by Holly Rayner
I almost lost myself there, against his firm lips and smooth-shaven face with the bed of daylilies before us.
But then Noelle sneezed and laughed, and we all laughed, our big, beautiful family.
Brock set a bag I hadn’t noticed before down on the ground. It was black and big, and, recognizing it, I glanced at his face in surprise.
“Is that…?”
He nodded.
“Thought we could paint like the other times if that’s all right with you.”
I nodded, a smile coming onto my face. Brock shot me a sidelong look.
“Think the kids would like it too?”
I laughed. “Guess we’ll have to see.”
Brock took out his supplies, the paintbrushes and strange, brand-less tubes of paint I’d never seen before. Then he took off Noelle’s shirt, and his flick of orange across her belly provoked a giggle.
She slapped it with her hand and then lifted her paint-smeared finger to her mouth.
“Oh, no. No, honey—”
Brock put his hand on my shoulder. “These paints are special. They’re homemade, edible.”
We watched Noelle suck on her orange-tipped thumb, and I kissed Brock.
And so, as our little darlings squirmed, giggled, and made smacking noises with their lips, Brock painted them.
There was a different flower for each baby. Noelle was first, a bright, vibrant sunflower covering her torso. Ian was more difficult, turning every which way and giggling at the havoc he caused for Daddy’s artistic efforts. Finally, Brock decided the smudges on Ian were actually blue cotton candy and continued with that in mind. Last was Sasha, who sat demurely, model-like, while Brock etched out a whole series of forget-me-nots on her tummy. I was last, my belly getting a garden of tulips in every color of the rainbow.
Then it was Brock’s turn. I helped the children, guiding their paintbrush-clutching hands, so that, together, we smeared Brock’s bare chest into some sort of abstract art creation. Ian was intent on short quick dashes of red and blue and, once they smeared together, purple. Noelle was more about using the green-tipped brush to makes speckles of green than actually painting. Sasha was annoyed by the whole ordeal, and, after one prolific yellow line from Daddy’s chin to his belly button, she gave up altogether.
Then all of us, paint-covered and delighted by it, hugged and kissed and rolled around in paint-covered glory until Brock suggested a swim might be in order.
“Up here?” I asked with surprise, and he nodded.
There was a strange look in his eyes. He seemed even more delighted than he had been before.
That’s when it occurred to me that this was just like our first two times together, our first day—the outdoor swim—and our reunion—the body painting. Could Brock have remembered that this day was special?
But when I glanced at him again, he was already picking up Ian and tucking him in the stroller, and the look in his eyes was gone. Maybe I had imagined it.
We packed the three babies into their stroller, and Brock wheeled it in the direction of some trees. Once surrounded by them, we walked for a few more minutes in quiet, contemplative silence before we reached the pond. It was a little oblong thing, a border of rocks on one side and some speckles of lily pads in the middle. It was perfect. A sliver of light shone through the trees, making everything glisten.
“Wow,” Brock and I said in unison, laughing and then kissing.
We stripped the babies down, took off our own clothes, and went in. Brock held the two girls, while I held our son. We used lily pads to scrub off the little specks of paint that didn’t seem to want to leave. The babies laughed at it all, splashing each other.
Ian broke into tears at one overly ambitious splash from his sister, so I returned to shore and soothed him, softly bouncing him in my arms and feeding him some cereal. This calmed him enough that he fell asleep. Soon Brock brought our daughters ashore and put them in the stroller since they too had fallen sound asleep. Now it was just Brock, me, and the forest.
We returned to the pond, kissed, and took delight in the water, the lily pads, and the crystal-clear forest air. Brock took my face in his hands.
“This is the best day,” I said.
“This is the best day of my life,” he said.
And we kissed some more. For a minute, the world stopped and I lost myself in the wonderful man in front of me.
The babies waking up and crying brought us back, reminding us of their needs.
“Let’s go back to the daylily field and have our picnic,” Brock said, and I agreed.
We made our way back through the forest, and once we were there, Brock laid down the rainbow blanket my mom had knitted for us, while I swept our children out of their seats. By the time I placed them on the blanket in front of us, they were more than ready for the box of cereal I had brought. Airplaning them their cereal on a plastic spoon was more for Brock’s and my enjoyment than theirs. And yet, oh how we laughed! With each swoop of the spoon and the eager snapping of their little mouths, we all whooped with delight, their fat cheeks veritably filled with it. Brock even swooped some cereal to me for fun before he began cutting the baguette and pairing each generous piece with an equally generous chunk of cheese.
“Are you trying to fatten me up?” I joked as I help up an especially humongous one.
Brock responded by kissing my cheek and whispering, “Just wait till you see the dessert.”
I studied his face.
“Dessert? I don’t remember packing any.”
Brock turned to the kids and winked.
“Good,” he said.
I sighed.
“Brock…”
He shook his head and grinned again.
“Nope. You have to finish your meal before you get dessert.”
So I did, holding myself back from devouring the full baguette, as delicious as it was.
As the kids flopped back onto the blanket, tired and dopey from all the food, I shot Brock a significant look.
“Well, Mr. Bossy, I finished my dinner.”
Brock shrugged.
“Think I dropped your gift on the way.”
I tossed a bit of cereal at him, which he snatched up in his mouth like a dog.
“Brock!”
“Okay, okay. Maybe it’s in the grass over there.”
Grudgingly, I got up and walked in the direction he had tossed his hand.
Nestled among some daylilies, I found the biggest chocolate chip cookie I had ever seen, in an even bigger transparent box on red and white striped paper, just like the bag I’d brought to his cabin a year ago.
Laughing, I picked it up.
“Seriously?” I asked him as I returned.
To which his still-glittering smile said, “Clearly you haven’t looked on the back yet.”
I flipped the big thing over and gasped.
Taped there was a jewelry box, the kind rings are stored in.
“Brock, you don’t mean…”
He reached past me, yanked the box free from the cookie, and got down on one knee.
“Yes, Alex, I do mean to propose to you. The first minute I saw you, the first night I spent with you, I knew there was something special about you. This year has just proven it to me all the more. I can’t remember ever being happier, ever feeling luckier. You support me, you hold me up, and you make me laugh. You’re gorgeous and astounding, and, if I’m going to be honest, Alex, I wanted to ask you this question a week after we moved in together, only I was afraid you’d say no. Now please, babe, will you make me even happier and be my wife?”
I fell to my knees. Face-to-face with Brock, our teary eyes staring into each other’s, I whispered, “Yes. Oh, of course. Yes, my love.”
And then we kissed while the children squealed their approval.
The rest of the day was the gooey aftermath. We played with the children, changed their diapers, and fed them more cereal. We kissed, rolled through the daylily-filled field, and grinned like idiots at each
other.
And then, when the sun started to set, Brock led us back to the first cliff so we could watch the sunset.
The whole sky was rejoicing with us. It was a fiery, jubilant orange like the fields, the whole sky filled to the horizon with it, swooping over the black of far-off mountains, the tall, certain mounds, and the smaller, more plentiful hills. And as I gazed over at my handsome, doting husband-to-be and my adorable, gurgling children, their chocolate-rimmed mouths all smiling, their faces glowing orange with happiness, only one thought came to mind.
I had never been happier.
The End
Get THREE FREE BOOKS by signing up to my newsletter
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
The Sheikh’s ASAP Baby
Holly Rayner and Lara Hunter
And finally, here is mine and Lara Hunter’s previous novel, The Sheikh’s ASAP Baby, in full!
Copyright 2017 by Holly Rayner, Lara Hunter
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
The breeze was an easily seen being in the bright spring sunlight. In a sweeping train of pollen and jacaranda blossoms, it swanned across the studio parking lot like an aging diva who doesn't know when to quit. It carried the heat rather than cooling it, sweeping it in waves over the blistering concrete, and brought with it the scent of the ocean.
The shore was not a mile away from where Kathy stood with her back to the rough, sand-colored brick of the studio's front wall. She wished she could hear it from there over the senseless clatter of Miami traffic and the abrasive, territorial shrieking of seagulls. The stone wall was harsh against her skin. She'd taken off the professional, salmon-pink blazer (stylish, but stifling in the heat) and stood in the sleeveless, white silk blouse she'd worn under it, which clung to her skin in the humidity.
She worried in the back of her mind about sunburn in the same way she'd used to worry about lung cancer while she’d stood out there smoking. She held an unlit cigarette between her fingers out of habit, but she'd quit nearly a year ago. It was only recent events that had her prioritizing her health. The plastic and cardboard crinkled as she stuffed the untouched cigarette back into the battered package. She'd been carrying it around in her purse so long it was close to dissolving—and here she'd been reporting that plastics took a thousand years to decompose! Apparently, her purse was a more caustic environment than most landfills.
The flowering trees that overhung the studio parking lot filled the air with their too-sweet scent and scattered their flowers uselessly on the pavement to be crushed into colorful pulp by careless passing tires. The too-hot wind picked them up and spun them into delicate little whirling purple cyclones.
Kathy wanted desperately to go lie down under one of those trees—face down, splat, like a cartoon—and sleep for a year. She'd wake up out of fashion and out of touch like a particularly tragic Rip Van Winkle even though nothing had really changed. Nothing ever changed in Miami except the people. The plants kept blooming, the sun kept burning in spring as it would in summer, and fall, and even through most of the winter. Seasons didn't exist in South Beach.
The heavy steel studio door beside her groaned and scraped as it was pushed open, and a haggard-looking intern stuck his head out.
"Kathy, fifteen minutes."
Kathy sighed and wished she had a cigarette butt to drop and stomp out dramatically. Instead, she ran a hand through her hair and pulled her blazer back on.
"Fine. It's too hot out here anyway."
A blast of cold air hit her as she slipped back into the florescent-lit studio hallway, drying the sweat on her skin and waking her up slightly. It wouldn't last. She'd never been more exhausted in her life.
"Here's your briefing sheet," the intern said, handing her a file which she flipped open and started scanning through at once. "Top story is the election again. Then, that missing airplane."
"Again?" Kathy griped. "The thing has been missing for months. What more could we possibly have to say about it?"
"Um, apparently we're just talking theories about how it might have gone down," the intern replied, glancing at his own notes. "The graphics department made us a virtual model or something."
"Ugh." Kathy handed the briefing back to the intern impatiently. "Tell Mitchell that if I wanted to wave my hands at a green screen all day, I would have gone into meteorology. This gimmicky B.S. has to stop. And if I don't get to cover some real news soon, I am going to find the biggest, squarest hand mic we have and shove it directly up his ass."
"Is that—do you really want me to say—are those the exact words I should use?"
"You heard what I said, kid."
The intern took a deep breath and hurried off while Kathy ducked into makeup for a fresh coat of paint.
"Again?" one of the stylists said as she sat down. "How long have you been on air today?"
"Since five this morning," Kathy replied, exhausted. "So, do me a favor and really lay it on thick under the eyes."
"What happened to Cassandra?" the stylist asked, re-pinning Kathy's long chestnut curls into place. Her dark gray-blue eyes stared back at her from the stylist's mirror, telling her she couldn't keep doing this to herself. The stress was adding years to her, and at twenty-nine, she really couldn't afford that. Cliff was already eyeing that redheaded intern, Emma, to replace her.
"She went into labor last night," Kathy said. "A week premature. Stress set it off early, apparently."
"Honestly, she shouldn't have been working that close to her due date anyway," one of the other stylists said, shaking his head.
"I don't know how she managed it," another added. "I've had kids. I could barely handle being on my feet for ten minutes at a time by the last month. The girl is superhuman."
"No," Kathy laughed. "Just not interested in losing her job. Mitchell was ready to can her the minute he found out she was pregnant. You wouldn't believe how little maternity leave he's giving her."
The first stylist grimaced and the other clicked her tongue in disgust.
"Mitchell," they both muttered together.
"Did you know America is one of only four countries in the world without mandatory paid maternity leave?" Kathy added. "I looked it up. America, Swaziland, Lesotho, and Papua New Guinea."
"Where the hell is Lesotho?" the first stylist asked.
"No idea," Kathy shrugged. "But I wouldn't want to be pregnant there."
Kathy was the main anchor of the studio, usually handling things from ten a.m. to seven p.m. Cassandra did early mornings and late evenings, but now Kathy was covering both. She'd already been in the studio ten hours and was expecting another four. She had a nightmare of a headache drilling at her left temple and another broadcast in five minutes. The studio was a sensory nightmare of alternately too bright and too dim lights and constant jarring noise. Kathy revisited her wild, unobtainable fantasy of going to lie down somewhere.
Once the makeup crew had done what they could, Kathy made her way to the set and took her seat behind the desk, reading over her briefing again, more thoroughly now. Her co-anchor, Bradley Mann, slid in at the last second just as the cameras turned on. Kathy fixed her award-winning newscaster smile in place and got ready to work.
"Hi, I'm Bradley Mann."
"And I'm Kathy Burgess!"
"It's three o’clock, and this is South Beach News out of beautiful Miami, Florida."
The election coverage was insipid, the airplane piece as gimmicky and pointless as she'd feared with an extra dose fear mongerin
g, and they rounded things up with an interview with a conspiracy-slinging nut job who should never have been given a platform more legitimate than the corner soap box they'd probably found him on. Kathy was ready to strangle someone by the time they reached the last segment of the day, a fluffy feel-good piece.
"The newest addition to the maternity ward at Mercy Hospital in South Miami arrived more than a little early for his reservation," Kathy read from her prompter, smiling warmly into the cameras. Great, more babies. As if Cassandra waddling around for the past three months hadn't been reminder enough of her situation. Her sour feeling never showed on her picture-perfect smiling face. "Little Grant Ellison surprised his mother Karen by arriving four months early! Specialists at Mercy scrambled to stabilize little Grant, who was born weighing just three pounds!"
Kathy carried on with the gory details, trying and failing not to think about them too hard. So many things could go wrong. Why, she wondered, were humans so phenomenally bad at giving birth? It wasn't this hard for other mammals. But for some reason, Homo sapiens had decided the best evolutionary path was the one that practically killed the mother every step of the way and left her body permanently changed even if she survived. It just seemed like such a terrible setup. And humans certainly hadn't done anything socially to improve it. Maternity leave was the least of the numerous issues that made being a mother in this country, any country really, a terrible decision. Kathy knew. She'd been sitting up all night restlessly researching all those issues for the last month and a half.
At long last, the cameras turned off and Kathy stumbled away from the desk, sore and exhausted beyond all reason. She was going to go home and sleep for a week. She dragged a hand down her face, already imagining the microwave dinner she was going to inhale before she collapsed.
"Kathy! Straighten up!"
Kathy groaned, recognizing the voice.