“Once, a long time ago. I remember the grand horse farms and the rolling fields, they made a great impression on me. Do you still have family there?”
“Not anymore, unfortunately.”
As if Eric could tell this was a painful memory for her, he changed the topic of conversation. “In case you’re wondering, I chose this place not just because of the atmosphere, but because it’s a few minutes from where I live. The easy commute sold it.”
Lily smiled at this, and knew that she didn’t have to worry anymore about feeling uncomfortable on the shoot. She and Eric continued to talk, which was customary for a photographer to get to know his subject, but in this case she got the sense that he was truly interested in her as a person and wanted to get to know her. Easily, she told him about her dreams of moving to New York, her early years working in fashion, and meeting Peyton.
After a while, he left so that she could get dressed for the cover shoot. For that, she lay on a bed of lush, hot pink and red tea roses, wearing an off-the-shoulder pale pink chiffon dress, her flaxen hair long and tousled. In another shot, she stood against a white fence-post in a blue cashmere sweater, jeans, and a pair of boots, her hair gathered in a loose ponytail. For a third, she sat on the front steps of the farmhouse in a slinky green gown, her feet bare but her hair swept up. Aside from a few directions, Eric stayed silent and simply shot, encouraging Lily to act as natural as possible and not to be self-conscious.
Before they finished, he motioned for Sable, who’d been obediently sitting on the sidelines, to join Lily.
“Are you sure?” Lily asked, putting her arms around her dog and burying her face in her soft fur.
Eric grinned. “She’s a natural, just like you. Also, I thought you might like a little souvenir from the shoot.”
After she had changed back into her regular clothes, Lily went through some of the photos with Eric on his laptop. She was amazed by how he had managed to capture her every expression, the faintest hint of a smile on her face, or sorrow in her downcast eyes. It was as if his camera was a portal to her soul, and she was incapable of hiding her innermost feelings from him.
At one point, Eric placed a finger on the screen. “There’s a certain sadness here. What were you thinking about?”
“I’m not sure,” Lily admitted, although she knew very well what had been on her mind. She had been thinking about how pleasant the farmhouse was, and if she ever had a country home someday with Peyton and their children, she would want something just like this. If she and Peyton ever had children.
Abruptly, she asked Eric, “Do you have kids?”
Surprised, he answered, “I have two.”
“What are they like?”
“Well, Emily is twelve and obsessed with horses. You know how that is. We’re hoping she’ll grow out of it. Chloe is eight and the most stubborn girl you’ll ever meet, but her mother and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“They sound lovely.” Taking a deep breath, Lily confided, “My husband and I would like very much to have children. That is, I would like it very much.”
“And your husband?”
“He doesn’t think it’s as important as I do. He isn’t in any rush.” Lily shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Because,” Eric said softly, “you have to tell someone.”
“Yes. And why not a stranger?”
He gave her a half smile. “You’re right, sometimes it’s easier to talk to a person you’ve just met than the person who needs to hear it.”
“He’ll have to hear it at some point.” When I get the courage, Lily added to herself.
Continuing to scroll through the photos, Eric stopped on the last sequence of her with Sable. The dog’s mouth was open, tongue hanging out. She was clearly laughing, and when Lily looked closely, there was something like joy in her own eyes, too.
“Remember this moment,” Eric said softly.
“I will,” Lily replied. “Thank you.”
After she got into the town car with Sable, exhausted from the shoot but strangely exhilarated, she looked through the window at her photographer. He lifted his hand in farewell, and she did, too. Maybe she would never see Eric Langvin again, but he had given her a precious gift that day, restoring a side of herself that she had almost forgotten, and she would long remember him for it.
* * *
The next few months were a whirlwind of getting the World of Lily Rose ready for opening day. Lily had decided the boutique would feature one-of-kind gifts from around the world to please the most discerning customers. On a buying trip she visited South Africa and brought back tribal necklaces and colorful abstract dinnerware. She traveled to the far reaches of Iceland and found the softest, warmest, and most water-resistant fishermen’s sweaters. The Parisian markets and their finely crafted furniture enthralled her, as did the Istanbul bazaars with their hand-woven goods from local weavers.
In contrast to the international flavor of the items being sold, the look of the boutique itself was a reflection of Lily’s upbringing on a Kentucky Thoroughbred horse farm. The space was adorned with luscious red roses in large sterling-silver chalices. The floors were old, weathered barn wood that had been refinished to a gleaming rich brown, with crystal chandeliers sparkling down on white marble counters. Lily had personally overseen every inch of the boutique herself. She didn’t trust anyone else to carry out her vision, and she knew that a lot was riding on its success.
Gold engraved invitations on cream-colored cardstock were sent out well in advance of the opening day. Lily had included one to Eric Langvin, but she didn’t expect him to come, and neither did she receive a reply. She’d gotten the photo he’d taken of her and Sable printed and framed, and it sat on her father’s old desk along with the other pictures of her family. Whenever she looked at it, sometimes she thought about the photographer behind it, but ultimately concluded he was one of those people that you met at a certain, pivotal point in your life, and then your paths would never cross again.
Lily Rose was sparkling that night as all of New York fashion and society turned out for her big opening. She was divinely dressed in a lavender Oscar de la Renta off-the-shoulder dress with cropped three-quarter-length sleeves and a flared, feminine hemline. Her hair was pulled loosely back in a chic chignon, and her graceful neck was adorned with a single strand of pearls. Lily’s only other jewelry were the tiny diamond stud earrings that Peyton had given her on their first wedding anniversary, and of course her engagement and wedding rings.
The next day, the society pages would run pictures of her, declaring her the new face of New York fashion with her “simplistic beauty” and anointing her as “R. R. Peyton’s crown jewel.” Some of these photos would include Peyton, handsome despite his glower, but more often they would show Lily with Richard Reynolds, the CEO and chairman of R. R. Peyton’s towering over his petite daughter-in-law as she cut the red ribbon marking the opening of the boutique, or later posed with well-known people in the fashion industry. None of them featured Lisa Reynolds, who had completely overdressed for the occasion with too many diamonds. Listening to her friends gush over how “genius” Lily’s business sense was, she wondered if any of them knew that lilies were poisonous?
During a lull in the evening, Richard Reynolds drew Lily aside. Indicating the boutique and its accents, he said, “This turned out to be quite charming. Is it similar to the place it’s based on?”
“Yes, Red Rose Farm is truly magical,” Lily replied. “Someday I’ll take you to see it, if you’d like.”
“I’d like that.” Richard then asked, “Is this all to your satisfaction, my dear?”
“It’s wonderful,” Lily said. “And I have you to thank for it. For believing in me.”
“I just want you to be happy. And Peyton, of course. Lisa and I know that it hasn’t been easy for you two in starting your own family.”
“But how did you—”
“Peyton tells his mother everything. T
hey’ve always been very close.”
Lily was simultaneously mortified and relieved that Richard knew about her and Peyton’s private struggles.
“Whatever you two decide to do,” he continued, “we’re on your side.
In a fit of spontaneous gratitude, Lily stood on tiptoe to give Richard a hug. He was in many ways like a second father to her, as Uncle Grant had been.
The opening was in every way a triumph, Lily thought as she and Peyton rode in the town car back to their apartment that night. Peyton was uncharacteristically silent, but, being tired herself, she didn’t feel like talking, either. Throughout the evening she’d been too busy dealing with the press and well-wishers to keep tabs on him, but she thought he might have disappeared a couple of times. The old doubts crept up on her, but she shook them away. Since the night she’d confronted him about the supermodel, he hadn’t done anything to raise her suspicions. Maybe he’d been even more attentive to her, and despite their busy schedules and her preoccupation with the boutique’s opening, they’d managed to sneak in a few baby-making sessions when the time was right.
Back in the apartment, suddenly tired, Lily changed out of her dress and wiped off her makeup. Looking into the mirror, she could feel her transformation back into little old Lily Rose, like Cinderella after the ball. Wrapping herself in a crisp linen bathrobe, she went into the bedroom to look for Peyton. He was standing at the window, looking out at a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline.
“Is everything all right, Pey?” she asked.
He didn’t turn around, but when he spoke, she knew the look he would have on his face, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. “Congratulations, Lily, on becoming the toast of New York fashion.”
She decided to play it straight. “I thought tonight went well.”
“Well?” Peyton snorted. “You were a smashing success! Everyone was talking about you! Everyone was singing your praises! Even my father.”
“Peyton, your father is proud of you too—”
She stopped when he lifted a finger. “Don’t tell me that. I know exactly where I stand with my father.”
“He didn’t just give me the boutique because it was good business,” Lily tried to explain. “He thought it might help me. Help us.”
“Help us how?”
“To take our mind off of not having a baby yet.” Taking a deep breath, Lily continued, “Peyton, we need to talk about this. What if something’s wrong with me that’s keeping me from getting pregnant? Or something’s wrong with you?”
“There’s nothing wrong. We just need to keep trying, until—”
“Until what? Until it’s too late?”
Peyton turned back to the glass and stared stonily out into the glittering lights of the city.
“Peyton,” Lily entreated, “please say something.”
“All right,” he finally said. “You should see a fertility specialist if you want to. Let’s start there.”
Although it wasn’t the total agreement she had been hoping for, Lily knew this was a big concession on Peyton’s part. They’d begin with her, and hopefully the problem was something they could get taken care of, medically.
That night, Lily lay awake next to Peyton. Although he’d fallen asleep quickly, she couldn’t relax. Adrenaline was still rushing through her veins from excitement over the boutique opening and the call she’d make to her doctor the next morning. Beside her, Peyton’s heart was thumping so loudly that Lily felt it was about to leap out of his chest. She had no idea what he was dreaming about. Turning over, she closed her eyes, hoping to see the baby she just knew was in their future.
Chapter 12
ANYONE PASSING BY LILY ROSE on Madison Avenue that summer morning would have thought her life was nearly perfect. Her flaxen hair was shiny and smooth, her complexion flawless and fair. Her white silk Valentino blouse and slim black skirt looked like they had been tailored to fit her slender, lithe figure, which was accentuated by black Louboutin heels. As she walked down the street, her fresh lipstick catching the light and her diamonds glittering in the sun, she looked like she had everything money could buy and more. But it was all fashion armor, hiding a fragile heart. Outwardly she was Lily Rose Reynolds, the gatekeeper of New York fashion and a member of the famed Reynolds clan, whose playgrounds were Manhattan and Palm Beach. Inside she was Lily Rose Long, the little girl from Appalachia who had lost her entire family, and now it seemed like she was going to lose another that turned out to only exist in her imagination.
Lily was meeting that morning with the psychiatrist she had been going to see for the past three years, ever since she and Peyton had sought medical help to have a baby. Every month while taking the fertility drugs, Lily had felt herself swinging between the extremes of joy and despair like a pendulum. Each of the procedures had been filled at first with hopes and dreams, dreams of finally being pregnant, of having a swelling belly and then holding a beautiful baby of her own in her arms. Finally she would see someone who looked like her, a tiny body with the same blood running through his or her veins. Although Lily had never loved anyone in her life more than her parents, she still wanted to see her genetics at work. Over the years, she had heard the innocent comments of people to each other: “Your face is so much like your mother’s” or “You have your father’s eyes.” No one who knew Lily’s past ever said that to her. Her face was one without an origin, without a birthright.
Then, with each procedure’s failure, came the inevitable low. The only thing that kept Lily going was her boutique, The World of Lily Rose, which had expanded to five locations. In addition to New York, stores had opened in Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, and Atlanta. Although each one had its own dedicated team, Lily spent a great deal of time on planes flying from place to the other, as well as going on international buying trips. All of this took away from her private life and her private struggle, which no one understood, not even Peyton. Her doctor had advised that she find a psychiatrist, and Lily had agreed, although with misgivings. The idea of therapy did not bring her much comfort, as her only previous experience had been with a grief counselor when her parents had died.
After a short wait, the receptionist called Lily Rose’s name. She stepped into an elegant office that was filled with orchids, leather-bound books, and a couch covered in thick, royal blue velvet. Everything about the decor was supposed to make a patient feel comfortable, and Lily could feel her anxiety subside when she entered.
“Hello, Lily.”
The sight of her doctor also made Lily feel better. Well into her fifties, Dr. Raven Atwood was one of the most prestigious psychiatrists in the country, as well as a frequent feature in the fashion pages for her impeccable taste and classic style. With her dark hair swept up in a sleek chignon against her pale white skin, she was dressed in a peacock blue, summer Oscar de la Renta suit that matched her eyes and Manolo sling backs. Over the years Lily had come to trust her completely, opening up to her not only about her troubles with trying to conceive, but her grief over the loss of her parents.
“How have you been this week?” Dr. Atwood asked.
Her eyes downcast, Lily started haltingly, “We went to see the fertility specialist and . . . and he said . . .”
“Go on,” Dr. Atwood urged.
It was a moment Lily would never forget. She and Peyton had been sitting side by side in Dr. MacGregory’s office on the Upper East Side, waiting to get the results from tests that had been done on Peyton, for once. Lily had already been through tests that determined her reproductive organs were fine and perfectly capable of having a baby. Although it had been suggested many times to Peyton that he undergo similar examination, he had refused, insisting that nothing was wrong with him. After months, Lily wore him down and he got his sperm tested.
“Well, Peyton,” Dr. MacGregory said, “it seems like you have a low sperm count.”
Peyton’s brows drew together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”
“Shall we say, the little fe
llows just don’t swim or move well. You know, like all the crowds on New Year’s Eve at Times Square.” Dr. MacGregory laughed at his own bad joke.
Peyton looked furious. Lily, too, was shocked. Although she had suspected for a long time that there might be something wrong on Peyton’s end that was preventing them from conceiving, she had never thought it might be this. And, she had to admit, she was somewhat relieved that the blame was not to be completely laid on her. But Peyton, she knew, would never admit to having a physical problem of any kind, particularly any manner of a sexual one.
She was surprised when Peyton reluctantly agreed to Dr. MacGregory’s suggestion that they take a look at sperm donors. But once they got home, he told her in no uncertain terms that he wanted only their own biological children. Using a sperm donor was out of the question, as well as adoption. Lily could understand that, even though sometimes she thought it was selfish of her to think that way. She had come to realize that even though many of her feelings about having children were complicated, she did want to see her own blood running through her child’s veins.
As she was telling Dr. Atwood this, she could feel tears welling in her eyes.
“I know this whole process has been difficult for you,” Dr. Atwood said softly. “It can be so hard on individuals, and on marriages, too. Perhaps you’ve done everything you can for now.”
Lily rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “You know how I’ve always wanted children. I’ve watched all my friends get pregnant, gone to all their baby showers, seen the bond between them and their newborns. I just can’t understand why this is happening to me. Some mothers don’t even want their children. It’s not fair. I’ve been having these dreams. . . .”
“Tell me.”
It was a recurring nightmare she’d had for the past few months. In her dream, she would wake up to blood gushing down her arm, pouring like her favorite red nail polish on to her white nightgown and white bed sheets. She wasn’t in her own bedroom but a sterile room that could be in a hospital, white and blank as a seashell. Lily guessed it might have been inspired by all the times she’d had to sit in the doctor’s office, getting her blood drawn.
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