by JJ Knight
When I get out of the shower, Carrie is watching the baby and Arianna has gone to pack.
This will be quite the journey. Me, Arianna, the baby. I have no idea how the confrontation with Winnie will go. I’m stunned by how she changed. At first I thought it was some trick of the tabloid. But image after image showed the dramatic transformation.
Did something that led her to give up the child cause it? Or just the act of relinquishing her?
I start to question the wisdom of taking the child to her. What if she wants her back? At least I have handled my end of the DNA. This could set up legal standing for me. Between her not informing me about the child’s birth and the subsequent abandonment, I stand a good chance at full custody.
Winnie will have lawyers too, of course, and good ones. She is a Hollywood darling. She enjoys having public flings with the A-listers.
I was just a small side trip. Our week in Paris was actually partly for her to come in contact with an actor there. Perhaps the one she attended the Emmys with a week later.
I didn’t follow up. I was in France to conduct business with the Duke of Attenbury, a grizzled beast of a man who had a wife he didn’t deserve. She was considerably older than my usual tryst, almost fifty, and I didn’t normally go near married women.
But something about her elegance intrigued me. She was shockingly naive about pleasure. I was happy to show her. As I told Arianna, I didn’t have a type. The Duchess had already raised four children. The oldest was almost thirty. Older than Arianna.
Perhaps I should stick to post-reproductive-age women from now on. Surely would save me my current hassle.
Which led me to another line of thought. Birth control.
I am a strict condom user except in very specific circumstances. So in order for Grace to have come from me, I must have missed a failure on that front.
Of course I wasn’t in the habit of checking them after the fact.
Bernard has already taken out my bags. They are partially packed, and stacks of clothing are on the bed awaiting confirmation of my preferred state of dress for the trip. There are jeans and designer shirts, suits and jackets, and even, I notice with a smile, a few combinations of jeans and athletic shirts.
I pick those up, plus a few of the more casual of the dress shirts, and place them in the bag. Then I head down to the nursery to see how Carrie might be coming on packing Grace.
The two of them are on a blanket spread on the floor. Carrie is showing Grace how to hold up her head. Grace is paying her no mind, her head bobbing up and down until it thunks heavily.
“She getting it?” I ask.
Carrie glances up. “She hasn’t done this a lot,” she says. “Spent a lot of time on her back or being carried.”
Grace starts to fuss, so Carrie rolls her over.
“What do you make of that?” I ask.
“Someone who doesn’t know much about taking care of babies,” Carrie says. “Either ignorant of it and without resources to find out. Or who just didn’t care.”
“Will she catch up?”
Carrie picks Grace up and lets her stand on her legs, much like Arianna did on the first day. “Oh, easily. She’ll strengthen those neck muscles in a few weeks.”
“Good.” I roll up the sleeves to the dress shirt. “How is her tummy?”
“Aren’t you the attentive father!” She helps Grace bounce up and down, making the baby laugh. “All good today. Activity like this helps. It could all boil down to the same thing, not enough of the right kind of movement. Her bowels could just be sluggish.”
Well, all right, then. I nod at her briskly. “I’ll leave you experts to it, then,” I say.
“Bernard is looking for some bags to pack her things,” Carrie says. “Just two days’ worth?”
“Make it three just in case,” I say. “But I expect to be back tomorrow.”
Carrie nods, making silly faces at Grace. “Okay, Dada!” she says, as if she is speaking for the child. We never did correct her on this or explain the situation. No point doing it now.
The front door slams, so I know it isn’t Bernard who closed it.
Arianna bursts into the room, looking flushed. “Okay, I’m here. Packed. I managed to race down to the store and pick up another type of formula.”
She stops when she sees me. “Oh, hello, Dell.”
“We’re fine on time,” I say to her. “Did Bernard get your bags?”
“Didn’t see him,” she says, patting her leather duffel. “This is all I brought.”
“That’s it?”
“Should I bring an evening gown?” Arianna juts out her hip just like that first day we met. She looks young and fresh in bright pink shorts and a light flowered peasant top. Between her beauty and her sass, I have to struggle to keep myself under wraps.
“We can pick one up if we need it,” I say, then realize both Arianna and Carrie are staring at me. “There are shops in Chicago.”
“I’m the nanny,” Arianna says, bending down and scooping up Grace. “We stay home while the crazy people party, don’t we?” She blows air on the baby’s neck, causing Grace to laugh like mad.
She’s right. She’s there for the baby, although the urge to see her in something decadent and glittery is strong.
“Here’s the new formula.” Arianna digs a canister from her duffel. “It should get us through.”
I leave Carrie and Arianna to their duties and head to the living room to brief Bernard.
After a moment, Carrie and Arianna bang down the hall with the baby and all their bags. Bernard rushes forward to help them. Arianna has Grace tucked back inside a purple wrap.
“Should we bring the stroller?” I ask. “The car seat?”
“Definitely the car seat,” Arianna says. “We’ll drive somewhere once we’re there.”
“It’s in the car,” Bernard says.
“She’ll need some bottles made up,” Carrie says. “I’ll go do it.”
Bernard looks stricken that someone else will be in his kitchen, but he is laden with all the bags.
“Here, Bernard,” I say. “I’ll take care of these. See to the bottles.”
He nods and leaves them at my feet. I shake my head. Four people to take care of a baby and still we can’t get it done.
Chapter 32: Arianna
I really truly have no idea what to expect from this trip.
The plane is luxurious, gray and black with red bits just like Dell’s living room. Four heavy loungers surround a circular table. A long sofa lines the side wall. There’s crystal and glass and a huge flat-screen television. For some reason I picture it all shattering in a rough landing.
Maybe I just expect this whole plan to crash and burn.
Grace’s car seat is strapped to a chair. The vibration of the plane has lulled her to sleep.
Dell works from a laptop at the table. I’ve stretched out on the sofa, fretting that I’ve brought all the wrong clothes. I was so caught up in looking the part of the kind, involved mother that I didn’t even think about what would happen if we were forced to drag Grace to a fancy dinner. Or had to track down this Winnie person at a gala or the opera.
Too late now. Like Dell said, I can always shop.
But everything is harder with a baby. We can’t exactly lug her baby bucket to a theater, or plunk it down at a five-hundred-dollar-per-plate fund-raiser. I picture trying on dresses with her crying at my feet.
Arrgh! Why did I agree to do this?
I roll on my side, watching Dell work. He’s both professional and laid back in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’s very intent on whatever he’s reviewing. I can stare at him without him noticing a thing.
His profile is striking, and his eyebrows make his expression seem like he is always brooding. Unless he smiles. Which is rare. But when he does, it’s like the sun rising. You can’t help but smile back.
His hair is perfectly cut, clean over his ears. A bit more sideburn than you might expect. Th
e top of his hair falls in a perfect wave over his head. He doesn’t seem like he’d be fussy or use a lot of product. I’m thinking he just has the very best hair stylist who created a cut that suited his hair exactly.
That’s what Dell would do.
I look around the airplane. Like his house, everything is perfect and in its place. I’m surprised he didn’t have Bernard come along, but maybe that’s their agreement. Bernard belongs to the penthouse.
I should sleep. There is no telling what Grace will be like, sleeping in hotels, going new places. She might be fussier, harder to settle. This might be the only rest I really get.
Eventually the rumbling of the plane gets me too, as I wake up when a young woman shakes my arm. “Time to buckle in for landing,” she says.
I nod and sit up. I have a light blanket over me and a pillow under my head. “Thank you,” I tell her.
Dell is standing near the front wall, a phone to his ear. I wonder how he gets a signal up here. It must be satellite or something. I check my phone and realize he has wireless Internet access for the plane. Of course he does.
The young woman takes the pillow and blanket away as I move to the seat beside Grace to strap in. She approaches Dell, but he waves her off and nods.
His voice is just a murmur, but I can catch a few words. “Try to make sure she doesn’t leave.” And “Half an hour at most.”
I wonder if he means Winnie. Nerves flutter through my belly as I think about confronting her. I search for her on my phone and pull up several pictures, comparing them to Grace. The coloring is right. But Grace is just too little to show any likeness.
Dell sits in the lounger across from me and fastens his buckle. “Winnie is home right now,” he says. “I spoke to a mutual friend who was able to contact her.”
“Are you going to let her know you’re on the way?” I ask.
“No. If she’s the mother, she won’t let me in. I don’t know what she’ll do.”
He looks over at Grace.
When the landing gear comes down, she startles awake. Her eyes are wide, and her face moves side to side in a panic.
“You’re okay,” I say. “I’m here. Dell too.”
She fixes on my face a moment, and I think she’ll stay calm. Then she opens her mouth and wails.
“Should I take her out?” I ask. “We’re about to land.”
“I don’t know. I guess moms on regular airlines just hold their babies in their laps.”
That’s true. I lean over and pop the harness. Grace comes to me eagerly, settling down as soon as I cradle her. I check her diaper. A little wet, but nothing major.
“You think she’ll need a bottle before landing?” Dell asks.
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “It can wait.”
“We’ll be on the tarmac a few minutes before we’re cleared.”
“We can give it to her then.” I jiggle Grace on my lap, pleased at how Dell and I problem-solve together. He could just ignore us, or care little for how the baby is faring. But he pays attention. He wants her happy.
He’s already got many of the fathers from my child spa beat.
The next half hour is a bit of a rush. Landing. Getting a bottle. Loading into a car to drive across the airfield to the main road. I’ve ridden in private planes before, but Dell has every part of the journey planned to the minute.
When we’re in the back of a black Mercedes, Grace strapped into her seat between us, I finally ask him, “Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“Not a clue,” he says. “It will take all my self-control not to throttle her.”
“It might not be her,” I say. “You can’t assume anything going in.”
He sighs. “I know. It just all lines up. The timing. The travel.”
“Did she ever say anything about not wanting children?” I ask.
“It didn’t exactly come up.”
“And…” I don’t know how to put this delicately. “No protection?”
“Of course I did. I always do. It must have broken or malfunctioned.”
“Was it hot there? Maybe it degraded?”
“There is no point speculating on that point. If any of this is true, we have to assume that there was a mishap.” His tone is curt.
“All right,” I say. “So how is this going to go? We walk up to her house and ring the doorbell. Hold up the baby and say, ‘Remember her?’”
He glances over at me. “We should have gotten you some sort of nanny uniform,” he says. “You look too much like a pretty girlfriend.”
My heart stutters at that. “Is that bad?”
“Winnie is the jealous type,” he says. “Not that she has any claim to me. But she just doesn’t like to be confronted with competition.”
“But you guys were only together for a week!”
“I’m just explaining her to you.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t go in.”
He looks down at Grace. “No, if there is a confrontation, or a difficulty, I want you to be able to get Grace out of there. Even if I need to stay and handle it.”
“How will I know that you want me to do that?” I picture the woman collapsing in tears, or coming after us with a fireplace poker. My stomach flips.
“It’ll be obvious,” he says. “The driver will be out with the car should you need to escape whatever transpires.”
When we slow before a giant iron fence, I realize we won’t be ringing any doorbell, and this woman won’t be answering her own door.
We approach the gate. Dell leans forward to speak to the driver.
“There should be a pot of flowers on the seat. When you ring her, hold them up and say it is a delivery.”
Huh. He’s thought this through.
“Will do,” the man says. He wears a flat-topped cap and has a bushy mustache. His accent is thick. India, I think. He catches me looking at him in the rearview mirror and smiles.
The window goes down and he presses a button. The flowers are bright white with red accents. Easy to see on a video.
“Hello?” It’s a man’s voice.
“Flower delivery,” the driver says. He shows them.
There’s a pause. “Come on through,” the voice says.
The big gates open.
“Wow, it’s just as easy as it is in the movies,” I say. “What’s the point of having a gate if anyone can fake their way in?”
“I happen to know Winnie’s weakness,” Dell says. “She can’t resist flowers. And you never know when some are coming. It’s not like pizza or a plumber, which you call yourself.”
All true.
The driver sets the flowers down and we cruise up a steep incline to the front of the house. It’s enormous and sprawling, surrounded with rockwork and strange, angular trees.
“Should I leave her in the bucket?” I ask.
“No, let’s take her out,” Dell says. “I don’t want Winnie to see her until the right moment.”
“Isn’t her butler or whatever just going to answer? We won’t see her.”
“I can talk my way in once we’re there,” Dell says. “And if it’s flowers, she might come.”
The old Winnie might have come, I think, but I don’t say that to Dell. The new Winnie, after whatever she’s gone through, might not be so willing.
We pull in front of the door.
“Well, here goes nothing,” I say, unbuckling Grace.
“I’ll carry the flowers,” Dell says. “You stay to the side with your back to me.”
“How will I know when to turn around?” I ask.
“You’ll know.”
I’m not so sure, but I pull Grace out of the car seat. The driver has opened my door. He holds the flowers.
Dell comes around and takes them. We walk up to the tall double doors.
My heart thuds. I don’t know what I want to have happen. It to be her. Not her. Nobody home. I’m not sure!
Dell rings the doorbell. He has the flowers in front of his face.
The
door opens. A man’s voice. “Thank you,” he says.
Then Dell. “Actually, I’m not a delivery man. I’m a friend of Winnie. Can I give them to her myself? She’s been out of pocket lately.”
There’s a pause. I want to turn around terribly.
“Let me check with her,” the man says. “What is your name?”
“Dell Brant.”
“Come inside.”
What now? Should I go in? How do I keep my back to them?
“This is my nanny,” Dell says. “Come along, Arianna.”
Okay, so I do go in.
I turn. The man is dark-skinned and tall. Puerto Rican. I place his accent now.
I keep my head down and follow them inside. There’s a huge foyer with tall round walls. Three doorways lead off from it.
We’re ushered to the right. Inside is a parlor with an African theme. Tall plants. Black and tan pillows on rich brown furniture.
“Wait here a moment,” the man says.
When he’s gone, Dell and I survey the room.
“You go over there by the window,” he says, pointing behind a black baby-grand piano. “Just be looking out and listen.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll try to keep her quiet.”
Grace is absorbed in looking at all the contrasting patterns in the room. I take her over to the window. She seems content to stare out.
I don’t remember the last time I felt this anxious.
The clack of shoes on tile heralds the woman’s arrival. I stay turned away.
Dell greets her. “Winnie, how lovely to see you! I brought your favorite.”
“Dell Brant,” she says. “What a strange surprise. They are beautiful.”
A few more steps, then quiet again.
“How have you been?” she asks. “God, I haven’t heard from you in what — a year?”
Either she’s an actress or it’s not her. I’m anxious to hear how Dell handles her.
“I bought a new place in Manhattan,” he says smoothly. “Had to buy the building so they couldn’t kick me out as riffraff.”
Her laughter is deep. “I doubt there are many willing to call you that to your face.”
They go on reminiscing about France, and my arms grow heavy. I don’t think it’s her. She’s too easygoing, too light. I want to turn around. They must be facing away for her not to notice me.
