The Baby (The Boss #5)

by Abigail Barnette

  “Hey, maybe don’t…hug Neil,” I said quietly as I closed the door behind me. “He’s…”

  “No, no. I understand. I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I just…”

  She was just unemployed and soon-to-be homeless.

  This was the kind of thing we would have to think about from now on. The mundane details that death left behind. There was no way Neil could deal with all those things, right now. Who would it fall to? Me? I couldn’t handle that, either, just from inexperience.

  “I get it,” I assured her.

  The house looked exactly the way I imagined a house would look when two tired working parents and a baby lived in it. I knew they had a housekeeper—yet another person we’d have to break the news to and unemploy—but life had happened here, evidenced by stacks of diapers on the coffee table, a basket of unfolded laundry, a plate with crumbs on it balanced on the arm of the easy chair.

  This was their life, existing without them.

  The door opened, and Neil entered quickly, getting the shock over with like jumping into a cold pool. “Where’s Olivia?”

  “Upstairs,” Laura said. “She didn’t sleep well. Even when they go out, they’re usually there in the night to feed her. They like to do that themselves.”

  Hearing her refer to Emma and Michael in the present tense was almost more painful than thinking of them in the past tense.

  “The social worker is going to come to meet with us here,” I explained. “We’re Olivia’s legal guardians, now.”

  Laura nodded. “You’re taking her that fast, huh?”

  “She’s my granddaughter. Of course we would want to have her with us as soon as we possibly could,” Neil said tersely.

  Laura’s face went positively ashen.

  “We’ll need help, of course,” I cut in. “How do you feel about the Hamptons?”

  She tried to crack a smile. “That’s a very generous offer. And I know it would be good for Olivia. But my boyfriend is almost done with grad school, and—”

  “No, don’t worry about it.” I tried to comfort her. “I know it’s going to be hard to say goodbye. I promise we’ll send you pictures, emails…only if you want them.”

  “And we’ll write you a glowing reference,” Neil offered, contrite. “I’m sorry if I was…brusque—”

  “No, I get it.” Laura slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Since you guys are here, though, maybe I’ll head downstairs and start packing?”

  “Take all the time you need,” Neil urged her. “We can’t even begin to consider things like closing up the house or selling it, at this point. We can certainly wait for you to find other accommodations.”

  Laura nodded. I got the feeling, though, that she wouldn’t want to stay for long. The place already felt like a tomb.

  She handed us the baby monitor, and Neil juggled it between his hands, his gaze flicking toward the staircase.

  “Go,” I said quietly. He needed to see his granddaughter.

  I took off my coat and sat on the couch, like I’d done a million times. This time, it was like barging into a stranger’s house and making myself at home. There was no one around to say, “Have a seat,” or “let me take your coat.” I was trespassing.

  A whiney snort came over the baby monitor, followed by the sound of Neil’s voice softly murmuring something. My heart lurched, and I suddenly needed to see Olivia as badly as he had, just to reassure myself that she was all right.

  Olivia’s nursery was at the top of the stairs. I knocked softly on the doorframe, though the door was open. Neil stood beside the crib, his coat tossed over the side. He held Olivia, still clad in the weird little bag she slept in that made her look like a starfish, against his shoulder, but she lifted her head when I came in. Her chubby face transformed into a wide smile of joy at seeing me, but then, she looked past me.

  She was looking for her mom or dad.

  Neil’s eyes were red and wet with tears he was trying—and failing—to hold back. “I don’t know how to tell her. Or if I tell her.”

  “She’s definitely going to notice that they’re gone,” I whispered, like she couldn’t hear me or she would understand what “gone” meant with regards to people. “I guess…we call somebody? Do they make therapists for babies?”

  Despite the grimness of the situation, he managed a slight smile. “Do they make therapists for people who are addicted to therapy?”

  “Oh, shush. I’m being serious.” I stood beside him and laid my hand on Olivia’s back. “You poor thing.”

  “No,” Neil corrected me gently. “We’re not going to do that to her. We’re not going to raise a pitiable orphan. This can’t influence her entire life.”

  It would influence her entire life, but Neil was right. We had to minimize the scope of that influence.

  “There’s something I meant to ask you,” Neil says, his voice going tight. “On the way over. I thought you might… I don’t know what Michael’s family would prefer, but perhaps, you might find some of Emma’s clothes, something for her to wear…”

  Something for her to wear in her casket. Oh, god, I can’t do this.

  “Don’t you think Valerie might want to be the one to choose?” I suggested. Sure, I knew Emma’s style, but it was more or less from observation. That didn’t mean I could accurately judge what she would want to spend eternity in.

  She’s not going to spend eternity in it, I scolded myself. She’d just be wearing it until they were cremated. Which brought up a whole new ball of issues. Were there rules about what she could wear?

  I didn’t want to bring up that gruesome topic with Neil, and especially not in front of Olivia. So, I said, “Yeah, sure,” and left the room.

  Down the hallway, with its impeccably shiny new dark wood flooring, was Emma and Michael’s bedroom. The light was off, but the door was open. Inside, curtains covered the window, blocking all but the faint light spilling around the edges. I felt around for the light switch and clicked it on.

  Was there anything more intensely personal than going into a person’s bedroom without them? I felt like I was doing something wrong. I opened the walk-in closet and turned on the light.

  Though her father owned two fashion magazines, suits that cost more than an average American family’s annual income, and enough shoes to outfit a whole army of millipedes, Emma hadn’t inherited any of that sartorial excess. She was one of those women who had outfits that worked for her, multiples of flattering things in different colors, and components that could be mixed for various looks. Nothing screamed, “Send me to my final rest!” to me. Not that I expected someone my age to have picked out her funeral duds and carefully set them aside.

  I couldn’t make the decision. Instead, I pulled out several things I thought might work, arranged them side by side on the bed, and would make Valerie choose the winner. Something about the speed at which everything was moving made it feel like she was being left out of her daughter’s death. Probably just because of the baby.

  Did she even know, yet?

  I headed downstairs, thinking to step into the kitchen and quietly phone her, but as I passed the front door, someone rang the bell.

  “I bet that’s the social worker,” Laura called from the kitchen. “I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks.” I made the trek back up the stairs and to the nursery.

  Neil sat in the rocking chair beside the crib, holding Olivia in the crook of his arm. She gazed up at him sleepily, fighting unconsciousness. She gripped the index finger of his other hand in her tiny fist, and he stroked the back of her chubby little arm with his thumb.

  “Your daddy loves you very much. And your mummy…your mummy was the very best girl in the world.” He sniffed. “You’re going to come live with Afi and Sophie, and you won’t want for anything. But we’ll never be the same as your mummy and daddy.”

  Olivia gurgled and gave him a sleepy smile.

  “Hey, Neil?” I asked softly, alerting him to my presence
. “The social worker is here.”

  He stared straight ahead, then blinked and got to his feet, still cradling Olivia in his arm. I understood his hesitation. When we put this whole “legal guardian” thing in motion, that was it. There was no going back to the time when Emma and Michael were her parents. Sure, that was true even if we didn’t sign papers and go to court or whatever hellish thing this process would entail, but it seemed like we should be able to just stomp on the brake a second and ease into this.

  There was no easing where death was concerned. It was a difficult lesson, and I seemed to be learning it a little more every minute.

  * * * *

  After our brief meeting with the social worker, Neil and I worked with Laura to pack up the essentials. We would make arrangements to have all of Olivia’s things delivered to the house in Sagaponack, but at the moment, we just took what we could carry in the cab. A few changes of clothes, her bottles, and some formula Laura ran out to pick up for us. We would have to feed Olivia formula until we could get in touch with a milk bank. Emma would be furious with us.

  We also wrangled Olivia’s car seat and playpen into the taxi, and Neil tipped the driver obscenely well when we arrived back at the apartment. The guy probably could have called off the rest of his shift with the wad of cash Neil had thrust upon him.

  By the time we reached the apartment, Olivia was done. I knew she hated the car, but I’d had no idea how much. She was frantic by the time we got upstairs, and I was on the verge of tears with her. Thank god Neil hadn’t lost his dad skills. He mixed up a bottle of the formula like he’d just done it yesterday, tested it on his arm, and calmed her with a gentle voice so she could settle down and actually eat. All the while, I watched in fascination. Would I ever be able to do that? There was some kind of unspoken language between them that I suspected hinged upon his ease around infants that reassured them they weren’t in danger of being dropped or poisoned.

  The house seemed so weird with a baby in it. Though Olivia fell asleep right after Neil gave her the bottle, I remained on high alert. I couldn’t relax; my mind was focused to a pin-point—a painful state to be in with all this fresh grief—but my body was exhausted. It was like I’d been double fisting Red Bull after twenty-six hours without sleep.

  If I was exhausted, Neil was entirely depleted. He sat in one of the armchairs in the living room, Olivia sleeping against his shoulder. After a massive burp, she’d just kind of lost consciousness. A little bit of formula glazed the corners of her slack mouth.

  Neil tipped his head to rest gently against hers. His voice was hoarse when he said, “I think I’ll put her down in the bedroom and try to sleep, myself. Before we have to go to the…”

  To the funeral home He didn’t have to say it. I was glad he didn’t.

  I should have tried to get some rest, too, but I found myself pacing around, moving from one room to the next, my mind whirling. Olivia was going to live with us. Like, forever. There would be parent/teacher conferences. There would be terrible twos and coloring on the walls. Everything would be sticky.

  But there would also be back-to-school shopping and Barbie. I had loved Barbie. Or, if Olivia turned out to really be a boy, there would be sports and video games—well, not that a girl Olivia couldn’t do those things. Either way, I saw a future full of baby dolls and Hot Wheels cars and Lego—

  Oh, god. I was going to step on a Lego. There was no way we could get through eighteen years without stepping on a Lego.

  Eighteen years. Neil would be, what? Seventy? Seventy-one? And we would have a teenager in the house. And what if something happened, his cancer came back or something? It wasn’t as if he would just get over it a second time and everything would be fine. I could end up a single mom, or single mom-ish. I’d never wanted that. It had been a part of my rationale for not going through with my pregnancy in the first place.

  And, now, we were parents, sort of.

  My throat stuck shut, and I had to go to the kitchen for some water. I braced my hands on the counter and stared into space. Olivia wasn’t for us. She was for Emma and Michael. How could we ever step into their shoes?

  I called Holli and Deja and broke the news. They tried to be comforting, but I was in such shock, I probably came across as ungrateful. I ended the call with a promise to contact them if we needed anything—everyone wanted to help if we needed anything—but when we hung up, I regretted it, because I was alone, again.

  I wanted to be alone, but I didn’t at the same time.

  I had to distract myself, so I went to the TV room and mindlessly watched brides saying yes to their dresses for an hour and a half.

  A flower delivery came while Neil and Olivia napped. The doorman brought it up and expressed his condolences. I’m sure I said something in return. I just couldn’t remember what; my brain was practically leaking out of my ears. I placed the flowers on the table in the foyer and opened the card.

  It was from Stephen Stern.

  I crumpled it in my fist. How dare he? He may have been Emma’s uncle, but he was a rapist and a sociopath. I grabbed the arrangement and hurried through the house with it like it was a bomb. I went down the service stairs, found the garbage chute, and stuffed the flowers and card down. Then, I went back upstairs. I paced the living room and counted to ten before I made a phone call.

  “Doctor Harris’s office,” the receptionist answered.

  “I need to speak to Doctor Harris immediately,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  “I’m sorry, the doctor is—”

  “This is Sophie Scaife, calling about my husband, Neil Elwood. I believe he and Doctor Harris have some kind of emergency arrangement—”

  “Hold, please,” she said quickly, and like that, the line switched, and Dr. Harris came on.

  “Sophie? What can I help you with?” he asked, concerned but calm.

  “Neil’s daughter…” My throat clogged. I struggled through my hoarseness. “Neil’s daughter has passed away.”

  There was a brief pause before the doctor said, “I’m so sorry to hear that. But, while this is undoubtedly a difficult time for your whole family, I have to remind you that I’m not able to discuss my patients’ therapy—”

  “That’s not what I wanted,” I assured him. “You arranged a meeting between him and Stephen Stern. Which means you probably have his number.”

  “Neil is going to attempt to inform Mr. Stern himself?” Dr. Harris asked.

  He was right to worry; just seeing the flowers would have killed Neil. “No. Stephen has reached out to Neil. He sent flowers and card, which I intercepted, thank god. I just want his number so I can call him and tell him he’s not welcome at the funeral.”

  Dr. Harris’s indrawn breath was audible on the phone. “Ms. Scaife—”

  “Please.” My voice cracked. I would have liked to remain assertive, but the day had been too much already. “Please. I promise I’ll make Neil call you. But you can’t mention this to him. I just want it to be done.”

  I knew Dr. Harris was reluctant, but I sent every desperate mental plea I could manage over the line. Finally, after a few seconds of silence, he said, “I’ll transfer you back to my secretary. She’ll give you the number.”

  “Thank you,” I breathed, slumping against the wall.

  “And I won’t mention this to Neil. But I would like it if you could convince him to call me. In his own time, of course.”

  “I promise I will. He’s going to need you.”

  The secretary gave me the number, as promised. I checked on Neil, to make sure he was still asleep. He lay in our bed, Olivia in her playpen beside him. Neither stirred, so I crept out and closed the door until just before it latched. I went to the kitchen and sat down, because my knees trembled. I glanced up at the clock. It was late in Scotland, but I had no idea where in the world jet-setting celebrity Stephen would be.

  Hopefully under an overpass, stabbed to death.

  I punched in the number and held my breath, fully expecting th
at it would go to voicemail. But someone answered. And I could recognize that voice, anywhere.

  “This is Stephen. Who is this?” he asked, sounding a bit peeved. I assumed people got his cell number all the time when he didn’t want them to, much in the way the press had gotten our number when Stephen’s stupid tell-all had come out.

  “This is Sophie Scaife. Neil Elwood’s wife,” I began. “I’m sure by now that your sister has spoken to you about Emma and Michael?”

  “Yes, of course she has,” he snapped. “Emma is my niece.”

  “Then, I assume Valerie will also share information about the funeral arrangements.” I barreled on before he could speak, again. “You are not welcome. I will be personally hiring extra security. If you show up, you’ll be escorted off the premises. Do you understand?”

  “Do you understand that Valerie is my sister, and she will need me at this difficult time?” I heard his sneer over the line. “If you think I’m going to stay away just because some little bitch threatened me—”

  A cold sweat broke out all over my skin, and my jaw clenched from the sudden adrenaline of my fury. “Do you understand that you fucking raped my fucking husband, and if I fucking see you at this fucking funeral, I will make your life a living hell?” I shouted. “Do not come here!”

  I was so out of control I ended the call by whipping my phone at the wall as hard as I could. It exploded into a jumble of broken glass and components, and I stared at it, still trembling all over.

  Now, I could add, “buy a new fucking phone” to my to-do list. Was I ever going to stop making things harder than they already were?

  CHAPTER SIX

  The funeral was on Friday.

  Neil stood before the mirror in the closet, the lighting overhead casting harsh shadows below his brow and cheekbones. The dark circles under his eyes weren’t a trick of the light, nor was the paleness of his complexion. He’d barely eaten anything all week, and he’d sat up nights with Olivia, as though he were standing guard.