BECKHAM

Elizabeth arrives right on time, and I bolt out the door going on three cups of coffee and four total hours of sleep. I don’t know how people do this single parent thing.

At work I text the nanny every hour, asking for updates. Elizabeth responds by telling me how many ounces Baby took at her last feeding, if she’s sleeping now or if she’s content being held.

I respond to emails. Make some phone calls. Schedule some meetings.

Odessa should be landing in Vermont any minute now. According to the itinerary she emailed me earlier, she’ll spend the day with the Charity Falls Register journalist and meet with the townsfolk around seven tonight. She’ll spend all of tomorrow networking and meeting local businesses, and Friday she’ll fly home.

Just before lunch, I place a call to Dr. Brentwood to check on Eva. The judge at the emergency hearing yesterday had no qualms about placing the baby in my custody temporarily, though the petition for paternity testing has yet to be delivered to Eva. They won’t serve her if she’s sitting in the mental health unit of a hospital.

“Beckham,” Dr. Brentwood says.

“Any updates?”

“She’s experiencing a bout of postpartum psychosis,” he says, confirming Elizabeth’s assumption. “It’s rare, usually occurring after one or two percent of all pregnancies, but given her history of anxiety and bipolar disorder, she was more susceptible to experiencing this.”

“How long will it last?”

“We’re trying to get her meds adjusted,” he says. “She’s been off of most of them because of the pregnancy. It could take anywhere from six to twelve weeks for her most severe symptoms to subside, and it could take six months to a year for the condition to resolve.”

“Six months to a year?” This can’t be happening. “So what does that mean for…? What do I do with the…?”

Dr. Brentwood sighs. “I can’t tell you what to do, Beckham. Legally and otherwise. I can say, however, that being a single parent isn’t easy. To do so successfully, you’re going to need to ask for help.”

I hate asking for help.

“You know that saying it takes a village?” he asks. “It’s true. I hope you have some friends and family around to help, and not the kind money can buy.”

I hang up with him and stare at my phone. Dane hasn’t been updated yet, and I’m not sure what he’s going to make of all this. Not exactly in the mood for one of his lectures either.

Pulling in a deep breath, I dial my brother’s office phone and brace myself.

Ten minutes later, I’ve filled him in on everything having to do with Eva, the court appointed guardianship, the paternity test in limbo, and the fact that I have absolutely no clue what the fuck I’m doing.

His end is quiet.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he says.

I release the breath I’d been holding. “Really?”

“Fuck, Beckham, I don’t know.” Dane sighs into the phone. “Does it feel like the right thing to do?”

Picturing the baby’s face, I fight the warm fuzziness that threaten to dissolve every edge I have.

“Taking it one day at a time,” I tell my brother. “I couldn’t send her off to live with strangers. She didn’t ask to be born. It’s not her fault Eva did what she did. Even if she’s not mine, someone has to care about her.”

“Never thought I’d see a day when you put someone else’s needs before your own,” Dane chuckles.

My eyes roll.

“Odessa came over last night,” I say, squeezing my eyes. “I mean Sam. She’s really good with the baby.”

“She’s a good person,” Dane says. “I don’t say that about many people.”

“And a week from Friday, she’ll be gone.”

“Why don’t you offer her a full-time spot? Obviously not at her going rate, but I’m sure we can offer her a reasonable compensation package.”

“Do we need a full-time PR person?”

“She doesn’t have to be strictly PR,” Dane says. “I can think of a whole laundry list of things she’d excel at if we tasked her with them. Plus we’d been tossing around the idea of adding a VP of Public Affairs and Marketing.”

“She’s not going to leave Manhattan for Salt Lake City,” I scoff.

“There’s no reason the position can’t be based out of New York. In fact, that would make more sense, don’t you think?”

I glance at the clock. It’s been an hour since I last checked on the baby.

“Yeah,” I say. “All right. When she gets back, I’ll mention it to her.”

Dane lets me go, and I send a quick text to Elizabeth who promptly responds with a picture of the baby sleeping in her bassinet.

She’s going to need a name. A real name. If she’s going to be with me for the next several months to a year, I’m going to have to slice open my heart a little bit and let her in.

The soft, yet painful sensation that chokes me when I see her picture is a foreign sensation. Or maybe it’s an allergic reaction. All these years I’d joked that I was allergic to love and commitment and anything that caused a man to feel too many things at the same time.

And now here I am, feeling it all and not having a choice in the matter.

* * *

For the first time in my adult life, I’m dashing out the door at five o’clock, rushing home. Right now, there’s no place I’d rather be.

I stride across my foyer and head past the kitchen and living room in search of Elizabeth and the baby. Pausing in the doorway of my room, I arrive in time to see the nanny lay her down in her bed.

She sweeps around, her hand flying to her chest. “You startled me. She just finished a bottle. Three ounces. She’ll sleep at least a couple of hours for you.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

I pad lightly across the carpet, peering over the side of the white-lace bassinet at my Sadie.

That’s her name.

Sadie Grace King.

Because the daughter of a King should have a name that means princess.