West Side close to Jake’s office. Tiny bikes to work most days with her bodyguard Marcie. I’ve hired two replacements for Louis, deciding that the work/life balance I am espousing couldn’t be easily achieved under the work load that Louis had toiled under alone.
After marrying Tiny, after learning of our impending parenthood, I reached out to Louis thinking to forgive and forget. In the intervening months, my fortune had righted itself. Gains overcame losses, and filled with misguided benevolence, I thought I would lend a helping hand to Louis. I’d heard that he was selling refinancing mortgage packages in Jersey.
But whether it was shame or anger or a mixture of both, Louis refused to meet with me and I let it go.
Today it’s Saturday and Tiny and I are going to take a trip to the Central Park Zoo and have lunch at the Boathouse. It was the first date we’d shared. Tiny argues it wasn’t a date but that I’d horned in on an outing with her mother.
Semantics.
We ate lunch together and I took them home. That’s a date.
“We should have dinner with Steve and his girlfriend,” Tiny says as we head down Central Park West.
“Steve broke up with his girlfriend so that would be challenging and awkward.”
“What? When did this happen? I feel out of the loop with Marcie. She doesn’t gossip at all.”
“And Steve did?” I ask incredulously.
“No, but I was getting to learn his Sphinx-like ways. Marcie is impenetrable. She could give lessons to those British soldiers in front of the palace. What happened?” she asks. “And don’t leave any details out.”
“He said it wasn’t working out. That’s the complete story as told to me by Steve.” I grin at her wrinkled nose. “Maybe you can kidnap him, tie him to a chair, and torture the details out of him. Actually, no, you shouldn’t do that. Tying him up sounds vaguely sexual.”
Tiny rolls her eyes. “Are you always going to assume that every man wants me even when I’m eighty, wrinkly, and my boobs are near my knees?”
“Yes and every man that doesn’t is simply not right in his head. I won’t be able to get enough of your geriatric ass.”
She laughs and my heart squeezes at the sound of her joy. Hugging her closer, I press a kiss at her temple. We don’t make it another two feet before she yelps in amazement.
“Look at that!” she says excitedly.
At the corner of Central Park West and Seventy-Second Street, a young woman is folding her bicycle into a compact arrangement of steel and rubber. Tiny hurries across the street, barely noticing traffic.
By the time I catch up, Tiny is already bent over inspecting the bike.
“I can’t believe how small it folds. And it’s comfortable you say?”
“I’m not going to bike any triathlons but it gets me places the subway can’t,” the girl responds. She flicks her gaze upward to acknowledge my arrival and then doesn’t look away. Her long perusal of my T-shirt-and-jean clad body is almost discomfiting. Tiny’s attention is, of course, still on the bike.
“Look at this Ian? Isn’t it cool and see how lightweight it is? It’s gorgeous.” She lifts her shining face toward me.
“I see something gorgeous,” I murmur softly. Tiny blushes under my gaze. Lifting the bike from her, I heft in my hand dutifully. “It’s very light.”
“I guess I don’t really need something like this,” she admits and hands the bike back to the girl.
“I’ll trade you the bike for your guy,” the girl says.
Tiny laughs in surprise and the slides her arm around my waist. “No, sorry. There’s only one Ian Kerr and I’m not giving him up.”
“Not for all the bikes in the world?” I joke.
“Not even for all the bikes in the galaxy,” she says and raises her beautiful face to me.
That’s a proper declaration.
Leaning forward, I kiss her to give her my own declaration of love. When I draw away, we’re the only ones on the street corner. The bike and the girl have left. And it’s just Tiny, me, and the sunshine. And the little one growing in Tiny’s belly. My life could not be more perfect.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to all the bloggers for their support and promotion of these books. Being a blogger is a true labor of love and I salute you.
The creation of a book does not happen in isolation. It comes about through the endless patience of the author’s family and friends.
I would never be able to finish a project without my husband who never hesitates to help me with anything—big or small. My daughter’s sweet hugs and words of encouragement are indispensable to a healthy mind.
If the inboxes of my friends such as Meljean Brook, Jessica Clare, and Katy Evans would ever be closed to me, I’d have to pack up this writing gig. Knowing that I’m not alone in this writing world is immeasurably encouraging.
The day after Father’s Day I got a call from my brother that my dad had passed. He suffered from mantle cell leukemia, a rare disease that is often late to be diagnosed because of the generality of symptoms that accompany the illness. I recall standing by my living room window thinking that it couldn’t be true because I’d just seen him yesterday. I had bought a cashmere blanket for him to use during treatment because it got cold during his long days of dialysis and chemo drips. But it was true. He was gone. The next time I saw my father was in a casket. I lived some distance away and I told my family not to wait for me to pull him off life support.
I don’t always remember that he’s gone. Sometimes I still think of him up north, tending his huge garden, going to the shooting range, and fishing in his favorite stream.
I guess he still is doing all of those things, just not in this realm.
Love you, Dad. Miss you so much.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jen Frederick is the USA Today bestselling author of Unspoken, part of the Woodlands series. She is also the author of the Charlotte Chronicles, which appeared on the Kindle Top 100 list. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, who keeps track of life’s details while she’s writing; a daughter, who understands when Mom disappears into her office for hours at a time; and a rambunctious dog who does neither.
Taking Control (Kerr Chronicles #2) Page 28