by Mara Wells
“Now you say it? God, three days ago, I would have…” Her whole body shook. He held her tight, but that seemed to make it worse. Sobs racked her body. He pulled away to see her face. Swollen, red eyes. Swollen, red nose. Tears soaked the collar of her robe and his T-shirt. “I can’t believe you.”
“I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He knew he’d been running hot and cold the past few days, but he didn’t think he’d totally blown his shot with her. Of course he had, though. Carrie didn’t wallow, didn’t wait around for things to settle. Didn’t wait for him.
She sniffled, loudly, wetly. “I think you should go.”
She wasn’t going to say the words back. She didn’t love him. The other night hadn’t meant what he thought it had, or else he’d killed it by being such an ass the next day. She’d slipped away from him, yet again, but the panic he felt was sharpened by the child sleeping on the couch. Remember the groveling. No lawyer threats. He took a deep breath and put his heart on the line for the second time.
“I want to tell Oliver the truth.”
“Fine. I’d planned to tell him the day after we, you know, but then you were all, you know—” She waved her hand around like it meant something. He just couldn’t figure out what. “Not today, though, okay? When he’s feeling better.”
“Okay.” He searched her face, trying to figure out what was going on with her. As always, she slammed her composure on like a mask.
He couldn’t look at her another moment. He stalked to the kitchen and poured two glasses of water and brought them back to the living room.
“Hydrate.” He shoved one into her hands and left the sippy cup on the coffee table for Oliver.
The door closed behind him, and it felt worse than signing divorce papers. Worse than the time he’d dropped a wheelbarrow full of demolition debris and broken three bones in his foot. He didn’t know what to do next. He sank onto the front stoop and stared at that freakishly large staghorn fern. What do you do when the only person you’ve ever wanted doesn’t want you back?
Chapter 29
“We’re not going to burn them?” Adam’s face scrunched up in adorable confusion. His architect’s iPad tucked under one arm and dressed in slacks and a button-down, Adam looked ready for a meeting. Was the meeting with her? She had requested to speak to him, but she hadn’t meant it in such a formal way. She’d just figured out a way to preserve a bit of the building’s history, and she was excited to get him on board.
Looking at the ratty rattan sofa, love seat, and chair of the Dorothy’s lobby, it was easy to see why he was dubious of her plans. However, she was the designer, and furnishings were her domain, not his.
“I did a bit of research. This set is early Florence Knoll. Florence Knoll!” Carrie fanned herself, still hardly able to believe that she’d almost trashed a piece of midcentury history because it hadn’t been properly cared for. She took a tissue out of the pocket of her dark slacks to discreetly wipe at her still drippy nose. It’d been four days since the virus’ onset, and while she felt mostly better, a few of the symptoms lingered.
“And?” Adam rolled his hand for an explanation.
“Properly restored, the sofa alone is worth eight to ten grand.” She watched the words settle on him.
“For that?” He pointed at the sagging cushions, the beat-up legs.
“And for a complete lounge set? Let me put it this way. I couldn’t even find a complete lounge set to get a comp. This set is a treasure, and I’m restoring it.” She smoothed a hand along the back of the chair. Someone, probably thirty or so years ago, had recovered the cushions in a loud floral pattern. “Not only am I restoring it, I’m going to upcycle it into Hollywood Regency style. Black rattan, bright leafy-green pillows. It’s going to be the inspiration for the whole lobby.”
Adam held up a hand. “Hang on. The building is classic Art Deco. Why not stick to geometric shapes and seating a bit less”—he searched the ceiling—“vintage?”
Carrie tapped her Ferragamo-clad toe on the terrazzo floor. She might not be one hundred percent back on her feet, but you wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at her. Concealer could hide a lot—dark under-eye circles from sleepless nights, a sickly complexion, a battered heart. She still couldn’t believe Lance declared himself when her temperature was over a hundred and Doc McStuffins played in the background. Had it all been a fever dream? Only his daily text asking if Oli felt well enough to be told the truth yet convinced her it had really happened.
“Look around. See the detailing above the door? And here”—she drew him to the wall and a small section where she’d excavated fifty-plus years of paint jobs—“look at this fuchsia. Classic Hollywood Regency. Trust me, Adam. I know what I’m doing, and this lobby was once an ode to glamour.”
“All of that”—Adam swept his arm, indicating the intricate detailing near the ceiling—“is coming off. We’re going clean, geometric, Deco.”
“No! Not my detailing.” She stomped her foot. “That’s a huge mistake. Why destroy the building’s interesting architectural history?”
“People understand Deco. They don’t understand hybrids.”
“We’ll make them understand.”
Adam shook his head. “It’s not going to happen. I’m sorry if you’ve wasted time on this direction, but you should get your head back in the Deco game.”
Carrie’s mouth snapped shut. Had he just told her how to do her job? Her mouth open and closed once, twice, and then she blew out a breath. “You don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“And you don’t tell me how to do mine.”
Standoff. When Oliver threw down, a bit of tickling usually brought him around. She was tempted to do the same to Adam, but she was a professional. She did not tickle her colleagues.
“Let me mock up my lobby plan. Maybe we can compromise.” There, that was a perfectly professional solution. Of course, by compromise, she meant that he would change his mind and go along with her plans.
“I can’t stop you from wasting your time, but I do encourage you to have a backup. Now that Caleb’s back, we’ll be finalizing the common area details.” Adam eyed the Knoll love seat skeptically, forehead furrowed. He clearly didn’t see what she saw when she looked at the set: a classic beauty, a bit of design history, a potential showpiece. All it needed was a bit of love and styling.
“You make your plans; I’ll make mine.” She could do standoff, too. She pulled a sketch pad out of her portfolio bag and plopped onto the admittedly ugly sofa. Just because she knew what it could be didn’t mean she didn’t see what a wreck it was now.
“We’re still on for tonight, right?” Adam’s smile was shy, like it was only now hitting him how he’d antagonized his dinner date.
“Of course.” Work had nothing to do with her private life. She was professional. If that were true, why did she have to keep reminding herself of the fact? She dabbed at her nose with the tissue.
Adam caught the gesture and tilted his head in sympathy. “You’re sure you’re feeling up to it?”
“Absolutely.” One thing a woman with a small child and her own business didn’t have time for was being ill. She’d let herself have a full twenty-four hours of rest and recovery, but that was all she could really afford. Back to work on Friday, research through the weekend. Besides, she was looking forward to this date. She was counting on Adam to stop her mind from circling back to that night with Lance, over and over again. Hot sex one night, cold treatment the next day. Confession of love or not, she couldn’t get back on that merry-go-round with Lance again. Even if her heart could take it, it wouldn’t be fair to Oliver. It was going to be confusing enough when he found out Lance was his dad.
Adam smiled. “Great, shall we say eight?”
“For what?” Lance’s work boots clumped up to them.
“Dinner.” Adam folded his arms across his chest.
“We have some things to discuss. We’re at an artistic impasse, I’m afraid.” So much for separating personal and professional lives. Apparently, she wasn’t letting it go. “He thinks we should dump the building’s history and peel everything back to the basics.”
“There is nothing basic about Deco,” Adam grunted. “All I’m suggesting is dumping this sad set of lobby furniture and getting something fresh. A modern take on Deco, something geometric maybe?”
“Florence Knoll.” Carrie rolled her eyes, ignoring the slight ache in her head. “Architect. Businesswoman. Icon.”
“If you’re right—”
Carrie choked at Adam’s implication, but he soldiered on. “—we could sell the set for a pretty penny. It’d pay for some really nice furniture that the residents could enjoy.”
Carrie threw up her hands. “Why would we sell such a valuable set when we could use it?”
“Because it’s disgusting?” Adam wrinkled his nose at the many stains on the chair.
Carrie turned on Lance. “Am I the designer or not? Do I even have to listen to this guy?”
Lance slumped into the chair in question, kicking his legs out in front of him. “Ideally, the two of you would work together. I’m no designer or architect, but it seems like they shouldn’t be at odds, right? You wouldn’t put country farmhouse in a Colonial Revival, would you?”
“Lord no.” Adam sounded truly horrified.
Carrie let her Ferragamo tapping speak for her.
“So I’m sure you two will work it out.” Lance looked from one to the other. “Apparently over dinner tonight.”
Carrie’s Ferragamos stopped their tap dance, and she nodded.
“Need a babysitter? Someone to wear out the dog?” Lance flashed her a smile. She hated that smile. Why wasn’t he as wounded as she felt inside?
She lifted a careless shoulder. “Sure. Mom could use the break.”
“Shoot me the details.” Lance stood and left her alone with Adam.
Her blood was up. No denying it. She wanted to fight. Instead, she pulled out a charcoal pencil and started sketching. She’d learned early on that words didn’t change anything. If she wanted Adam to agree with her, she just needed to work harder. Work was always the solution.
* * *
It wasn’t ideal, watching Carrie prep for a date, so Lance focused on his son. Oliver rubbed his eyes, clearly tired and still a bit sniffly, and squeezed that weird orange octopus to his chest. Beckham levered himself between Oliver’s hip and Lance’s thigh, chin resting on his paws in a thoughtful pose.
“Again.” Oliver yawned big enough that Lance could see his back teeth.
Lance opened Chicka Chicka Boom Boom to page one. “Do you think there will be enough room for all the alphabet in one small space?” He pointed to the palm tree where, for reasons that were inexplicable to Lance, all the letters wanted to gather.
“No!” Oliver laughed. “They all fall out. Boom, boom, boom.”
“Yeah, buddy, that’s how it goes.” Lance read page one, waiting while Oliver inspected the illustration for the millionth time. Somewhere on the page six-seven spread, Oliver fell asleep. Lance stayed where he was, watching the slow rise and fall of his son’s chest. Everything about him was so small—his straight nose, the slightness of his frame under the light blanket, the tiny toes that stuck out from under his covers.
“You’re a saint.” Carrie stood in the doorway with what Lance could only describe as a mushy look on her face. “I am so sick of that book, it makes me want to scream. Scream and throw it.”
“Why do the letters even want to climb a tree? It’s mysterious.” He rose carefully, giving Beckham a final pat.
“Right?” Carrie turned sideways so he could pass. “Thanks again for covering tonight.”
“Not a problem. I like spending time with him.”
Carrie’s eyes got mushier, so mushy he thought for a second she was about to cry. A knock on the door caught her by surprise.
“He’s here! Where are my shoes?” She wandered off to her bedroom, a very un-Carrie-like lack of focus in her gait.
“You look great!” Lance called after her, wondering how she got her hair to twist up in that pattern. He used some of his nervous energy to cross the condo and opened the door.
Adam stood on the stoop with a goofy grin on his face, arms full of yellow dahlias as big as dinner plates. “Thanks for the tip, man. I would’ve guessed roses.”
Roses? For Carrie? Adam didn’t know her at all. Not that there was anything wrong with roses. Carrie liked them fine, but if you wanted to make her smile, it had to be dahlias. The petal patterns pleased her, their pointy tips in a soft circle. She claimed that the yellow ones were like holding a small piece of the sun.
Predictably, Carrie was overjoyed when she saw the flowers. “How on earth did you know?” She took the flowers and buried her face in them, taking a long sniff. “Oh, they’re delicious. Hold on a moment while I put them in some water.”
Carrie was still a bit congested and, in his opinion, shouldn’t be going out tonight. Lance knew he should fade away. He didn’t.
“So, uh, thanks again.” Adam ducked his head to enter the condo. “You watching Oliver tonight?”
“Yep, he’s already asleep, so I’ll be getting some paperwork done. Setting up inspections. That kind of thing.” He didn’t have to explain himself to Adam, but he had to say something standing awkwardly in Carrie’s hallway with her date.
“You run a tight ship.” Adam slid both hands into the pockets of his dark trousers. “I like that. When do you think we can break ground on the garage?”
“Soon. Waiting on a few more details to fall into place.”
“It’s all about the details, isn’t it?”
The click of Carrie’s heels on the floor announced her arrival. “Ready?” She smiled brightly at Adam. Adam crooked his arm. Lance closed the door behind them.
Beckham stared at him with begging eyes.
“I know, B. We could both use a treat. Let’s see what’s in the fridge, shall we?”
Beckham wagged his agreement and led the way to the kitchen. They split a slice of leftover pizza—Lance got the toppings, Beckham enjoyed the crust. After a few moments of watching Oliver sleep, Lance set himself up on the couch and cracked open the laptop. A night of paperwork awaited him.
It was almost two hours later when a cry from Oliver’s room jolted Lance awake. He’d fallen asleep, slumped over on a fuzzy pillow, laptop caught between the couch cushions. At the sound of Oliver’s distress, Lance jumped to his feet and, Beckham leading the way, raced to Oliver’s side.
A quick scan of the room showed Oliver sitting upright in bed, holding his knees to his chest and rocking. Dark shadows lingered in the corners, and a sliver of moon shone through the small window above Oliver’s bed. When he saw Lance, Oliver thumped his head on his knees and cried.
“What is it?” The twin bed sagged under Lance’s weight. Beckham hopped up and circled to Oliver’s other side, snuggling in between the wall and Oliver’s small body.
Oliver sniffled. “I’m a big boy.”
Lance soothed a hand down Oliver’s back. “I know you are. What’s the problem, big boy?”
“Big boys stay in their beds all night.” Oliver’s pronouncement was heavy with sadness. “Every night. Because they aren’t afraid of the dark.”
Aha. “Did something scare you?”
“Maybe.” Oliver’s voice squeaked on the word, and he coughed into his elbow. “I’m not a baby. I’m a big boy.”
“You are a big boy.” Lance kept his hand moving up and down Oliver’s back, the motion soothing him as much as it did his son. “Nothing can make you into a baby again.”
“You sure?” Oliver’s head turned so that his cheek rested on his knees. Fat tears hung on the ends of his long eyel
ashes.
Lance’s heart contracted at the sight of his son holding back his emotions. How many times had his father told Lance that Donovans don’t cry? That he wasn’t sad? Or scared? How many nights had he hid in his room, watching the night crawl by endless hour after endless hour, wishing he were stronger, braver, more like his father? Would things be different with Carrie if after they’d had the most amazing sex of his life, he’d admitted that he loved her and asked to be part of her life again instead of icing her out over old resentments? Was he no better than a soon-to-be three-year-old, afraid of being judged for his emotions? That nonsense stopped tonight.
He curled an arm around Oliver’s slight shoulders so that they sat side by side. “Although there’s no reason to be afraid of the dark, big boys, hey, even grown-ups, get scared in the dark. It’s perfectly normal. We can’t see in the dark, and our eyes can make shadows seem like they are hiding something. When we don’t know what’s hiding, we get scared.”
“Really?” Oliver used the sleeve of his T. rex pajama shirt to wipe his nose. “Even grown-ups? Even you?”
“Especially me.” Lance gave Oliver’s shoulders a squeeze. “You know what I do?”
“What?” Oliver blinked his big, wet eyes up at Lance.
Lance stood and walked to the wall switch. “I turn on a light, so I can see exactly what’s going on.”
“But big boys stay in their beds all night.”
Lance was starting to hate this particular quote. How could Carrie do this to her son? “Who told you that?”
“Gamma.”
Well, then, at least Carrie wasn’t spewing nonsense at their son. Still, Lance didn’t like thinking of Oliver, sitting alone in his bed at night, too scared to sleep, too concerned with his big-boy status to ask for help. No little boy should feel alone in the dark.
“Let’s see what’s hiding in the dark.” Lance flipped on the overhead light.
