by Jean Oram
But right now, no matter what the pros and cons list kept telling her, a baby didn’t feel like an answer, either. And a child wasn’t going to make her feel any less alone.
Thinking about JC was a colossal waste of time. He wasn’t going to give her a second chance. He wasn’t going to come running to sweep her off her feet and have a family with her. She was too high maintenance. Too hot and cold. She’d been a bitch and turned his gentle ribbing into a barb, then lashed out at him and stormed off without even a goodbye.
She removed her apron and tossed it aside, bracing herself against the counter, head hung low. She should have taken the hormone. She could still take it—it would just be much later than usual.
Grabbing a blank notepad out of her mother’s junk drawer, she started marking the paper with vicious lines, trying to draw through her frustration, seeking that quiet place within her where she usually found answers.
Realizing she was refining the designs she’d thrown in the fire—the very designs she’d promised herself she’d abandon in order to focus on her new life—she flung the pages across the counter.
No more. No more ideas. She needed to focus on what was coming up on her horizon. Her plan. No more split focus, no more chickening out. She’d take the next hormone shot in the morning and hope it worked this month.
She opened the email app on her phone, looking for items to delete without reading. Coupons, spam, jokes. Gone, gone, gone. She didn’t want to think right now.
Why had it felt so good to be rescued by Josh? Why had she loved being warmed by his body? She’d known he’d only been joking that morning about her being a damsel in distress, but nevertheless he’d struck upon that hidden cave inside her where she kept all her fears locked away.
Her phone rang in her hand and she nearly dropped it. It was her father. Were they supposed to talk again today? Twice in twenty-four hours seemed like a lot.
“Merry Christmas,” she said crisply.
“Merry Christmas,” he replied.
Silence stretched over the phone. Apparently that was all he had to say.
She bet this would be just like any relationship she had with JC, because he was just like her father. The pressure to do better, to change, to impress him, to do a song and dance every time she wanted his affection. She needed to be self-sufficient and never need him. Ever. When she’d needed her first business loan she’d gone to the bank, not her dad. And yet…and yet last night she’d kept turning to JC. She’d had other options and she hadn’t chosen them. Why?
Because JC wasn’t her father, was he? She didn’t have to be featured in the Financial Times to get a get a crumb of approval. JC thought she was strong just the way she was.
“Do you have hobbies?” she asked her father.
“You know I like to play golf.”
“I mean, ones I don’t know about. Maybe crafts, puzzles, model building? Some men build stuff.”
“Are you okay?”
“Do you?” She was holding her breath, waiting.
“It’s a waste of time and money. Real men build real things. Useful things.” There was a slight pause before he asked, “You didn’t get me any of that crap, did you?”
“No. I sent you a gift card.”
“Right. I saw that. How’s your business?”
No thank-you? JC would have thanked her. She was certain of it.
“I sold it.”
“You what?” Thomas sounded incredulous and she secretly enjoyed the feeling of having pushed him off center.
“Don’t worry, I got a good deal,” she said drily.
“The whole thing?”
“Everything.” A feeling of panic welled up inside her. She’d sold her livelihood and wasn’t having a baby.
Wait. She wasn’t having a baby? Since when? And what the hell was she doing if she wasn’t having a baby?
“Do you have something new on the line?” her father asked.
“No.” Her voice sounded small in her own ears.
She could do something with the plus-sized teen designs. She could help JC—be his consultant. She wasn’t completely gone, was she? She still had a chance to reclaim her old identity. She wanted that, right?
“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” her father accused. “What’s his name?”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“Then who the hell has got you acting like a fool?”
She was a fool, but only because she’d let JC get away. She’d hurt him, then pushed him away, rejected him before he could reject her.
“I’m tired of working so hard for nothing.”
“Those who work hard get ahead. Welcome to life.”
“And then what? I’m ahead. I’m not happy. I don’t have a family. A boyfriend. I have everything but I have nothing.”
“And a boyfriend is supposed to fix that? You’re being irrational.”
“Maybe my whole life is irrational. I made money thinking I’d finally get your approval, and guess what? I didn’t get it. All I got was more pressure to keep working and earn more, get more accolades. And I did. And so what? I’m still the same person. I still have the same problems. Only now I’m tired, I’m alone and I’m not happy.” Her voice was wobbling and she despised the way she was breaking down.
JC had seen her unhappiness. Why couldn’t her father?
She really needed to stop comparing the two.
“Maybe you weren’t meant for this.”
“Are you suggesting I’m not strong enough? Because I am. Nobody else I know has gotten as far as I have in such a short period of time.”
JC had told her she was strong. That asking for help was a sign of strength. She’d let him help her and the world hadn’t caved in on her.
She swiped at the tears streaming down her face.
“Simone, listen carefully.”
“Why?” She sounded bitter, resentful. “I listened to you my entire life and here I am.”
“Yes. Here you are. With enough money to change your life. With the knowledge that you went out and took the business world head-on and won.”
She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. Stupid logic. Stupid issues making his words sound like praise and approval.
She forced herself to continue listening and not hang up the phone. He was going to get her all wound up and rushing off in the wrong direction again, wasn’t he?
“You’re the strongest person I have ever met. I pushed you so hard because I believe you can change the world.”
Her designs. Those stupid designs. They just wouldn’t leave her alone.
Because they were game changers, that’s why.
Wait. Her mind rewound his words. He thought she was the strongest person he’d ever met? How did that happen?
“You can get anywhere you want, Simone. You can have all those things nobody else can achieve.”
She pulled her earlier sketch closer, assessing it for potential, allowing herself the freedom to feel the fizz of excitement as more ideas came to her. She paused, then flipped to a new sheet, allowing her pencil to fly, uninhibited by her internal business mind, which demanded that the designs reach a wide audience, be simple and cheap to make, and be on trend.
She had something with this line of designs—her originals. She really did. Something bigger than she’d had yet.
But did she still have the energy to make them happen?
Did she even want to? What if they took over her life? What if this was still the wrong path for her? She didn’t want to spend the next decade chasing her own tail right back to where she was in this moment.
“You can’t give up now.”
“Yes, I can.”
“You’re destined for great things, Simone.”
Here comes the pressure, in three, two, one…
“But maybe I pushed you too hard.”
Simone’s mouth opened and closed, she was so shocked by his admission.
“And you’re right. You have achieved great things. I haven’t shown
it well, but I am very proud of you. You solve problems and you don’t cause them. But I still don’t understand why you’re giving it all away.”
She considered making a joke about money talking, but settled on the truth. “I’m tired. It’s fun and I love making designs, but the pressure to make something super huge out of every idea is onerous. It’s taken away the joy.” She lowered her voice. “I want to take some time off, but I feel guilty and like I can’t because of the way you treat me.” She pulled in a deep breath, afraid to say everything she felt, but knowing this might be her only chance. “I need you to not pressure me. It’s not healthy and I push myself hard enough as it is.”
“Okay,” he said simply. No pause. No anger. Just acceptance.
“Okay?”
That was it? After decades of him pushing her to work harder, longer, smarter than everyone else, he was letting her off the hook? It was like gearing up for a hurricane, battening down the hatches, struggling against the gale force winds, only to have the storm come all the way up your walk to drop dead in your doorway.
“As much as I want success for you...” Her father paused, and Simone had the feeling he might be struggling with emotion, something she had never witnessed before. “…I want your happiness more. Do what will make you happy. Just tell me what does and I promise I will do my best not to interfere or push you in the wrong direction.”
“But I don’t know what makes me happy,” she said, her voice wobbling once again.
“Then go find it. Push down every door and look behind it. When you find it, seize it. You have time, health, youth, and now wealth on your side. Get out there. Find it. Own it.”
Brushing the tears from her cheeks, Simone thanked her father in a whisper.
“I’ll always be proud. There is nothing you can do that will ever take that away. Now get off the phone and go figure out your life.” There was a hesitation as though he’d almost hung up, then figured he should add, “Merry Christmas.”
When he hung up for real, Simone laughed, sniffing back tears.
Dammit, her asshat of a father was a pretty damn good guy. He might even make a decent father for her upcoming sibling.
Which meant Simone probably had to rethink everything.
She looked around the kitchen at the cooling dishes of food, and peeked into the living room, where her mother was gently snoring. Simone folded the dress design, tucking it into her purse. Maybe she didn’t need to reject her designer side entirely. Maybe she could sketch for fun, see where it took her—if anywhere. She had time to take a break, connections if she didn’t want to produce and sell the designs herself.
A baby could wait, couldn’t it? Maybe her uterus would come out unscathed when they removed the cysts and ovaries, and she’d still be able to carry her own baby. Maybe a surrogate would be okay, too.
Out of habit, she opened her email again.
How was she going to find happiness, though? How was she going to break the habit of working only on ideas that would lead directly to prestige and success? How was she going to let herself be a loose ribbon in the wind? An artist. A designer. Nothing on the go but a license to explore her own creativity, her own life.
Her breath caught in her throat, the possibilities overwhelming.
Read more email. She needed more distractions.
An incoming message caught her attention. One of the MOM members was looking for someone to collaborate on hair accessories for their toddler line.
The project had JC’s name all over it.
* * *
Simone was crying over an email. Outright bawling. Ugly crying at its finest.
She ran to the upstairs bathroom and locked herself inside, smothering her face in a towel in hopes that her mother wouldn’t overhear her self-pity fest of sorrows and confusion.
Her sobs racked her body, her ribs aching with the force of her release.
Her tears turned to hiccupy laughs as she fell on her butt, stunned by the realization that she had been lashing out at JC’s creations because she was jealous. He had the freedom to create whatever he wanted without thought to market, cost, or trends. Anytime he wanted to he could sit down with his supplies and let his heart lead him. He was living his life and taking the risk, and making something that he obviously loved to create.
The ridiculousness of a multimillionaire, well-known designer being jealous of a man with a boxful of ribbons and a glue gun was so inane she had to hold her sides against the giggles that overtook her. Her lashing out at him hadn’t entirely been about her feelings or insecurities, it had been about work.
And her getting off track with her life and dreams hadn’t entirely been her father’s fault. It had been hers. It was her life, her call to make.
Simone stood suddenly, dropping the tear-soaked towel in the tub.
Her new life plan came to her in a flash. It was so simple. So elementary. She was going to follow her heart. She was going to play and discover what truly made her happy.
She’d pull a JC and follow her heart and talents. That man was as genuine and real as the pope, but all she’d allowed herself to see was the alpha side she so despised because it reminded her of her father.
She’d blamed that aspect of Thomas’s personality for pushing her with unrelenting persistence, driving her to do better, climb higher—and further away from her own dreams. But in the end, it wasn’t just him at fault, because she possessed that trait, too. And it had caused her to push away JC, caused her to do damage.
She opened the bathroom door, mind made up. It was time to find JC. Time to repair things.
* * *
“You had us so scared,” Josh’s mother said as she cleared the table from their Christmas dinner. Their palpable relief when he’d shown up via helicopter that morning had left him feeling humbled as well as loved.
Not like with Simone. He doubted she would have shed a tear if he’d fallen through the ice or if his chopper had gone down.
They hadn’t spoken or even made eye contact when their flights had landed near town, depositing them by the group’s vehicles parked in a frozen marina. They’d simply gone their own ways, Evander and Tigger giving him a ride the rest of the way home in Evander’s truck so the sisters could drop Daphne off first to ensure Santa arrived before the little girl.
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry,” Josh told her.
“We’re glad you’re all right, son,” his stepfather said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.
“Me, too. I’m sorry I worried you,” he said again.
He began washing dishes with Polly in the kitchen while their parents moved to the living room to curl up in front of the fire, pausing to kiss under the mistletoe along the way.
“How will you get your snowmobile back?” Polly asked.
“I’ll probably drive out with my truck in a day or two. If I let this cold snap pass it might start on its own.”
He dried the gravy boat, thinking about the island. About Simone. She’d admitted he had talent. Potential.
He leaned against the counter, facing his sister. “What would you say if I told you I make frilly hair accessories for little girls?”
Polly began laughing. She hunched over the sink, her hands limp in the sudsy dishwater. She caught sight of his expression and straightened suddenly. “You’re serious?”
“Sadly.”
“Is this why you’ve been acting strange lately?”
“Probably.”
“Okay. But I don’t get it. This is a secret?” She handed him a large casserole dish to dry.
“There’s still stuffing on it,” he complained, handing it back.
She stuck out her tongue and plunged the dish into the warm water again, swishing it about before handing it back. “You know, a good drier would have taken care of that.”
He licked the spot where the stuffing had been stuck. “Like that?” He rubbed the tea towel over the spot, drying his saliva.
Polly’s nose scrunched up and she flicked water a
t him from her fingers. “Get a new tea towel and give me that dish.” She made grumbling noises as she rewashed it yet again. “You’re such a brother.”
He smirked.
“Did you get a new tea towel?”
He balled up the used one, chucking it at Polly, who ducked, her perfect hair missing the chance to get mussed up. He grabbed a new towel from a nearby drawer.
“And don’t you think I didn’t notice you changing the subject with your shenanigans.” She gave him a stern look. “Why is your hobby a secret?”
A hobby. That’s all it was, but he wanted it to be so much more. He wanted it to become his identity. Something he could be proud of. As gutsy and scary as that was.
He let out a slow breath, his shoulders lowering in increments. If he wanted to take his “hobby” up a notch, he needed to talk to Simone. Which was, oh, let’s see…the last thing on his list of things he wanted to do. Ever.
“You know who you need to talk to?” Polly asked, shaking a soapy finger at him.
He cringed. Don’t say it.
“Simone.”
She’d said it.
“She doesn’t believe I’m capable of creating the accessories. Or if she does, she thinks I’m gay.”
Polly sputtered, choking with laughter. “And what would ever give her that impression?”
“The items are rather feminine.”
“Show me.” She held out her hand as though he could somehow procure one.
“My phone died, but I think the burn unit may have photos on their website.”
“The burn unit? In Toronto, where you volunteer?”
“Yep.”
“Interesting.” Polly assessed him as she dried her hands on her woolen slacks, an uncharacteristic gesture. She reached into her nearby purse, pulling out her phone.
“How are things with you and the ex?” Josh asked, as she brought up the web page.
She lifted one shoulder noncommittally. “I want money. He doesn’t want to part with it. Hate is an ever-expanding emotion. That about sums it up.”
Her long fingernails slid across her phone screen, tapping intermittently. Her head tipped to the right and her expression softened, a smile tugging at her lips.
