The Billionaire's Heart (The Silver Cross Club Book 4) (28 page)

She pulled away and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t love him enough,” she said, sniffling. “I should be—I’m supposed to be happy just being with him, and changing his diapers, and—and—but I’m so bored. I’m trapped in the house all day, and Elliott works all the time, and I
hate
it. Sometimes I feel like having a baby was a huge mistake.”

“Oh,
Regan
,” I said again. I’d known she was going a little stir-crazy, but I hadn’t thought it was this bad. Guilt sat heavy in my belly. I should have noticed that something was wrong.

“I know,” she wailed. “I’m a terrible mother. If I loved him more, if I—if I could just—”

“Stop,” I said sternly, before she could start crying again. “You love that kid more than anything. You’re
not
a bad mother. You’re just having a hard time right now. I would be going crazy, too. It’s not like newborns are all that interesting. Your life has changed completely. It makes sense that you need some time to adjust.”

“It’s supposed to be easy,” she said. “It’s supposed to be easier than this.”

“A lot of people have trouble,” I said. “Regan. You know I’m right. This is so normal.”

Her lower lip wobbled, but she nodded, finally.

“We’ll help you,” I said. “Me and Carter. Okay? You aren’t alone. You can put that kid in daycare a couple of days a week and work on taking care of yourself. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, her voice thin and shaky.

“Let’s call Carter,” I said.

“He’s at work,” she said. “We shouldn’t bother him.”

“He would skin me alive if I didn’t bother him for this,” I said. “I’m going to call him.”

Regan looked like she intended to keep protesting, but just then the baby let out a thin cry, and Regan immediately bent to lift it from the stroller, cooing and kissing its little face. Her love and devotion were so clear that I couldn’t imagine why she thought she was a bad mother. Hormones, probably. Babies did strange things to a body.

I didn’t get home until after dark. By the time Regan and I walked back to the house, Carter was waiting in the entryway, practically vibrating with concern. Regan started crying again, and then the baby started crying, and for a moment I thought
Carter
might cry; so I took myself and the baby back to the kitchen, but the baby in its little seat on the countertop, and made some sandwiches. When people started crying, it was time for food.

Sandwiches finished, I discovered that I could get the baby to smile by making weird faces, and the little dude was sort of cute, really, in a toothless, bug-eyed sort of way. I did that for a while, until the kitchen door opened and Carter came in. He looked very tired.

“You made sandwiches,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, and offered him the plate. “I figured you guys could use it.”

“Thanks,” he said. He took one of the sandwiches and looked at it. “Regan’s mom is going to come out to stay with us for a while.”

“I’m really glad,” I said. “That’s great. That’s what she needs.” I patted him on the shoulder, feeling awkward. “You’re both going to be okay.”

“I think so,” he said, and gave me a weary smile. “Thank you, Sadie. Your friendship means a lot to both of us.”

I went out into the living room, where Regan was sitting on the sofa, hunched over, looking very small. I sat down beside her and hugged her tightly. “I’m going to get out of your hair,” I said. “I love you, kid. Call me tomorrow and let me know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” she said, and I kissed her on the cheek and left.

Walking to the subway, I thought about what had happened that day: about Regan’s charmed, imperfect life, and the unshakeable love between her and Carter. About hope, and second chances, and starting over. About forgiveness.

Everyone had their own grief. Nobody’s life was without pain. The only thing to do was hold tight to someone you loved and refuse to let go.

It was time for me to put my old sorrows to rest.

When I got home, I turned on all of the lights in my apartment and looked around with fresh eyes. It was a mess. I hadn’t ever dealt with Ben’s things, not really, and they were strewn all over the apartment in drifts of clutter and dust. How had I been living like this? Well: I hadn’t been living, really. Just getting by.

I turned on some music, poured myself a glass of wine, and got to work going through the stacks of papers piled on my kitchen pass-through. Old receipts, bills I had long since paid, random takeout menus. And then, crumpled, stained with coffee, the to-do list I had written the night I got fired from my old job.

Find interesting work.

Go on a date.

I grinned, reading down the list. I’d done a lot of the things I listed. But now it was time for a new list.

I fished a pen out of my junk drawer and scribbled on the list to make sure the pen still worked. Good enough. I thought for a minute, and then wrote:

Hang out with Regan more.

Learn to like babies.

Take a trip somewhere exotic.

Finally learn how to drive.

That was a pretty ambitious list. Why not go all out?

Win the lottery. At least a million dollars.

Buy a huge loft in Soho.

Fall in crazy stupid love.

I started in the hall closet. It was still full of Ben’s clothes: his winter coat, his boots. I sorted through everything, folded it, and packed it in trash bags to take to the Salvation Army. The bedroom closet was worse. Harder. They were just clothes, I kept telling myself, fighting the tears stinging my eyes. Ben’s favorite sweater. The t-shirt that still smelled faintly of his deodorant. Just clothes. Ben wouldn’t want me to keep anything for sentimental reasons; he would say there were people who needed it, who could get a good job if they went to an interview wearing his one suit.

I had loved him. I would miss him every day for the rest of my life. But it was time to move on.

I broke down, then, standing in front of the open closet, holding Ben’s t-shirt in my arms. I cried with heartsore grief for what I had lost, and with immeasurable gratitude for what we had shared.

And then I dried my eyes, and got back to work.

I didn’t sleep that night. I stayed up until dawn, alternately laughing and crying as I went through Ben’s things—kitchen utensils, boxes of old photographs, love notes I wrote to him when we first started dating that he had stashed in a shoebox. Even my handwriting looked young: loopy, dramatic. I had loved him.

Most of it went in the trash. Some things I kept, packed away in a plastic box I slid beneath the bed. I didn’t want to forget Ben, or pretend our relationship never happened., but it was time for me to stop living in the past. I was ready for whatever would happen next.

Finally, a little after 8:00, I was done. I gave the kitchen floor a quick mop and realized there was nothing left to do. Ben’s things were either thrown out, packed away, or ready for donation. The clutter on the kitchen counter and coffee table had been put away. The apartment was cleaner than it had been in months. And I was exhausted. I checked my email, drank a few cups of coffee, and then decided that I absolutely wasn’t going to get anything useful accomplished and I might as well go back to bed.

I could call Elliott later. Maybe tomorrow.

In the end, it took me close to a week. I just wasn’t sure what I wanted to say to him. I had to think of the right words. So I putzed around the house, went to a lot of spinning classes, and threw a dinner party for the first time in a year. I applied for some jobs—with NGOs, because Elliott had ruined me. I took Regan shopping and made her buy a dress that she insisted she was still too fat to wear.

I was a coward. That was all. At least I could admit it to myself.

On Saturday afternoon, a letter arrived in the mail. I recognized Elliott’s handwriting and tore the envelope open with shaking hands. I wasn’t sure what I would find inside. But it was just a check—my paycheck, mailed to my home address because Elliott had never gotten the payroll system set up. There was no note inside.

I rubbed my face. I really needed to call him.

Okay. Fine. I could put on my big girl pants.

I dialed the phone.

He answered, sounding a little out of breath. “Sadie,” he said.

“Hi, Elliott,” I said, and swallowed. I still wasn’t sure what to say.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Good,” I said. “I—I’m good.” And then I had to laugh, because we were making idiotic small talk like we barely knew each other. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I was—I’ve been processing, I guess. Working through some things.”

“I figured,” he said. “Where are you? Are you at home?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’m at home, too,” he said. “Do you want to come over? I’d like to see you. Or I can come there—”

“I’ll come to you,” I said. “I wanted to stop by and see Regan, anyway.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Carter told me she’s having a hard time.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but I think she’ll be okay.”

“That’s good,” he said again, and then cleared his throat. He was
nervous
. I thought it was very sweet. “Just text me when you leave their place.”

“I’ll see you soon,” I said, and then I put on my coat and went out into the rest of my life.

TWENTY-SIX

Elliott

With Sadie coming over soon, I sprang into action. My apartment was, to say the least, not clean. I had let tidiness fall by the wayside over the past several days, as I finalized things with my new investor and made arrangements to bring Jim down from Boston. My armchair was buried underneath stacks of discarded clothing, and the toilet had a suspicious ring below the rim of the bowl. I could all too easily imagine Sadie’s face when she saw the squalor I was living in.

By the time I heard a knock on the door, the apartment was as clean as a hotel room—one of the benefits of living in a small space. I had even changed the sheets on the bed, just in case. You never knew.

I drew in a breath, and went to let Sadie in.

She stood in the doorway, wrapped in her coat, and looked up at me with eyes dark as a winter sea. Seeing her again was a punch directly to the solar plexus.

“Hi, Elliott,” she said.

“Sadie,” I said, and stood aside to let her come inside.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here,” she said, unbuttoning her coat. “I stopped to check on Regan, and I ended up staying longer than I intended to.”

“How is she doing?” I asked. Carter had mentioned postpartum depression, which as I understood it could run the gamut from periodic crying to hospitalization. I was fond of Regan; even crying was more than I would wish on her, and the thought of anything worse was incredibly alarming.

“She’s okay,” Sadie said. “Doing better. Her mom’s here now, and Carter’s working from home more. I think it’ll help when the baby is a little older and doesn’t need to eat, like, every two hours. Right now she feels like she can’t go anywhere or do anything that doesn’t involve her boobs.”

“Hmm,” I said, trying to decide if it would be crass to make a joke. It probably would be. “Do you think she would appreciate a visit? I was thinking about going to see her, but I don’t want to intrude.”

“I think she would love to see you,” Sadie said. She draped her coat over the back of my now-bare armchair—success—and unwrapped her scarf. She was wearing a skirt and knee-high boots, and I liked the thought that she had dressed up for me.

“I’ll go visit her tomorrow, then,” I said. “Sadie, it’s good to see you.”

“Yeah,” she said, ducking her head and glancing up at me, unexpectedly shy. I wanted to take her in my arms and never let her go. “I’m sort of—I had a weird week.”

“I know the feeling,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said again, and then looked away from me and folded her arms across her chest. She turned her back to me and walked toward the window, pausing for a moment and gazing down at the street. She was delaying the inevitable, but I was content to wait while she worked through whatever mental process was a necessary pre-requisite for her to actually talk to me.

But then she turned her attention to the top of my dresser and the collection of framed photographs there, and I winced. If she found—

And of course she did, unerringly. “Oh my God,” she said, bending down to peer at the picture in question.

I rubbed one hand over my face. I should have tossed that one out years ago.

“Is this you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Oh my
God
,” she said again. “And this is Carter?”

“Yes,” I said. “And our friend Carolina.”

“You have
dreadlocks
,” she said.

I sighed. “Yes.”

She started laughing, and looked at me with sparkling eyes. “You know, the first time I talked to Carter about working for you, he described you as a hippie,” she said. “I never really understood what he was talking about, but now I totally get it.”