“What’s wrong?” I finally asked.
“Long day, darling,” he said, reclining in his seat.
“This is silly,” I told him, licking the expensive caviar that accompanied the duck from my lips. “Two hundred dollars and we know where it ends up.”
“It’s the experience, Charley.” He appeared sullen, almost bruised. He rubbed at his eyes and I saw his brittle cheeks flatten. He seemed to catch his breath before speaking. “I love that about you, Charley. I love that you don’t care about this stuff. It’s why I fell for you . . .”
I smiled, feeling his love warm my skin. “That’s not why you fell for me—”
“Yes, of course, there were a few other things,” and then he turned a shade of melancholy, a side of Philip I wasn’t used to. “You do know how much I love you, right?” He had trouble looking me in the eye.
“Of course I do. I love you, too. You know that.”
Before he could finish his thought, the waiter approached with a chocolate raspberry sphere—exclusive to the hotel—a light almond sponge with lemon verbena ice cream, and two glasses of champagne.
“None for the lady,” he said, pushing the glass away. The queasiness had remained at bay throughout the meal, but I could feel the uncomfortable sensation returning. Philip threw the drink back and spooned ice cream into my hungry mouth, the cold soothing away the nausea.
“What does lemon verbena say about my personality?” I asked, curling into him.
“I’m not sure, though sherbet lovers are pessimistic . . . analytical. In fact, right now, you’re analyzing many things. This baby. Me. I know when your mind is busy, dear girl. Right now, it’s very, very busy.”
“Maybe you’re seeing a reflection of yourself,” I pointed out.
He gripped my fingers tighter and didn’t argue. And I suddenly had a premonition of what our life would be, and it terrified me. Philip and I, jolly and carefree, two who had always been on the same page, working toward the same destination, were at once not in step. It was as though he were paces behind me, or maybe it was me behind him. One of us was always trying to catch up. It would be fine if we ended up at the same place, but what if we didn’t?
“There’s something I want to tell you, Charley.”
He pulled me from one worry into another. I searched his face, the lines that threaded across his skin. “What is it?”
“I’ve been in contact with your father.”
I backed away. “You what?”
“Your father. I found him. He’s in Nashville.”
“Why would you do that?”
“You’ve already lost so much, Charley.”
It felt worse than a betrayal.
“My father wanted nothing to do with me. Why would you seek him out?”
He was shaking his head. “You don’t know that. Not everything is what it seems.”
“I expected more from you than a cliché, Philip.”
“It’s the truth,” he said, folding his napkin in his lap. “We had a few lovely chats. You should hear what he has to say. You may very well need him someday.”
My hand reached for the thin gold chain around my neck. “I thought you understood me, Philip. I thought—”
“I understand you all too well, Charley.”
“Wow.” I sat back, suddenly icy cold.
“He’s going to contact you. I wanted you to be forewarned.”
What did Philip expect me to say? Thank you? I’d managed just fine without him all these years. It made no sense to resurrect the dead.
I scooted out of the chair and reached for my bag. “I want to go back to the hotel.”
“We have to make one stop.”
“Not tonight, Philip. Please, I’m not in the mood.”
“One stop.”
He led me out of the restaurant toward the club. LIV was a loud, trendy nightspot, and Philip, despite his proper breeding, had a posse of DJs that invited him regularly to join them behind the turntable. I was always fascinated to see him, my old-fashioned Brit, take to the spinner, but tonight I couldn’t be less interested. The club was loud, and the vibration spilled through the youthful crowd—beautiful bodies swathed in decadent clothing and spiked heels. Neither of us belonged here, though no one seemed to notice.
Throngs of guests watched DJ Kygo and the mysterious Brit by his side, though the Brit was only watching me. I should have left. I should have called for Pete to take me back to the room. Instead, I stood off to the side, my sleeveless silk dress swaying to the pulsing sounds. I was a horrible dancer, didn’t even try, and Philip’s eyes were buried in my long, wavy hair. He was trying to get me to look at him, but I refused. The news, fresh and distressing, tapped into a well of feelings I preferred to bury.
A businessman in a scruffy suit approached. Noticing me alone, he made his move. As I brushed him off, I could feel Philip’s eyes crawling up and down my skin. Soon he was departing the DJ booth and heading in my direction. His haste had me both flattered and concerned.
The man took off as Philip reached my side, though what I thought was anger was something else. His eyes narrowed on mine, half-closed and mired in red. I could barely make out his pupils. “Philip, what’s wrong?”
Sweat gathered along his upper lip, and he reached for me.
“Philip!” My heart quickened, and dread gripped my throat. He tried to say something before turning around and walking away. The urgency in his steps made it difficult for me to catch him. Swaying bodies knocked into me. Pulsating lights flashed around the room.
“Philip,” I shouted again, but my voice was lost in the music and laughter, the clinking of glasses. I strained to see him, standing on my tippy-toes to get a better look. The back of his head was across the room, and he was opening the door to the men’s bathroom.
Frightened and out of breath, I reached the door and poked my head through.
“Philip?” But nobody heard me over the blaring sounds except some drunk frat boys who eyed me curiously. I should have just gone in there, but Philip would want me to wait. He’d say it wasn’t proper for a woman to enter the loo with a bunch of men.
I was leaning against the wall, worried, when he found me. He looked pale, his hair matted in sweat.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” I asked.
Philip would never want to worry me. He once had pneumonia and told me he was nursing a cold, though he was nursing it in a hospital in Boston.
“Tainted caviar!” he shouted.
“You don’t look right,” I argued. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, darling,” he assured me, though I didn’t believe him. He reached for my cheek and moved in for a kiss.
I had to turn my head. His breath was the scent of putrid acid. “Did you just vomit?”
“I’m fine,” he said again, pulling me near and making it impossible for me to breathe. “Maybe too much dessert.”
“We should go back,” I said.
He unbuttoned his top button and guided me across the crowded floor.
Midway I stopped. “Philip, we’re getting too old for this.” My cell phone said it was close to two in the morning. “You’ve had a long day . . .”
But he’d hear nothing of it. He lunged forward, the weight of him leaning into me. If I backed away, he’d fall.
“Philip, you’re really scaring me.”
“Darling,” he slurred. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Perhaps it’s a sympathetic pregnancy,” he said with a laugh.
And then it occurred to me. The caviar was fine. Philip was rejecting my news. He was upset, and he tried to drink the revelation away. He didn’t want the pregnancy, and maybe, just maybe, I did.
“Charley,” he said, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about. Perhaps I’m bloody drunk and ate something that didn’t agree with me.”
I should’ve asked him. I should’ve come right out and asked him if my news had m
ade him sick.
“There’s a name for it, you know,” he said. “Couvade syndrome.”
I turned away from him, unimpressed with his stupid trivia. He tried to move in for another sloppy kiss, and I tossed my head to the side, so the kiss landed on my cheek. Philip never got drunk. Food always agreed with him. Both his hands came down on my shoulders, and he forced me to look at him.
“Darling, please . . .”
I willed myself to relax.
“. . . you’re going to be my wife soon—the mother of my babies. Everything is fine.”
“I’d like to go back to the hotel.”
He slid his hand into mine, but it did little to quell the clamoring of emotions. As we exited the lobby, the bustling sounds behind us streamed like the exhaust of an old car. The drive to the Four Seasons was a silent one, and I languished in a fresh set of worries. What the hell was wrong with Philip? Would my father call? Would I care? And what the hell was Philip thinking? We’d have to discuss having kids. Really discuss having kids. Not a superficial conversation in between flights around the world. The thought sent a chill through my veins. It penetrated deep within my soul and suppressed rational thinking. What if he really didn’t want them? And what if I did?
“You worry too much, darling.” It was a grumble meant to pacify, but it made the dread feel worse. Defeat spread through my veins, and his heart thumped against my cheek. Maybe Philip was right. My imagination sometimes got the better of me.
I leaned deeper into him, inhaling the scent of cigarettes and sweat. He stroked my hair, and it did little to soothe away the worry, the frightening thoughts that tumbled down my shoulders.
CHAPTER 16
August 2016, Back Then
Kansas City, Missouri
I was in my mother’s kitchen. The outline of her face was clear enough for me to see the mole on her left cheek, the one I tried to wipe off when I was three because I thought it was chocolate. Her tight blonde curls were wrapped in a bright-yellow scarf, giving off a youthful glow. She was preparing rack of lamb, and I watched her drop seasonings into the pan—each garlic clove, each sprig of rosemary, a touch of love.
“Charlotte, if you can read, you can cook,” she told me, but I disagreed.
“It’s innate, Mom.” I’d watched her in front of a pan of fish, sprinkling seasonings and sauces without a measuring cup in sight. I was a deliberate chef, a stickler for rules, directions, and precise measurements. That’s why my meals tasted bland and flavorless. Panache was a gift I hadn’t inherited.
A knock on the door meant Philip had arrived. It was his birthday, and all he wanted was for my mother to cook for him. He could’ve had his selection of delicacies, but he chose her, and that was one of his many gifts.
In lieu of customary flowers, he brought her a Cuisinart. She admired its size and capabilities, although she muttered under her breath, “I can do anything this overpriced machine can do. And better.”
Dinner was enjoyable and brimming with laughter. Philip had Mom in stitches with stories about his travels. The mishaps of lost luggage, the time he entered the wrong car in Amsterdam and ended up in the Red Light District with some of his more conservative clients. A business dinner that led to a trip to the emergency room with a foreign object stuck in a foreign location. Mom’s eyes glistened. She didn’t even attempt to wipe the dampness from the corners. And when the cheers died down, she did what she did best: snooped. Once Philip opened a bottle of wine, she moved in for the kill. She asked about his parents, his previous marriage, the bevy of women who followed, and why he chose me.
“Mother!” I exclaimed, though part of me shamelessly wanted to hear the answers. Philip covered my hand with his and revealed himself to my mom in the absence of his own. “Women,” he stated, “misunderstood, yet lovely . . . such a messy cause to love and be loved.”
“You’re not answering the question, young man.”
Philip held on to my fingers, never letting go. “Natasha was the closest I came to . . . well, I tried, I did. We married young. She wanted kids. Lots of them. And the marriage became secondary to what I termed an unhealthy desire—”
“You don’t want children?” Mother interrupted, not letting him finish.
Philip dropped my hand and crossed his arms.
“Mom,” I said, “you only had one . . . not everyone wants—”
“But at least one, Charlotte.” She was looking directly at me. “You want at least one child, don’t you?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
Philip recognized what the probing was doing to me. “To answer your question, Katherine, I wanted children, but not after a week of marriage. And not at eighteen. I wanted to enjoy my wife, at the time, and she became hyperfocused on basal temperature.
“After that, there was never a good time. There was always the issue of geography and one case of stalking that left me rather skittish about these sorts of relationships.”
As I was half listening, a large sign trespassed through my mind. It was inscribed across crisp, white paper in large, bold letters: “Philip Doesn’t Want Children.” Though he chalked it up to being young, I heard a reluctance that sounded a lot like refusal. I felt it. I felt him. And I quickly dismissed it because I understood the wavering. It was similar to mine. Outside the window, the street lights shined on our shortcomings. For now, it was enough to be sheathed in the giddy high of a new relationship. Certainly, Philip and I had learned from our past experiences. Should we change our minds, we’d be the best parents possible. Yet the nagging persisted, and I wasn’t entirely convinced that Philip felt the same way.
When he finally landed on us and what attracted him to me, I bathed in his words, letting them wring out the fear and doubt that had pooled beneath my skin. “Perhaps I might have walked right by her on a crowded street, but Charley has an inner beauty far lovelier than . . .”
“Wait,” I stopped him. “Are you actually insulting me?” I turned to my mother. “You hear this, Mom, he’s letting you know about the prettier and skinnier girls . . .”
“I’m not saying that, Charley.” He was smirking. “I love your bum,” he said, proceeding to grab it under the table. “It’s a lovely bum.” Then he held out his hands to emphasize the size.
“She gets that from her father’s side of the family,” my mother joked.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I said. “My ass is not that big. Go on, Philip. Tell Mom why you fell for me.”
He cleared his throat. “Like I said, she was more brains than—”
This time I banged into him hard. “I’m kidding, darling. All in good fun.” Then he turned to my mother. “But seriously, Katherine, your daughter’s not ordinary. We actually shared a rather stimulating, philosophical conversation on the plane. She forgave my awful behavior—of course, a glass of wine helped—and I admired the way she listened. You know how people pretend to listen? They yes you while they’re off somewhere else? Charley doesn’t do that. Never. And she’s committed to those kids. It’s very endearing.”
“Thank you,” Mom said. “I raised Charlotte to be independent, though extenuating circumstances gave me no choice.” Now she was the one reaching for my hand. “I’ve always warned her about finding herself before giving herself away. To trust who she is and what she wants out of life.
“Let’s be clear, Mr. Stafford,” she said, placing a second helping of cauliflower on his plate. “Charlotte’s my only child. It was a mistake not to have more. I’ll be a grandmother . . . so help me God.”
“Mother,” I exclaimed, her threat reddening my cheeks.
Philip laid a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Charley. Your mother’s right to want the best for her child.”
And then Mom burst out into laughter. “Oh my goodness, Philip, you should see your face.”
“Touché!”
The two of them giggled while I fell back in my chair. And though I managed to enjoy the rest of the night, I was plagued with doubts. The
y didn’t ease up while we sang “Happy Birthday” around the creamy buttermilk cake with white frosting, or while our eyes locked, as he made a wish.
It was only when we returned to his hotel and he drew me a bath in the spacious tub that the tension began to evaporate. He sat perched on the marble tile with an after-dinner drink nearby, and I scooted close to him. His hands massaged my shoulders, and he didn’t even flinch at the bubbles that covered his shirt and tie. He held me, my damp hair soaking his clothes, telling me all the things I’d dreamed of as a little girl. “Of all the things I’ve ever held, Charley, the best by far is you.”
I nuzzled closer. “Remember those words, Philip.”
And then I dragged him into the tub with me, shirt and tie and all.
Children were far from our minds as we snuggled in the warm water. Philip and I had plenty of time to consider the big decisions, plenty of time to choose the pieces and parts that would complete our story.
CHAPTER 17
August 2018, Present Day
Islamorada, Florida
It was a stalemate. The box determining my future beckoned from the plastic Publix bag on the kitchen counter. I’d come close, just enough to see the blue letters beneath the plastic wrap, but then quickly retreated. It had been hours since I’d returned from the store, hours since I reached for the predictor of fate. I hadn’t even told Philip I bought the test.
Shoving the box to the back of my mind, I fumbled around the kitchen, cursing myself for attempting meat sauce from scratch. Even if it was a trial for Philip, I was failing miserably, and spending more time choosing the recipe than I did on the damn pregnancy test had to be a bad sign. Too much salt. Too much pepper. Not enough garlic. Too much onion. I’d burned my tongue, and when I saw my reflection in the boiling pot, my face was blotted in tomato.
The intercom buzzed, signaling an arrival at our gate. I pressed the button to talk. “Hello?”
For a split second, I thought it could be my father. Would he dare reach out after all this time? His potential return made an already nerve-racking situation worse. I had spent the morning flipping through my mother’s weathered albums, analyzing our features, searching for a sign that connected us.
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