“But I’ve never—”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Granger said cheerfully, grabbing Kramer’s leash. “You’ll figure it out.”
Whistling, he left the apartment.
As he took the dogs for a good, long walk around the neighborhood, he fought back twinges of guilt. But he told himself that this experience would be good for Emmaline. After all, she might have royal blood, but she had left the palace behind for good—willingly, he might add.
Then again, she must have assumed she would be joining him in the lap of luxury here in New York. She hadn’t bargained on his sudden unemployment, much less on sharing household chores.
Oh well. She was stuck now. They both were. And the sooner they grew accustomed to the mundane reality of being “regular” folks, the better equipped they would be when their baby arrived.
Hmm. Try as he might, Granger couldn’t imagine Emmaline cradling an infant, with a stained burp cloth over her shoulder.
In Verdunia, royal babies were undoubtedly kept in elaborate nurseries and tended by professional nannies around the clock. Parenting was virtually the same in the Lockwood social circle. Men like Granger wouldn’t dream of spooning strained pears into a tiny mouth, or—God forbid—handling soiled diapers.
Naturally, he experienced a sufficient amount of distaste when he considered the notion—yet he also felt a quiver of anticipation.
Newman tugged his leash. Kramer followed suit.
Granger looked down at the dogs. “What’s the matter, boys? You want to go back? You miss her already, huh?”
Kramer yapped.
“Yeah, me too,” Granger said. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
When Emmaline heard him coming up the stairs, it was all she could do not to scurry back into the bathroom and bolt the door behind her.
But eventually she would have to come out. She might as well face Granger now, head-on.
She lifted her chin defiantly as his keys jangled in the lock.
She hoped that he wouldn’t be able to see that she’d been crying. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel sorry for her—even if that was one way to avoid doing the wretched housework.
Whistling, he stepped over the threshold with the dogs.
Newman and Kramer spotted her and promptly trotted over, tails wagging, fat pink tongues hanging out.
“They missed you,” Granger said.
She glanced down at the dogs. They clearly wanted her to pet them, but she wasn’t feeling the least bit affectionate at the moment—not for the dogs, and most certainly not for their handsome master.
“How did you do with the . . .” Granger’s voice faded.
She followed his gaze to the sink still heaped with dirty dishes and the cluttered countertops, to the spatters and spills and crumbs.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “You didn’t do the dishes.”
“No, I certainly didn’t do the dishes.”
“Who’s going to do them?”
“You are,” she informed him.
He shot her a flinty glare.
She returned it.
“And why am I going to do the dishes?” he asked.
“Because I refuse to be told what to do like some barefoot, pregnant housewife.”
He gazed pointedly at her midsection, and then at her bare feet.
She gasped. “You are a shameless chauvinist who seems to think women should do the dirty work!”
“And you are a spoiled, pampered princess who expects to be waited on hand and foot!”
“How dare you?” Her voice quavered.
Oh no. The last thing she wanted was to cry in front of him—especially now.
He peered into her face.
She turned away. Her lip was shaking. She bit down hard to hide the weakness from him, and tasted blood in her mouth.
“Hey, look, it’s okay,” Granger said, his tone softening. “I know that you’re not feeling well—”
“I’m feeling fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
“No, you aren’t. And you’ve been through a lot these last few days,” he said, leaning around as if to glimpse her expression.
She turned her back abruptly, unwilling to allow him to see the tears that had sprung to her eyes.
She didn’t want his kindness or his pity. She didn’t want anything from him.
After a moment he went to the kitchen and turned on the water at the sink, clattering pots and pans.
Emmaline went into the bathroom, locked the door, and cried her heart out.
Eight
Nearly a week, several quarts of homemade soup, five Big Macs, many tears, and countless bouts of nausea later, Emmaline was lying on the twin bed listlessly watching the rain spatter against the windowpane. The dogs napped on the floor nearby.
There was, quite simply, nothing else to do. She had read her What to Expect When You’re Expecting book cover to cover.
Twice.
Now that she knew what to expect—at least physically—she found herself torn between wishing the next seven months would fly by, and hoping to postpone labor and delivery indefinitely.
Try as she might, she couldn’t imagine herself as an active participant in the childbirth experience.
And she certainly couldn’t imagine Granger at her side as her coach. A delivery room was probably the last place he’d ever want to be.
Not that she would want him there.
No, she would be much better off with Tabitha at her side when the time came. Better off, and less inhibited. She wouldn’t want Granger to witness such an intimate, emotional, raw experience.
Then again, he had not only witnessed, but initiated, the intimate, emotional, raw experience that had gotten her here in the first place.
A rustling, scampering sound somewhere nearby startled her. Newman lifted his head and growled. She shuddered.
She had yet to actually see a mouse, but she was convinced that they were living in the walls. So were the dogs, judging by the way they sometimes paced and barked as though stalking invisible rodents.
Back in June, before Granger Lockwood turned her life upside down, Emmaline could never have imagined coming into contact with an actual mouse.
Now, every time she left the bed, she made her way gingerly across the floor, on the lookout for mice . . . or worse.
She sighed and glanced again at the rain-spattered windowpane.
Never in her entire life had she been so utterly lonely . . . or utterly bored.
Granger was out.
Again.
He had been gone yesterday from dawn until dusk. The day before that, too. And the—
Startled by a sudden knock on the door, Emmaline sat upright so quickly that she felt dizzy.
Newman and Kramer lifted their heads with a jingling of metal tags, then went back to dozing.
Granger must have forgotten his keys, she decided, padding over to the door in her bare feet. It had to be Granger—anybody else would have to be buzzed in.
Apparently, even the most decrepit buildings in Manhattan’s most questionable neighborhoods had such security features. Though Emmaline, accustomed to elaborate palace surveillance and round-the-clock bodyguards, was hardly reassured by a couple of good-natured dogs, an antiquated buzzer system, and a dead bolt topped by a flimsy chain.
Not that she had spent much time, these last few days, worrying about unsavory characters who might be lurking in this less-than-desirable neighborhood, ready to pounce on women who were home alone. Nor did the prospect cross her mind now . . .
Not until she considered, as she unlocked the door, that it was awfully early for Granger to be home. He had told her not to expect him until this evening.
As she opened the door, it occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn’t do so. But it was too late to stop.
She was already face-to-face with a stranger standing in the dingy hall.
“Excuse me . . . sir?”
Waiting on the corner for a
traffic light to change, Granger looked out from beneath his black umbrella to see a bedraggled, shabbily dressed woman standing nearby, huddled beneath the awning of an office building in the dismal drizzle, a baby in her arms.
“Yes?” he asked, wondering how old the child was. Two months old? Ten months old? A year? And was it a boy or a girl?
He had no idea. He had never even looked closely at a baby before. Now, gazing at the tiny, fuzz-covered head and gummy, drooling mouth, he found himself fascinated. Suddenly he understood why people made a huge fuss over babies . . . and he comprehended that he would most likely fall instantly in love with his own when he or she arrived.
“Can you spare some change?” the baby’s mother asked.
He turned his attention to her, noting the forlorn, haunted expression in her gaunt face. He felt a pang of helplessness.
“Please,” the woman said. “I need to buy milk for my baby.”
And Granger needed to buy milk for his baby.
Okay, not right this minute.
But he would. He would need to buy milk, and food, and diapers, and tiny clothes, and blankets to keep it warm. He would need to buy a crib, and then preschool tuition, and braces, and a car, and a college education.
“Please, sir?”
“Of course.” He fumbled in his pocket—which currently held all the money he had in the world.
He handed the woman all the change he could find.
“Thank you,” she said with a grateful, gap-toothed smile.
The baby gurgled.
Granger looked at the child, and was rewarded with a bright-eyed grin underscored by a trickle of drool.
His heart went liquid. He grinned back and reached into his pocket again.
“Here,” he said, stuffing a couple of twenty-dollar bills—and then the polished wooden handle of his Brooks Brothers umbrella—into the woman’s hand. “Take this, too.”
Holding the umbrella aloft above her head and the baby’s, she gazed down at the money, and then back at Granger with tears in her eyes.
“God bless you, sir,” she said gratefully.
He already has, Granger thought as the light changed and he cast one last glance at the cooing infant before stepping off the curb and into a puddle.
Mindless of the gutter water soaking into his Gucci loafers, Granger Lockwood contemplated the fact that he had been blessed all his life with everything a man could want—and he had abandoned all of it, just when he needed it most.
No, he didn’t need it.
But Emmaline did.
And his child would.
That was why he was doing this. This being an exhausting trek from one corporate office to another, day after day, calling on business connections from his former life. With his education and background, he could build a successful real estate development company of his own. All he needed was financial backing.
He hadn’t thought it would be so elusive. Either his grandfather had gotten to his potential contacts before he had, or the falling stock market had scared everyone into holding on to his money.
You could go back to Grandfather, Granger reminded himself, gazing longingly at a shiny black stretch limousine heading down the avenue.
He could . . .
But he wouldn’t.
Not yet.
That would be taking the easy way out. And it was time Granger stopped doing that. It was time he became the kind of man who was capable of taking care of himself—and somebody else.
The kind of man a child would be proud to have as a father.
The kind of man a woman like Emmaline would be proud to have as . . .
As what?
Surely not as a husband.
The princess had made it clear that she had no intention of staying with him any longer than was absolutely necessary. She wanted no part of his world, uptown or downtown, wealthy or destitute. Now that he had successfully rescued her and spirited her out of Verdunia, she wanted no part of him.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true, he amended.
She seemed to want a certain—ahem—part of him, on occasion. But Granger was far too jaded to mistake lust—Emmaline’s or his own—for anything more substantial.
No, they weren’t destined to fall in love . . . not with anyone other than their baby.
The stranger was a woman, fully made-up and perfumed, clad from her shoulder-grazing elegant blond pageboy to her cherry red toenails in Prada, with platinum and diamond accessories.
Emmaline was instantly conscious of her own appearance.
She had showered and washed her hair that morning, but had been forced to use the generic brand shampoo/conditioner blend and plain white bar soap Granger had purchased at a nearby drugstore. She’d towel-dried her hair, which now fell past her shoulders in unkempt waves, untamed by pins or gel or spray.
She was wearing one of Granger’s T-shirts, emblazoned with the word “FDNY,” along with a pair of baggy sweat pants he had bought for her at Kmart after she’d complained that her own waistband felt snug. Besides, she’d brought only two changes of clothing with her when she’d fled Verdunia—and she’d already gone through both of them.
Her bare feet were desperately in need of a pedicure, and she had broken four fingernails trying to open the window the other day, before Granger got back from the hardware store with a crowbar.
“I’m sorry,” the strange woman said. “I should have buzzed, but a Fed Ex guy was just coming out downstairs and he let me in. Anyway, I must have the wrong apartment. I was looking for . . .”
She trailed off, staring at Emmaline, who grew increasingly self-conscious. She wondered if she had streaks of dirt on her face. She had crawled under the kitchen sink a little while ago to see if she could tighten something and stop the incessant dripping. Having no idea what to look for, and no wrench to use even if she did find a relevant pipe or bolt or handle, she had crawled out and resigned herself once again to the steady plop . . . plop . . . plop . . .
“This might sound crazy,” the woman said, still staring at Emmaline, “but are you . . . ? Nah. Never mind.”
Emmaline forced a polite smile while frantically rubbing her cheeks, hopefully removing any smudges. What she wouldn’t give to be in this woman’s pricey leather sandals, looking as if she had just been lunching at Le Cirque and shopping on Fifth Avenue rather than . . . well, barefoot and pregnant.
“Anyway,” the woman said, casting a discriminating glance around the dismal studio, “I was looking for Granger Lockwood, but this can’t be—Newman? Kramer? Oh my God!” The woman clasped a hand to her crimson lipstick, clearly startled that the canine companions of the esteemed Mr. Lockwood could possibly be found in such surroundings.
Newman and Kramer had at last roused themselves from their naps and trotted over to greet the visitor. Clearly, the three were already acquainted. The woman deftly blocked Newman’s nose before it could make contact with her crotch, as though she was accustomed to his indecent overtures.
“I realize the place is quite a shambles,” Emmaline said apologetically, “but we’re working on clean . . .” She trailed off abruptly, struck by the expression of recognition on her visitor’s face. This time it wasn’t leveled at the dogs, but at Emmaline herself.
Oh no.
Please no.
How could she have forgotten?
Emmaline had been so certain she would find Granger on the other side of the door—and so subsequently distracted by the realization that she didn’t measure up to this woman’s polished appearance—that she had neglected to recall a key fact: she was supposed to be incognito.
Now here she was, sans wig, sunglasses, and feigned American accent, utterly helpless beneath her visitor’s alarmingly discerning gaze.
“You’re her,” the woman announced in astonishment.
“I beg your pardon?” Emmaline made a feeble attempt at sounding like a New Yorker.
The woman’s delicately sculpted face broke into a broad grin. “Leave it t
o Granger,” she said, shaking her head.
She swept over the threshold, bringing with her a cloud of sultry perfume. She brushed past Emmaline and closed the door with a decided click. “The whole world is looking for you, and here you are, with him, in the last place anybody would ever expect to find either of you.”
Deny it.
Deny everything.
“I . . . I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emmaline said in her best New York accent.
“Don’t worry, Your Highness. I won’t tell a soul.”
Keep denying.
“I—I don’t know what you’re—”
“Of course you know what I’m talking about,” the woman said, her blue eyes seeming to take in every detail of the apartment. “You’re Princess Emmaline of Verdunia, and you’re hiding out here on Eldridge Street, of all places, with good old Granger, of all people. Wait till I get my hands on him. Where did you say he is?”
“He’s out,” Emmaline said shortly. “And who did you say you were?”
“I didn’t, but since we’ve already established who you are, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Brynn Halloway.”
“Are you Granger’s . . . ?” She wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. “Girlfriend” seemed too juvenile, “lover” too awkward, “paramour” too quaint.
“Don’t worry, Your Highness, I’m just his good friend,” Brynn said, clearly amused. “A good friend who assumed she knew everything about Mr. Granger Lockwood, but apparently he’s been holding out on me. Maybe he’s mentioned me?”
Emmaline shook her head, feeling as though she should apologize.
But Brynn shrugged, her self-esteem clearly intact. She said flippantly, “I’m sure he was getting around to it. Granger and I have always told our significant others about each other, lest there be the slightest bit of misplaced jealousy.”
“But I’m not Granger’s significant other,” Emmaline protested. And she certainly wasn’t jealous.
All right, she was jealous . . . but only of Brynn’s appearance—and, yes, her access to the outside world with its salons, and restaurants, and stores . . .
“Granger and I grew up together,” Brynn said. “We were like siblings. He only had his grandfather, and I only had my father—who is even older than Granger’s grandfather, by the way.”
A Thoroughly Modern Princess Page 15