The next day when I arrive to work, the place is eerily quiet. The security guard again meets me at the door. This time, he hands me an update Vere had personally written for me. It says she’s taken one of the two baby monitor remotes to bed with her in case the baby wakes before I get here, but according to the time she scribbled on the note, the baby has only been asleep in her crib for ten minutes, so I just missed her. He told me Vere and the guys were up all night with the baby and doing stuff on Skype. He also hands me a package that’s wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a hemp string. Make sure this gets to Robin as soon as she arrives was scrawled across the top in black pen. As he hands it over, the security guard who has talked to me more today than he ever has, awkwardly finishes with, “I was also asked to make sure you make yourself at home as much as possible even though no one is around today.”

I feel that last request to be completely laughable, because after going home last night and telling Angel and Mrs. Perino about the new ‘plan’ between me and Royce Devlin, and how crazy the day went, they had brushed it off with a hug and rushed me out the back door to have a look at what they’d one to Cara’s cottage. Sage and Mrs. Perino, with the help of the girls, had set it up with our stuff inside. They’d mixed our few things with what Cara had left behind, and it had looked amazing. Mrs. Perino had set it up so we could eat dinner in there, which we did, all around the antique chrome table.

It had been a night of laughter, food, friendship and family love like Sage and I had never experienced. After they’d gone back to the main house, Sage and I had slept there in beds Mrs. Perino had made up with fluffed pillows, washed-soft cotton sheets that smelled of her sage and sunshine, covered with antique quilts that looked hand sewn. With Sage tucked up in the bedroom next to me, the sleep I had in that bed and in that cottage saturated in the Perino goodness, had been better than I could have imagined.

Now, more than ever I understand that this cold hotel full of beautiful people and a motherless baby is the furthest thing from what a home should be like. I get why Adam runs away freaking out for weeks at a time and why Hunter has anxiety attacks around crowds, and maybe I even get why Royce is an angry psycho all the time. Who wouldn’t be, being stuck in this environment permanently like they all are?

As I glance around the cavernous living room, I’m reminded of how Royce said he was sorry for the baby because she had no choice in this matter by getting born into all this. I didn’t understand what he was saying, because when I first came here I was envious. I saw only the excitement of this jet-setting life, the opportunities and money these people seemed to have seemed so endless. I still envy the safety and security their money and status brings them—but Royce is so right. This life is strange and empty and cold, and now I even understand how Vere could think it’s lonely. Poor Vere, and poor crying, drunk Adam, and yes, poor little baby—all of them.

This place—and how they live—it’s like being stuck in a beautiful prison. If she were my baby, I’d never have left her here. I’d come back and take her as far away from this life as I possibly could, and I sure wouldn’t let them make plans to lock her up even more during that upcoming world tour. She needs sunshine, a cottage and a garden and a mommy and a daddy…

Throat tightening, I tiptoe fast into the nursery, drop my purse, my hoodie and everything else I’m holding into a corner, and scoop up the sleeping baby so I can hug her tight. I have this desperate feeling my warmth could make up for all that she doesn’t know about yet and stop my dark thoughts.

While she squeaks then settles back into a sound sleep, I marvel at how her tiny fingernails aren’t wider than the top of a pencil eraser. I soak in the perfection of her delicate half-moon lashes against her translucent skin, sighing over her beauty. How can Royce admit to me that this life is going to be hard for this baby, but then he still won’t claim her as his own? I know both sides of how this baby could grow up to feel. My mother left us how this baby was left, but my father he loved us double to compensate.

I swallow, remembering how my dad used to hold Sage when he was a baby just after Mom left. Together, we’d make Sage laugh so hard that his little giggles would make Dad and I forget to remember how much everything hurt. That thought makes my chest twist so hard that I almost break down and cry. Because, God, I think my hopes where Royce is concerned are too optimistic.

My dad has the kind of internal character that would never make him reject—emotionally abandon—and ignore his own child like Royce is doing. My father must have been born with something bigger and better. Maybe Royce can’t ever be a man like my dad because what I’m searching for inside of him simply isn’t there. But can he be taught? Can he learn despite what he might currently lack?

“Fake the smiles until they’re real, right? I will keep trying,” I whisper to the baby, forcing a smile to push back images of my father as I gently transfer her back into the crib. “Today we will go out onto the pool patio. I’ll get you going fast enough in your stroller that you’ll feel wind in your hair. I’ll go so fast the green potted plants drifting by will make it look like we’re having a real stroll in a real park next to a real lake. Okay? And if your daddy won’t come to you, well then…I mean to bring some daddy to you. I have a real plan for that. I do.”

She smiles in her sleep like she understands completely what my plan is, even though I’m still a bit foggy on the execution. Last night I’d remembered this paper a guy had presented in my AP Psychology class junior year. It was one about how zookeepers compensate when a baby animal is rejected by its parent or can’t raise the baby because of illness or death. They bring in a dummy parent. A surrogate. The part I’m going to try to replicate was about these lion cubs that were born in captivity. The mom had died after giving birth, and the cubs would not take to bottles and had started to starve. Someone had the idea to take the whole pelt off the mom tiger, and wrap it onto a surrogate tiger-mom that was this giant stuffed animal and they figured out a way to give the babies bottles near to this dummy-mom. The babies thrived.

Because Royce is not dead like the mom-tiger, only confused, I’d pondered just what I could do to help him snap out of choosing to be a dirt-bag-dad. I don’t want the baby bonding to me too much because I’m going to leave soon, too. So, I’ve figured out a new plan that will bond the actual parent to the actual child like those people did with the cubs.

I spent all last evening printing up the twenty or so photos that I’ve taken of the baby with the phone they’d lent me. I’d meant to print the photos and delete them so I could use them to draw or paint the baby when I had time and when I felt like painting again, because I haven’t felt like painting for a long time. But instead, I’ve printed them for Royce. They’re only on paper, but thankfully the Perino’s have a color printer, so the shots came out looking nice. I cut them out and even took the time to attach them to little cardboard rectangles I’d made, so they don’t instantly rumple. I mean to scatter these all around the suite, the kitchen and any place Royce might frequent so the baby stays on his mind whether he comes in here to see her or not. Then, on the flip side, I’m going to gather up some things that smell like Royce today.

I’m going to keep them all around the baby’s nose and skin as much as possible, even when I’m holding her. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s a start. Should I be able to convince Royce to change his mind, or should the jerk come to his senses after I leave this job, the baby will already be comfortable with his scent and maybe they will already be bonded, and I will have done what feels right about this situation.

I wander over to pull out the baby photos and search for my phone so I can check on Sage, but instead, my eyes land on the brown wrapped package with my name scrawled on it. I compare the writing to the note left for me by Vere and realize the handwriting does not match at all.

Curious now, I untie the twine that holds it together to find a large square box with German writing all over it. More curious, I turn the box over in my hands. It’s heavy, about the size of what might hold a big coffee mug? Or maybe it’s a candle? The only English words on the box read: Fragile. Concert Ball. Guarderobe. Berlin.

I carefully open the box and pull out what looks like a big snow globe but it’s solid, kind of like a clear crystal ball on a heavy base. I can see some sort of electronics and small LED lights through the glass. It also has a USB port on the back. I gasp when I notice the base has been signed by each member of the band.

There’s a note taped to the ball that says, Robin, this was given to me as a gift after our last Euro-world tour. When attached to a laptop, the ball glows and becomes a small projector that replays our entire Berlin concert either inside the ball or it can be turned to project on blank wall. The base is a speaker. Vere told me you don’t want me to apologize. I also understand that you’re happy with the ‘no-talking’ agreement, as am I. That said, because you still haven’t asked…I think your little brother might like this. You did mention he wished for autographs?

There’s a bunch of crossed out scribbles after that, like he’d said more but then changed his mind. It ends with, Please also tell Sage we all appreciate him as a fan. Hope to meet him one day soon.

Royce

I study the next line of scribbles made just before his name. It was like he couldn’t decide what word to put before he signed it and tried three different things before leaving only his name.

Smiling, and shaking my head, because he’s indirectly made me so happy, I put away the Concert Ball and walk to the crib going through my stack of handmade baby-photos with even more certainty that I’m doing the right thing for Royce Devlin.

This gift means that he, in fact, does have a conscience and a little bit of heart inside of him. And hearts can be made to grow. Which means heck yes, I’m sticking to the plan.

The plan to save him.