Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5)

by Krista Ritchie

  She completely and hopelessly loves our daughter.

  My grin stretches. I completely and hopelessly love them.

  Rose catches me staring, and I don’t pretend I wasn’t. As her eyes narrow, I hear her ice-cold voice. Richard.

  I reply through my gaze, Rose.

  “Sadie!” Jane calls out in glee. She almost slips off her booster seat to chase the orange tabby cat that prances beneath the table.

  “No, Jane,” I tell her before Rose can. “Wait for Sadie to come to you, honey.”

  Jane nods, remembering, and she sits still on her booster seat, but her eyes widen big and dart every which way the cat goes.

  Sadie rubs up against my ankles, purring softly. We brought her home over a year ago, and she’s been mostly content. She has temperamental days, but I can’t fault her for them. I scoot my chair back so I can lean down and scratch behind her ears.

  “What were you saying about Charlie and Beckett?” Rose asks Jane.

  “Oh well…” Jane tries to tear her gaze off Sadie beneath the table. “The Name Ceremony is all about names and…and I…I think Charlie and Beckett should know theirs.”

  She means the meaning behind their names. Jane likes hearing about her namesakes, and she often asks about Charlie and Beckett’s, so it’s no surprise she’d want to share this information with them.

  Rose raises her wine glass, filled with sparkling water, and she clinks her knife to the side.

  Beckett giggles, “Mommy!” and he kicks his legs in delight.

  Rose nods to him in acknowledgement and then proclaims to the table, “Jane Eleanor is asking for a preamble to today’s ceremony. Are we all in favor?”

  “I am,” I announce.

  Rose places her hands on her hips, staring me down. “You just want to delay fate,” she concludes.

  “If I truly wanted to delay the Name Ceremony, I’d find another way besides adding in a preamble that continues the topic of names.” I’ve zeroed in on my wife, the world shrinking to just us in a quick, sudden moment.

  Rose cringes. “I see you have a twitch in your eye, Richard.”

  “You’ve forgotten what a wink is, darling?” I did wink at her, just to see her eyes flame, even for the briefest, most torrid second.

  “I don’t forget anything. You’re just terrible at winking.”

  “Impossible.” I grin, especially as her gaze drifts to my lips like she’d love to simultaneously kill me and kiss me. “I’m skilled in everything. It’s more likely you’re just not adept at spotting a good wink from a bad one. Don’t take it to heart. You can’t win them all. Not when I can.”

  Rose gags at my narcissism. “I suggest a new preamble. We silence all those named Richard Connor Cobalt.”

  “No, Mommy.” Jane shakes her head vigorously. “Freedom of speech.”

  Rose looks too proud of Jane to be upset at losing the battle.

  Jane licks the mac-and-cheese sauce off her thumb. “What’s a preamble?”

  Rose answers as she walks over to the dining hutch. “It’s an introduction.”

  “Like an opening statement to a statute,” I add.

  Jane mouths all of our words as though processing each one. Rose procures a cloth napkin and slams the doors closed. I study her for a moment, as she lingers with her hands on the drawer. Then Eliot stretches against my chest. I stroke my thumb in circles across his back, and he falls back to sleep.

  “Rose?” I call out, my voice even-tempered. I don’t want to frighten or excite Jane over the possibility of Rose going into labor.

  Rose pulls her hair into a ponytail and then returns to the table, eyes ablaze. “I’m fine.”

  I don’t believe her fully.

  Her nose flares like she’s restraining pain. With a tight collar, she slides the cloth napkin to Jane. “This is for you, my little gremlin.”

  Jane nods with a merci, and I adjust Eliot on my side, about to ask Rose what’s wrong. She must sense this because she shakes her head at me. Then she picks her phone off the dining table.

  In seconds, mine buzzes.

  Not a contraction. – Rose

  Then another text.

  Holster your concern, Richard. We have a ceremony ahead of us. – Rose

  With my free hand, I respond: the ceremony can wait if you’re in pain. I watch her glare at my message and type feverishly. I anticipate her text more than I would any other.

  “So we’ll begin,” Rose declares just as she sets her phone down.

  Read my lips. – Rose

  My eyes flit up.

  And she mouths, patience, Richard.

  Patience? I nearly laugh at the idea of Rose telling me to be patient. I’d remind her that she’s the impatient one between us, but she clinks her glass again.

  “Jane, would you like to tell Beckett his namesake?”

  Jane nods enthusiastically and sits straighter. “Beckett Joyce Cobalt,” she recites theatrically. “You were named after Samuel Beckett, a play…a play-something or other.”

  “Playwright,” Rose coaches.

  “A playwatt,” Jane nods.

  Beckett is more concentrated on not eating his peas, but Charlie is listening to Jane with an expression that Lily recently dubbed “the who farted” look.

  “And this playwatt is famous for something or other named Waiting for Gouda.”

  I put my fingers to my mouth, my grin blinding.

  Rose presses her lips together to keep from laughing. She slips into her chair, and we both silently push the responsibility of correcting her at one another until I’m the first to concede.

  “Godot,” I correct, swallowing my humor. “Gouda is a cheese.”

  Rose snorts into her own cloth napkin.

  “Something amusing, darling?” I tease.

  Rose takes a deep breath, collecting herself, and unties her ponytail—just to flip her hair over a shoulder as though to say fuck you, Richard.

  I nearly harden.

  “Continue on, Jane,” Rose says, “You’re doing a perfect job.”

  “Beckett,” Jane proudly announces, “your middle name is from a writer called James Joyce.”

  I always pick out their middle names. Rose chooses their first. Most disagreements between us are settled by a bet or a game. With a win or a loss. This, we just knew. I value middle names. I go by mine. Rose values first names. She goes by hers.

  “And Charlie.” Jane tries to stand on her booster seat.

  “Jane,” both Rose and I say sternly for her safety, and her bottom thuds to the seat.

  “Charlie,” Jane begins again like nothing went wrong, “Mommy was antipating”—she means anticipating. I’d correct her, but she speaks too quickly—“a girl. You were meant to be Charlotte after Charlotte Brontë.”

  Rose decided to alter the name to Charlie once she saw that they were twin boys.

  Jane stumbles over her words as she tries to recall the reasoning behind Charlie’s middle name. She looks to me for help.

  I seize the expression tight. My mother never wanted me to exchange that look with her, not even when I was a child. If you’re a big boy, you’ll figure this out on your own.

  I did, of course. I thrived without parents, but this expression, this exchange with my daughter, holds an incredible amount of value to me. I’m necessary in my children’s lives. It’s not a weakness on their part.

  Can you help me?

  Always.

  I will always help them.

  “Charlie Keating Cobalt,” I say to my oldest son.

  “That’s me,” Charlie says in a much clearer tone than most two-year-olds.

  “And do you know why you were named Keating?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’re named after the poet John Keats.” Since Rose decided to alter Charlotte to Charlie, I followed suit and altered Keats to Keating. To this day, I remember the rare smile that spread across her face when I called him Charlie Keating.

  It was like she took a st
ep to the side, and I willingly stepped with her.

  “Right.” Jane nods as though she hadn’t forgotten. “And so it shall be.” She taps her spoon against her purple plastic cup, mimicking her mother.

  Rose rises to her feet. “And now the Name Ceremony shall begin. Jane Eleanor Cobalt, will you accept the honor of naming your brother?” We haven’t checked the gender, but Rose is positive we’re having another boy.

  Without any scientific indication, I can’t be as sure.

  “I will.” Jane reaches for the notebook and nearly topples her cup.

  Boy or girl, I’ve had a middle name in mind, but I won’t say what until Rose chooses the first name. She’s written twenty names in the notebook, and Jane is supposed to point to her favorite.

  Why is this more like chance? Jane can’t read.

  And so, Rose believes she’s letting “fate” guide her to the perfect name. I believe she’s letting our daughter randomly decide.

  Jane spends barely a second with the notebook before pointing to a name. “This one!”

  Rose steps hurriedly to Jane, wide-eyed. “Are you sure you don’t need a minute longer?”

  “This is what happens when you leave important events to fate,” I tell my wife.

  Rose shoots me a hot glare, but I sense the words beneath, we’re leaving the greatest event of our lives to fate, Richard. Remember?

  Of course I remember. I remember every day that this baby could be our last. I remember every day that I’d love one or two or even three more children. I remember that we made an agreement not to have more after Jane has a sister, and I won’t break what I promised.

  I remember it all.

  “I’m sure,” Jane tells her mother. “This is it!”

  Rose peers over Jane’s head, reading the name, and the corners of her mouth curve upwards. “His name is Tom.”

  Named after The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain.

  And I say, “Tom Carraway Cobalt.”

  Rose tries hard to restrain a pleased smile. Nick Carraway is a character from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  “You love it,” I say the obvious.

  “It’s okay.” She twists her hair on one shoulder, completely downplaying how much she loves the name. I love that compliments don’t come easily.

  I’m about to reply, but Rose and I both watch Jane slip beneath the table. I duck with Rose to see where our daughter is going. Sadie is curled in a ball, napping, and Jane strokes her soft fur and whispers, “You’re the prettiest kitty, Sadie. The prettiest I’ve ever seen.”

  Sadie stretches her paws and rolls to let Jane pet her belly.

  “Told you so,” Rose says to me. I could comment on her kindergarten retort, but I let it pass this time.

  “I never said she wouldn’t warm up to Jane.”

  “You said Sadie wasn’t capable of loving anyone else but you.”

  I truly thought she wasn’t. “Pets change,” I realize.

  Just like people.

  * * *

  8:08 p.m.

  Jane screams bloody murder from upstairs. I’m already off the couch, alarm rushing through me like fissured ice. Eliot, who’d been attempting to walk for the first time, tries to follow. He falls to his bottom and wails like the world is coming to a sudden end.

  “Go!” Rose calls after me. She lifts her body off the couch as fast as she’s able. “I’ll meet you.”

  I leave Eliot with Rose, and quickly, I run through the archway and into the foyer.

  “DADDY! MOMMY!” Jane screams and screams.

  “JANE!” I sprint up the marble staircase. I can’t draw irrational conclusions. I can’t anticipate what’s wrong before I see the facts. Even so, my blood is cold and my breath is locked in my throat.

  “DADDY! DADDY!”

  “JANE!” I reach the second floor in seconds, running down the long hallway. Her screams tunnel out of her bedroom. Jane decorated her door with construction paper and pink glitter to spell out her name Jane Eleanor across the front.

  As soon as I slip inside the darkened room, lit only by a tiny nightlight, Jane—tear-streaked and grief-stricken—darts past her toddler bed and tea party table and then clings to my leg.

  “Daddy,” she sobs.

  I set my hand on her head, canvassing her body and her room hurriedly. “Are you hurt—what’s wrong?” I squat to her height.

  She flings her arms around my shoulders, blubbering into my chest. I tenderly clutch the back of her head. In one breath, I crave to comfort my daughter. In the other, I remain vigilant and alert about the origins of her fear.

  An illogical thought creeps into my head. Paparazzi broke into her room. It happened to Daisy, but that was before we moved into a gated neighborhood. That was before I fucked over Scott Van Wright.

  Nothing like that can happen to my children. Not in this house.

  Not with me here.

  Jane sobs harder, her voice turning hoarse.

  “Shhh,” I whisper in a soothing tone. “Mon cœur.” My heart.

  I examine Jane, just to be certain she’s not physically hurt. Her teal cat-print nightgown isn’t torn. She didn’t limp and she hasn’t favored any of her limbs. I lift her brown hair off her shoulder and gently press her neck and along her spine. She doesn’t flinch.

  She’s simply inconsolable.

  Emotional. This is emotional pain.

  Jane mumbles a few words that I can’t piece apart. My need for information heightens, and I lift her, using a hand to keep her propped against my side. She hugs me even stronger.

  I step further into her bedroom.

  Jane goes hysterical. “Nonono!” she screams.

  “Shhhh.” I stroke the side of her hair and then whisper softly, “What’s wrong, Jane?” I can’t see anything out of place. Her pastel pink sheets and blankets are twisted and kicked to the edge of her bed, but Jane wiggles in her sleep—so this isn’t abnormal.

  Jane raises her head and rubs her little fist against her cheeks.

  I brush her tears away with my thumb. “Are you frightened?”

  “Yes.”

  “About what?”

  She points to the double doors of her closet, partially opened. Enough for a body to squeeze through.

  “Connor…? What is it…?” Rose pants and blows out a measured breath, just arriving. She rests her hand on her round abdomen and sets down Eliot who squirms against her side. Beckett and Charlie linger inquisitively by her legs.

  I have four children, five including the impending one, and a wife as strong-willed and courageous as any person comes. I’d do anything to sustain this life with them. To keep them feeling safe and protected.

  Love is power, and I can’t tell you why. It transcends every word I can conjure. In these catalytic moments, love surges through me like battalions made of fire and water. Made of ivory and rose.

  I awaken and I know.

  I come second.

  I will always put them first.

  Quickly, I go to Rose beside the door. “Something’s in the closet.” Before I even suggest it, Rose is already speaking.

  “Boys, stay in the hallway.” She ushers Beckett and Charlie back, and then her eyes flame against mine. “Is it a squirrel?”

  “It might be.”

  Rose rubs Jane’s back and whispers something in her ear.

  Jane nods and sniffs loudly.

  I pry my daughter off my chest and set her beside her brothers, my heart remaining with them and with her…I watch Rose clasp the doorknob.

  She inhales, hesitant for a second. “It’s most likely a rat or a roach…”

  “That’s a possibility too.” I can’t be sure what it is until I at least hear it.

  “Do you need a baseball bat?” she asks, her voice higher-pitched in concern for my safety. “Pepper spray, a knife—”

  I kiss her on the lips and murmur against them, “Je t’aime.” I love you.

  Rose is frozen for a moment, but then she re
ciprocates. Warmth floods me, and when we tear apart, she says, “If you need backup, I’ll be in there in less than a second.”

  I know she would. “I’ll keep this in mind, darling.” I clutch the other knob, on the other side of the door. The last thing Rose sees is my mounting grin.

  The last thing I see is her sweltering glare.

  And we shut one another out. The door clicks closed, and I focus my attention on Jane’s closet. What’s wrong, Jane?

  The irrational side still believes a person has broken into her room.

  The rational side is telling that side to stay fucking quiet.

  I’m confident about my approach to the closet. I’m empty-handed, but the situation calls for less than my fists. I flick on the closet lights and then clasp both door handles. Swiftly, I pull them apart. Jane’s dresses and shirts and skirts are hung neatly throughout the walk-in.

  I see it.

  Instantly, I see.

  I bottle my sentiments. Regardless, I’m not entirely sure what I feel at the moment. I just stoically approach the large woolen pillow that Jane keeps tucked by the floor-length mirror, towards the back.

  Then I set a knee on the floor and find myself sitting next to this white pillow, a ball of orange fur in the center. I rub my lips, my tabby cat curled up and lifeless beside me. I’ve met death one other time in my life, and the emotions I grapple with still warp me, confuse me—bear against me.

  Once upon a time, as the way most tales are told, I found this abandoned kitten. Sadie has been with me through years and years’ worth of time, but here, right here, the tale ends.

  I whisper, “Adieu.” Farewell.

  In the mirror, I catch sight of my features. If my eyes weren’t reddened, you’d think nothing was different, that nothing had changed.

  Jane must’ve found the cat like this.

  Sadie was fifteen and weak enough that she was ready to go—and she chose Jane’s closet because, like people, animals seek comfort at the sight of their end.

  She sought comfort near Jane.

  I stand and by the time I swing the door open, Rose is already halfway doing the same. She nearly falls towards me, but I clasp her hip and hold her close. Our children are seated patiently, huddled around Jane as she flips through a photo-book of countries and their capitals. She still silently cries, and her brothers try to cheer her up by pointing to the book.