Chapter Fifteen
STACEY NODDED AS the server cleared her plate. She’d been in the mood for pasta, and Pescadores had the best clam linguini in town, but she’d already eaten too many carbs that day and needed more protein, so she’d ordered tilapia and vegetables. Mostly she didn’t mind being a vessel but every now and then she missed having the ability to simply indulge as she wanted.
Kit leaned close. “You should have had the pasta.”
Because he always wanted her to be happy. He’d insisted on celebrating after she’d told him about her run-in with Karl, and the next morning at breakfast he’d worn his I’m with the Beautiful Scientist T-shirt. He was so supportive and loving. While she wasn’t a big believer in luck—from her perspective, it was little more than awareness, preparation and a willingness to take a chance—she had to admit when it came to her husband, she’d been the victim of good fortune.
Harper sipped her iced tea. “I hope you appreciate how I support your pregnancy by not ordering wine with dinner.”
“I do, and while it’s very kind of you, it’s not necessary.”
Her sister glanced at Kit. “Oh, I think it’s nice to be on the team.”
It was perhaps the second or third time Harper and Kit had exchanged a look. She had a vague sense of something going on with them, which made her uncomfortable, only she wasn’t sure why. She trusted each of them implicitly. Besides, she was hardly one to see emotional subtleties.
Kit paid the bill. Harper tried to give him money for her dinner, but he refused. Stacey let him handle her sister—she knew that pointing out that their combined salary far exceeded hers would only lead to conflict. They got up from the table and headed for the door.
“Stacey,” Harper said when they were outside, “Kit and I want to take you shopping. It’s past time and you need to get going on some of your decisions.”
They were walking as she was talking and it wasn’t until they stopped in front of a baby store that Stacey realized the evening had been a setup and that she hadn’t imagined those looks between her sister and her husband.
She turned to Kit, who looked uncomfortable but determined. “I’m sorry,” he said before she could speak. “I’ve tried to get you to go look at baby furniture for weeks now and you won’t commit to a day or time. Telling your mom is your business, Stacey. I get that and I’m fine with waiting however long you want. But us getting ready for Joule is something else. There’s a lot to consider, a lot to buy. What if you end up on bed rest for the last couple of weeks, or she’s early? I’m not having our child sleep in a dresser drawer because we couldn’t get our act together.”
Kit almost never spoke forcefully but tonight his tone was firm. Hurt circled her heart and tightened, making her want to lash out at him, but the logical side of her brain pointed out he wasn’t completely wrong. Or wrong at all. She had been avoiding anything to do with the baby. Unless it involved taking care of herself.
Harper touched her arm. “I love you, Stace. You know that, but come on. It’s way past time. Suck it up and pick some furniture. Choose a color scheme. Make a decision on diapers.”
Stacey wasn’t sure she could speak without yelling or crying, so she nodded and led the way into the store.
It was big and bright with a wide center aisle and upbeat music playing in the background. On the left were mock rooms set up with all kinds of furniture. On the right were aisles and aisles of clothes, toys, diaper bags, strollers and a thousand items she couldn’t begin to identify.
“See,” Harper said, standing next to her. “It’s not so bad. We’ll start with the big stuff. If worse comes to worst, Kit and I can pick out things like baby monitors and blankets. But you need to have a say in what the baby’s room looks like.”
They walked toward the displays. Kit and Harper headed for rooms of white furniture while Stacey decided to walk through to the back, then go more slowly on her return trip. But each setup made her feel more and more uncomfortable. There were too many choices—wallpaper, comforters, rugs, stuffed animals. One bookshelf had dozens of picture frames, each of them showing a handsome couple holding a beautiful baby, a mother and her child or a father and his baby. She supposed she should have an opinion about whether she wanted silver frames or wood or some cute animal theme, but she found herself more concerned about the photos themselves. Yes, the people were models, but they represented a reality that made her uncomfortable.
She picked up a yellow painted frame showing a man holding an infant. A girl, she would guess, based on the frilly blanket and ribbons on the baby’s hat. The man’s expression was loving, as if he couldn’t imagine anything more perfect than his daughter. A sweet image, she told herself, and one that terrified her more than anything.
She set the photo back in place, but couldn’t look away. How much would Kit love their baby? A normal amount? More than most? Would he love their daughter more than he loved her?
She didn’t want to think about that, but she couldn’t avoid the possibility. Kit was all she had—he understood her and no other man ever had. If he didn’t love her anymore, or if he loved someone else more, where would that leave her? Before she’d been loved by Kit, she wouldn’t have minded because she wouldn’t have known what she was losing, but now she did know. Now he was everything to her. What if she lost their relationship and never got it back?
She tried to tell herself that her fears were normal and she should simply talk to Kit about them. Only she couldn’t get past the shame. She was so afraid he wouldn’t understand, that he would think she was weak or broken or unlovable. What if by asking, she created the very scenario she wanted desperately to avoid? What if he took their baby and left her?
“Stacey?” Kit walked over, grinning at her. “Okay, this is totally crazy, but they have some nursery furniture with a midcentury modern feel, and you know how we both love that. They’re calling it antique white, but it’s more of a dark cream, which means we can do anything with the decorating. Plus, there’s a piece called a chifforobe that we have to have. It has both drawers and shelves and is the cutest thing ever.”
He tugged her up toward the front, where Harper was on the floor, shaking the base of the dresser.
“It’s solid,” she said as she looked up. “You want to make sure the pieces don’t fall over. Some you can attach to the wall, but with others, it’s just not practical.” She pointed to the crib. “It’s a little pricey, but it converts to a toddler bed. Later, when Joule is older, you can use the back and front of the crib as a head and footboard, so you’ll certainly get your money’s worth out of it, assuming you’re not all sick of it in eight years.”
She stood and walked over to the changing table. “There’s a lot of storage. I prefer open shelves for diapers and supplies, but you could get some kind of shelving unit or Kit could install a floating shelf. Trust me, you don’t want to be dealing with drawers every time you have to pull out new diapers, wipes, or whatever else you’ll need.”
Kit nodded as Harper spoke. “The color is really neutral. I think it will work well in the space.”
He sounded so hopeful, she thought, trying not to let her panic show. Furniture? They were already buying furniture? Shouldn’t they wait until...
Even she couldn’t finish that sentence. Wait until when? She’d given birth? Their daughter was ten? Despite her fears, she had to accept the fact that there was going to be a baby.
She forced herself to smile. “I like it a lot,” she said, thinking she neither liked nor disliked the furniture. What bothered her the most was what it represented.
Kit hugged her. “I knew you would. Great. Let’s place the order. I hope they have everything in stock.”
“Me, too,” Stacey said faintly, hoping her husband didn’t figure out how much she was lying.
* * *
“Happy birthday to me,” Harper sang softly as she lay in bed, telling herself she really had to get up. It was nearly six and just because she’d officially turned forty-two, the world didn’t actually stop turning and the work didn’t do itself.
She briefly wondered what Terence was doing for and with his girlfriend today and tried to avoid the irony of her ex’s girlfriend turning all of twenty-eight while she was one year closer to fifty.
She sat up and told herself she didn’t actually mind getting older, only to stop and realize that was total crap. No one wanted to get older, but she thought maybe if she had something of a personal life, she might not mind as much. Not that she had time to mind at all these days.
She glanced at the dresser, but there was no wrapped present waiting for her. Something Terence had always done. He’d had his flaws and getting a vasectomy without telling her was probably the biggest one—except for the affair, of course—but if she ignored those two rather sizable disasters, they’d had a relatively happy marriage. Okay, not happy exactly, but average. And while she in no way wanted him back, she wouldn’t mind having someone in her life. A man she could care about who would care about her. And while she was wishing for the moon, a few extra thousand dollars in her bank account would be nice, too.
She showered and dressed, then went directly to her tiny office, where she finished the last of the free billing for her landscaper. Her to-do list was endless and just looking at it exhausted her.
The sound of rustling in the kitchen had her turning in that direction. She knew that her mother would have arrived plenty early and started cooking a special birthday breakfast, because that was what one did for one’s daughter, regardless of the state of the relationship.
It wasn’t that she and Bunny weren’t speaking—they were. But there was tension between them. Tension born of Bunny being Bunny. It was a generational thing or a situational thing or a personality thing or maybe all three. Regardless, the unease would continue until one of them sucked it up and made things right, and the odds of her mother doing that were, well, nonexistent.
“Happy birthday to me,” Harper murmured, saving the billing file before leaving her office.
She found her mother at the stove, frying bacon. A very attentive Jazz sat at a polite distance away—not crowding or even whining, just gently reminding Bunny that she was there and bacon was her favorite.
“Good morning,” Harper said cheerfully.
Bunny turned and smiled. “Good morning, Harper. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, Mom. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“I wanted to.”
The kitchen table was set with festive birthday dishware. Yes, plates and mugs and bowls covered with birthday hats, tiny banners proclaiming Happy Birthday and little presents. Happy Birthday confetti, the same colors as the floral centerpiece, decorated the table. A pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice sat on one side of the table, next to a bowl of fresh fruit.
Homemade croissants sat in a bread basket warmed by a terra-cotta stone that would have been preheated in the oven. She would guess that her favorite blueberry French toast casserole was finishing up in said oven at this very moment. Bunny might not be willing to move with the times, but she made a heck of a birthday breakfast.
Harper walked over to the stove and hugged her mother. “Thank you. This is wonderful. I feel very pampered.”
“I’m glad.”
Harper told herself to suck it up and just get it over with. “Mom, I’m sorry we fought before. I didn’t mean to upset you and it made me feel bad that you were unhappy.”
A bit of a weaselly apology, what with her not admitting what she said was wrong, mostly because it wasn’t and she wasn’t going to give up that ground unless she had to, but as it was her birthday, maybe Bunny would cut her a break.
Her mother smiled at her. “Thank you, Harper. I appreciate that.”
Harper waited to see if there was more. When her mother added, “Now, go get my granddaughter so we can eat breakfast,” the last of her concern faded. All was forgiven. Nothing was resolved, of course, but hey, with every family came a bit of dysfunction. Normal was so last year.
A half hour later, breakfast was finished. Everyone had celebrated, even Jazz, who’d been given two strips of bacon. Bunny had tucked a check for five hundred dollars into a card. Harper had appreciated the generosity more than any present. Right now paying her bills was a lot more fun than going to the mall.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome.”
They shared a smile. Harper picked up the small package her daughter had put at her plate and briefly wondered when Terence had taken his daughter shopping. When she pulled back the wrapping paper, she realized he hadn’t, but that was perfectly fine.
The gift was a small booklet, created by hand and bound at one end. Inside were a dozen coupons, all made by Becca. Her daughter watched anxiously as she flipped through them.
Good for one: Send me to my room when I’m pouting.
Good for one: No, we’re not having this discussion again.
Good for one: Clean up my room.
The coupons were all variations on a theme—silly things she and Becca fought about in the course of their lives. The thoughtfulness of the gift touched her nearly as much as how much time her daughter had put into making it. Harper felt unexpected tears fill her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at Becca. “This is so wonderful.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Harper reached for her and hung on to her child. She had the brief thought that they never hugged anymore, never touched. Everything was moving so fast that she barely had time to breathe, but still. Was she losing touch with her daughter? When Becca had been little, they’d always hung out together. How had she let that slip away?
Before she could figure out an answer, Becca grinned and stood. “Are you ready?”
“I’m stuffed,” Harper said with a laugh, “but yes.”
Because in the Szymanski household, every birthday breakfast ended with cake.
Becca brought it out from the pantry and set it on the table. The small cake was frosted in white and decorated with only a few ribbons of pink. A single deep pink candle in the shape of a lotus flower sat in one corner.
“I found the candle online,” Becca said, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Grandma watched the video with me.” She smiled at Bunny. “You light it, Grandma.”
“No, dear. You do the honors.”
While Harper watched, her daughter pulled matches out of the junk drawer. She lit the candle and stepped back.
For a second nothing happened, then the flame grew thicker and higher. Jazz gave a low growl in her throat as if warning of impending danger.
“It’s okay,” Becca told her as she scratched her ears. “You’ll see. It’s like magic.”
The flames were steady, then suddenly died. The flower fell open and morphed into nearly a dozen tiny lit candles spinning slowly in the morning light.
“How did they do that?” Harper asked, as she stared in wonder. “I love it. I want a candle like that at breakfast every morning.”
Bunny and Becca shared a high five, then her mother started to cut the cake. “The internet is a magical place, Harper. Everybody knows that.”
* * *
Full on breakfast and cake, Harper got down to the reality of keeping her business afloat. By ten she’d made serious inroads on her to-do list and had set up an appointment to meet with Dean, Kit’s stay-at-home dad friend, about him working for her. A couple of minutes past the hour, she was interrupted by someone ringing her doorbell. It was too early for Dwayne, she thought, walking to the front of the house, an alert Jazz at her side. She opened the door to find three women holding buckets, mops, large tote bags and a vacuum.
“Harper Szymanski?” the shortest of the three asked.
“Yes.”
She handed Harper a card that read,
Happy birthday, Harper. I know this will make you crazy, but just go with it.
There was a scrawled signature underneath she recognized as Lucas’s.
“I don’t understand,” she said faintly, even though she understood fully. Understanding wasn’t the problem. Her issue was grasping.
“We’re here to clean your house.”
“But I...” Someone else cleaning her place? Her mother would have a heart attack. You weren’t supposed to farm out work like that. A woman took care of her house herself. It was... It was...
What was wrong with her? Someone had bought her housecleaning for her birthday. Next to Becca’s coupon book, it was the best gift she’d received in the last five years.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “Come on in!”