“Definitely,” I say, as he starts to lead me away from the room toward the stairs. “And a baby monitor. Audio. Video. And a backup system.”
“You read my mind.”
We continue describing her room as we walk. What I want stenciled on the walls. Where to install speakers so we can play her soothing music. The colors for her bedding.
“Only about seven more months if Dr. Cray is right,” I say.
“We’ll know Monday.”
I nod. I don’t have to ask if he’s going with me to the appointment. There’s no way he’d miss it. And just that simple reality has me smiling again.
“What?” he asks.
“Just thinking how much I love you.”
“Careful, or I might not let you out of the house. And I think you told me you had a full schedule today.”
“I do,” I admit. “Today and tomorrow. I’m trying to get ahead of the game so that we can enjoy Friday.”
“In that case, I suggest a sensual evening of working together in the library,” he says. “Two glasses of sparkling fruit juice. A coffee table littered with spreadsheets and computer code.”
I laugh. “Sounds like the evening will have all the makings of an epic romance.”
“So long as you’re with me, then yes,” he says, then pulls me close and kisses me hard. “You’re seeing Frank this morning?” he asks when he breaks the kiss, referring to my prodigal father. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Desperately,” I admit. “But I think this is one of those things I should do alone.”
Frank Dunlop—who used to go by the name Leonard Frank Fairchild—may be my father, but I haven’t known him for very long. He left when Ashley was a little girl and I was just a baby, and he recently made a somewhat tumultuous re-entry into my life.
Though it took Damien longer to trust him—and that trust was earned following some intense background checks—my wariness vanished pretty quickly. Possibly faster than was smart, but I’d desperately wanted to believe that Frank had returned only because he wanted to get to know me. And after he explained that he’d left because of my mother, we’d forged a truce that has since grown into a deep friendship. Maybe even love. I’m not sure yet.
All I know now is that he’s in our life, and both Damien and I genuinely believe that he’s a good man who made a mistake by leaving his children behind when he left his wife.
I take Damien’s hand and put it on my abdomen. “I’m still getting used to him being my dad, you know? But maybe telling him he’s going to be a grandfather will make it all seem real.”
“Do you want it to?”
His voice is hesitant, and I understand why. Even with all the horrific things my mother has done, I still have moments when I think that maybe, just maybe, we’re going to turn a corner and everything will fall into place. She’ll feel like a mom, and not like the wicked witch.
I think it—I hope it—and time and again I’m disappointed.
And Damien, I know, is afraid I can’t handle more disappointment on the other side of the parental wall.
Honestly, I’m a little scared, too. But I also know that I like Frank, and I respect him. And unlike my mother, he wouldn’t intentionally hurt me.
He deserves to know he’s going to have a grandchild. More, I think it will matter to him. And I want to know what it’s like to share special news with a parent and have them be really, truly happy for me.
I’ve never had that experience before. And I really hope to have it today.
I left the house before Damien, who’s spending the morning working at home. Now I’m sitting in Coop, my convertible Mini Cooper, at a congested intersection on the Pacific Coast Highway when my phone buzzes.
I grab my phone with trepidation, afraid it’s going to be a new vile text, then immediately sag with relief, my mood shooting straight back up toward awesome when I see that it’s from Damien.
Miss you already. See you tonight. Until then, imagine me, touching you.
I smile the rest of the way to Santa Monica, and I’m still smiling when I step inside the studio that my father shares with Wyatt Royce. My father’s a photographer, and when I first met him, he was looking for a studio to sublease. I hooked him up with Wyatt, a photographer and friend who’d been looking for someone to share his massive studio space.
“I’m so glad to see you’re looking good,” Wyatt says, entering from his private office with a telephoto lens in his hand. With his tousled golden hair, chiseled jaw, and confident air, he looks like he should be the model rather than the photographer. “I saw that you fainted in Dallas,” he adds.
“Just the heat,” I say, fighting a smile. “And it’s always unpleasant to have the tabloids getting in and reporting stuff without your permission.”
He cocks his head, obviously considering my words. “Then you’re really—”
“Here to see my father,” I finish. “I’ve got some important stuff to tell him.”
He grins, and I look away, because I don’t want him to see the smug acknowledgement on my face. As I do, I notice that with the exception of the few prints that have been on the walls for as long as I’ve known Wyatt, every work surface is covered.
A few months ago, he’d told Jamie and me that he was working on a project that he thought would make a big splash, and now I assume these covered walls are part of it. The weird thing is that if he wanted to, Wyatt Royce could make a big splash simply by breathing. He’s the grandson of Anika Segel, one of the last living mega-stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood. And his great-grandfather founded one of the studios.
In other words, he comes from Hollywood royalty. All he has to do is snap his fingers to have publicists drooling over him, and yet he’s never once played the family card. He doesn’t deny them—and as far as I know he has a great relationship with all of them—he just never mentions them.
Instead, he’s consistently flown under the radar. He started at the very bottom of the heap as a photographer, then climbed through the ranks by skill and talent alone. I admire him for that, but it’s also a bit baffling. Especially in a town like LA.
He’ll even be at the premiere on Friday—but that’s because the Stark Children’s Foundation has hired him to be the official event photographer. Which means he’ll be wearing a tux to blend in—not because he’s going to be the one in the paparazzi’s sights.
“You read my mind.”
We continue describing her room as we walk. What I want stenciled on the walls. Where to install speakers so we can play her soothing music. The colors for her bedding.
“Only about seven more months if Dr. Cray is right,” I say.
“We’ll know Monday.”
I nod. I don’t have to ask if he’s going with me to the appointment. There’s no way he’d miss it. And just that simple reality has me smiling again.
“What?” he asks.
“Just thinking how much I love you.”
“Careful, or I might not let you out of the house. And I think you told me you had a full schedule today.”
“I do,” I admit. “Today and tomorrow. I’m trying to get ahead of the game so that we can enjoy Friday.”
“In that case, I suggest a sensual evening of working together in the library,” he says. “Two glasses of sparkling fruit juice. A coffee table littered with spreadsheets and computer code.”
I laugh. “Sounds like the evening will have all the makings of an epic romance.”
“So long as you’re with me, then yes,” he says, then pulls me close and kisses me hard. “You’re seeing Frank this morning?” he asks when he breaks the kiss, referring to my prodigal father. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Desperately,” I admit. “But I think this is one of those things I should do alone.”
Frank Dunlop—who used to go by the name Leonard Frank Fairchild—may be my father, but I haven’t known him for very long. He left when Ashley was a little girl and I was just a baby, and he recently made a somewhat tumultuous re-entry into my life.
Though it took Damien longer to trust him—and that trust was earned following some intense background checks—my wariness vanished pretty quickly. Possibly faster than was smart, but I’d desperately wanted to believe that Frank had returned only because he wanted to get to know me. And after he explained that he’d left because of my mother, we’d forged a truce that has since grown into a deep friendship. Maybe even love. I’m not sure yet.
All I know now is that he’s in our life, and both Damien and I genuinely believe that he’s a good man who made a mistake by leaving his children behind when he left his wife.
I take Damien’s hand and put it on my abdomen. “I’m still getting used to him being my dad, you know? But maybe telling him he’s going to be a grandfather will make it all seem real.”
“Do you want it to?”
His voice is hesitant, and I understand why. Even with all the horrific things my mother has done, I still have moments when I think that maybe, just maybe, we’re going to turn a corner and everything will fall into place. She’ll feel like a mom, and not like the wicked witch.
I think it—I hope it—and time and again I’m disappointed.
And Damien, I know, is afraid I can’t handle more disappointment on the other side of the parental wall.
Honestly, I’m a little scared, too. But I also know that I like Frank, and I respect him. And unlike my mother, he wouldn’t intentionally hurt me.
He deserves to know he’s going to have a grandchild. More, I think it will matter to him. And I want to know what it’s like to share special news with a parent and have them be really, truly happy for me.
I’ve never had that experience before. And I really hope to have it today.
I left the house before Damien, who’s spending the morning working at home. Now I’m sitting in Coop, my convertible Mini Cooper, at a congested intersection on the Pacific Coast Highway when my phone buzzes.
I grab my phone with trepidation, afraid it’s going to be a new vile text, then immediately sag with relief, my mood shooting straight back up toward awesome when I see that it’s from Damien.
Miss you already. See you tonight. Until then, imagine me, touching you.
I smile the rest of the way to Santa Monica, and I’m still smiling when I step inside the studio that my father shares with Wyatt Royce. My father’s a photographer, and when I first met him, he was looking for a studio to sublease. I hooked him up with Wyatt, a photographer and friend who’d been looking for someone to share his massive studio space.
“I’m so glad to see you’re looking good,” Wyatt says, entering from his private office with a telephoto lens in his hand. With his tousled golden hair, chiseled jaw, and confident air, he looks like he should be the model rather than the photographer. “I saw that you fainted in Dallas,” he adds.
“Just the heat,” I say, fighting a smile. “And it’s always unpleasant to have the tabloids getting in and reporting stuff without your permission.”
He cocks his head, obviously considering my words. “Then you’re really—”
“Here to see my father,” I finish. “I’ve got some important stuff to tell him.”
He grins, and I look away, because I don’t want him to see the smug acknowledgement on my face. As I do, I notice that with the exception of the few prints that have been on the walls for as long as I’ve known Wyatt, every work surface is covered.
A few months ago, he’d told Jamie and me that he was working on a project that he thought would make a big splash, and now I assume these covered walls are part of it. The weird thing is that if he wanted to, Wyatt Royce could make a big splash simply by breathing. He’s the grandson of Anika Segel, one of the last living mega-stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood. And his great-grandfather founded one of the studios.
In other words, he comes from Hollywood royalty. All he has to do is snap his fingers to have publicists drooling over him, and yet he’s never once played the family card. He doesn’t deny them—and as far as I know he has a great relationship with all of them—he just never mentions them.
Instead, he’s consistently flown under the radar. He started at the very bottom of the heap as a photographer, then climbed through the ranks by skill and talent alone. I admire him for that, but it’s also a bit baffling. Especially in a town like LA.
He’ll even be at the premiere on Friday—but that’s because the Stark Children’s Foundation has hired him to be the official event photographer. Which means he’ll be wearing a tux to blend in—not because he’s going to be the one in the paparazzi’s sights.
