The Sheikh's Secret Love Child (The Sheikh's Baby Surprise Book 2) (8 page)

But money had never been her motivator. When she’d chosen to become a nurse, she’d been aware that it paid rather well, but that you had to earn it, and that it didn’t always feel worth it. Her mother had suggested that she become an engineer, but she’d scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that her mother had only her monetary interests in mind.

Rosie arrived at her apartment, then: the one she’d rented when she started her job, as soon as she’d scraped enough money together. It was the first place where she’d lived by herself. It was her very heart, her very own.

She moved from the dining room to the living room, wondering whether or not a child could reside there, growing from baby to man. She imagined herself rocking a baby on the couch; she pictured herself feeding a teething baby in the dining room, the baby splattering peas all over the wall. She imagined that they’d come to appreciate one other as the only other important person in their lives.

And when the issue of a father came up, Rosie knew she wouldn’t be able to tell her child the truth. Not if she accepted that money.

She swung her legs onto the couch, blinking at the empty television screen, and crafting her life scheme. She would, of course, “take” the money from Hakan. But she wouldn’t put it toward anything. It would be a side account, a very large reminder of all that came before. And beyond that, she would carve a life out for herself and for her child. Here.

She picked up her phone, then, and dialed a number she used all too rarely. The phone rang a few times before she heard the familiar, syrupy-sweet voice on the other end, all the way in rural Washington.

“Momma?” she said. She felt herself falling to tears. “Momma. I have something to tell you. And I think, actually, that it’s wonderful news. Absolutely wonderful news.”

TEN

Two Years Later

It was October again. October in Seattle, and Rosie’s baby boy, Zak, was sixteen months old. Rosie eyed a picture of him during her shift at work, taking stock of the way his eyes lit up, like his father’s, when he laughed. His giggle even came from the same place: deep in that little baby gut. She couldn’t help but love every inch of him with a joy and fear she knew existed in all mothers. But at the same time, the reminders of his father within him didn’t allow her to forget that she could have loved Hakan. If only she had had the chance.

Amy tapped into the break room with a cup of coffee, eyeing Rosie. She was pregnant again, and her stomach cast a shadow.

“I’m getting huge,” Amy sighed, leaning back against a desk. “I wish I didn’t carry like this.”

“Well you wouldn’t want to carry like I did,” Rosie laughed.

It was true that she hadn’t carried the baby well, that she’d gained quite a bit of heft in her stomach and breasts and back. She’d eventually lost all the weight, but it had taken her months of hard dieting and running outside, with baby Zak in his stroller in front of her. She liked to think the cold was good for him, like it was for those babies in Denmark. Or was it Sweden? There were so many schools of thought when it came to childrearing. Often, Rosie was confused.

Rosie eyed her friend, pointing to the coffee.

“It’s just decaf. I promise.”

“You know I don’t care.”

“You drank a bit of coffee while you were pregnant, didn’t you?” Amy asked.

“A bit more than I should have, I suppose.”

“Well, you were doing it all by yourself.”

“You and Mom helped loads. But you’re right. I was really stressed, a lot of the time. And without wine, I turned to coffee.” Rosie winked at her friend as she finished organizing the papers and clipboards before her.

“That’s right. How is your mom liking her move to Seattle, by the way? Seems like I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“Well,” Rosie began, biting her lip. “She doesn’t love the city. She was in the country for too long, I think. But she’s moved in not far from me, and so she watches baby Zak while I’m at work. It’s good for her, I think; ever since dad died, I think she’s been feeling a sort of lack of purpose.”

“Her watching Zak must help you save a bunch of money,” Amy said, and her voice grew quiet. “Even though you don’t technically need it. Do you?”

Rosie frowned. She turned to her friend and cocked her head. Why was she bringing this up now? She’d told Amy the full story about Osman and the insane amount of money about a month after Zak had been born, when he was crying nonstop in her arms and she had felt so weak, so tired, like she couldn’t go on. “Do you think I should just take it?” she had whispered, while, in her arms, the smallest version of Zak had cried on. “I don’t want it. I want to do this all myself. I don’t want any of that dirty money.”

And Amy had hugged them both close, even as Zak’s cries erupted between them. She’d kissed her friend on the cheek, on the forehead, and told her: “You don’t need it. You’re the strongest woman in the world. And if taking that money would make you feel less of yourself, then you absolutely shouldn’t take it. This is the life you’re building for Zak. And Hakan has no part in it. Do you understand?”

Rosie had appreciated this gesture of strength and assurance more than anything.

“You know I don’t want that money,” Rosie scoffed, there in the break room. “I want to pretend like none of that ever happened.” She still had dreams about Osman: his crooked body waiting for her near the locks. She hated his very image.

Amy began fanning herself, steaming slightly after the long walk down the hallway. “Do you think you’ll want to get back out there soon?” she asked, changing the subject. “I actually know a few eligible bachelors.”

“Let me guess; through Josh’s engineering firm?” Rosie asked, giving her a knowing smile.

“They aren’t all bad, Rosie,” Amy affirmed. “And I don’t want to see you alone, without romance, for the rest of your life. Seriously, the thought of it depresses me,” she pouted.

“Do you and Josh still have this ‘romance,’ as you call it?”

Amy bit her lip. She looked down at her stomach, rubbing it absently. “Something has come between that, I suppose,” she gestured. “You remember what it was like. You don’t want to be touched, when you’re pregnant. You kind of just want to eat ice cream in the corner.”

Rosie laughed, remembering the sheer discomfort. “I guess you’re right. Speaking of, are we still taking the kids out tomorrow? The zoo and then dinner?”

“If you can bear taking a sixteen month old out to dinner,” Amy said. “Marco should be old enough now, but he’s still not great in public. But I don’t mind. Let’s take them out. It’ll be an adventure—just a little different from our age-old adventures in our early twenties.”

“Just a bit more baby vomit,” Rosie said.

“But just as much crying.”

“Not as much drunk crying,” Rosie corrected, dragging her purse over her shoulder. She gave Amy a quick hug and dashed from the door, eager to return home to her son. Her heart tugged her back to Zak’s nursery, all the time, no matter where she was.

***

The bus chugged along, and Rosie arrived at her doorstep around a half hour later. She could hear her mother indoors, singing to Zak. Their relationship was quite special, especially lately, since Rosie had been working a great deal more due to staff cuts at the hospital. Sometimes, her heart grew jealous at her mother’s closeness with her grandson. Didn’t Zak only need her?

Her mother, Clarice, arrived at the door as Rosie opened it, holding baby Zak in her arms.

“Hello, there!” Rosie said, her face lighting up like the sun. She opened her arms to her baby and her mother made the hand-off.

Already, Zak’s little fingers were grabbing for her; he was saying her name, over and over. “Momma. Momma. Yes.”

Zak’s gibberish bred only a few articulate words. But it was true, Rosie remembered, that when he’d first been able to say Momma—deep in the kitchen after a hard day at work—she’d wept. It had felt like an affirmation that she’d done something right in raising him this way, in their tiny apartment in Capitol Hill.

She and her mother sat on the couch as Zak crawled over the floor, picking at his toys and mumbling to himself.

“How was your day?” Clarice asked her.

“Fine, fine,” Rosie said, leaning back and kneading at her forehead. “Last-minute C-section, always a bit panicky on their end. Lots of screaming and crying.”

“Guess you came home to more of that, didn’t you?” Clarice smiled.

Rosie and her mother hadn’t been particularly close in the past, not since Rosie had graduated and moved to the big city. Clarice had always been very conservative, and when it became clear that those feelings hadn’t translated to her daughter, they had grown apart considerably.

Rosie worried, of course, that half of the reason Clarice watched over Zak during her shifts was so that she could impose her own values into her grandson. But she tried not to think about it, hoping instead to restructure her relationship with her mother. So far, it was going okay.

“I think tomorrow we’ll go to the zoo,” Rosie said. “With Amy. I think he’ll absolutely freak. He’s been watching that animal television show over and over since we bought it for his birthday.”

“Toddlers love repetition,” Clarice said after a brief pause.

Rosie could sense that her mother wanted to come to the zoo, as well—that she wanted to be included. But something gave her pause.

In some ways, even now, Rosie couldn’t shake how her mother had initially reacted to the news of her pregnancy. When she’d called her, about two years before, immediately after she’d had her life-changing conversation with Osman, her mother hadn’t exactly been overjoyed. She’d needed a few weeks to think about it, she’d said, and in the interim, Rosie was left to fend for herself. She’d started her organic diet. She’d started sleeping more. She’d started reading baby books. And she hadn’t been able to look to her mother for comfort.

Of course, Clarice had arrived at Rosie’s door after she’d taken the time to think and opened her arms to her daughter. She’d said a few Bible verses, and they’d eaten together, a simple grilled cheese sandwich meal, while watching the winter rain outside. It hadn’t cured everything; it had been a kind of band-aid. And years of work would bring them closer, would finally close the scab once and for all.

Clarice wrung her hands in her lap. “We read a few books today,” she murmured, knowing to keep the conversation directed at Zak. “He just loves to read.”

“He’s smart. Like his father,” Rosie affirmed, rushing to her son and causing him to fly through the air before landing him squarely on her waist. She turned to her mother and gave her a purposeful smile. “Thanks for today. Seriously.”

Clarice blinked her eyes chaotically, gazing at her daughter. “You know, you and Zak are beautiful together.”

And they were. Rosie’s red hair hung in loose curls around her shoulders. Her son tugged at it, his dark eyes gleaming in the lamplight. His skin was deeper than Rosie’s pale complexion, which was to be expected. Clarice hadn’t asked questions about the father’s nationality or name, and Rosie had been grateful.

Clarice kissed Zak on the nose and tapped from the apartment, ready to walk the three blocks back to her place. The apartment couldn’t have been more different from the farmhouse Rosie had grown up in. Her mother looked so large in it, without that land to care for; without the many rooms and the mounds of laundry. Gosh, that had all been so long ago, Rosie thought.

She sat on the floor with her son, her legs extended out to both sides, allowing Zak to play in between. He knelt down every few seconds and picked up a block, showing her A, then Q, then D. Rosie said the name of each letter as he held it up to her, and then said a word that went with each letter. “Ah, yes. Apple. Q, like quilt. Can you say that, Zak? Quilt?” Her voice was syrupy, dripping with affection.

Zak giggled at her, showing his tiny teeth. Rosie wrapped her arms around him and drew his warm body close, blowing a raspberry on his shoulder.

She imagined, sometimes, that the compassionate man she thought she’d met would have played with him like this. He would have thrown his son up in the air, causing him to squeal. He would have rolled around on the floor with him, not caring about how he looked, so long as his son was laughing. She imagined his strong arms around both of them as they drifted off to sleep on the couch, her chin falling every so often toward her chest as baby Zak cooed beneath them.

Somehow, despite all that Hakan had put her through, she still had these images in her mind. Despite how cold and callous he had turned out to be, she still daydreamed about the other Hakan, the Hakan she had fallen head over heels for. She knew these false spurts of happiness weren’t doing her any good. They were poisonous, but they helped her get from day to day. And she supposed that was all that mattered.