Now, though, things have changed. Tony passed away, and Megan’s mounting bipolar issues mean that she is no longer a good choice for guardian. Neither is Betty, in light of her failing health.
More than that, though, Jackson simply wants his daughter back. And until this damn murder trial reached out and slapped us in the face, that was what he was in the process of handling.
“So you want to designate a contingent guardian, and then set up a trust to use for Ronnie’s daily care?”
“Exactly.”
They talk for a few more minutes, with Jackson explaining that the trust will be funded with his share of the Winn Building, a retail and residential high rise in Manhattan, and also the first project he both designed and developed—and kept a piece of the income stream. “I’ve got a forty percent interest and Isaac Winn has sixty. He’s been looking to acquire a bigger percentage since day one. If we need the cash for Ronnie, he’ll buy me out.”
“I’ll seed the trust with ten percent,” Amy says. “You can add more if you need to.”
“Fair enough.”
“And the guardian?” she asks, after reminding Jackson that until his parental rights are established by a court order, he is not the one who can force this issue. “But I’m sure that Betty and the court will take your opinion into account.”
“I want Sylvia,” he says, as I press my hand over my mouth to hide my gasp. “And I want you to go ahead and set the paternity hearing.”
“The hearing? Jackson, are you sure? What if—”
“I want her to have a father. I’m tired of waiting. I want my daughter, Amy. And if the worst happens, then I want to know that the woman I love is taking care of her.”
“And Sylvia will accept the role?” she asks as my heart thuds painfully in my chest and I hug myself, not sure what I’m feeling, only certain that I am numb. “The court will only offer guardianship. They won’t force her to take it. If she says no, Ronnie could be looking at foster care.”
“We’ve talked a little. And we’ll talk more. But I think she will. I need this done, Amy. I’m living in limbo right now, and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. I need this to be handled. I need my daughter. And I need you to make it happen sooner rather than later.”
“All right, Jackson,” she says, her voice gentle. “I should be able to get a court date in a couple of days.”
“Thank you,” he says, and there is such relief in his voice that my eyes sting with unshed tears.
I don’t actually notice when he ends the call. I’m lost in a world of maybes. A world where Jackson is gone, and where I am raising his daughter.
Oh, god.
A tremor of fear runs through me, because I am suddenly struck with just how real that possibility is. And I can’t escape the overbearing reality that no matter how much I love Jackson—how much I adore his little girl—I have no idea how to raise a child. My mother has treated me as a zero ever since my brother became ill. And my father—oh, god, I can’t even think about my father.
I shudder, then stumble back to bedroom, my stomach in knots. I lurch into the bathroom and kneel in front of the toilet, certain that I’m going to throw up. I don’t. But I clutch the porcelain until I feel steady enough to stand.
I meant what I said at the airport—I do want to be there for Jackson, and I am humbled that he would trust me with his daughter.
But this?
Oh, god, this?
I stand, then force myself to breathe deep and tell myself that it isn’t going to happen. Jackson didn’t kill Reed. He’s not going to be arrested. He’s not going to prison.
Ronnie will be in our life, yes, and that’s great. I can do this with Jackson at my side. I can handle being a mom so long as he’s holding my hand.
I tell myself that again and again, then realize that even as I have been lecturing myself, I have been inching my T-shirt up so that I can once again see my tattoos in the mirror. Only this time, I’m not thinking about the battles that each one represents. Instead, I’m thinking about a new battle. I’m thinking that, if I’m going to manage this, I need the ink that marks the child.
I close my eyes, hating that I am so weak when Jackson needs me to be strong.
When I open them again, I see Jackson’s reflection in the mirror; he is standing right behind me.
“I thought you were asleep,” he says.
“I just woke up.” My voice sounds guilty to my ears, and I have to fight the urge to cringe.
