“Yeah, but I don’t care whether you hate me or not.”
“Ah. Well…your dog and your daughter. That’s a good start, eh?”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
Desai nodded with what may have been empathy, but that was probably reading way too much into the gesture.
“Allegra’s spending the night tonight. First time in my new house. I’m helping her with her Mother’s Day gift for Jillian.”
“That’s great.” Desai paused before he got to the heart of the matter, which Beau supposed they’d put off for long enough anyway. “Where should we start? With your foundation?”
“No.” Beau’s throat clamped down, as though it knew a painful interlude was coming and wanted to get started with the discomfort right away. He tried to swallow back the watermelon-sized lump, but it merely bobbed an inch or so and then settled right back where it’d been. “With Jillian.”
“What happened?”
“We had the ugliest scene we’ve ever had in our entire relationship. And, believe me, that’s saying something.”
“What happened?” Desai asked again.
What happened? Beau’s heart had imploded. Again. He’d felt head-hanging shame for coming up here to the Atlanta area, moving in and upending Jillian’s world. He’d wondered, for the billionth time, what kind of sadomasochist he was, or whether he was outright insane. He’d decided that he was, in fact, insane, which was a small comfort because, hey, at least then he wasn’t fully in charge of his actions, right?
But Desai was still waiting for his answer.
“I went to her house last week when she was out on a—” the word dried out his mouth and thickened his tongue, even now “—date. The babysitter called because Allegra wouldn’t go to sleep without seeing me, so I went over and was still there when Jillian got back. She wasn’t real happy to see me. Let’s put it like that. She picked a fight. I did the mature thing for about half a second, and then I blew up, too, and escalated the situation.”
“I see.” Desai tilted back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling and considered God-knew-what. “Did Jillian’s reaction surprise you?”
“Yes,” Beau said, but that wasn’t the real answer, so he amended it. “No.”
“How did you escalate the situation?”
“I mentioned…”
Jesus, he was going to fall apart right here and start sobbing like a child getting a vaccination. Man up, Taylor. You can get through this.
“Take your time,” Desai said, which didn’t help.
He didn’t need sympathy right now. He needed someone to call him a punk so he’d get mad rather than let loose with this unbearable sadness again.
Squeezing his eyes between his thumb and forefinger, he ignored the proffered box of tissues in favor of several deep breaths.
There. Better. Just spit it out.
“I mentioned Mary.”
Chapter 12
The weight of the ensuing silence told Beau that Desai knew exactly what he was talking about and what this meant.
“Your firstborn,” Desai said gently.
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
Oh, come on. Beau jerked his head up as the wave of annoyance hit him. “Since you knew the name and have a copy of my file, I’m assuming you know what happened,” he snapped. “So why do we have to go through this exercise? You haven’t seen enough of your clients fall apart yet this morning?”
Unruffled—shit; what did it take to get under that guy’s skin?—Desai folded his hands in his lap, assuming a posture that clearly said he was prepared to sit there until gravity glued his butt to the seat, but he wouldn’t leave or end the session without hearing the story from Beau’s lips.
So Beau told him, aiming for a detached and clinical recitation of the bare facts. His voice barely worked.
“We tried to have kids for years. She had three miscarriages. Finally, she got pregnant again and it was the best time in our marriage, which had already been pretty great except for the miscarriages. We knew she was a girl. We named her Mary. I went to all the doctor’s appointments. I—”
He broke off, too choked up to continue. So much for detachment.
“—couldn’t keep my hands off her. I rubbed cocoa butter on her belly and feet and that sort of thing. We were really…happy.”
He wished his voice wouldn’t keep giving out on him like this. He felt like the world’s biggest idiot. Worse was the uncontrollable fidgeting, which had him shifting in his chair and running his hands through his hair and across the back of his neck. Man, he was a mess. A complete, unadulterated and unmitigated mess. No wonder Jillian wanted nothing to do with him.
“And then?” Desai prompted.
Maybe he needed one of those tissues after all. Jerking one from the box, he swiped it under his dripping nose and crumpled it in his fist.
“And then, in her thirty-seventh week, when the doctor checked her out and said that everything was fine and nothing was happening, I went to Canada for a two-day trade summit. And—”
His mouth was open, his tongue flapping, but the words refused to make an appearance. Just refused to come. It shouldn’t be this hard. Not after all this time.
“And?”
“And the baby stopped moving. I flew straight home for the delivery because they, you know, still have the woman go into labor and deliver and all. And I got there just in time to see the birth—only it wasn’t a birth, was it?—of a perfect little baby girl with an umbilical cord wrapped around her neck.”
Desai bowed his head, looking stricken. “I’m sorry.”
Beau shrugged. Sorry. Yeah. Everyone was sorry. And his daughter was still dead and they’d never even seen the color of her eyes.
He felt himself slipping again, wallowing in the darkest depths of despair when, after a short pause, Desai’s question pulled him back to the moment.
“Why would mentioning Mary escalate the argument you and Jillian had the other night?”
“Because…”
God, he was tired. So unspeakably tired to the depths of what was left of his soul. If only he could rest. If only getting through every day wasn’t such a terrible effort. If only they didn’t have to talk about this ordeal.
Beau forced himself to continue.
“Our marriage died the day Mary did. And it was dead for years before I ever had an affair.”
“No, Daddy. Don’t take my tiara.”
Allegra, the droopy-eyed princess, currently more asleep than awake, snuggled deeper into her fluffy new bed, clutched Archie the lion cub closer with one hand, and grasped the crystal tiara atop her curly head with the other. Across her knees, at the place he probably considered his birthright, sprawled Seinfeld, who watched Beau with drowsy interest.
Allegra was just-showered fresh, with silky purple pajamas and a fresh pink manicure that she’d insisted on applying herself. The thick and mostly smudged result was, as far as Beau could tell, an unmitigated disaster, but Allegra had been thrilled, and that was good enough for him. If she was happy, he was happy.
Staring down at her, Beau felt his heart swell to beach-ball size. His life needed some serious work, yeah, but with this one precious girl, he had the chance to get things right. She was bright and curious, beautiful and kind, funny and everything that was right with his world. The best parts of Jillian and him, mixed together into this precious angel.
With a tiara on her head.
One might think that a full day of princess-izing, followed by a Beauty and the Beast movie night with popcorn and Raisinettes, would be enough for a while, but no. This misguided child now thought she was going to sleep with that thing on her head. Maybe it was his fault; he’d certainly fussed and fawned over her tonight, and she had good reason to think he was wrapped around her little finger.
But that didn’t mean he was a complete pushover. Sometimes a man had to put his foot down. Beau had said no earlier, when she wanted to manicure his fingers and toes, and he wasn’t afra
id to say no now. It was all part of the dad gig.
“I told you before,” he said, reaching for the tiara, “that you can’t sleep in this thing—”
“No-ooo—”
“—because it’s hard and it can poke you in the eye during the night. I don’t want to make any runs to the emergency room tonight. Do you?”
Allegra wasn’t one to concede a point when she didn’t have to.
“But, Daddy—”
“Anyway,” Beau continued, playing his trump card, “you don’t want to bend it. How would you look—a princess with a bent tiara?”
That did it. With a dark, unintelligible mutter, Allegra dropped her hand, allowing Beau to pull the tiara free and untangle it from her hair. Then she fought the sleep for just a few seconds longer.
“Love you, Daddy.”
God, she just killed him. “I love you, too, baby.”
After Beau pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, she snuffled and settled, and then, with an abruptness that was exactly like flipping a light switch, fell asleep.
Beau stayed right where he was, on the edge of the bed, watching her and stroking her tissue-soft little cheek. Was it strange for a grown man to be this wildly in love with his little girl? If so, he was the king of strange and would be happy to sit here all night, keeping watch.
But…he still had a foundation to run and applicant files to review.
He was reaching for his cane and getting his feet under him when Seinfeld raised his head and cocked it, listening. Ears perked, he looked to Beau and emitted a low woof. Beau, who had learned to pay attention to woofs, waited.
Another woof, and then a soft knock at the front door.
Ah. Visitor.
Without bothering to be quiet—Allegra slept with the utter, unmoving stillness of a vampire in her coffin during the daylight hours—he went downstairs. His leg protested the steps, as always. As always, he ignored the pain. Tried to, anyway. Seinfeld, who lived for a new adventure or friend, trotted alongside him, tags jangling and tail wagging.
Opening the front door to the sultry Georgia twilight, Beau got the surprise of his life. Jillian stood under the porch light, with a big pink and yellow box in her hands and an unreadable expression in her wide dark eyes.
This was the first time they’d seen each other since the big blowup—Barbara Jean shuttled Allegra back and forth between their houses—and he had no idea what to expect. But she did not, for once, look like she wanted to do him grievous bodily injury with some medieval implement of torture.
She didn’t even look angry. She just looked…like Jillian.
“Hi,” she said.
Though his chest had seized up at the sight of her, he managed not to stammer. Drawing on all his wits and mental acuity, he managed one syllable:
“Hi.”
Wow. They’d each spoken a word to each other, and there’d been no yelling or screaming, no bloodshed or recriminations. Who said miracles didn’t happen?
She seemed as stymied by this new civility as he felt, and an uncomfortable beat or two passed during which neither of them risked breaking the peace. Maybe he should just say goodnight and shut the door. His day couldn’t end on a better note than this, right?
“Can I, ah…come in?”
In? His spirits rose with unbridled and unreasonable joy, as though world peace had just broken out. Jillian wanted to come in? To his house? Was this some sort of cruel hallucination?
“Ah,” he said, sure there was a catch of some sort. She probably wasn’t here to see him. She probably wanted to kiss Allegra good-night or inspect her new room for suitability. She wouldn’t come down here to see him and he was a fool for hoping otherwise. “Sure. But Allegra’s asleep already, so—”
Jillian nodded with unmistakable satisfaction, surprising him again. “I don’t want to see Allegra. I want to see you.”
She wanted to see him? Jesus, God.
He couldn’t speak, so he led her into the living room, where they sat on opposite ends of the long leather sofa. She set the box on her lap and stared around the room in a silent assessment of his decorating skills.
He, on the other hand, stared unabashedly at her, afraid to ask what she was doing there or even if she wanted some iced tea. What if his voice jarred her to her senses and she decided to leave? No. Best to sit with his lips together and soak up her presence while he could. That, and pray it took her an hour or two to start talking.
Finally, she delivered her verdict. “The room is really pretty. I like it.”
The room. Right. It was a start, he supposed. And a compliment, so that was good. Looking around, he saw what she saw: the leather sofa and love seats, rattan chairs and ottomans, entertainment center and bookshelves, lamps, mirrors and pillows.
“Thanks. I can’t take credit, though. It’s Pottery Barn 101. I just ordered one of everything.”
“Oh,” she said, and looked down at her box.
His stupid leg chose that exact moment to tighten up in a spasm, which made him grimace despite all his best efforts not to. Great. Nothing like appearing to be an invalid in front of the woman you most wanted to impress.
When she opened her mouth to ask the obligatory question about how he was doing, he headed her off with an impatient wave and a voice that was sharper than he’d meant it to be. Nothing made him see red quicker than Jillian’s pity.
“It’s fine,” he snapped. “And you didn’t come here to check my medical status.”
Brilliant, Taylor. Way to encourage her to stay and talk. Why not just kick her out and be done with it? Maybe threaten to call the police?
“No.” Reaching for the gold locket around her neck, she gently rubbed it between her fingers the way a pilgrim might handle the Holy Grail, and he had another of those can’t-breathe moments of unbearable waiting. “I came to talk about Mary.”
Stupefied, he gaped for a good long time, five seconds at least. She…came to talk about Mary? Is that what he just heard?
“What did you say?”
“I thought maybe we could—” she broke off, stroking a hand over the top of the box in a loving caress that was so painful to see it nearly made his eyes bleed “—go through some of her things. I know you don’t have any…mementos of her.”
No. He didn’t. He’d started to ask for something a million different times, but he’d figured he had a better chance of growing flippers than getting Jillian to give him anything of Mary’s.
But now here she was, offering on her own. And he was so ridiculously grateful he’d probably end the evening by dropping to the floor and slobbering wet kisses all over her feet.
“Thank you,” he said.
She ducked her head as though she were as overwhelmed by this peaceful moment between them as he was. There might even have been the beginnings of a smile on the corner of her lips, but it was gone before he could get a bead on it.
With a deep breath—yeah, he also felt like he needed an oxygen mask right about now, and that was the truth—she opened the box.
Everything inside had been wrapped with extreme care in pristine white tissue paper, layers and layers of it. Smoothing those back with careful fingers, Jillian revealed a beautiful crocheted blanket of soft baby colors, blue and green, yellow and pink.
God. It was a shock—a jab right to his solar plexus. So much so that he had to blink against that pretty little blanket and give his eyes time to adjust. But…there was no adjusting. No amount of preparation that could make him ready for this.
This was the blanket made with love by one of the elderly members of their church, a woman with fingers so knotted with arthritis it was a miracle she could pick up a needle, much less produce anything this intricate and lovely. This was the blanket the woman had made for them to use when they brought their newborn home from the hospital. This was the blanket they’d never used.
Reaching out, he brushed the fluffy softness before he caught himself and stopped. He couldn’t…he shouldn’t…
“Go ahead,” Jillian said.
Their gazes caught across the top of the box, and there were tears shimmering in her warm eyes…tears layered over understanding and empathy. And that was all the permission he needed.
He reached out again, filled to the brim with so much heartbreak and reverence that he couldn’t keep it inside. Pulling the blanket to his face—God, it was soft…so soft—he pressed his mouth to it and used it to catch some of his emotion, as if that were possible.
Mary. He missed her. If only he could see her again and hold her, just once. If only he knew what color her eyes had been. If only—
Jillian shifted closer and took the other end of the blanket in her hands and held it. It was almost like she wanted to offer comfort, maybe, or to touch him, but this was as close as she’d allow herself to get.
“Look.” Rifling through the box, she produced a tiny pair of pink suede shoes with white flowers on the sides. “She could have worn these when she learned to walk. They’re flexible and easier on a baby’s toes…”
Man up, Taylor. With a quick swipe of his eyes, he took the shoes and kissed them, grinning. They were so silly. So precious.
“Here’s a bathing suit.”
A what? “You’re kidd—”
No, she wasn’t kidding. Jillian passed over a minuscule one-piece with horrifying pink and orange cats on it and a ruffle around the bottom.
He took it, wondering what the world was coming to. “Why on earth—?”
Jillian shot him the exasperated look that was as familiar as his own face in the mirror when he shaved. “You know they start babies swimming early, Beau. They’re supposed to get comfortable with the water.”
He’d have to take her word for it. Kissing the bathing suit, he waited for the next thing. But when Jillian pulled it out of the box, he had another one of those baseball-bat-to-the-gut moments of shock. So much for manning up.
It was one of those little pajama outfits, with feet. Yellow and white with a bow at the top and snaps on the insides of the legs for changing diapers.
He took it into his lap. Stared. Cried again, with shaking shoulders and the whole embarrassing deal. Jillian kept her head bowed and said nothing, but he could almost swear he felt her edge even closer, to the point that her body heat registered all up and down his side.
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