Hot Under Pressure

by Louisa Edwards

  “Hank, huh?”

  Skye met his eyes with a tremulous smile. “I thought … he could be a Henry, too. Like you, but also to honor your father. But instead of Hal, we could call him…”

  “Hank.” Every time Beck repeated the name, he felt something settle inside himself. He smiled down at them both. His family, the people he loved most in the world, were right there, close enough to touch, to watch over, to protect and cherish with his life.

  Skye nodded, eyes brimming. “I love you.”

  Bending over them, Beck whispered his response against her lips. “I love you, too.”

  She grinned into the kiss, which deepened and threatened to turn truly inappropriate until a knock on the door startled them apart.

  Nina Lunden’s quiet voice had Beck reaching for a pillow to hold over his lap.

  “Hello? Everybody decent?”

  “We’re good. Come on in and meet Hank,” Skye called. “While he’s all cute and asleep.”

  “Are you sure?” Nina poked her head around the doorjamb. “There are quite a few people out here who want to say hello to the newest addition to the family.”

  Winslow piped up from somewhere out in the hall. “Including his godfather!”

  “Don’t worry,” Skye said, settling herself more comfortably against the pillows. “He just had his first-ever bath followed by his first-ever meal. I’m pretty sure a five-alarm fire couldn’t wake him up.”

  That was all it took to have the whole crew piling into the tiny room. Beck could only be grateful that Devon Sparks had used his influence with the hospital and Dr. Rosen to get them into a private room. This crowd would be a bit much to handle for some poor random new mom who had the misfortune of getting stuck as Skye’s roommate.

  Beck made a tactical retreat to the far side of the bed. Still close enough to keep a watchful eye on the proceedings, but not so close that he risked fatal injury by getting between baby Hank and the descending horde of cooing almost-relatives.

  While everyone else was distracted by how unbelievably adorable Hank was in his little blue knit cap with his dark-lashed eyes buttoned up in slumber, Nina Lunden made her way around the bed to stand at Beck’s side.

  “He’s amazing,” she said. “I’m really proud of you, honey.”

  Beck shook his head in instinctive denial. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Nina gave him her patented who-do-you-think-you’re-dealing-with look. “Nothing much, except uproot your whole life, face your past, and confront your fears about Skye being pregnant again.”

  The group clustered around the bed, laughed at something Win said, and the noise roused Hank enough that he stirred fretfully, kicking at the blanket swaddling his legs. As if she’d been practicing for years, Skye shifted him in her arms and cuddled him close, as natural as breathing. Beck’s heart skipped a painful beat, then thumped heavily as he said, “Skye’s the brave one.”

  Him? Even though Skye and the baby had come through the pregnancy with flying colors, Beck was still terrified. What the hell was up with that?

  “Does she know?” Nina’s soft question cut through Beck’s rising tension.

  He didn’t bother pretending to misunderstand. “Yeah. I told her.”

  “Good. You know, lots of men find the whole childbirth thing traumatic—after he fainted when Max was born, I didn’t even let Gus in the room with me for Danny’s birth. It’s normal to find it upsetting to see your wife in pain. And for a man like you, I imagine the inability to do anything to make the pain stop is nearly unbearable. But I’m sure, Beck, your presence at her side did help her through it … unless.”

  Nina’s gaze sharpened on his face. Wondering what the hell he’d given away, Beck planted his feet like a statue to avoid shifting his weight uncomfortably.

  It didn’t work.

  “Unless that’s not what’s bothering you.” Nina kept the words low and gentle, but they still sent a spike of panic through Beck’s head.

  Darting a quick gaze at Skye, he relaxed minutely. Her head was tilted back, springy strawberry-blonde curls cascading over her shoulders as she beamed up at Gus Lunden.

  “Don’t worry, she didn’t hear me.” Nina rested a light hand on his back, the touch spreading immediate comfort as if she’d draped a fuzzy blanket over his back. “But she should hear it from you, sweetie.”

  He shook his head, not wanting to let the garbage inside it ruin this special, amazing miracle of a day for Skye, but Nina stopped him with another look.

  This one was kinder, her clear eyes full of sympathy but entirely unyielding. “I mean it, Henry Beck. You’ve got a brand-new start, here and now. Don’t fuck it up by repeating the mistakes of the past.” Her voice shook as she finished by saying, “And I know if your mother were here, she’d be giving you the exact same advice.”

  Jolted by Nina’s use of the f-word, Beck was shaken to the core by the truth of her warning and the reference to his mom. All he could do was reach out and wrap an arm around her slim, narrow shoulders to pull Nina in close.

  Bending down to touch his forehead to her temple, Beck pushed the words out through his aching throat. “My mom would’ve liked you a lot.”

  Then he let her go and pasted on a determined smile so they could rejoin the party.

  Thirty minutes later, Hank had been the subject of multiple cellphone camera portraits, the star of a short film (also recorded on a cellphone), and serenaded with “Happy Birthday” by a multiplatinum recording artist—over Eva’s cellphone, which she’d used to call Claire Durand, who was in Paris accompanying Kane Slater on the European leg of his new tour.

  It was an eventful half-hour. A happy half-hour, full of laughter and the kind of soul-steadying joy that came from sharing such a special time with friends and family—but Beck had to admit that when he closed the door behind Winslow, who was naturally the last to leave, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Hank, who’d woken up in time to turn Kane’s birthday song into a duet along the lines of screaming death metal, had been fed and put down in his bassinet where he slept the sleep of an infant who knew that all was right in his little world.

  Beck was jealous. He desperately needed sleep himself—even the U.S. Navy hadn’t prepared him for the exhaustion of new fatherhood—but with Nina’s warning ringing in his ears, he knew he wouldn’t be able to close his eyes until he opened his mouth.

  Skye turned her head toward him, trying to get comfortable on the flat pillow. Her hair spread out in corkscrews of red and gold against the white cotton. She looked worn out and happy, and so beautiful that Beck’s breath snagged in his throat.

  “How are you doing?” she asked, and instead of simply nodding and smiling or saying fine like he usually did, Beck seized his courage in both hands.

  “I’m … having an issue. It’s lame.”

  She got that fierce look in her wide blue eyes. “It’s not lame! Nothing you think or feel is lame. Come on, tell. I know the pregnancy was rough on you, on both of us, but we made it through! Hank and I are right here, and we’re healthy and happy, and with you!”

  “I know,” Beck said, taking a step closer to the bed. “And that should be enough for anyone. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.” His gaze traced the beige chenille of the hospital bed coverlet as Nina’s warning echoed over and over in his head. He had to tell Skye the truth and trust that she wouldn’t use it against him or turn her back on him … and when he thought about it like that, it got easier. Because he knew, with a deep-down, unshakeable faith, that Skye would never do those things.

  “I’m pretty sure,” he said slowly, forcing himself to meet her clear gaze, “there’s something broken inside me.”

  “Is this about…” Skye paused, cleared her throat. “Is this about our daughter? The baby we lost? Because I’m thinking about her today, too, Henry. And I believe wherever she is, she knows we love her and that no matter how many other kids we have, we’ll never forget her.”

  Beck shook hi
s head against the sting behind his eyes. “No, it’s not about that—not exactly. But I felt this way when you were pregnant the first time, too. Before we lost her. Before I left, even. I think it has to do with how I grew up.”

  Skye reached out a hand, and Beck took it gratefully. The warm touch centered him, gave him something to focus on while he tried to figure out how to explain the confusion of losing both his parents at the same time, the gradual horror of realizing they were never coming back, that they’d abandoned him to this new life where no one seemed to want him, where being ignored and forgotten was the best he could hope for.

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember enough about the good times,” he said painfully. “While my parents were still alive. The years that came after that … they felt like a life sentence, even though I got out as soon as I could. I just … I don’t want any part of that to touch you or Hank.”

  Skye studied him for a silent moment, long enough for Beck to realize that he’d expected her to immediately deny the possibility of the ugliness inside Beck ever touching Hank.

  Instead, she withdrew her fingers from his grasp and pointed at the bassinet. “Pick him up, Henry.”

  He took a step back. “He’s sleeping. Shouldn’t we let him sleep as long as we can?”

  “He’s a baby. He’ll be doing a lot of sleeping for the next few months. Pick up your son, Henry.”

  She was implacable. Beck’s feet shuffled over to the bassinet. Staring down, he watched Hank breathe.

  “Go on. He’s less fragile than you think.”

  Beck didn’t see how that was possible. He knew there was that thing about the head being too heavy for the neck and how he had to support it. His palms were damp, clammy with nerves—what if he dropped Hank? He wasn’t ready for this. He should’ve practiced or something. How was there no training course for this? Boot camp for new parents, that’s what he needed.

  “Henry.” Skye’s voice was soft, hoarse with emotion. “Hold your son.”

  Beck could do this. He’d won the entire Rising Star Chef competition, for God’s sake. He could pick up one baby.

  Holding his breath, he worked his too-big hands underneath that tiny body and lifted as carefully as if Hank were a ticking bomb.

  Huh. He wasn’t as limp or squirmy as Beck had feared. The blanket swaddled around him so tightly, Hank felt like a pretty secure little package. Heavier than he looked, too.

  Beck curled his son high against his chest, cradling the infant close. Hank’s cloudy blue eyes blinked open for an instant, and as Beck stared down into his son’s face, he felt all his fears and worries drop off his shoulders.

  Why had he ever been afraid of this?

  Standing there in that hospital room with his son drooling a wet patch on his T-shirt, Beck knew there would be troubles ahead and plenty of mistakes—but he also knew he had what it took to be a good dad.

  “I love you,” he whispered to Hank, who’d already slipped back into sleep.

  When Beck glanced over at Skye, there were silver tear tracks streaking down her cheeks, but she was beaming the biggest grin he’d ever seen.

  “I like holding him,” Beck told her.

  “See? You’re a natural. And he’s going to need you. We both are. I’m scared, too, you know. It’s not like my parents are the best example of how to raise a happy, secure child.”

  Beck carried Hank over to the bed and sat down, needing to be within touching distance of his wife. He felt swamped with gratitude—that Skye knew him so well, could read the fear in his eyes and force him to move past it.

  “We’ll figure it out together. And hey,” he said, thinking of their visitors that afternoon. “It’s not like we’re alone. We’ve got family to help out.”

  She blinked. “That’s true. It’s not just about our parents or our childhoods—we’ve both managed to put together pretty awesome families that have nothing to do with sharing DNA.”

  “We’re going to be okay. Better than okay. We’re going to be amazing.”

  Skye smiled up at him, at their son, and said, “This. This is the moment I’ll remember for the rest of our lives.”

  Author’s Note

  I am not a poet. Beck’s poem, however, is a real, honest-to-goodness poem written by my dear friend, the talented poet Liz Jones-Dilworth. She wrote it for the wedding between her brother-in-law, a New York City chef, and his fiancée, a former pastry chef! So it’s weirdly appropriate for Beck and Skye, and once I heard it, I couldn’t get the line about being born face to face out of my head. It just fits them perfectly.

  So with thanks to Liz and her in-laws for the use of their poem, I wanted to reproduce the whole thing here, so you can see how completely beautiful and romantic it is.

  Falling in love is easy, but no one knows how it’s done. The girl and the boy are walking through the market. Calluses touch the spots on a stuffed giraffe, the carved patterns of a spoon, wool spun into yarn. The rubber tire of a stroller, the canvas loop of a leash, honeycomb gleaming in a glass jar.

  Love is built one choice at a time. Move the bracket to the left, to the right. To the left. Bolts and washers and the wrong-sized wrench. Splice, twist, cap. Dimmer switch. Another trip to the store. It’s not fun until it is fun, and suddenly no noisy street is better than this noisy street. That’s when they decide to get the ice cream. Love is a choice, but who among us can resist it?

  Two pairs of aching heels under the same covers, two pairs of eyes blinking at the same screen. Two throats laughing at the same joke, which makes no sense outside this room. That’s because what the joke really means is we’re together. They might sleep through every alarm, but still each morning the girl and the boy belong more fully to the other, until it seems they were born face to face.

  Falling in love is a secret, but we all see it happen. The girl and the boy are down the shore, stirring lemon marmalade and wine-poached figs over a sticky stovetop. They arrive on the bus loaded with brown paper sacks, handles tied with curling ribbon. Inside is the earth and all it offers, their work and their love which has bubbled and boiled until it is on our lips—extravagant unnecessary treats, made of sugars without which we could not survive.

  Hot Under Pressure Recipes

  MRS. BECK’S GRILLED PB & J

  2 slices of bread

  Softened butter

  Peanut butter (your favorite kind—chunky, smooth, whatever)

  Jelly (your favorite kind—raspberry, strawberry, grape, whatever)

  This sandwich is more delicious than you could imagine from the simplicity of the ingredients!

  Set a sauté pan over medium heat. While the pan is warming, spread a thin layer of softened butter on one side of each slice of bread. Cover the clean side of one slice with peanut butter, and cover the clean side of the other with the jelly of your choice. Press the peanut butter and jelly sides together, then lay the sandwich, buttered side down, in the hot skillet.

  Fry the sandwich for a minute or two, until it reaches the desired level of toasty golden-brown doneness on one side, then carefully flip it over. The heat will have melted the filling a bit, so the bread may slide around. Just realign the bread slices once the sandwich is flipped.

  Toast the sandwich on the other side; it will take a little less time on this side, because the pan will be even hotter now. Just keep an eye on it, and remove the sandwich from the pan when it’s toasted the way you like it.

  Put the sandwich on a plate and slice it in half diagonally. Serve with a tall glass of cold milk for the perfect nostalgic lunch!

  SKYE’S ROASTED ROOT VEGETABLE GRATIN

  For the filling:

  2 medium parsnips, peeled and chopped into ½-inch dice

  2 medium carrots, peeled and chopped into ½-inch dice

  1 large bulb fresh fennel, cored and chopped into ½-inch dice

  1 large Yukon gold potato, peeled and chopped into ½-inch dice

  1 large sweet potato, peeled and chopped into ½-inch dice

&nb
sp; ¼ cup olive oil

  ¼ cup water

  2 tablespoons butter, plus a little extra

  2 tablespoons minced shallots or scallions

  1 cup white button mushrooms, thickly sliced

  1 tablespoon dry white wine

  salt

  pepper

  You could add and/or substitute peeled, diced turnips, celery root, yams, fingerling potatoes, or any other root vegetable you like. Essentially, you need about eight cups of chopped root vegetables.

  Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

  In a large bowl, toss the chopped vegetables with the oil and water, and sprinkle generously with salt and pepper.

  Spread vegetables in a single layer on a rimmed baking sheet, cover loosely with aluminum foil, and slide into the hot oven. Roast for twenty minutes.

  Remove foil and stir the vegetables around on the sheet. Roast, uncovered, for another twenty minutes, stirring occasionally. The vegetables are done when they’re tender and their edges are beginning to caramelize.

  While the root vegetables are roasting, heat a medium sauté pan over medium-high heat. Melt two tablespoons of butter and add the shallots or scallions. Sauté for a minute or two until softened and translucent, then add the mushrooms. Stir the mushrooms around; they’ll absorb all the butter immediately so keep an eye on them and if they start to scorch, turn down the heat. But keep sautéing them until they begin to give back the moisture they absorbed, and grow tender and brown around the edges. Pour the dry white wine into the hot pan and cook it down until it’s been absorbed by the mushrooms and shallots, another five to ten minutes. Take the mushrooms off the heat and set them aside until the root vegetables are done roasting.

  Grease a gratin dish or a medium-size casserole with a thin film of butter, then spread the roasted vegetables and mushrooms in the dish. Salt and pepper to taste.

  Turn oven down to 350 degrees.

  For the Mornay Sauce:

  3 tablespoons butter, plus a little extra

  3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

  2 cups whole milk