by Blake North
The other day, she bent over to pick up Lydia’s rain boots after she left for school. Instead of telling her to let Lydia do her chores and pick up after herself, I wanted to bend her over the chair, flip her skirt up and take her right there. I could have her moaning in pleasure, looking back over her shoulder at me in seconds. Then, when she was reading to Lydia that night and I bent to kiss my daughter’s forehead, I wanted to kiss Reva as I stood up. I wanted to catch her lips and kiss her softly, tenderly, to let her feel my attraction and affection for her. Because that’s half the problem. It’s all too intimate, sharing a home with her, sharing a child with her. I think I didn’t get over my passion for her after our one-night stand because the whole situation feels too real, too much like a relationship, like the sort of life I would have had if I’d married someone different from Catherine. So it’s painful, the wistfulness of seeing how Lydia looks at her with such trust and love, how Reva looks at me like I’m everything she wants. Because I could’ve had that if I’d been a man who made better choices.
I clean myself up, stuff the panties under my pillow. I’ll have to figure out what to do about those another time. As I finish lining socks up methodically in the drawer, my phone rings. I have a private number on my personal line. I have a specific ringtone for the people in my life who have it—Caroline, a couple employees at the firm, Reva, Mrs. Whitman, the principal at Lydia’s school and her personal guard Charlie. This is someone unauthorized to have that number. I feel every nerve on alert as I answer the call ID’d only as unknown number.
“Carter here,” I bark, sounding more defensive than I mean to.
“I got your number. I also got your wife,” the voice growls. I hear a woman’s scream in the background before the line cuts off.
Sweating, I dial Monfort, my guard who keeps tabs on Catherine from time to time and makes sure she isn’t homeless or hurt.
“Where’s Catherine?” I manage.
“Give me five minutes and I can tell you,” he says. I hang up and wait for him to access the tracking data from her phone, her debit card, the traffic camera outside her building in Reno. When my phone rings again, it’s him.
“Gone,” he says. “No activity for over thirty hours on her phone, my eyes on the ground broke into her apartment and it’s empty. Traffic cams—”
“Maybe she forgot to charge her phone. She could’ve gone away for the week or something and left it—” I say, desperate.
“My guess is, somebody got her. Whether it’s a dealer or the Rativans…we’ll have to wait and see if they make contact.”
“They did. Rativan’s men have her or say they do,” I say.
“Call back. Get proof of life. We’ll go in,” he says. I know he’s right, but I can’t swallow, can’t breathe. I hang up.
I go to Lydia’s room and look in on her. She’s sleeping soundly, a stuffed animal clutched in the crook of her elbow, thumb in her mouth. I sag against the doorway with relief. Just hearing her breathe reassures me. I won’t let anything happen to her mother. I can’t. I redial the unknown number, but there’s no answer. I cue up the app to try and trace its location. While it’s scanning, I stand in the hall and watch Lydia sleep.
I feel a hand on my back, tentative. I look back sharply. It’s Reva, standing by me in a pink robe. She gives me a half smile.
“I was checking on her too.”
“She’s fine,” I say hoarsely, “go to bed.”
“Hot chocolate?” she offers.
I shake my head. I want to say yes. I want to be in the bright kitchen listening to her talk while she makes a hot, sweet drink and everything feels safe and normal. But I know it would be a lie. I have to use every resource I have at hand to stop my enemies from killing my ex-wife. I can’t tell Reva any of this. She’s already in danger just being here. The less she knows, the safer I can keep her. So even though going to the kitchen with her sounds like paradise right now, I tell her no.
I double the guards on Lydia and put two more on the house. I order the cars swept twice a day for trackers and bombs. I pull my best team off a paying client and put them on tracking down Catherine. For three days I hardly leave the office and barely see my daughter because I’m trying to keep the wolf from the door.
When Catherine turns up disoriented outside Vegas, I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s roughed up but not seriously hurt. She doesn’t remember much. She turns down an offer of a cushy rehab in LA and returns to her drug dealer instead. I had thought for half a second that she might turn it around now, be scared sober. But I let her go, let her live her life, only this time with a guard on her who’s ordered not to interfere unless she’s in immediate danger. Which means if she’s buying drugs or partying, to stay out of her business.
I was afraid, I admit to myself now, that they’d kill her as a message to me. That any hope of a future reconciliation with her mother would be taken from Lydia. It’s not that I think Catherine was ever much good to her daughter, but I would never forgive myself for being the reason they never had a chance.
I double down at the office, telling myself it’s more important to chase down leads on Rativan than it is to spend time at home. On weekends I spend quality time with Lydia—playing endless rounds of Chutes and Ladders, coloring in her coloring books—when Reva’s not part of the picture. The funny thing is, my kid asks for her even when she’s got my undivided attention. Like she’s the missing piece for Lydia. It unnerves me. I don’t need someone else to protect, someone else to lose.
When I come home early one evening to have dinner with Lydia despite the fact Reva’s on duty, I find them in Lydia’s bathroom, my daughter sitting on the counter while Reva cleans blood off her legs. Both knees are torn up and she’s nursing one scraped palm that must sting like hell. Without thinking, I grab Reva’s arm and push her away from Lydia.
“What happened, baby?” I demand. My daughter looks startled.
“I was riding my bike! Reva took off the baby wheels so I could try it. I fell sometimes, maybe one or two, but then I did it! But I crashed…” she trails off, her grin replaced by concern.
“What the actual hell, Reva? She is five years old. She’s too little to be riding a two-wheeler without training wheels, which is why I got her a bike that has them. You didn’t consult me before encouraging my kindergartener to attempt an activity that was an obvious injury risk! Look at her! She’s bleeding, because you’re too arrogant to admit that I’m her parent and your employer! You had no right to put my daughter in danger!”
Reva gapes at me, puts antiseptic spray on Lydia’s knees and starts to bandage them. I loom in the doorway, thinking that we could be in ER right now, my little girl with a compound fracture because her reckless nanny put her up to riding a two-wheeler. Her torn knees gut me. She’s in pain, bleeding, because I wasn’t here to stop it from happening.
Lydia hops down from the counter, wriggles past me and runs to her room. She slams the door and I can hear her crying. I’m about to go after her before the nanny grabs my arm.
Reva wheels on me, “You listen to me for a hot minute before you fire me for letting a kid scrape her knees—which happens to everyone in real life who doesn’t live in a gilded cage! You are stifling that child. You won’t let her jump on a trampoline or take a gymnastics class because she could get hurt. You’ve just scared her bad enough she may never take another risk. Are you proud of that? Of teaching her to be afraid of everything?” she spits at me.
“You’re reckless. You made her do something unsafe. I’m just lucky she isn’t—”
“Dead from falling off a bike on the sidewalk with me right there? Really? She was so proud of herself. She was talking about it nonstop, how she couldn’t wait to tell you. She was mad at me because I said her knees would be too stiff from the scrapes to show you tomorrow how she can ride a bike like a big girl now. She was beaming until you came in and took that sense of accomplishment from her and made it something scary and disobedient. Do you want her to ha
te you when she’s grown up? Because you’d never let her be independent?”
Reva shoves past me and goes into Lydia’s room. I hear her voice as she talks to my daughter. Because she’s in there, I feel like I can’t go in. I hover at the door, furious. She’s questioning my parenting decisions and pushing me out of my daughter’s life. I storm into the kitchen and wrench open a bottle of beer. I take one drink before I dump it down the drain. I’m not going to become my mother who drank when she couldn’t deal with life. I go turn on the news and scowl at the TV.
Reva marches my daughter out to me, and I flick the TV off. She stands with her hands on Lydia’s shoulders.
“I have tried to explain to Lydia, but she needs to hear it from you. I’ve told her that you’re angry with me, not with her, and that you are not mad that she was brave and tried something new. That you’re mad because I didn’t ask if it was okay first. Right?” she prompts me.
I take Lydia’s hands, look into her eyes. They’re so tentative, like she’s unsure of what I’ll do.
“I’m not mad at you, baby. I want to keep you safe. I felt upset that your knees were bleeding and you go hurt, but I am not mad at you.”
“You’re mad at Reva?” she says, her lip trembling a little. She’s still red and blotchy from crying, and it hurts me.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m mad at Reva because she’s your nanny and works for me and should have called me before having you do something where you could get hurt.”
“But she takes good care of me,” Lydia sticks up for her nanny. I should be glad she stands up for what she believes, defends the people she loves. But it annoys me that she’s somehow on Reva’s side here.
“That’s why I hired her,” I say pointedly, “but I get to make decisions about what’s safe for you.”
“Right, so he’s not angry with you, and he didn’t mean to scare you,” Reva says to Lydia.
Mrs. Whitman chose that moment, probably on purpose, to announce dinner. So we sulked at the table, the three of us, and no one mentioned the uneaten carrots on Lydia’s plate. I could feel the tension, the unspoken words wafting off Reva as she sat and cut her chicken into tiny bites and pushed it around her plate. I didn’t let myself say anything else about the conflict. I lobbed my daughter a couple questions about school that got little response. I ate in silence just like the other two.
I had prized Reva’s ability to stand up to me, challenge me. I thought it would make her a good role model for Lydia. But I didn’t count on how aggravating it could be with a major issue like safety. We’re going to have to discuss this. And the last thing I want to subject myself to is a conversation with Reva about boundaries.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Reva
When Lydia’s in bed, I’m ready to go hide in my room and read or watch the Style Network. But Ridge stops me.
“I need to speak with you,” he says.
Well, shit. He’s going to fire me. I argued with him about how to raise his daughter. I put Lydia in a position to see conflict between her father and me. And I basically made him apologize to his daughter. I was right—I’m sure of that—but I was also high-handed and out of line as an employee. And I don’t think the moral high ground is going to do much for me in this situation.
I cross my arms and wait for him to let loose.
“I’m concerned about Lydia,” he begins.
“They’re just scrapes. She’ll have a scab on the right knee, but…”
“Not that. There’s a situation at work. I told you before that I changed Lydia’s school due to safety concerns regarding some federal contract work I did that involved organized crime. The threat didn’t materialize for a while. I’d almost begun to believe nothing would come of it, but last week I had a phone call.”
“What sort of call?” I ask.
“Some of Rativan’s men had taken Catherine. My ex-wife.”
“Oh my God. Is she okay?”
“Yes. They released her. But it was clearly a warning that they can locate and get to anyone connected to me. I’m increasing security on Lydia and curtailing her outdoor activities. I basically want her confined to the house unless she’s at school. There are too many variables in parks, restaurants and places of that nature where she’s surrounded by the public.”
“For how long?” I ask.
“Until I tell you otherwise. I have to track down the source of the attack on Catherine and determine whether this is the act of one of Rativan’s henchman or if he’s pulling the strings from the inside. So, until I’ve nailed down the nature and origin of the threat, my daughter is to be kept at home where she’s heavily guarded. I’ll explain this to her without mentioning Catherine or anything like that. I’ll also be increasing your entertainment budget for the time being so you can order more craft supplies or books or that soap making kit she’s been wanting. Feel free to order in food, but know that the guards will intercept it at the gate and bring it to you. No delivery people will be admitted on property.”
“Right,” I say, “This sounds…scary.”
“It is. I wanted you to know that there’s an active threat, that it’s a lot to take in, but you need to be extremely vigilant with Lydia. I don’t want her outdoors even in the yard. I don’t want her at a frozen yogurt place or the movies. It’s time to double down and keep her safe. Windows locked, security system on at all times. You know the location of the panic buttons in the main rooms and Lydia’s room. Use them if you need them to summon guards. Keep them on your speed dial.”
“Do you think they’ll come here?”
“I have to assume they will. I can’t afford to take the risk.”
“I’ll—thank you for telling me. I guess, I mean, I’m sorry about earlier.”
“I overreacted, Reva. I do that when it comes to my daughter. No more risks right now, not even small ones like a bicycle. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I say, “It’s thoughtful of you about the soap-making kit for her. I’ll order it tonight.”
“Thanks,” he says, starting to turn away.
“Wait,” I say, “I just want to tell you that, even though I’m sorry about how I handled it, I’m still right about Lydia and not making her afraid of everything. I realize it’s necessary to lock things down right now and be careful. But she needs some independence. When Benny, my brother, when he was growing up, I was guilty of trying to do things for him a lot. His therapist actually called me out on it for tying his shoes. She said he needed to wear Velcro shoes until he could manage the ties himself because it wasn’t good for him to have to depend on me for basic self-care. The thing was, and this was before I taught him about standing up to the bullies, just FYI. I wanted to protect him from the whole world. I didn’t want him to try and fail because failure hurts and it’s hard to process. I figured his life was hard enough without struggling with his fine motor skills to get dressed. Except, like she said, that’s kind of the point of occupational therapy and the goal being autonomy.”
“So the therapist was mad at you for babying him?”
“Yeah, really pissed. She said I wasn’t undermining her therapy work, I was undermining my own brother by teaching him not to trust himself. It really knocked me back, made me think. Because that’s so important, being able to be independent in small ways, even adapting tasks to make them more doable for the individual. It’s one of the things that would be just the cornerstone of my learning center if I ever get to do it. That you start small but you can do great things no matter who you are. Being independent, taking pride, building confidence.”
“Sounds like a terrific idea,” he says.
“I mean, didn’t you have more freedom than Lydia does when you were her age. I mean, before your parents broke up…” I trail off as it occurs to me that bringing up his painful childhood was pretty insensitive.
“When I was in kindergarten? Yeah, I had all the freedom in the world. My mom cooked dinner every night so I had to be home in time for that, but otherwise she
and my dad were pretty busy fighting all the time. I didn’t have a lot of restrictions on me. Once I was home, there was dinner and I had a bath and Mom read to me. That was the good part. But I learned to stay away before dinner because my dad got off work at four and that gave them a good two hours to argue while she was cooking. Being home for that wasn’t pleasant. I probably could have juggled knives and neither one of them would have noticed.”
“Oh shit,” I say. It hurts my heart to think of him as a lonesome child with no one keeping track of him or making sure he was okay. I can see that he felt unloved, unwanted. It wrenches me. I want to hold him, but I resist.
“No, it’s fine. I want better for Lydia. Her safety is of the utmost importance to me. Her independence and confidence will come later, once the immediate threat is passed.”
“Before this trouble with organized crime, she was very sheltered, right?” I press.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think that’s a good plan for the long term. It undermines her. She has to be able to trust herself in new situations.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, but I don’t think it’s your place to determine what’s best for her.”
“No, but I love her. And I want a happy life for her, safe, yes, but also satisfying. She has to learn that chances are worth taking. That means she’ll fall sometimes, and she’ll fail, but it’s better than never trying,” I say vehemently. I am wound up about this—it’s linked so closely to Benny for me, and respecting him enough to let him try new things.
“I tried a lot of things in my youth that I wouldn’t want for her,” he says ruefully.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m sorry no one took care of you. You’re doing better than that for Lydia, but if you overdo it, that’s its own kind of damage. I know you well enough to see that’s the last thing you’d want for her.”
