by Robin Wells
“Come in, come in,” I say, stepping back from the door.
He glances at my belly. It’s funny how people do that as soon as they find out I’m pregnant, even though it’s too early for me to be showing.
He steps across the threshold and gazes around the shop. “Wow—what a great place!” He heads toward an old secretaire from an estate in Scotland and bends to look at the brass handles. “Does this fold down into a desk?”
“Yes.” I turn the skeleton key in the keyhole, and the cabinet drops to reveal a leather-lined writing table.
“Oh, that’s beautiful.” He runs his hand over the table. “My great-grandmother had a piece like this. Not as fancy, but the same general concept. I always thought it was so cool.”
“What happened to it?”
“My sister has it.” He opens a little drawer at the back of the desk.
“You like antiques?”
“Oh, yeah, I love them. Especially things that are handmade.”
“I’m surprised. I had you pegged as the contemporary type.”
“I guess I am now.” He closes the drawer. “Jessica’s taste runs to modern things.”
“I could tell when she was in the shop.”
“I didn’t know she was going to come by here,” he says. “Or crash Margaret’s party. I apologize on her behalf.”
“She was curious, that’s all.” I close the leaf of the secretaire and turn the skeleton key. “I probably would have done the same thing if I were in her shoes.” I wouldn’t have, but I’d googled her, hadn’t I? “Let’s go into my office to talk.” I gesture toward the back of the store. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“You sure? I promise not to have a heart attack or fall off any stepstools getting it for you.”
He laughs. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
He follows me through the store. “Where’s Lily?”
“At Sarah’s house.”
“You’re fortunate to have a friend like that.”
I nod. “She’s been a great resource for Lily since Brooke’s death—not to mention a big help to me.” We walk into my office, which suddenly feels too dark and intimate. I usually sit side by side with my clients in one of the two chairs opposite my desk, but this time I circle it, keeping the desk between us. I turn on the lamp on my desk. “How’s your wife handling things?”
“Okay, I guess.” He rubs his leg.
There are varying degrees of okay. From his tone, I surmise Jessica’s is on the low end of the scale. “It must be difficult for her.”
“Yeah.” He looks like he’s about to say something more and then changes his mind.
“This is difficult for all of us,” I say.
He nods. “That’s why it’s important we talk. Do you want to go first?”
“Okay.” I sit there in silence for a moment, the light from the fringed lampshade on my desk throwing shadows on the framed photo of Lily. “There’s something I need to ask you about.” My lungs seem to tremble as I inhale. “Brooke and I used the same attorney, and I went to see him Thursday. He told me that you sent someone by to get a copy of Brooke’s will.”
“Yeah—an intern. I didn’t exactly send him, though.” He crosses his right foot over his left thigh. My office, which I’ve always thought of as spacious, suddenly feels a lot smaller. “I asked him to get a copy of the will from the courthouse, assuming it had already been filed. It hadn’t been. He’s something of a go-getter, so he took it upon himself to look up the obituary. He contacted the funeral home, and they gave him the name of the attorney handling the estate—apparently the estate paid for the funeral services. I had no idea he was going to the attorney’s office. I apologize if it seems intrusive.”
“‘Intrusive’ is one word for it,” I say. “‘Weird’ is another. So is ‘worrisome.’” So is getting all up in my business, but that’s more than a single word. I look straight into his blue, blue eyes. “Why did you want to see the will?”
“To read the wording about Lily’s guardianship.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an attorney, and that’s what we do. If an issue has a legal document attached, I want to read it.” He grins. “But I also wanted to know if there was a third party named in addition to you and Miss Margaret.”
“There’s not.”
“I saw that.” He uncrosses his leg and leans forward. “I was wondering who you’re going to list as the guardian on yours.”
My fingers tighten on the arm of the chair. “I haven’t made any decisions about that yet. This all happened really suddenly. I’ll want it to be someone Lily and the baby know really well, like Sarah or Annie or Terri.”
His gaze is steady and direct, and so is his voice. “I’d like to be someone they know really well.”
My mouth goes dry. “But you’re moving to Seattle.”
“Yeah, that’s the plan. But I have a month or more to get to know Lily before I move. And I could come back here two or three times a year to see her and the baby. We can write and call and video message. And maybe you can bring them both out for a visit once a year or so when they get older.”
“I doubt your wife will welcome us with open arms.”
“She’ll be fine once she gets used to the idea.”
Is he trying to convince me or himself? I decide to take another tack.
“Look, Zack—you signed a contract agreeing to be an anonymous donor and to stay out of the children’s lives until they’re eighteen. Neither Brooke nor I intended for the biological father to play a role in their lives.”
“Yes, but I’m not anonymous anymore. Lily knows I’m her father.”
There it is—the thing that can’t be undone. The thing that kept me awake much of the night before.
“Lily knows you’re her donor,” I say. “She’s always known she didn’t have a co-parenting daddy.”
“I don’t think she’s making that distinction now,” he says.
No. I don’t think she is, either.
“She knows I’m her father,” Zack says. “The question is, what kind of father am I going to be?”
I close my eyes for a moment, draw a deep breath, and ask the question that feels like an elephant kneeling on my chest. “I need to know your intentions.”
“I don’t want to take Lily or the baby away from you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Lily obviously adores you, and I think you’re doing a great job.”
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I exhale. My hands have been clenched so tightly my fingers throb. “Are you going to try to get joint custody or visitation? Because I have to tell you, I hated splitting my time between my parents when they divorced.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not looking to complicate your lives. I just want Lily to know that I’m there for her. And I want to be there for your new baby, too. I want to keep this easy and flexible. I want to be a positive in your lives, not a negative.”
It’s better than anything I could have hoped for, short of him going away until Lily is eighteen. And as Sarah pointed out, that might not be best for Lily or the baby, anyway. “Your wife agrees to this?”
“She will, once she gets used to the idea.”
This is the second time he’s used that phrase—which means she isn’t okay with it at all. She sure didn’t look okay when she learned I was pregnant. “Look—I don’t want Lily or the baby exposed to a reluctant stepmother. I lived through that scenario, and it was miserable. It’s awful for a child to feel like an unwanted third wheel.”
“I won’t let that happen. Jessica loves children. She’ll come around.”
“But what if she can’t?”
“Then I’ll see them without her.”
It’s the answer I wanted to hear, but I don’t know if it’s a fea
sible plan for the long haul. I draw a deep breath. “Maybe you, Jessica, and I can do something together with Lily next weekend and see how it goes.”
“I’d like that,” he says. “But Jessica’s back in Seattle, and she’s likely to stay there through the weekend.”
“Oh. Well, then, maybe the weekend after?”
“Sure, if she’s in town. Absolutely.”
It seems weird to me that he doesn’t know for sure whether or not his wife will be back in two weeks, but I nod.
Silence stretches between us. “I’m starving,” he says at length. “Do you want to get something to eat? Maybe we can pick up Lily and take her with us.”
“Lily’s eating with Sarah and her kids.”
“Well, what about you? Do you have any plans for dinner?”
“No, but . . .” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. No, but you’re married? He isn’t asking me on a date, for heaven’s sake. We still have a lot of things to iron out about Lily and the baby.
Communication is the foundation of every type of relationship. I’d just read that in the reparenting book; there’s a whole chapter on the subject. The better I know Zack, the easier it’ll be to work things out between us.
“No, I don’t have plans,” I say.
“Well then, let me buy you dinner.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sure. I need to lock up here, then I’ll be ready to go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Zack
WE DRIVE OUR separate cars to Jacques-Imo’s on Oak Street. I called ahead, and it’s early enough that they can seat us. I park behind Quinn’s Equinox around the corner.
“This is one of my favorite restaurants,” Quinn says as we step into the dim bar. The walls and ceiling are completely covered with framed paintings. “I love the decor.”
“Oh, yeah?” I brought Jessica here when we were dating, but she didn’t care for it. She thought it was unrefined.
Quinn nods. “It’s quirky and colorful and over-the-top. It makes coming here a real New Orleans experience.”
“I thought the food did that.”
“That, too.” She laughs.
We’re seated in the back corner of the dining room and presented with menus. I order the blackened redfish with crab-chili hollandaise, and Quinn decides on the shrimp étouffée. They bring their signature cornbread with garlic butter. Quinn takes a bite, then looks heavenward and gives a little moan. “Oh, this is so delicious!”
I like the way she enjoys food. Jessica avoids carbs and is very particular about what she eats. Quinn has a refreshing way of . . .
But I shouldn’t be comparing the two women.
“Why did you decide to use a donor?” I ask, determined to straighten out my thinking. “I mean, you’re the kind of woman any guy . . .” I stop. I sense I’m stepping over some kind of line. I’m a married man; I probably shouldn’t be telling another woman she’s desirable.
Oh, jeez. She’s blushing.
I shouldn’t be asking such a personal question, either. I stumble on, trying to fix things. “What I mean is, why didn’t you go about creating a family the usual way, when . . .” Oh, hell—I’m only making things worse! I inwardly wince. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.” I grab my water and take a gulp.
“It’s okay.” She smiles and takes another nibble of the cornbread. “I knew I wanted a child, even if marriage wasn’t in the cards for me.”
I’m still not understanding. “Why would marriage not be in the cards for you?”
“I haven’t had a lot of luck finding the right kind of guy. Brooke said I pick emotionally unavailable men.” She thanks the waiter as he sets down her iced tea, then looks back at me. “I think she’s right. I’ve been in a couple of long-term relationships, and in both cases, I was way more invested than the guy was. Brooke said I projected my hopes and dreams onto them instead of seeing them as they really were.” She takes a sip of tea, then give a rueful smile. “I broke up with the last guy, Tom, right before I moved to New Orleans, and I haven’t met anyone since. The biological clock was ticking, and well . . .” She lifts her shoulders and looks away. “Single motherhood had worked out well for Brooke and I just adored Lily, so when Brooke offered to give me the rest of her donor’s, um . . . donation, I went for it.” She looks back up. “How did you and Jessica meet?”
“At a friend’s wedding.”
“Oh, that’s so romantic! How long have you been married?”
“Nearly three years.”
“How long have you . . .” She stops and looks sheepish. “This time I was about to ask an inappropriate question.”
“When did we start trying for a family?” I guess.
She gives an embarrassed smile and nods.
“Pretty much right away. Jessica was worried about the biological clock, too. When nothing happened after six months, she went to a doctor and learned her ovarian reserves were low. We started IVF and went through five rounds.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Yeah. Two or three too many, really.”
The waiter brings our salads. I want to steer the conversation back to her. I picked up from her earlier remarks that her parents were divorced. “You haven’t told me much about your family. What were your parents like?”
Quinn sighs. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Well, Mom is on her third marriage, and she lives in Dubai with her oil executive husband. We talk every couple of weeks and see each other maybe once a year.”
“What’s she like?”
Quinn gives a dry smile. “How much time do you have?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Well, Mom was Miss Strawberry Festival and Miss Southeast Louisiana, and I think that was the highlight of her life. She was an only child and the apple of her parents’ eye, and she was brought up to think the world revolved around her. She still kind of thinks that way.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah.” Quinn grins. “She wanted to be an actress—a movie star, actually—but she got pregnant with my brother and married my father. She said that’s what you had to do in those days. Neither of them were eager to be parents.”
Wow. Not exactly Mother of the Year material. “Are you and your brother close?”
She shakes her head and spears a piece of lettuce. “He’s ten years older than me. By the time I was eight, he was away at college. I grew up feeling more like he was an uncle than a sibling. Now he lives in Indianapolis and works in IT.”
“Do you stay in touch?”
She lifts her shoulders. “We email on holidays, but that’s about it. I’ve tried, but he has no interest in connecting more.”
“What about your dad?”
“He was a technical sales manager with an oil service company, and he traveled quite a bit. He wasn’t around a lot even when he was in town, though. When I was twelve, he left us for the other woman. She was a divorcée with two small children, so he moved on to a whole new family. I think that lasted for about four years, then he left her for someone in Texas. Mom heard he abandoned that woman, too, and now . . . I really don’t know where he is.” She lifts her iced tea.
“That has to be tough.”
“It’s okay now, but the divorce was awful. My mother was angry and vindictive. And I . . . well, I was stuck in the middle. I had to go stay with Dad every other weekend and for half of the summer. After I visited, Mom would pump me for details. Sometimes she’d drink too much, call Dad, and twist around everything I’d said.”
That explains her aversion to a split guardianship arrangement.
“Deborah thought I was a troublemaker and a liar. It was clear she didn’t want me there, although she didn’t mind using me as an unpaid babysitter for her kids. And Dad . . . well, he was just as much of a missing person in t
hat marriage as he’d been with Mom.”
What a horrible situation for a child to be in.
“My escape from it all was school. I studied hard, and I was a good student. When it was time for high school, I said I wanted to go to the Louisiana School for Math, Science, and the Arts in Natchitoches—it’s a state boarding school for gifted students. I acted like I was passionate about getting a really good education, but mostly I just wanted to get away.”
She gives an embarrassed smile. “I’m sure that’s way more information than you bargained for.”
“No. I’m glad you told me.”
She fixes me with an earnest gaze. “I didn’t have a great childhood, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a good parent.”
“I don’t think that. I think you’re wonderful with Lily.”
“I see my upbringing as a cautionary tale. It made me keenly aware of how sensitive kids are. I know how important it is that they feel wanted and valued and listened to.”
I nod. “I can understand that.”
We eat our salads in silence for a moment.
“Do you have grandparents or any other family?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Both sets of grandparents were already dead when I was born, but I had some supportive adults when I was growing up. I had some really encouraging teachers, and the mother of a friend in elementary school kind of took me under her wing. And then there was a neighbor across the street—an elderly woman, Mrs. Robichaux—who moved in when I was nine. She was a real character.” Quinn smiles.
“Oh, yeah?”
Quinn nods. “Mom said she was crazy and Dad thought she was superstitious, but she was really kind to me, and my folks didn’t mind me being over there all the time. I quickly learned it was best not to repeat everything she said, though.” Her eyes go soft and fond. “Mrs. Robichaux said that coincidences are miracles where God chooses to remain anonymous, and that heaven gives us little signs to guide us. She said that if you get goose bumps and a strong feeling, that’s your angel whispering in your ear.”
“And you believed it?”
