“I can do it,” I say.
“Trust me,” she says. “Start them early.” She reaches down, gathers up a few crayons, and scoops Jeffery up in a single practiced motion. As soon as he’s settled on her hip, she reaches a hand down for Ronnie, who reaches up at the same time to grab hold of her mother’s hand. My eyes sting, and I blink back tears. And though I totally blame it on hormones, I can’t deny that the simple, easy connection between mother and daughter has my heart twisting with both longing and regret.
“Did you say something about brunch on Sunday?” Syl says as she shuffles her tribe toward the door.
“Absolutely,” I say as my phone rings. “A small group. I’ll text you the time. You’re free?”
“We’re totally in,” Syl says, then points to my phone. “Get to work and let me know if I should bring anything.” She blows me a kiss and disappears out my door.
I grab the phone, expecting it to be the call I set up with a client in Seattle.
Instead, it’s Damien.
“Hi, stranger,” I say. “I was just going to text you. Syl was just—”
“Nikki,” he says, his voice firm enough to cut me off. “I’m so sorry.”
“About what?” I say, then, “Oh! Giselle.” Seeing Sylvia and the kids had completely wiped her from my mind.
“I had no idea she was back in town, much less that she’d made an appointment to see me.”
“I know. She told me she went through Rachel.”
“I was on the verge of throwing the bitch out of my office—”
“Did she tell you what she wanted?”
We’re talking over each other. Me, trying to sound like it doesn’t matter. Him, with latent fury tainting his voice. He’s known Giselle for years—they’d even dated for about five minutes before she got married. And he’d been sympathetic when she and Bruce had divorced. After all, she’d lost pretty much everything in their split. But then he’d learned that she was fucking with me—with us—and Damien had put all of his resources to work and essentially run the bitch out of town with her tail between her legs.
I hear him exhale, and it sounds like defeat. “She wants to donate to the silent auction,” he says, referring to the fundraiser for the Stark Children’s Foundation that is part and parcel of the movie premiere on Friday.
“Oh.”
His words surprise me. I’d expected—well, anything else. A request for a loan. To buy back one of her galleries. Simple forgiveness.
Instead, she’s turned the tables. Instead of asking for help, she’s offering it.
“Oh,” I say again. “Well, I guess you should agree.”
Damien clears his throat. “I already did.”
I start to say oh one more time, but force my lips to stay closed. He did exactly what I just told him to do, so it’s silly to be annoyed that he did it before asking me.
But silly or not, I am irritated.
Actually, I think I’m downright pissed.
“I didn’t realize she’d managed to hang onto any of her pieces that were worth anything.” The words come out sounding false. Like I’m making conversation with a stranger in a bar.
“She remarried,” Damien explains. “Not only is her husband wealthy, but he knows the parents of one of the kids in the bus.”
Immediately, my irritation morphs into something more gentle. “That’s horrible. Those poor people.” The premiere is for The Price of Ransom, the film adaptation of Jane’s narrative nonfiction bestseller. It’s a story about five third-graders who’d been kidnapped and held for ransom, then almost killed when a rescue attempt went horribly wrong.
The premiere—and all the activities surrounding it—is a fundraiser for the Stark Children’s Foundation, tickets for which start at five hundred dollars and go up to ten times that.
“She and her husband are donating a Glencarrie,” he says, referring to an up-and-coming artist whose work has been garnering six figures at various auctions lately. “I told her we’d appreciate the donation, and that they’re welcome at the premiere. I’m sorry,” he says again, before I can reply. “I should have asked you first.”
“No. Of course, it’s okay.” This time, I really mean it. She apologized, after all. And she’s donating a fortune to the foundation. “Besides, there’s going to be a huge crowd there. Maybe I won’t have to see her again.”
Damien chuckles. “I love you.”
“That’s a good thing, considering I’m having your baby.”
“How are you feeling?” I can hear the shift in his tone. Just the mention of the baby has lifted both our moods.
“Good, actually. I feel really good. Syl was just here, though. The word is out. You should call Jackson, and we should start telling our friends.”
“Agree. They should hear it from us. We can tell them when we call to invite them over for brunch.”
“And brunch will be one big celebration.” I glance at the clock. “I need to run. My client’s going to call any minute, and then I’m meeting Jamie for lunch. I’m going to try and work late and get caught up, but I may come home early.”
“Pregnancy exhaustion?”
“Try hormones,” I say. “And the way they’re hopping, you can expect me to jump you tonight.”
“As I said, I’m always happy to help you with anything you need during your pregnancy.”
“Very altruistic of you.”
“Later, Mrs. Stark. And I’m looking forward to an evening of therapeutic aerobic activity.”
I end the call and flip through my agenda for my notes. I’m still grinning when the phone chimes to signal an incoming text. I grimace, expecting that it’s my client texting to tell me the obvious—that he’s running incredibly late.
But when I pull up the phone, it’s not my client.
It’s not Damien either.
Instead, it’s my new text stalker. And the message makes me cringe:
What makes you think you deserve it?
11
I stare at the phone screen, bile churning in my gut. I hate this feeling—weak, exposed—and for one crazed moment, I imagine myself hurling my phone across the room to shatter against the far wall.
I think about the hard plastic pieces, the raw edges as sharp as a knife.
And I think about how I can get this churning, nasty feeling under control. How I can calm myself. Center myself.
How I can use those shards of plastic as a lifeline to drag me back home.
No, no, a thousand times no.
That is not what I want. Cut, and whoever is baiting me wins.
Cut, and I’ll destroy everything I’ve accomplished with Damien by my side.
Most of all, if I cut, then what kind of model will I be for my child? I press my free hand over my belly, determined to safeguard this precious baby. This child I hadn’t expected but will now do anything to protect.
What makes you think you deserve it?
Once again, that vile message fills my head.
I toss the phone on the desk and put both hands over my baby, then force myself to take deep breaths.
I do deserve it, I think. I do, I do, I do.
But deserve what?