Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  “MOODY?” I scream.

  “Cookie?” Dec asks, holding the plate to me again.

  I burst into tears.

  And then I gasp, bending over slightly, my crying interrupted by a fierce, strange sensation.

  Instantly, Dec’s arms are on me, holding me, his worried voice in my ear. “What’s wrong?”

  I grab his hands and slide them to my belly, slung low.

  “Wait. Shhhhh,” I tell him.

  We stand in holy silence.

  It happens. “Can you feel it?” I ask him, the fizzy feeling inside taking on shape. Edges.

  Boundaries.

  “The baby!” he calls out. “He moved!”

  A rush of stampeding rhinoceroses surround me.

  Oh. Hold on. That’s just my family.

  I’m cry-laughing as the baby does a little kick. A push, and then goes still.

  “You didn’t tell me you were feeling movement,” Dec says, his face filled with delight.

  “I just felt little bubbles inside. Like flutters. This is the first time the baby moved enough to really tell.”

  “That’s my boy.” Dec drops to his knees and puts his lips on my navel. “Hi baby. This is your daddy speaking.”

  I close my eyes. Nothing.

  “He’s not a circus performer. You’re not getting a show on command,” Carol says, her arms crossed as she leans against the buffet. “Have fun over the next couple weeks. Take a half-full bowl of water and put it on your belly in bed. Watch the waves.”

  “Just thinking about that makes me need to pee. Thanks,” I say, starting to walk to the bathroom, stopping, grabbing two more mint cookies, then hoofing it.

  Mouth full of sweet pastry, I finish emptying my bladder, and as I wash my hands, I feel it again.

  I look down.

  “Hi, baby. This is your mommy speaking,” I say. The woman I face in the mirror looks more and more like a mother, less and less like Shannon, coming into a self uncharted, a person I’ve had inside me all along and am finally getting to know.

  And you know what?

  She’s beautiful.

  Chapter 13

  Declan

  * * *

  Waking up next to Shannon is like Christmas morning already. The fact that it is actually Christmas makes it doubly exciting. Sappy? Sure.

  But true.

  I insisted that this year, Christmas is all about us. Later today, we’ll make the annoying drive out to Mendon and spend the day with family. Dad is off in Costa Rica at a resort. Andrew and Amanda took Pam on a special trip to visit some relative of theirs in Oregon. Terry’s in Mexico at a conference that explores consciousness and creativity, which I suspect is more herb-driven than art-driven.

  It’s the perfect year to spend the holiday with as little involvement from others as possible.

  I kiss Shannon’s shoulder blade as she turns over, obviously starting to awake. “Is it time to get up?”

  “Only if you want to.” My hand goes under the sheet, finding the rounded top of her belly. As she moves, her loose breast rolls over the back of my hand, trapping it in a delicious warmth that makes me smile.

  I don’t move.

  Why the hell would I?

  Yesterday we took in the Holiday Pops at Symphony Hall. Shannon asked to go, and this is the first year I didn’t come up with some excuse. Mom took us every year, faithfully, making Dad break away from work for the holiday tradition. I haven’t had the heart to explain this to Shannon, the feeling too painful. I will.

  Some day.

  Just not now.

  “Coffee?” I ask her as she sits up, her pajama shirt stretched down low, one gorgeous boob begging to be kissed. I restrain myself.

  “Merry Christmas,” she says with a yawning stretch, arms over her head, that breast looking me right in the eye, nipple attentive like it’s saying, Hey there, old friend.

  Shannon reaches for a hug. I give it a handshake.

  “That’s one way to wake me up.”

  “That’s the best way to wake you up,” I correct her.

  “Coffee first. Inappropriate passes second.”

  “What if I think your priorities are out of order?”

  “I cannot have this discussion without caffeine, Declan.”

  “So it’s up for debate?” I call over my shoulder as I go into the kitchen. I’m not stupid. If caffeine is her aphrodisiac of choice this morning, coffee it is.

  Wrapped in a red bathrobe with white and green tassels all over the cuffs and pockets, Shannon comes into the kitchen and gives me a cheek kiss just as I start the coffee machine. “We have wood, right?” she asks.

  I look down at my pajama bottoms. “Sure do.”

  “I meant real wood.”

  I point.”What do you call this?”

  “You want me to stack that with kindling and newspaper and set it on fire?”

  “Why would you even suggest that?” I curl my pelvis away from her. “Have you been reading those feminist dystopian novels again? Like the one where women spontaneously have electricity inside them?”

  “I wish I did,” she says as she starts a fire in the fireplace. “I could just bzzzzt!” She holds her index finger and thumb an inch apart. “Light this.”

  That sound she made makes my butt clench.

  “This is such a cheery Christmas topic,” I call out over the brewing coffee. For our first cup, we’ll do drip. Next cup: pour over. Before we head to Marie and Jason’s: triple espresso.

  Shannon’s laugh unclenches me. “Merry Christmas, honey. Let’s talk more about setting your penith on fire.” The mispronunciation takes me back a few years, to when our oldest nephew, Jeffrey, had a lisp. A lithp, if you will. The reminder makes us both laugh, but it’s also tinged with a new feeling, one of shared history that has enough years to truly stretch back.

  “They were so little,” she says, eyes bright and wistful. “Now they’ll be big cousins to our little one. I remember when Jeffrey was born. I was still in high school. They can teach our baby how to play in the backyard. Walk them to the ice cream stand in the summer. Go to the creek at the state park and throw rocks. Mom and Dad are going to love having a house full of grandchildren.”

  “Three isn’t exactly full,” I point out.

  “We want more, right?” she asks candidly.

  “Yes.”

  We smile at each other, lost in emotion.

  The coffee beeps.

  Priorities.

  Soon, we’re in front of a roaring fire, the leather couch softening with body heat, Chuckles taking his place of honor in my lap as we finish our first mugs of coffee. The moment is almost too good to ruin by moving, but Shannon stands and plucks our now-full stockings off the mantel.

  “When did you fill these?” I ask her.

  “After you went to bed.”

  “Anything good in there?”

  “Look and find out.”

  We reach into our respective stockings and find sealed envelopes. Mine is red. Hers is white. Mine has my name on it in her handwriting. Hers has her name on it in mine.

  This is our true Christmas gift to each other.

  Baby names.

  Shannon asked me to write my top five choices on a card. She did the same. We put them in each other’s stockings.

  Not my idea. Trust me.

  Not.

  My.

  Idea.

  This is booby trap material for a guy. Landmine times a thousand. Admiral Ackbar in Star Wars “It’s a trap!” level.

  Because none of the names I want for our child is going to be what Shannon wants.

  And therein lies the rub.

  “You go first,” she says in that high, raspy voice that says she’s excited.

  I open the note slowly, avoiding paper cuts. No use in injuring myself even more. Whatever comes next is going to hurt no matter what.

  “Wait.” I look at her. “Open yours, too. Let’s do this simultaneously.”

  “Like orga
sms!”

  “Yeah. Exactly like orgasms, Shannon.”

  Eagerly, she opens her card. I open mine. My eyes orient to the first name.

  She gasps.

  We burst out laughing.

  “Phineas?” I choke out.

  “Phineas?” she giggles.

  “FINN?” we shout together.

  She points to the card I gave her. “You even did it the same way I did! You wrote ‘Finn’ in parentheses next to Phineas!”

  “Is this – is this some kind of joke, Shannon? Did you read my card and just -- ”

  “NO! I swear! I cannot believe this.” Gripping my knees, she glows with happiness. “You really like the name Phineas? Finn for short?”

  “It’s an old, old McCormick family name,” I confess. “And it’s become more popular lately. A nickname like Finn won’t get him teased. I was saddled with Declan long before it became popular. I was always jealous of Andrew. That’s an easy name.”

  “What about Terry?”

  “He got teased for having a ‘girl’ name.”

  “Kids are mean.”

  “They’re meaner when you give them something to pick at.”

  “Adults are just as bad,” she sighs.

  “Shannon isn’t the kind of name that is easy to poke at.”

  “No. Kids in school found other reasons to tease me.” She points at her breasts.

  And... now I’m staring at her breasts.

  By direct invitation.

  “Is it really that easy?” she asks.

  “To stare at your rack?”

  “Declan!”

  “What?”

  “I’m talking about baby names!”

  “Oh. Right. I think it is.”

  “Phineas McCormick. Finn McCormick. I love it. How about Phineas Declan McCormick.”

  “It has a nice ring.”

  She frowns. “This is eerie. Every baby book talks about how the name is one of the biggest sources of conflict for expectant parents.”

  Gesturing at the cards, I shrug. “Seems easy enough. We both like the same name. Done deal. Move on to the next issue.”

  “Presents!”

  “I was going to say sex.”

  “How about we have sex as a Christmas present?” she purrs, bending down so I get a great shot at her cleavage.

  “That depends.” I nuzzle her neck.

  “On what?”

  “Whether you belong in the naughty or the nice column.”

  “How about both?”

  “Then we need to have twice as much sex.”

  “Is that one of Hot Santa’s rules?”

  “Yes. At the North Pole,” I say, moving her hand to it, “every list gets made and checked twice.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being checked,” she says, now breathlessly excited for a very different reason, “twice.”

  That is how we have the best Christmas ever.

  And our last without children.

  Chapter 14

  Shannon

  * * *

  “Don’t forget to come home by 5:30 tonight,” I remind Declan. “Or should I tell Dave?”

  Dec looks at his phone. “First childbirth class? It’s already on my phone. Six forty-five p.m.”

  “I love Dave.”

  “I love Dave more,” he says, giving me a quick kiss goodbye as he walks out of my office and into his. It’s only three in the afternoon, so we have plenty of time, but I know Declan. He’ll end up on the phone with some designer and soon they’ll be in deep talks about recycled barn wood for counters and how shiplap is hideous and we’ll be late.

  I don’t want to be late for childbirth class.

  After he leaves, I stare at my long to-do list. It’s so long, my to-do list has a to-do list. My back aches and I’ve peed four times in the last ten minutes. I’m twenty-seven weeks along, and the novelty of this baby has worn off.

  The love is still there. The miracle of pregnancy, too. But as weeks pass and I gain a pound here, two pounds there, and as the baby seems to enjoy performing the Riverdance on my bladder, I’m starting to understand the later chapters of my pregnancy books.

  That whole concept that by week forty you’ll tolerate being split in half just to get it all over with? It seems ludicrous at six weeks.

  Now? Not so much.

  I grab my phone and text Amanda.

  Covert mission? I type.

  I can be there in ten, she replies instantly.

  I need twenty. I’m moving slower, I answer.

  I’ll order for you. She adds a winkie face.

  That’s a bestie right there.

  Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I grab my coat and scarf. As I walk out of the office building, I peek into the coffee shop. A toddler is playing in the new gated area for parents and kids, his fat little hands pushing a train on a table. The wall around it is high, the couches low but against the wall, giving parents a cocoon. Dec thinks it won’t last long-term in this location, given how expensive square footage is, but for our more suburban sites, it’ll be perfect. The mommy crowd is our perfect demographic: people who really need caffeine, who don’t mind spending $4 on a small luxury, and who need an escape-proof place for their little kids.

  And I’m about to be that demographic.

  Outside, the crisp air awakens me instantly, spirits recharging even if my joints are aching. Hips that used to be dependable have become road hazards, occasionally aching to the point of dysfunction. My spine feels strange inside my own skin as every cell in my body changes constantly, my weight distribution making kinetics feel off. I turn right, cross the bridge, and then wonder if I should be in disguise.

  By the time I am about to enter the competitor’s coffee shop, full-blown panic has taken over. When a stranger taps my elbow, I let out a little scream.

  “Shannon! It’s me!” Amanda hisses. In my startling, I knocked her hand holding a drink, a few drops leaking out the drink hole and down the side of the white cup with the logo.

  “Oh! Sorry!”

  “I went in for you. You don’t even have to be seen in there.” She tilts her head. “No worries.”

  Grateful, I gather the elixir from her and take a sip. “Mmmmmm.”

  “I can’t believe Declan won’t do pumpkin-flavored coffee drinks at Grind It Fresh!” she tsk tsks.

  “It’s not that he won’t. He can’t find a flavored syrup provider who meets his quality control standards.”

  “He lost out on peppermint latte season! You’re bypassing important seasonal demographics!”

  “Tell that to him.”

  “I already did. He told me long-term quality was more important than fads.”

  Sip.

  We start to wander-walk, that kind of ambling you do with a good friend, where neither of you picks a direction, but you start to have some sense of purpose anyhow.

  “You’ve been hiding this from Declan?”

  “Yes. Of course. It’s just until he gets the right pumpkin supplier.”

  “You have a really dysfunctional relationship with coffee and your husband. You’re an unstable threesome.”

  “Stop!” Sip. “And besides, I’ll just drink this before I go back. He never has to know.”

  Bzzzz.

  My phone. A text from Declan. There is an HR specialist waiting for you for a meeting at 3:15. Did you forget? Where are you?

  “Damn!” I curse. I give Amanda a frantic look. “I forgot a meeting back at the office!”

  She shoos me. “Go! Go! We’ll talk about those mystery shops later.” She kisses her hand, puts it on my big old belly, and runs off, back to Anterdec and her office.

  I peel off and walk quickly back to mine, hiding my drink under my coat. When I walk into the small waiting area outside our offices, no one is there.

  “Hello?” I call out. Instead of a woman, Declan appears.

  “Hey! That was quick. Where were you?”

  “Just, uh, went for a walk. Get some exercise and clear my h
ead. You know. Keep the blood pumping and prevent blood clots!”

  “Should we be worried about blood clots now?” he asks.

  “Not if I keep doing these walks!” I’m so cheerful, I could audition for a children’s show hosting gig and nail it in three seconds. “Where’s the HR woman?”

  “I took care of it.”

  “You did?”

  “Sure. She just needed some signatures for the new payroll and benefits system you acquired.”

  My body starts to feel heavy with a loose anger I’m not sure I am supposed to feel. “You took care of it? The HR project I’ve been working on for weeks?”

  “She needed signatures.”

  “She needed discussion.”

  “Oh. I know. We had a brief chat. She brought me up to speed and I made a snap decision.”

  “You made my snap decision.”

  “Shannon.” Once in a while, Declan has this way of talking to me. It’s a mannerism that has faded over time, but it rises up once in a while. Now is one of those times. “You were drawing it out. Bigger accounts require bigger decisions. I handled it my way. You can take it from here.”

  Every part of him gives me a visceral feeling that his father has just inhabited his body, right down to the way Declan just cleared his throat and looked sideways at the clock, as if I’m wasting his time.

  “Thanks for the mansplaining,” I tell him.

  “Oh, come on. Not that old canard. You can’t dismiss everything I say that you don’t like as ‘mansplaining.’”

  “This is worse than mansplaining! You’re, you’re… Jamesplaining!”

  “Jamesplaining?” Declan leans in, his face filled with the kind of wretched concern you express toward a deranged person who is babbling gibberish. I know that face.

  I make it toward my mother all the time. Which means he has no right to co-opt that face and use it on me.

  “It’s when you mansplain and sound like your father!” I shout. “And when you look at me like that!”

  His fingers rush up to his chin, bumping up to his nose. “Like what?”