by Holly Rayner
“I had to do much covering up while the Sheikh was living in America. If they’d discovered that he was dating this supermodel or that movie star, his path to the crown might have been compromised. Not only that, but these people might have gone so far as to murder him in his bed.” At this, Osman brought his hand high, into a fist, and growled at her. “I’ve been assigned to protect Hakan since he was a young boy, and I will give my life to uphold that. Do you understand?”
Rosie took several steps back, feeling the anger of the man before her. Tears spit from her eyes as she realized the truth: this was a world she could never understand. She was never going to mean anything to Hakan, not really. She was just one in a line of several covered-up scandals, just as she’d feared. And now, like the others, she was being dealt with. She shuddered, hoping her tears weren’t obvious.
As moments passed, she felt caught in her memories of Hakan, like a bug in a spider’s web. He’d been so compassionate, so kind, asking her questions about her as if he truly cared. He’d spoken about taking the crown as if it were a duty he was proud of, one he needed to fulfill to satisfy his family. And she’d been impressed by his commitment to that lineage.
And yet: his lineage lived in her stomach, now, and he wanted her to disappear.
Rosie felt that the worst thing was, of course, that Hakan hadn’t even deigned to tell her the truth himself. Rather, he’d sent this crooked old man, who looked at her as if she were a piece of meat to beat down cold.
Osman stuck his hand out once more. “So, it’s decided,” he said gruffly. “You’ll accept one million dollars per year, after the birth of your child, and you will stay away from Hakan. You will not mention to anyone that he is your baby’s father. And you will not try to contact either of us in the years to come. This is the end of our time together. Do you understand?”
Rosie kept her hands over her stomach, hating herself for speaking the quivering word: “Okay.” She refused to shake the man’s hand.
Osman brought his hands up, toward his face, splaying out his fingers. “That’s fine, Miss Lund, if you want to play it that way. You don’t have to be respectful about this.”
“Well, he isn’t. And neither are you.”
“I’m just doing my job, Rosie. Something I was certain you would understand. We can all be adults here.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be in touch regarding the payment. Just remember: you’ll never have to worry about money again. You can get a better place, you can live the life of luxury, just like the one that Hakan showed you. Aren’t you pleased you stepped in front of that Lamborghini all those weeks ago? It’s almost like fate swooped up and planted you into a new life, isn’t it?” He was grinning at her toothily, showing her three gold teeth on the left side of his mouth. “Maybe it’s just fate.”
Rosie took several steps back, hating that fate felt like a brick wall on which she was banging her head, over and over. She spun away from him and started marching back toward the bus stop, even as the wind rushed up again, spewing raindrops. She’d covered some ground before she remembered something, spinning back around.
“Apparently,” she began, catching Osman’s attention once more, “I’m no different from that wrecked sports car.” She shook her head, her hair flapping in the wind. “Just like that insanely beautiful, dead vehicle, I’m something to be left behind; to be dealt with using cold money. I suppose that’s just the Sheikh’s way, isn’t it?”
She spun back around and ran full-force to the bus stop, then, but not before she caught a sly grin spreading across Osman’s face. It was clear that deep in his crooked soul, he was enjoying her misery.
Rosie boarded the bus when it arrived, raindrops dribbling down her nose and mixing with her tears. She took a seat near the back, hoping nobody would sit with her as the bus ran down south and back into civilization. Outside, gray and black cars swept by in a sad procession, on a continuous search for what came next. She checked her phone, realizing that Amy had called her five times since she’d arrived at the Locks. She couldn’t call her back. Not yet.
The baby that stirred in her belly, gaining new cells all the time, was half Hakan’s. And yet, that baby wasn’t wanted by him, the man who had filled her world with sunshine for only a moment before disappearing into the Seattle clouds. She wondered where the Lamborghini was right at that moment. It was probably rotting in a garbage dump somewhere nearby, each of its pieces asking the universe what had gone wrong. In her life, she had learned to fix things with people, to make compromises, and not to just thrust things and friends out of her life. It was why she was a loyal friend. It was why her friends stuck by her, as well, no matter what. Relationships had meaning.
The bus drove to Capitol Hill, and Rosie sighed as she stepped onto the sidewalk, looking at her shoes. A million dollars per year, every year after her baby was born. This was a hefty number. She looked up and down the streets as she walked, realizing she would be able to rent any apartment in this, her favorite neighborhood. Heck, she could even move somewhere new and start over. Perhaps she could change her name. This was exactly what Hakan wanted, apparently: for her not to exist.
But money had never been her motivator. When she’d chosen to become a nurse, she’d been aware that it paid rather well, but that you had to earn it, and that it didn’t always feel worth it. Her mother had suggested that she become an engineer, but she’d scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that her mother had only her monetary interests in mind.
Rosie arrived at her apartment, then: the one she’d rented when she started her job, as soon as she’d scraped enough money together. It was the first place where she’d lived by herself. It was her very heart, her very own.
She moved from the dining room to the living room, wondering whether or not a child could reside there, growing from baby to man. She imagined herself rocking a baby on the couch; she pictured herself feeding a teething baby in the dining room, the baby splattering peas all over the wall. She imagined that they’d come to appreciate one other as the only other important person in their lives.
And when the issue of a father came up, Rosie knew she wouldn’t be able to tell her child the truth. Not if she accepted that money.
She swung her legs onto the couch, blinking at the empty television screen, and crafting her life scheme. She would, of course, “take” the money from Hakan. But she wouldn’t put it toward anything. It would be a side account, a very large reminder of all that came before. And beyond that, she would carve a life out for herself and for her child. Here.
She picked up her phone, then, and dialed a number she used all too rarely. The phone rang a few times before she heard the familiar, syrupy-sweet voice on the other end, all the way in rural Washington.
“Momma?” she said. She felt herself falling to tears. “Momma. I have something to tell you. And I think, actually, that it’s wonderful news. Absolutely wonderful news.”
TEN
Two Years Later
It was October again. October in Seattle, and Rosie’s baby boy, Zak, was sixteen months old. Rosie eyed a picture of him during her shift at work, taking stock of the way his eyes lit up, like his father’s, when he laughed. His giggle even came from the same place: deep in that little baby gut. She couldn’t help but love every inch of him with a joy and fear she knew existed in all mothers. But at the same time, the reminders of his father within him didn’t allow her to forget that she could have loved Hakan. If only she had had the chance.
Amy tapped into the break room with a cup of coffee, eyeing Rosie. She was pregnant again, and her stomach cast a shadow.
“I’m getting huge,” Amy sighed, leaning back against a desk. “I wish I didn’t carry like this.”
“Well you wouldn’t want to carry like I did,” Rosie laughed.
It was true that she hadn’t carried the baby well, that she’d gained quite a bit of heft in her stomach and breasts and back. She’d eventually lost all the weight, but it had taken her months of hard dieting a
nd running outside, with baby Zak in his stroller in front of her. She liked to think the cold was good for him, like it was for those babies in Denmark. Or was it Sweden? There were so many schools of thought when it came to childrearing. Often, Rosie was confused.
Rosie eyed her friend, pointing to the coffee.
“It’s just decaf. I promise.”
“You know I don’t care.”
“You drank a bit of coffee while you were pregnant, didn’t you?” Amy asked.
“A bit more than I should have, I suppose.”
“Well, you were doing it all by yourself.”
“You and Mom helped loads. But you’re right. I was really stressed, a lot of the time. And without wine, I turned to coffee.” Rosie winked at her friend as she finished organizing the papers and clipboards before her.
“That’s right. How is your mom liking her move to Seattle, by the way? Seems like I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Well,” Rosie began, biting her lip. “She doesn’t love the city. She was in the country for too long, I think. But she’s moved in not far from me, and so she watches baby Zak while I’m at work. It’s good for her, I think; ever since dad died, I think she’s been feeling a sort of lack of purpose.”
“Her watching Zak must help you save a bunch of money,” Amy said, and her voice grew quiet. “Even though you don’t technically need it. Do you?”
Rosie frowned. She turned to her friend and cocked her head. Why was she bringing this up now? She’d told Amy the full story about Osman and the insane amount of money about a month after Zak had been born, when he was crying nonstop in her arms and she had felt so weak, so tired, like she couldn’t go on. “Do you think I should just take it?” she had whispered, while, in her arms, the smallest version of Zak had cried on. “I don’t want it. I want to do this all myself. I don’t want any of that dirty money.”
And Amy had hugged them both close, even as Zak’s cries erupted between them. She’d kissed her friend on the cheek, on the forehead, and told her: “You don’t need it. You’re the strongest woman in the world. And if taking that money would make you feel less of yourself, then you absolutely shouldn’t take it. This is the life you’re building for Zak. And Hakan has no part in it. Do you understand?”
Rosie had appreciated this gesture of strength and assurance more than anything.
“You know I don’t want that money,” Rosie scoffed, there in the break room. “I want to pretend like none of that ever happened.” She still had dreams about Osman: his crooked body waiting for her near the locks. She hated his very image.
Amy began fanning herself, steaming slightly after the long walk down the hallway. “Do you think you’ll want to get back out there soon?” she asked, changing the subject. “I actually know a few eligible bachelors.”
“Let me guess; through Josh’s engineering firm?” Rosie asked, giving her a knowing smile.
“They aren’t all bad, Rosie,” Amy affirmed. “And I don’t want to see you alone, without romance, for the rest of your life. Seriously, the thought of it depresses me,” she pouted.
“Do you and Josh still have this ‘romance,’ as you call it?”
Amy bit her lip. She looked down at her stomach, rubbing it absently. “Something has come between that, I suppose,” she gestured. “You remember what it was like. You don’t want to be touched, when you’re pregnant. You kind of just want to eat ice cream in the corner.”
Rosie laughed, remembering the sheer discomfort. “I guess you’re right. Speaking of, are we still taking the kids out tomorrow? The zoo and then dinner?”
“If you can bear taking a sixteen month old out to dinner,” Amy said. “Marco should be old enough now, but he’s still not great in public. But I don’t mind. Let’s take them out. It’ll be an adventure—just a little different from our age-old adventures in our early twenties.”
“Just a bit more baby vomit,” Rosie said.
“But just as much crying.”
“Not as much drunk crying,” Rosie corrected, dragging her purse over her shoulder. She gave Amy a quick hug and dashed from the door, eager to return home to her son. Her heart tugged her back to Zak’s nursery, all the time, no matter where she was.
***
The bus chugged along, and Rosie arrived at her doorstep around a half hour later. She could hear her mother indoors, singing to Zak. Their relationship was quite special, especially lately, since Rosie had been working a great deal more due to staff cuts at the hospital. Sometimes, her heart grew jealous at her mother’s closeness with her grandson. Didn’t Zak only need her?
Her mother, Clarice, arrived at the door as Rosie opened it, holding baby Zak in her arms.
“Hello, there!” Rosie said, her face lighting up like the sun. She opened her arms to her baby and her mother made the hand-off.
Already, Zak’s little fingers were grabbing for her; he was saying her name, over and over. “Momma. Momma. Yes.”
Zak’s gibberish bred only a few articulate words. But it was true, Rosie remembered, that when he’d first been able to say Momma—deep in the kitchen after a hard day at work—she’d wept. It had felt like an affirmation that she’d done something right in raising him this way, in their tiny apartment in Capitol Hill.
She and her mother sat on the couch as Zak crawled over the floor, picking at his toys and mumbling to himself.
“How was your day?” Clarice asked her.
“Fine, fine,” Rosie said, leaning back and kneading at her forehead. “Last-minute C-section, always a bit panicky on their end. Lots of screaming and crying.”
“Guess you came home to more of that, didn’t you?” Clarice smiled.
Rosie and her mother hadn’t been particularly close in the past, not since Rosie had graduated and moved to the big city. Clarice had always been very conservative, and when it became clear that those feelings hadn’t translated to her daughter, they had grown apart considerably.
Rosie worried, of course, that half of the reason Clarice watched over Zak during her shifts was so that she could impose her own values into her grandson. But she tried not to think about it, hoping instead to restructure her relationship with her mother. So far, it was going okay.
“I think tomorrow we’ll go to the zoo,” Rosie said. “With Amy. I think he’ll absolutely freak. He’s been watching that animal television show over and over since we bought it for his birthday.”
“Toddlers love repetition,” Clarice said after a brief pause.
Rosie could sense that her mother wanted to come to the zoo, as well—that she wanted to be included. But something gave her pause.
In some ways, even now, Rosie couldn’t shake how her mother had initially reacted to the news of her pregnancy. When she’d called her, about two years before, immediately after she’d had her life-changing conversation with Osman, her mother hadn’t exactly been overjoyed. She’d needed a few weeks to think about it, she’d said, and in the interim, Rosie was left to fend for herself. She’d started her organic diet. She’d started sleeping more. She’d started reading baby books. And she hadn’t been able to look to her mother for comfort.
Of course, Clarice had arrived at Rosie’s door after she’d taken the time to think and opened her arms to her daughter. She’d said a few Bible verses, and they’d eaten together, a simple grilled cheese sandwich meal, while watching the winter rain outside. It hadn’t cured everything; it had been a kind of band-aid. And years of work would bring them closer, would finally close the scab once and for all.
Clarice wrung her hands in her lap. “We read a few books today,” she murmured, knowing to keep the conversation directed at Zak. “He just loves to read.”
“He’s smart. Like his father,” Rosie affirmed, rushing to her son and causing him to fly through the air before landing him squarely on her waist. She turned to her mother and gave her a purposeful smile. “Thanks for today. Seriously.”
Clarice blinked her eyes chaotically, gazing at her daug
hter. “You know, you and Zak are beautiful together.”
And they were. Rosie’s red hair hung in loose curls around her shoulders. Her son tugged at it, his dark eyes gleaming in the lamplight. His skin was deeper than Rosie’s pale complexion, which was to be expected. Clarice hadn’t asked questions about the father’s nationality or name, and Rosie had been grateful.
Clarice kissed Zak on the nose and tapped from the apartment, ready to walk the three blocks back to her place. The apartment couldn’t have been more different from the farmhouse Rosie had grown up in. Her mother looked so large in it, without that land to care for; without the many rooms and the mounds of laundry. Gosh, that had all been so long ago, Rosie thought.
She sat on the floor with her son, her legs extended out to both sides, allowing Zak to play in between. He knelt down every few seconds and picked up a block, showing her A, then Q, then D. Rosie said the name of each letter as he held it up to her, and then said a word that went with each letter. “Ah, yes. Apple. Q, like quilt. Can you say that, Zak? Quilt?” Her voice was syrupy, dripping with affection.
