by Emily Bishop
“There might be other reasons for that.” I press my lips against her neck. I relish in the little shiver that spirals down her body at that touch.
“Yeah, well, don’t we have a high opinion of ourselves?”
“After giving you two orgasms this morning? Yeah, we do. Would you like another one?”
I lower my hand but as it drifts back south she stops it with her own, laughing.
“Down, boy. I have work to do today, and I’m never going to get it done if we keep this up.”
“I can keep it up as long as you wish,” I say, and she laughs at my double meaning.
“I am fully aware. Now help me up so I can get ready for work.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re already on maternity leave.”
“I’m not on maternity leave until the baby comes. Until then, the news doesn’t stop because I’m going to have a baby.”
“It stops for me. This is the only news I care about. You taking care of yourself and our son.”
In spite of my protest, I slide my pants back on and help her up, her russet curls bouncing along her shoulders as she uses the spring of the mattress to propel to a standing position. She glances back hopelessly at her pants on the bed.
“I’m never going to get those back on,” she says with a huff.
I come up behind her and wrap my arms around her. I savor the soft feel of her. I whisper in her ear, “Good.”
She shivers again, and I wonder if I’m going to get one more round when she steps away and turns to look up at me. “You are insatiable.”
“Only when it comes to you.”
“And brownies.”
“Now you’re exaggerating.”
She laughs, and the musical sound is a harmony to my ears. She pads into the bathroom to get ready for the day, and I head in the other direction, toward the kitchen. Glancing around, it always astounds me what a difference a woman’s touch can make.
I will never regret eloping with Scarlett. We ran off to a little bed and breakfast in New Hampshire in the middle of winter, a blanket of snow all around us as we made our vows to a justice of the peace before a cozy fireplace. Given the time of year, we’d had the whole place to ourselves, and it was hands down some of the best sex I’ve ever had.
Certainly a night for the books.
She’d moved in shortly before that, and had insisted on making the place feel less like a bachelor pad. I had no reservations about it, and I’m glad. There is a warmth in my home now that was absent in my life for a long time. Even with my ex, marriage never felt quite like this. I crave my wife. I love everything about her, whether it’s her body, her mind, or her sense of decorative style. The little touches she’s made around our home make me smile for no reason.
Well, for one good reason, actually.
I set a kettle to boil as I pull out some fresh eggs and sausage from the fridge, determined to put food in that stubborn woman before she can get out the door. My biggest fear is that she’ll go into labor when I’m not there to help. I need to be sure she’s all right. I need to know my son is, too. I’m considering following her to work when she calls out from the bathroom.
“Isaac!”
Her voice sounds panicked, and I drop everything as I sprint down the hall. Buster is at my heels, and I nearly trip over him. When we reach the bathroom door, my eyes comb Scarlett for any sign of danger. I don’t see blood anywhere but at her feet there is a small pool of liquid. Her eyes collide with mine, wide and afraid.
“I think my water broke!”
“I think you’re right,” I say.
For an instant, my brain freezes, and I have no idea what to do. That moment passes fast as my action brain takes over. I’ve got this. We are going to get this baby out safely.
“Let’s get you dressed, and then we’ll head to the hospital,” I say. I move to grab her fresh clothing and help her dress before I grab our packed bag and head toward the front door. Before I forget, I turn off the stove so the house doesn’t catch fire while we’re away, then make it back to the door. I open it and look back. She is unmoved, staring at me.
“We have to take care of Buster,” she says.
What the fuck is she talking about?
“What? He’s fine, Scarlett. The downstairs neighbor will let him out.”
“But how can we be sure…”
I reach over and grab her hand. I force her to stare into my eyes. When she does, I can tell she’s afraid, and I hold her hand a little tighter.
“It’s going to be fine, Scarlett. Everything is going to be fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know you. You’re tough as hell. Birth isn’t going to faze you.”
“Are… are you sure?”
Her voice is small, and I wrap her in my arms. We stand like that in front of the door as I run my hands along her back, soothing her.
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Now, let’s go meet our son.”
She releases a gusty breath, and she steels herself for the labor ahead. “You’re right. Let’s,” she says. She walks past me toward the stairs. I want to carry her down but she insists on going herself, Buster at our heels. When we reach the bottom floor, I knock at Scarlett’s old apartment door, and a young woman opens up. Her eyes comb over us both, and she nods understanding.
“Time?” she asks.
I nod.
“Time. Can you take Buster?”
The girl, Cassie, kneels down, and Buster rushes to her with his tongue out, ready to lick her with all his might. I know he’s in good hands with our newest neighbor, and it’s a comfort. Before this kid, Buster was basically my baby.
“Of course! Nothing to worry about here. Just go have that baby—good luck!”
“Thank you,” Scarlett breathes. She presses her hand to her belly as a contraction pounds through her. Her face scrunches up in pain, and I do my best once again not to carry her, running, to the hospital. Instead she hobbles out to the truck. I open the door and help her in, then run around the other side and kick the engine into gear. I plow out of the parking lot as I weave through traffic to the hospital.
Time crawls as Scarlett breathes hard through every contraction, her teeth gritted as she pushes through the pain. All I can do is drive faster, and I do. My tires screech as I pull the truck into the hospital parking lot.
“Can you walk?” I ask. Her eyes are closed as she grinds her teeth through another contraction, then she nods.
I don’t believe it for a second.
“Good. Because you don’t have to,” I say. I step out of the truck and open her door, carefully holding her in my arms. She doesn’t protest this time, and she wraps her arm around my neck as we step inside. A male nurse approaches us, eyes combing over Scarlett.
“What’s happened?” When his eyes land on her belly, he deducts the answer. “Labor?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You’ll need to check in, and then you’ll be escorted to your room. We’ll provide a wheelchair.”
Fifteen minutes later, forms filled in, the nurse leads us to a private room, and I’m forced to step back as they lay her on the hospital bed and strap her into machines to monitor the baby, a gown draped over her. A female doctor with silvery hair walks in as Scarlett keels over with another contraction, and I step to her side. I grip her hand. She squeezes mine until it goes numb.
“Let’s take a look here,” says Doctor Hoyden. As she glances down, her expression changes.
“Ten centimeters. This baby’s coming! Scarlett, I’m going to need you to try and push.”
Scarlett looks up at me but I no longer see fear in her eyes. Instead, she’s determined. Sweat creases her brow as she bears down to push out the child. She releases a growl as she lays back, panting.
“This kid is ready to join us, Scarlett. One more big push should do it! Come on, you’ve got this.”
The doctor’s words of encouragement have Scarlett sitting up again. She give
s my hand another massive squeeze as she pushes. Half an hour passes, each moment agonizing. She’s in pain and there’s nothing I can do to help her.
I hold her hand, dab sweat from her brow. Finally, Scarlett gives one final push, and collapses backward. A moment of silence and then fierce cries fill the room.
I’m a father.
Tears stream down Scarlett’s face as our son is placed in her arms, his lungs strong as he lets out a series of tiny wails. I wrap my arm around them both, my heart warm with the knowledge that I have a family of my own.
When Scarlett looks back up at me, she beams with joy. “We did it,” she says. “He’s stunning like his dad.”
“More like his mom,” I say. I stroke back a strand of hair from her forehead and plant a gentle kiss there.
A nurse takes the baby to get cleaned up, and when he’s returned to us cleaned and blanketed, I cradle him in my arms for the first time.
Scarlett scoots over so we can sit together, the two of us staring in awe at our new family member.
“What do you think we should name him?” I whisper.
She looks up at me with a smile. “I was thinking Charlie, after your dad.”
I clear my throat, which has a strange lump in it, and nod. “I think he’d like that a lot,” I say, stroking my son’s face. “Hello, Charlie. Welcome to the world.”
“You and I are the safest people on Earth,” Scarlett says to him, and I wrap my arm around them a little tighter.
They have no idea. They will be safe and loved for the rest of their lives. Knowing this as fully as I do, I relax into the bed. I have never been happier than I am in this moment.
Lucky for me, there are many more just like it yet to come.
1
Naomi
Honestly, a picture is worth way more than a thousand words.
I hoist my brand-new camera, hold it up to my eyes, and blink at my reflection, the dark brown of my irises flickering behind fluttering lashes.
A pristine white lighthouse comes into focus, and I work the gears to zoom in and clarify the image. The wooden panels of the lighthouse appear crisp and clean, even from the docks, and I snap the picture. I lower the camera and gaze out across the craggy bay.
I love being home.
I know why I left. I had very good reasons, in fact.
But, it’s a well-known fact that a New Englander never really leaves their home. We carry the crisp autumn air inside us all year round. We remember the cascade of colors that add vibrancy to the death of every leaf. That essence of home clings to our bones, calling us back for some pancakes with maple syrup tapped from a neighbor’s maple tree.
I inhale the early September air and bask in the clean scent of the Atlantic.
I let my camera drape around my neck and walk along the dock, which lies parallel to the rocky shore. I’m hunting for the perfect images, the right scenes to possibly add to the walls of my new restaurant.
The town of Stoneport was always a place I wanted to live.
It’s the town next door to where I grew up, in Camden. Northern Maine is a part of the world many people will never know, because they only come to vacation in the summer. The leaf peepers never get this far north, so when August passes, so does the tourist traffic—thank god.
My white cotton dress, dotted with bright red cherries, drifts around me, swirling at my knees as my favorite pair of leather cowboy boots thud against the old wood beneath my feet.
I open my eyes.
The sun crests the horizon. It prepares to melt into the sea. It sinks lower, the sky turning a pale pink and blue like cotton candy, and the clouds splatter over it like a dollop of fresh cream.
“Evening, Naomi.”
My eyes shift from the horizon to an elderly couple. They walk close together, supporting each other, as the woman’s hand clings to her husband’s forearm.
I smile at them. “Good evening Jonah, Emily. Fancy meeting you down here on the docks.”
“We’re enjoying the peace and quiet,” Emily says, her tone emphatic.
I laugh. “You said it. I’m grateful for the money that summer tourism brings in, but it’s always amazing to get our seafront back.”
Jonah nods. His skin is peppered with liver spots, crinkled and weathered like old leather. Emily’s is the same, the two of them a testament to longevity. I’ve often wondered if I want to live that long. Do they still have sex? Do they enjoy it?
Thinking about that only conjures an image of old people sex in my mind, and I resist the urge to physically shake the thoughts out.
“I hope you enjoy the rest of your walk,” I say, ever pleasant.
“And you. Don’t stay out too late, Naomi. It’s not safe.”
I bite back a laugh. The only crime that happens in this town is when a cat burgles a hamster from a neighbor’s house. I’ll survive. “Thank you for the words of wisdom. I want to get a picture of the boats, then I’ll be heading home.”
Emily nods with approval. “Good. Stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I reply.
I continue down the path until I reach a long metal dock. On either side there are rows of sailboats and yachts, all of them with fluttering white sails that dance in the light evening breeze. My eyes comb over each one.
The salty, briny scent of the bay penetrates my senses, and I take another deep breath.
A large, white yacht bobs on the water, tied to the dock’s end by a flimsy white rope. All the other boats have been covered for the season, or at least for the night. It may be early September, but it’s not that cold. There’s certainly plenty of sailing left to be had.
“Hello?” It’s only polite to seek permission before snapping an image of someone’s property.
No response.
The distant caw of a pair of seagulls echoes across the water. I glance from side to side. It’s late enough now that no one is out. It’s a small New England town, where everyone’s in and having dinner by six o’clock. Sometimes I miss the vibrant night life of Chicago, but in this instance, my lip curls into a mischievous grin.
It’s not causing any harm if no one knows what I’m thinking about doing, right?
I cast one more wary glance around, then leap onto the deck of the yacht. The boat wavers a tiny bit beneath me, and I hold onto the side to steady myself.
The deck is fancy—the hardwood floor gleams in the twilight of night. The setting sun casts enough light to get a few good images, and I hold my camera up once more as I adjust my settings.
A table with chairs has been built into the deck, the wood lighter than the amber stain beneath my boots. There’s a large window behind the table and chairs for the captain to see out. The reflection of seaside cottages in the glass creates a perfect tableau.
I raise my camera and readjust as needed, shifting to get the right angle before I press the button again.
Gosh, what would it feel like to own a boat like this? To live this kind of life?
What’s it like on the inside?
I can’t withhold my curiosity.
I walk down the side of the windowed captain’s area toward the back—a narrow staircase leads down into darkness. I hesitate. Well, that’s not creepy at all.
I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s not like I’m going to steal anything but a picture. I’m not that kind of girl. If someone finds me, they’ll also find everything intact.
Yes. It’s fine.
I hold the railing as I step down one stair at a time, and my belly flutters at the thought of what I might find. I’m reminded of when I was a teenager sneaking into graveyards at night, looking for ghostly orbs. My heartbeat races a little more at the daring of it all.
My foot lands on the bottom of the stairs, and I root around the wall with my fingertips as I search for a light switch.
I find one and click on the light.
Rum-bum-bumbleee.
“What the hell?”
It’s the engine. It’s started!
“Oh, crap! What the hell?”
The boat rumbles around me, and the beating of my heart takes on a new rhythm.
I’m not alone on this boat.
For a fraction of a second, I think about calling out. I can let whoever’s on board know that I’m a harmless bystander. Just looking for a picture for the restaurant.
Harmless, I swear.
But my flight instinct wins out, and I bolt back up the stairs.
I don’t like getting in trouble. I never have.
The yacht gives a lurch, and I nearly tumble all the way back down the stairs. I cry out then regain my footing and reach the deck. The cool, salt-soaked air provides relief as I walk with purpose back along the side of the boat.
I glance back again to see if I’ve been spotted, and bam! My foot jams into something. I trip, and the deck careens upward to meet me.
I hit the deck face first. “Ugh,” I say, as I rise back to my feet.
I dust some sand off my dress. A click behind me freezes me to the spot. My heart goes cold. Was that…? Was that the safety of a gun?
My face lifts from my dress, and my gaze lands on a man in a black mask, pointing a gun right at me.
I hold up my hands, stepping backward toward the starboard side. It’s dark enough that I can’t make out anything meaningful about the man’s face—not that I could anyway.
“Whoa, I’m sorry, man. I was trying to take a picture. You can have the boat all to yourself now.”
I stumble as I keep walking back.
Now is not the time to reason with a strange masked man holding a gun to my chest. I glance over the side. There’s only one safe way out of this situation.
If I try to run back down the dock, he has an easy shot of my back.
I tumble over the side and collide with ice cold water. My head goes under. A gunshot pops off, but I don’t have time to dwell on it.
I open my eyes underwater.
It’s dark and cloudy, but I can make out the boats all around me, some of them caked with barnacles. I get my bearings and swim as fast I can around several boats. I didn’t take a good breath before going under, so my lungs scream for air.
