Baby and the Billionaire

by Beverly Evans

  "Now you have to sit back down," I tell her.

  "It'll be good practice."

  She does manage to drop down into the chair more quickly this time, but whether she's going to be able to get up with the same enthusiasm is yet to be seen. I nest down into my chair and spread out the food.

  "There's no plates or anything here, so we're going to have to college-years this," I say.

  "I asked Angelo to put plastic silverware in the bag," she confirms.

  "That's because you're my best friend, and I love you."

  I open the pizza box, and the smell rises up toward me. It's so delicious it makes my mouth water, but just as quickly, tears sting the corners of my eyes. It's unexpected, and I blink them away.

  “You aren't the only one to acknowledge me today, by the way,” I comment to Sylvia, doing everything I can to distract myself.

  It doesn't work. As soon as I say it, her eyes widen, and I realize what she's thinking.

  “Gavin?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “I got another of those ‘trick-or-treat’ notes this morning. This time it wasn't at my house. It was at the office when I checked in before coming over here.”

  “Was it just a note?”

  “The note and a bottle of perfume that smells like ammonia,” I tell her.

  “Well, that's lovely,” she scrunches her face up. “But I don't want you thinking about it too much. You can't get yourself worked up. You have to think about the baby.”

  “I know,” I tell her.

  “Did you bring it to the police?” she asks.

  “You know how Jimmy feels about this whole situation,” I sigh. “He still thinks I'm completely absurd. I took pictures of it where it was sitting and put both in a box with the other stuff. I'm going to call him later and tell him, but it's not going to do any good.”

  Sylvia nods and reaches for a slice of pizza. She chooses thoughtfully for a few seconds, then briefly flickers her eyes to me and back down to her lap. Despite her attempts to be casual, I know what's coming.

  “Have you talked to Gavin?” she asks.

  “Not yet,” I tell her.

  “You have to tell him,” she says.

  “I know,” I say.

  “He deserves to know.”

  “I'm going to tell him. I've known for less than a week. I just needed a second to process it. But I'm going to call him tonight.”

  It seems only appropriate that evening as I ready myself to call Gavin to sit on the living room floor with the cold pizza leftovers in front of me. I got a hold of my emotions and don't feel the same tingling tearing as when I first breathed in the smell of rich mozzarella and earthy mushrooms. I'm under no delusion that this is going to be an easy phone call, but I'm ready. Sitting his card in front of me, I dial and listen to the rings.

  And they just keep going. Finally, the voicemail picks up. I hang up and take a breath. I try again, but the same thing happens. I decide not to leave a voicemail. This isn't something to tell somebody over a message, and I don't want to leave a different impression by asking him to call me back. I'll just have to try again later.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Gavin

  May…

  Olivia left me vegetable lasagna this time. It's a favorite of mine she doesn't make terribly often. According to her, that's because it takes all day to make it. I believe it. There's nothing quite like her creamy, garlicky white sauce or the cheeses studded with spinach and onions tucked between the layers. It's the pool of thick red sauce she puts on the bottom of the plate before serving up a slab of the lasagna that takes up the most time.

  A few occasions in my life, I've tried to sneak into the kitchen to watch her put together that sauce. She wasn't having it. I'd be in there for no more than ten seconds before she shooed me out. Hours later, she would emerge with plates piled high. Every bite combined the two sauces, and by the end, all that was left were streaks of perfectly balanced pink across the white surfaces. I'd never tasted a red sauce even close to rivaling Olivia's in my life. Not until I tried Angelo's.

  Now I feel like I've entered into some sort of uncomfortable sauce triangle, and I have to keep each of them from finding out about the other.

  My mind is drifting over to Angelo's sauce even more tonight than it usually does as I flip through books on the history of Shadow Creek and its most prominent families. I have books and folders full of scanned copies of newspapers and other documents spread out in front of me on the table. With every bite, I delve a little further into the town.

  My main focus is the mansion on the hill. Ever since Scarlett told me the story about it, it's fascinated me. The air of mystery around it might be exciting and even precious to Shadow Creek in the same way that legends take on tremendous significance in virtually every town. But that's not me. I'm not the type to be drawn in by a mystery just for the sake of enjoying the unknown. It makes me want to unravel it and make it make sense.

  I've learned a considerable amount to during my research into the mansion on the hill. And yet, very little at the same time. When the house was designed and built, it drew tremendous attention. Massive and extravagant, even among the wealthy families of the time, the house ended up featured in several newspapers and books. During its first years, it was the backdrop for frequent lavish parties. Some profiles of the home describe being invited by the McVey family to visit for a few weeks in the summer as the pinnacle of social success. If you received an invitation to visit the mansion and enjoy it with the family, you had truly arrived. In one notable circumstance, the daughter of a prominent judge asked to host her wedding at the mansion. Popular folklore has it; some of the flowers growing on the grounds came from seeds produced in her bridal bouquet.

  With the perfect setting already built in and all that fervor and romance stemming from the wedding years before, it's surprising to find out the daughter, the current McVey matriarch, Priscilla, didn't have her wedding at the mansion.

  I expected to find far more information about the mansion in contemporary books. Like many impressive and historically significant houses, I thought I'd find interviews and in-depth explorations done in the last several years. But instead, the information dwindles the closer the resources get to the current day. I found a few books and magazines that mention the mansion tangentially when talking about the family. Vital records show Priscilla's marriage, but little else.

  I open the most comprehensive book to a series of pictures I feel like I've looked at a hundred times by now. They're of the home when it was first built. Grainy black-and-white images show the elaborate décor and give a glimpse into the dual worlds that existed within the mansion. Even when vacationing for the summer, the family maintained a large staff to help with their daily activities in the functioning of the mansion. Scarlett mentioned them when she showed me the house. It feels somehow personal to now have faces and names to attach to the way she described the servants' quarters.

  There's a contrast between this and my own home. None of my staff lives in the house with me. Some live in apartments in the city or in houses around the outskirts. Others, the core of my staff made up of those with the most seniority, have their own cottages on my grounds. I can only hope I've never made them feel the way most of the early servants look in these pictures.

  It's an oddly eerie feeling, looking through the pictures and having them overlapping my mind with what I saw in the reflection of the moonlight on the snow as I stood beside Scarlett. Peering through darkened windows at rooms unquestionably changed by the passage of time doesn't do justice to the gorgeous home.

  It once looked so alive. Every bit of it was meticulously designed and maintained to create a life of opulence for the family and its guests, even for the short time they occupied it each year. Seeing it this way only makes it more of a shame that it sat empty for so many months out of the year, and that it has been nearly abandoned now.

  My phone rings beside me, and I pick it up. Glancing at the screen, I
see an unfamiliar number with no name attached. I immediately put the phone back down on the table and press the button to ignore the call. Another three mouthfuls of lasagna later, the phone rings again. And again, I look at it and see a number I don't recognize. I sit the phone down and ignore the call.

  My mind has wandered back to the servants’ room Scarlett showed me, and the somewhat expected but still odd detail that nothing I read about the house has mentioned that room when the phone rings again. For the third time, I pick it up and look at the screen. This time, I recognize the number.

  “Hi, Marla,” I say.

  “Good job,” she tells me.

  “Are you praising me for answering a phone properly?”

  “No. The opposite, actually. Good job not answering the last two calls,” she says.

  “Those were you?” I ask.

  “Yep,” she tells me. “And it's good to see you're still ignoring the numbers you don't know.”

  “At any point, those could be potential clients or people calling me about this trip coming up,” I point out.

  “Or they could be your creepy obsessive ex who's going to end up with a lawsuit up her skinny ass if she doesn't stop messing with you. She's called you from no fewer than fifteen numbers in the last week.”

  “That might be a tad aggressive,” I say. “And fairly useless when it comes to the actual filing of the papers.”

  “Speaking of asses, you sure are a smart one sometimes,” she retorts.

  “Have I ever fired you for insubordination, Marla?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “Good. Just making sure. So, did you just put through a couple of dummy calls to test my ability to restrain myself in the face of an unknown phone call?” I ask.

  “That was part of it, but I mostly wanted to go over your itinerary for the trip. Your flight leaves at six a.m. the day after tomorrow. I've arranged for a car to pick you up, so you don't have to bother Darrell. It's a long flight, so wear something comfy.” She pauses and giggles. “When you get there, someone will be waiting for you. I've confirmed your hotel reservations and the schedule of meetings and events with representatives from that branch. Do you have everything else ready? Is there anything else you need me to do?”

  “No, thank you. I just have to finish packing, and I'll be ready. Are you ready to make sure everything keeps running smoothly while I'm gone the next few weeks?”

  “It's the only thing keeping me from trying to stow away in your carry-on,” she tells me.

  “Perfect. Thank you for checking on everything. I'll see you tomorrow.”

  I hang up and look down at the phone. I've lost track of how many times I've stared at the phone, contemplating calling Scarlett. I want to hear her voice and find out what's been going on in Shadow Creek. I want to hear another of her stories and find out what kinds of adventures she's been having.

  But I stop myself. I have to be realistic. Long distance is too weird and too much strain. Especially now with everything that's going on with my company. My focus has always been work, and there are too many things at play right now for me to risk it all toppling.

  But that doesn't change how much I wish she were here to eat with me.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Scarlett

  June…

  This takes away the sting from all the missed phone calls. It distracts me from thinking about Gavin never calling me back. Nothing else matters to me in this moment but the little screen to my side and the wriggling pale shape against the dark background. The baby is so much bigger than I expected it to be. With the exception of a little more softness on my belly, I'm not really showing yet. That's a distinct bonus. If I can continue to go about my life for a little longer with people thinking I overdid it on garlic bread and meatballs, it will give me more time to deal with it myself before having to share it.

  Right now, Sylvia is the only one who knows. She's been there for me for the last few weeks since I found out, and talking to her has been full of moments of clarity. Each time we talk about the baby, each time she texts me with another ridiculous name suggestion, each time we discover a new baby gadget with a purpose I don't know, but that I apparently can't live without, it makes it more real.

  Now as I stare at my first ultrasound in more than a month, there's no question. This is so real. It's not just a bulbous, somewhat ambiguously shaped form in there anymore. The image on the screen is a baby, tiny and perfect, curled up tightly with its little ankles crossed exactly like mine. I want to reach out and touch it, but remind myself it's right inside me, not on the screen. I run my hand along my stomach, imagining it resting over the tiny head and little hands.

  "It's amazing," I murmur.

  "Have you been feeling a lot of movement?" Dr. Stine asks.

  "Yes. Kicking up a storm. It particularly likes to kick my bladder."

  She laughs. "They do that. Right now, baby is only about the size of a large cupcake. Just wait until a couple months from now when it has some weight to it and starts getting its feet up into your ribs."

  "That's something to look forward to."

  "Do you want to know what it is?" Dr. Stine asks.

  "You can tell?" I ask, squinting at the screen.

  "Well, baby is in a difficult position right now, but we can try to do some maneuvering and see what we can find out. If you want to know, of course. Some mothers would rather be surprised."

  "I think I've been surprised enough," I tell her.

  "Then let's see if we can get this bitty one to reveal some secrets," she says.

  She moves the wand around on my belly, spreading the cold blue gel and pressing deeper to see the baby from different angles. It takes some encouraging, but finally the baby shifts just enough for her to get the perfect view.

  "Can you see?" I ask.

  Her lips curve up in a smile, and she nods.

  "Yes, I can," she tells me. "And it's looking to me like you're having a little girl."

  My heart swells, and a wash of emotion rolls over me. I press my hand to my belly, seeking out a kick or a flutter, anything to tell me she can tell I'm here.

  "Did you hear that, cupcake?" I whisper. "Are you ready for some girls' nights in a few months?"

  "It seems like so long now, but you'll be holding her before you know it," Dr. Stine says. "She looks great. Everything is developing well, and her measurements are perfect. And as for you, your blood pressure is at a good level, and your blood work came back without anything unusual. So, things are going just like we want them to."

  "That's good to hear," I tell her.

  "Let's keep it going that way. I'll see you next month."

  Clutching the long strand of printouts from the ultrasound, I head to the front desk to make my next appointment. Sara smiles up at me, her eyes drifting curiously to the pictures in my hand.

  "Find out any news?" she asks.

  As much as I want to keep as many of the details to myself as I can until I decide the time is right, there's no point trying to hide anything from her. Not only does Sara work behind the desk at my doctor's office, meaning she's going to see me any time I come in for an appointment, but she's bound by professional ethics. I can trust she's not going to go spouting the news to everyone she passes.

  I hope.

  I slide the pictures across the desk to her.

  "It's a girl," I tell her.

  "Congratulations! That's wonderful. Are you really twenty weeks along?"

  "That's what Dr. Stine tells me."

  "You're so tiny! I bet a lot of the women who come in here would love to be showing as little as you by this point. Some of the women who are right about the same point you are have already switched out of their regular clothes," she says.

  "Don't say that too loud," I lower my voice. "Don't want to give my belly any ideas. I haven't exactly sent out announcements yet."

  She nods knowingly.

  "Say no more. I know nothing."

  I smile at her, c
onfirm my appointment, and head out into the warm June day. Summer hasn't completely hit yet. At least not in the way it will next month when it will feel like I could just climb up into the air and swim to my destination. I'm enjoying the thinner, comparatively cooler air as I walk the few blocks onto the main street of town. I have a few things I want to pick up, and Cupcake here is telling me she might want to stop by the diner for a quick lunch. She already has this ladies' afternoon thing down. It won't be long until we're having manicures together and chatting over leafy green salads we both know full well we're going to follow up with brownies and ice cream when we get home.

  The thought makes my heart warm, and a smile comes to my face. I never thought I was going to be a mother. The possibility was taken from me when I was so young, and I just put it aside, stuffing it into the back of my mind so I didn't have to think about it. If I didn't think about it, I couldn't be disappointed. I couldn't be upset about not having something I never could. I never gave myself the chance to want it.

  Now it's right here in front of me. I'm experiencing it suddenly and completely unexpectedly. Even if I had ever tried to conjure what it would be like to become a mother, never would I have come up with this. But I can't truly be upset about it. It's overwhelming at times, and I'm still trying to figure things out, but I'll get there.

  Starting with dealing with Gavin.

  I've been calling him regularly for weeks but haven't heard from him. It hasn't crossed my mind to not tell him. It never will. He deserves to know he's going to be a father, regardless of his reaction or what he wants to do with that information. It doesn't really matter to me. I have no doubt I can do this on my own. Cupcake and me against the world.

  Ahead of me, the door to Filene’s Fudge Shoppe swings open, startling me and making me stop. The man holding the door holds out a hand to me.

  "I'm sorry," he says.