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For the last week, Mom has been a constant presence in the house. Dad practically shoved her through the front door and dropped her bag in the foyer. It didn’t really happen that way, but he didn’t hang out long on the first night.
Part of me thinks Dad is as exhausted as us. Sleep hasn’t been easy to come by since I went into labor. But another part of me thinks Dad just needed time to himself. Time to mull over everything that happened in the hospital. Between Mom and Dad, he is the more sensitive and reserved person. Less likely to share his feelings. And seeing me in the hospital bed, completely out of it, probably took its toll on him.
With time, he will be okay.
Aside from Mom helping me with Desirée, she has also been a saint with housework and cooking. Taking on the tasks we sometimes take for granted. Not having to wash dishes every time we eat or drink has been a relief. Not having to worry over cooking or grocery shopping or general errands has been a tremendous help.
Occasionally, Devlyn goes into his studio and works. For the most part, though, he sits with me and the baby. On the couch while a movie plays softly in the background. On the back patio, when the sun begins to set and the heat is milder. We just sit together and hold Desirée and bond more.
“How’s she doing?” Mom whispers as she enters the living room.
I peer down my chest and see a sleeping Desirée. My fingers gently stroke her hair. “Fast asleep.”
“Want me to put her down?”
Since I still have at least another week—hopefully not more—before I am allowed to carry her on my own, Mom has helped with putting Desirée down in her crib or bassinet while Devlyn works.
“That’d be great. Thank you.”
As Mom reaches for Desirée, Devlyn pads down the stairs and enters the room. He sidles up to Mom, leans in and presses a kiss to Desirée’s crown. Devlyn drops on the couch beside me as Mom walks off. But the second Mom is out of sight, the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” Devlyn says loud enough for Mom to hear, but not loud enough to wake the baby.
Devlyn starts for the door. Scooting to the edge of the couch, I gingerly stand and follow. With our friends on a daily rotation of stopping by to check on us and the baby, Devlyn doesn’t think twice before unlocking the dead bolt. He doesn’t hesitate before twisting the knob. He doesn’t consider, not for a second, to check the peephole or peer out through the blinds.
But I wish he would have.
The door swings open and I freeze on the opposite side of the sitting room, near the kitchen. Because standing at the door, with a wicked grin on her lips, is Karen Templar. And something about her expression twists a knife in my already tender womb.
Why won’t this woman just leave us be? Why won’t this woman leave Devlyn alone?
Let him be happy. Without you.
Because if she isn’t happy, she has to bring everyone else down. And people like Karen Templar will never be happy. Not until the entire ship sinks.
THIRTY-TWO
DEVLYN
“I hear congratulations are in order,”my mother says with disgust on her tongue. “You can imagine how upset I was to have heard I am a grandmother through a gossip circle.” She curls her lip as her head tilts. “Don’t be rude. Invite your mother inside.”
I peer over my shoulder at Shelly and give her what I hope is an apologetic smile. “Be back in a second.” Her eyes widen. “I’ll be okay. Just stay in the house. Please.”
She nods and walks toward the hallway. Toward her mother and the nursery.
I step out the front door and close it, but don’t take another step. Crossing my arms over my chest and widening my stance, I form a barricade in front of the door. A barrier. A way to shield my home from this woman and the negativity she carries like a handbag.
“What do you want, Mother?”
She straightens her spine and rests her hands on her hips. “Has that girl drained you of intelligence and manners?” She shakes her head, her lips flattening for a beat. “I came to see my grandchild,” she states, talking to me like an insolent child.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself for battle. I knew this day was inevitable, but hoped I wouldn’t have to fight so soon. Dr. Prince’s voice rings in my head as if he were here.
“You will never be able to move forward until you deal with your past. Don’t let your past set the tone for your future. Sharing genetics doesn’t give someone power over you. It doesn’t give them the right to harm you—physically, mentally or emotionally. It is one-hundred-percent acceptable to sever ties with relatives so you may live a happy, healthy life.”
“You don’t have a grandchild,” I say with more strength than I feel. But I refuse to back down. I refuse to give in. I refuse to let her hurt me or Shelly or our daughter. Not now. Not any day moving forward.
She rears back as if I slapped her. Disdain oozing from her every pore as she stares me in the eye. With a shift of her weight, her head tilts the opposite direction.
