by Laura Moore
“That’s fine.” Max didn’t mind going to the office; it had a glass wall. Anyone who passed by would be visible.
“Thanks again, Max,” Gen said when Alicia left. “I’m happy to know you’ll have the painting.”
“I’m glad, too. I really did know I wanted it the second I saw it.”
“Gen’s paintings have that effect. They speak to you,” Alex said, wrapping his arm about Gen’s waist.
“You’ve certainly made an impression on the people here tonight.” Max took the opportunity to scan the room once again. Still no sign of her. “They love the show.”
“That’s because I pressured all our friends to come. They’re drowning out the critics’ voices.”
“I passed a number of critics. They’re far from critical. But speaking of friends, I’m surprised I haven’t seen Dakota yet. Is she coming?” There. He’d inserted her name into the conversation, perhaps not as subtly as he’d have liked, but what the hell. And he was going to ignore the matching smiles on Alex and Gen’s faces that told him he hadn’t been subtle at all.
“I hope so. What with the holidays and then all the last-minute details surrounding the show, I’ve been shamefully out of touch,” Gen said. “I don’t even think I thanked her properly for the brilliant job Premier did at our party.”
“You may get to do it in person. The reception’s not over,” Alex said. “She may simply be stuck in traffic. The weather’s lousy.”
And Dakota was a good driver, Max told himself. Her Toyota was a good car, heavy and equipped with four-wheel drive. She had brand-new tires. She’d be fine.
“Have you called her, Max?” Gen asked. “You might try.”
“Sure,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t. Maybe he could call Rae and find out where the hell she was, and then swear Rae to secrecy…
Alicia returned, looking very happy. “Series Number Five now has a beautiful red dot next to it. If you’ll come with me, Max?”
He smiled at Gen and Alex. “I’ll see you.”
“Come back here when you’re finished. There’s some champagne with your name on it. We hold it in reserve for Gen’s patrons,” Alex said with a grin.
“I will.” And maybe Dakota would be by their side, and he could breathe easier knowing that she was all right.
—
It didn’t take long to write out the check and fill out his Long Island address on the bill of sale so that Alicia could have the painting crated and delivered to Windhaven when the show came down in late February. But while Max dealt with the paperwork, there’d been a few minutes when he’d been unable to monitor what new guests had entered the gallery. Again he prowled the rooms, frustrated and on edge. But then, as he passed a middle-aged woman, he heard Dakota’s name uttered. He froze and turned toward the source.
The woman’s face had once been pretty. Now puffy, yet oddly stretched, it was a warning to those considering plastic surgery. The woman’s hair was cut short, styled and shellacked into a blond helmet. Her voice was East Coast through and through, its tones clipped and its pitch loud enough to cut through the buzz of other conversations.
For a second he wondered if he’d just experienced an auditory hallucination. Then the woman repeated, “Yes, that Dakota. My niece. Have I told you the news? She must have grown tired of cleaning houses and running errands for her so-called clients and discovered an easier way to make money.”
Another woman who was with her, a slight, overly tanned brunette who was trying and failing for the Jackie O look, must have obliged with the necessary question.
“Why, on her back, of course,” the blond woman answered. “Dakota’s pregnant. No doubt she’ll be demanding a pretty penny from the father—and there’s no doubt about who he is.” Like twin lasers, her blue eyes locked on Max, making him realize that she was aware of his presence—and his identity. She smiled triumphantly. Maliciously. “Oh yes, we know very well who the father is.”
Dakota pregnant? What the fuck? Max thought as she finally broke eye contact and said something to her friend about needing a drink before she looked at the paintings.
He was conscious of a dramatic shift, as if the ground were tilting crazily beneath him. The last time he’d experienced such a radical disorientation was when he’d arrived home from the graduation party in Annie Bauer’s car. From a block away the flashing lights were visible. Closer, he’d seen the patrol car parked in front of his house, the white vinyl siding now a blue and red screen. As soon as Annie braked, he’d jumped out and run past the cruiser parked in front of his mailbox and up the concrete walkway, the sound of his mother’s sobbing reaching him through an open window. Before he burst through the front door he’d known from the ice formed deep in his gut that Rosie was hurt.
Only it was worse than that. Way, way worse. The inconceivable had occurred.
Dakota pregnant? He couldn’t get his mind around the idea. The ramifications. Shit, the ramifications…
The woman’s words replayed in his head. She—Christ, this must be Dakota’s aunt Mimi—had said Dakota planned to use the pregnancy to enrich herself.
Would Dakota do that? It was unbelievable. But then he recalled Ashley Nicholls’s scheme to blackmail him for a million dollars with a sex tape. Dakota was much smarter than Ashley. Could this have been her end game all along?
He had to see her and find out what was going on.
He had to do it now.
Dakota was watching a rerun of Friends, her televisual equivalent to a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, and already fighting drowsiness despite its being only ten o’clock, when a knock sounded at her door.
It woke her up in a hurry. Her real-life friends (as opposed to Phoebe, Rachel, and Monica) didn’t come a-knocking this late on a Friday night in January, especially when the weather was so crappy. On the other hand, she’d never heard of a burglar knocking, either. And her house was too modest to burglarize, anyway.
A rapist? She wrapped her hand around the baseball bat she kept in the corner of the small entry next to where her Uggs and rain boots stood. Gripping its handle, she peered through the front door’s peephole.
Even bowed against the sleet, the dark head with its auburn lights was one she recognized. Astonishment had her straightening, twisting the doorknob, and stepping back. “Max? What are you doing here?”
He swept inside, bringing with him the cold and the wet and a barely leashed agitation. Abruptly aware of her thin cotton T-shirt, flannel bottoms, and bare feet, she shivered and shut the door, returning the baseball bat to its place. Braining Max wouldn’t be a very good move.
He’s too big for my house was her first totally loopy thought. It wasn’t just Max’s size; it was the energy he brought with him. It radiated out, buffeting her. Dizziness swept over her, which this time couldn’t be blamed on a virus or even the tiny peanut that was perhaps growing inside her.
She wasn’t ready for this. She was unprepared to see or talk to Max when she was still unsure of the facts. Those three plastic sticks that she had peed on weren’t proof positive; they were more like proof probable. And how totally unfair it was that she was going to have to broach the topic of his possible impending fatherhood when she was looking and feeling like something the cat dragged in, and he was looking so like…Max.
He’d cut his hair, she noted, and somehow this fact depressed her as much as all the rest.
Max raked her with a narrow-eyed gaze, as if taking stock of the vast difference in their appearances—not that a worn tee, baggy flannel bottoms, and unvarnished toes ever combined to make a killer fashion choice. “What’s the matter with you? You look awful.”
“And happy New Year to you, too,” she said, wrapping her arms around her middle protectively, defensively, abruptly out of all charity for him. Who the hell did he think he was to storm in here, looking so fantastic in his cashmere overcoat, silk scarf, and stark white shirt? Even his cropped hair looked good, damn him. “At the risk of repeating mys
elf, what are you doing here?” She tried to think of a plausible explanation. “Are you locked out?”
“Locked out?”
She gritted her teeth, wishing he would stop staring at her. “Of your house.”
Perhaps it was the word “house” that did it, or he’d finally grown bored of looking at her. His gaze made a sweeping inspection of her living quarters, taking in the sofa with its decorative pillows piled at one end; the eggplant-colored throw she’d been curled under; the box of Kleenex positioned on the coffee table within easy reach, the used tissues forming a balled-up mound next to it. And in the corner opposite the sofa, the TV played a scene with Joey and Chandler. The audience’s laughter was jarring.
It was all pretty dreary, which was an adjective she’d never associated with her adorable little house. At least she no longer had the vomit bucket ready and waiting by the couch. By this point she knew the signs well enough to sprint to the bathroom.
He turned his head, taking in the kitchen island and the space beyond. Weeks had passed since anything more complex than reheating chicken broth had occurred, so her kitchen, always tidy, was immaculate, if a little forlorn.
Convinced that his next step would be into her bedroom, where he’d give it the same critical going-over to which she and the living space had been subjected, she said, “Please tell me what you’re doing here. I’m tired—”
“Is it true?” he demanded.
She started at his accusatory tone. “Is what true? What are you talking about?”
“I drove out here from New York tonight as soon as I found out, so don’t play games with me, Dakota. Just tell me yes or no. Are you pregnant?”
This was so not the way she’d wanted to break the news, with him bristling with antagonism. She’d imagined herself calm and composed, her spine made of steel. Instead she felt like she was about to shatter into a thousand pieces. And Max looked livid.
Carefully she made her way to the sofa, giving Max a wide berth. She sat down, her arms again folding about her middle. How quickly a new habit was formed. “Yes—that is, I’m not sure. It’s possible I am.”
“Jesus.” He dragged a hand through his hair. He began pacing, and there wasn’t enough room.
She once again grew dizzy. But no way was she going to be sick in front of him. She fixed her gaze on the box of Kleenex, determined to keep her stomach under control.
“How did you hear about my—” She couldn’t bring herself to say “pregnancy.”
“At the opening for Gen Monaghan’s show. Some woman was talking about you. Loudly. I couldn’t help but overhear. She said you were her niece and that you’re pregnant.”
“Damn you, Mimi,” Dakota whispered. Of course her aunt would run to spread the news as fast and as far and wide as possible. There was little if any stigma attached to unplanned pregnancies these days, so it wasn’t a question of blackening the Hale name. It would only embarrass Dakota and deprive her of the ability to announce the news on her own terms. Mimi was smart. She’d have guessed there was an excellent chance Max would be at the opening and had known that Dakota wouldn’t be. What a perfect way to exact revenge. Dakota abruptly wondered how many people on the East End had already heard that she was pregnant and that Max was the father.
She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry you had to hear the news this way.”
“And when were you planning to approach me? After you’d calculated how much money you could get from me?”
Her eyes snapped open. Surely she couldn’t have heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. How much, Dakota?”
“Exactly what are you implying?” she demanded, outrage filling her.
“No need to imply. I’m merely repeating what your aunt was willing to tell anyone within hearing distance. The gist of it was that you’d grown tired of cleaning people’s houses and running errands and hit upon an easier way to make money. If getting pregnant and shaking me down is your plan, Dakota, you picked the wrong man. Is the kid even mine?”
She stared at him, trying to recognize the man who’d made her heart turn over with his intelligence and charm. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m the kind of person who would use a child to get money out of you? Or that I’d lie about the identity of the father?” Her voice had risen with every word, reaching a piercing anger.
Something flickered in his expression. “I don’t know what the fuck to think.”
“If that’s an apology, it sucks.”
“Christ, Dakota—”
“For your information, the only reason I didn’t contact you was because I wanted to make sure of the facts before I spoke to you. I was waiting to see my doctor on Monday and have her confirm the pregnancy. Oh, and here’s something else you should know: I regret ever laying eyes on you. Now get out of my house.”
—
Thanks to Max’s unexpected visit, she passed a sleepless night. She was almost glad when her stomach announced itself. Retching was better than staring at the ceiling, replaying Max’s words, and wishing she’d been sharp enough to come up with a hundred better, more cutting replies.
Finished with the toilet, she brushed her teeth, and then took a good look in the mirror. The confrontation with Max had had a weird effect on her body; she actually felt pregnant today. But so much for the old wives’ tale claiming that pregnancy made a woman glow. She looked like she’d been living in a crypt.
She had to get out of here. After Max’s invasion, her house no longer seemed cozy and intimate. The space felt suffocating, as if the walls were closing in. It had been too long since she’d gazed out at the ocean, been soothed by its vastness.
So what if the chop of the waves made her heave? She heaved at blank walls, too. And the roar of the surf pummeling the cliffs would be loud enough to drown out Max’s words.
Did he really see her as some scheming parasite, waiting for a chance to use him, to take from him? She’d figured out that his sister’s death had left him damaged. She got that a man of his wealth would be on guard against women trying to bag him, the ultimate in the multimillionaire trophy hunt. But to hear him hurl his accusations and repeat Mimi’s vile words without giving them a second thought stunned her. She had believed he understood her.
She showered and dressed in warm layers. Although yesterday’s freezing rain had stopped, the wind would be brutal on the Point. Before heading out to Montauk, however, she stopped at Hendrick’s.
He answered the door in his navy blue sweats and his worn L.L.Bean moccasins. He didn’t question the early hour, merely said, “Dakota, Arlo and I have missed you.”
From the furrows between his blond brows and the concern shining from his pale blue eyes, it was clear that the gossip had reached him. “Hi, Hendrick.” She blinked furiously. “So that bug that knocked you sideways? It turns out that what I have might be a little different in nature.”
He stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug, giving her time to pull herself together or lose it completely. When she sniffed and hugged him back, he understood and released her. “I just made coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Maybe some tea? That chamomile?”
“Coming right up.”
They sat at the kitchen table with Arlo lying by Dakota’s feet, his black tail sweeping the floor.
“So you’ve heard,” she said.
“Your aunt actually sought me out.”
She shook her head. “She’s been busy.”
“I do wonder at your aunt’s destructive tendencies. I’ve come to the conclusion that she must have hated competing with Piper, and it all came to a head when Piper got pregnant. It’s the only semi-logical explanation for why you’re her favorite target when she needs to spew her anger and resentment.”
“If that’s the case, she’s presently in seventh heaven. As I said, she’s been busy. She went to Gen Monaghan’s opening in New York last night and orchestrated it so that Max overheard her. She must have turned in a stellar performance.
Even with the snow and ice, he drove out to my place.”
“Ah. And how did that go?”
“Not well. I wasn’t ready—I haven’t seen my doctor yet, so it’s possible I’m not actually pregnant, though the home tests beg to differ.” She drew a breath. There, she’d said the P-word aloud. “He was pretty angry. He thinks I intend to use the baby to leverage money out of him. I don’t know whether that’s what he truly believes or whether he was just infected by Mimi.”
“Having just experienced a dose of Mimi myself, I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Even so, it hurt, Hendrick. A lot.”
He laid his hand over hers and squeezed it gently. “I have no doubt it did. But people often say things in the heat of the moment they don’t mean.”
“I told him I didn’t want to see him again.”
“I assume you’re reconsidering.”
She sighed. “How could I not? While I’d like nothing better than to stick to my guns, you know as well as I that I could never deprive my child of a father. It’s like a sick cosmic joke. And honestly, Hendrick, I’m having a hard time dealing with it.” She took a sip of the tea, letting the warmth seep through her.
“I can’t help thinking about my mother,” she continued, her finger tracing the mug’s rim as she spoke. “All my life I’ve tried not to be her and instead be responsible, careful, and conscientious. A grown-up. I felt so superior to her because I had a plan—and not just my five- and ten-year business strategy. I had a life plan. In the next couple of years I’d find a good, solid man, steady and true, to build a life and family with. And what happened? I let myself have a fling with a Wall Street hotshot, a player, a guy I knew from the first is anti-commitment, and I get knocked up because something went wrong with the damned condom.
“I’m basically in the same position as my reckless, irresponsible mom. Actually, mine is worse. At least Piper had a trust fund gigantic enough to put any accusations of wanting to pad her bank account to rest.” Wearily she hung her head. “I never saw this coming, Hendrick.”
