2 Unhitched (2 page)

Chapter 2

G
ALLANT AND CALLA ARE ALREADY at the breakfast table when I get downstairs. I used to always be the first one there, but lately my insomnia has been causing me to get up late.

Taking a seat next to Calla, I help myself to some tea and warm blueberry muffins that have been lovingly prepared by our castle staff.

“Darling, I shall be home late again tonight, so please do not wait up for me,” says Gallant, pouring himself a cup of tea.

My poor darling Gallant has been working so hard lately. The Midas Museum of Art is about to open, the inaugural exhibit being a retrospective of his paintings. For the first time, he will be able to share his extraordinary gift with the entire kingdom, rich and poor alike. The museum’s opening is the most anticipated event of the year. In fact, there hasn’t been so much excitement in Lalaland since our wedding.

For the past few months, Gallant has been spending most of his time in his studio, readying his paintings for the exhibition. I’ve hardly seen him. His long hours have begun to take their toll. Dark circles have made their way under his vibrant blue eyes, and a fine layer of golden stubble lines his chiseled face. A pang of guilt shoots through me. I feel bad that I keep waking him with my nightmares.

“Don’t come home too late, my darling,” I say, running my fingertips through his tousled golden hair. The truth is, I hate to go to sleep without him. As much as I feel guilty about interrupting his sleep with my nightmares, I can’t bear the thought of not having him there beside me to comfort me.

Calla, already on to her second muffin, looks sheepishly at her father with her twinkly chocolate eyes. “What are you going to get Mommy for your anniversary?”

Dragonballs! Our second anniversary is coming up, right after Calla’s ninth birthday. With all this baby stuff on my mind, I almost forgot. Calla, of course, would never forget. Our fairy-tale wedding was the happiest day in her life. She got a new mother. I got a new daughter.

Gallant cocks his left brow. “What do you think I should give her?”

“A baby!” shouts out Calla with glee.

I love the two of them more than life itself, but I hate this game.

“Boy or girl?” asks Gallant.

“Girl!” shouts Calla.

“Boy!” shouts Gallant, stepping on her answer.

He so wants another child. I already know the next question.

“Okay, My Little Princess, who is the baby going to look like?”

“Mommy,” says Calla. “For sure, dark hair, green eyes. The prettiest skin ever.”

“No, me!” chortles Gallant.

Despite myself, I imagine a wee Gallant. A tuft of silky golden hair, eyes the color of aquamarines, and pudgy, rosy cheeks that will one day give way to an unblemished layer of sculpted bronze.

Okay. Confession. As much as I’ve dreaded having a baby with Gallant, I secretly fantasize having one with him. I often picture myself walking a gorgeous (no question about it!) infant son in a pram, all eyes on us. Sometimes, I even fantasize baby names—Lancelot, perhaps? —and secretly wander into baby stores looking for cute outfits for my imaginary child.

Gallant’s voice puts an end to my mental ramblings. “Darling, I shall take Calla to school before I go to my studio.”

Calla gobbles her muffin, gives me a hug, and skips away, leaving her treasured doll, Lady Jane, behind on the table. “Hurry, Papa. I don’t want to be late.”

Gallant puts down his tea, then sweeps me into his arms. I gaze into his piercing blue eyes, noticing that his long hours have left more than dark circles. The whites of his eyes have become a canvas of spidery red lines.
Please don’t let me wake him up tonight!
He so needs sleep.

Tilting up my chin, he plants a warm kiss on my lips and says, “I shall be in my studio all day and likely all night. Remember, don’t wait up for me, darling.”

After one more sip of his tea, he follows Calla out the back door that leads to our courtyard.

Clippity clop
;
clippity clop
. The sound of the steed, carrying my beloved Prince and our daughter, fades into the distance.

Please don’t come home too late, my darling. I already miss you and need you.

A mountain of crumpled up parchment lies by my feet in the small but charming main floor chamber I’ve claimed as my office. I stare blankly at the sheet that faces me on my desk. No matter how much I rack my brain, I can’t write another word beyond “Once upon a time.”

My first children’s book,
Dewitched,
became a huge bestseller. Now, my publisher, Midas Books, wants another one as soon as possible. Make that yesterday. Actually, more like six months ago, but I’ve managed to hold them off, I suppose because King Midas is my father-in-law. Long live nepotism. My editor, Mr. Perrault, has no clue that I’ve had a nearly two-year long case of writer’s block. The number of times I’ve written “Once upon a time” has cost me dozens of quills, and I bet the amount of parchment I’ve gone through could wrap around Lalaland. Shrink, my therapist, thinks my nightmares are contributing to my writer’s block. She says they’re making me tired and distracted. I’ve got to get over my fear of having a baby. They’re paralyzing me. She’s right.

If you asked me why I shouldn’t have a baby, I could write a book. Yes, the fear of another horrific pregnancy and a stillborn child is one reason. There’s no way I could handle it, physically or emotionally. The disappointment would be too much for me, and what a toll it would take on my sweet Calla, especially if this time I died. She lost a mother once. My stepdaughter, Snow White. I can’t let it happen again.

But my fear runs far deeper. An ocean deep.

The possibility exists that my mother’s evil blood runs through me. While after her death, Shrink left me with the hope that she could have born good and was a victim of an evil sorcerer’s spell, I can never be sure. What if our baby is born evil? A monster like her? I shudder at the thought.

And then there’s the possibility that I could be a terrible mother. While everyone tells me that I’ve been a terrific mother to Gallant’s soon-to-be-nine-year-old daughter, Calla—and Gallant will be the first to tell you this—I still can’t forget what a rotten mother, okay stepmother, I was to Snow White. In fact, I could take the prize of having been the world’s worst mother. I even tried to kill the poor girl! While Shrink has worked hard with me to help me overcome my guilt, drilling it into me that I modeled my parenting after my evil narcissistic mother, a part of me still wonders if I can act that way again.

I tear off another sheet of paper, crumple it in my fist, and toss it into the pile on the floor. Damn my writer’s block. Staring at yet another blank page, my mind wanders off yet again. What should I get Gallant for our anniversary? Finding the perfect present for the man who has everything isn’t easy. The one thing I know he really wants is not happening. A son.

A gong sounds nine times. It’s coming from the hand-carved grandfather clock in the adjacent great room, a wedding gift from my mother-in-law, The Queen of Hearts, who didn’t want me to have the time management problems of her other daughter-in-law, Cinderella. She’s married to Prince Charming, Gallant’s identical twin brother.

She and Charming are like the most perfect couple. Perfectly groomed. Perfectly dressed. Perfectly behaved. They complete each other’s sentences and laugh at each other’s bad jokes. They even wear color-coordinated matching outfits and brag about being each other’s stylist. Oh, did I mention they have perfect hair, skin, and teeth? And a perfectly decorated palace that’s graced the cover of
Fairy-Tale Homes and Gardens
three times. Oh, yeah, and they never fight!

In other words, they’re the most boring couple I’ve ever met. I put up with them because they’re family. One day, Charming will rule the kingdom, and Cinderella will be Queen as Gallant abdicated the throne to pursue his passion for painting. I’m sure they’ll be the perfect royal couple and produce the perfect heir… who is on his way.

Yes, Cinderella is having a baby. Of course, it’s the perfect pregnancy. Seven months in and not a single day of morning sickness. When I was pregnant with my child, I was sick to my stomach every day and put on forty pounds. And then there was that horrific, tragic birth…

At last week’s EPA meeting—that’s Evil People Anonymous—a mandatory support group for former Faraway residents who have recovered from their addiction to evil like me, I confessed to having evil thoughts about my sister-in-law Cinderella. It was a stupid fantasy, but nonetheless evil.

“Imagine if those annoying little bluebirds that Cinderella sings to attacked her,” I said in front of the entire group. HA! What an image! Miss Perfect Princess trapped in a storm of bird droppings! “For once, I’d like to see that perfect smile of hers disappear, and her perfectly coiffed blond hair get all messed up. And hear that sweet little voice croak,” I added with a wicked smile.

There was dead silence in the room. Maybe I had gone a little too far. I couldn’t help it. I was after all once The Evil Queen. And then Hook, a recovering alcoholic, leaped up.

“Yo, Ho, Ho,” he chortled. “You’re just jealous she’s pregnant. Let
me
help you out, babe.”

I cringed. Not because the once and always swine, who couldn’t keep his hands off me at Faraway, hit on me, but because he was right. Damn it! I
am
jealous that Cinderella is having a baby.

I’ll talk about it with Shrink. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. My bi-weekly appointment is in an hour. I’d better summon the coach. So much for my writing.

Grabbing a cloak to shield me from the chilly autumn air, I whisk through the French doors of my office. Passing through the dining hall, I stop to gaze at the magnificent portrait that Gallant painted of me with Calla in my arms before our marriage. That and his portrait of Snow White are the two paintings he’s not including in his retrospective. They belong here in our house.

No matter how many times I’ve stared at this masterpiece, it always makes me tingle all over. My eyes pass over the words Gallant inscribed on it in the lower right corner.
“Forever in my heart.”

Forever.
I suddenly have one of my brainstorms. I know what I will give Gallant for our second anniversary. The love letter I wrote to him on the eve of his almost wedding to my evil mother. The letter I signed,
Forever~Jane.
Forever, as in I will always love you. For the rest of my life. Until death do us part.

Whether we have a baby or not.

Why didn’t I think of this before? As far as I know, he’s never seen it, never mentioned it once. I sealed it with my tears and hid it in the top drawer of his desk. Could it still be there? What a perfect anniversary gift it’ll make once I have it framed! Personal. Sentimental. Romantic. Forever.

I scurry to the great room, straight to Gallant’s desk. My hands tremble with excitement as I slide open the top drawer. Everything inside is meticulously stacked or stored in silver bins. Pens. Pencils. Sketch pads. Personalized stationary with the family crest, the Midas gold crown. And more. Gallant is such a neat freak.

Rifling through the drawer, careful not to make a mess, I experience the thrill of a thief. Like I’m stealing a treasure that doesn’t belong to me—except theoretically, it could be argued that it does—and will get caught any minute. My heart pounds with anticipation. One of the stacks I come across is a bunch of Gallant’s doodles. So charming! There’s even a little full-color self-portrait. How handsome My Prince is!

The chitchat of servants resonates in my ears; it grows louder, meaning they’re getting nearer. My heartbeat speeds up, and I hasten my search. The last thing I want is for the help to see me going through Gallant’s desk. They might ruin my surprise.

In the rear of the drawer, I come across a stack of envelopes. Thumbing through them, I find correspondence with his father, King Midas… Letters to clients who have commissioned him to paint their portrait… Even several adorable homemade birthday cards from Calla, showing her own progression as an excellent artist. I’d love to read them all, but there’s no time.

Finally, I find it. The ivory linen envelope—the one I used to seal my letter. It’s addressed to Gallant. The penmanship is exquisite—bold and flowery—like mine. Except it’s
not
mine!

The envelope isn’t sealed. A little voice in my head tells me to put it back. I have no business going through Gallant’s personal mail. Okay, I lied. The inner voice is screaming: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WAITING FOR? OPEN THE DAMN ENVELOPE! I practically tear it open. Inside is a perfectly folded sheet of parchment. I yank it out. My hands shaking, I unfold it and read: