Tiffa, Jack, and I met with Jack's brother, who took us through the process. It wasn't terribly complicated: Jack and Tiffa would pay my medical costs, which I would need to reimburse if I changed my mind within a certain window of time. And, of course, the father would have to be notified, and he would have to sign away his rights. The thought made my stomach cramp with dread. It wasn't that I thought Mason would want to be a daddy and raise the child. But he was territorial, and I could see him making trouble just for the sake of troublemaking.
And then Tiffa told her family. Tiffa's mother, Alice, Peter, and the kids were flying back to Manchester in the morning, so Tiffa invited Wilson to dinner so she could break the news while they were all still together. She invited me as well, but I refused, grateful that my scheduled shift at the cafe gave me an excuse to stay away. Awkward didn't begin to describe the situtation. And I really didn't want to talk adoption over tea and crumpets with Joanna Wilson. I wondered if the awkwardness would extend to my relationship with Wilson, and I spent a tense evening at work, dropping dishes and providing lousy service. It was nine o'clock when I finally clocked out and walked home, tired and strung out from juggling orders and nervous energy. Wilson was sitting on the front steps of Pemberley when I trudged up the sidewalk.
I sat down beside him and tried to rest my tired head on my knees, which I had done a thousand times before, but my burgeoning stomach made it impossible. In the last week it had grown so much it was constantly surprising me and getting in the way, and disguising it had gotten increasingly difficult. So I just sat with my hands in my lap and stared out into the darkened street, reminded of the time, several months ago, when I had been so lost and had shown up at Wilson's announced, looking for direction. We had sat just this way, our eyes facing outward, our legs almost touching, quiet and contemplative.
“Tiffa and Jack might be the happiest people on the planet right now,” Wilson murmured, looking down at me briefly. “My mother is not far behind, though. She was singing a stirring rendition of “God Save the King” when I left.”
“God Save the King?” I sputtered, surprised.
“It's the only song she knows all the words to . . . and she apparently felt like singing.”
I giggled and we lapsed back into silence.
“Are you sure about all of this, Blue?”
“No,” I laughed ruefully. “I've decided being sure is a luxury I won't ever be able to afford. But I'm as sure as a twenty-year-old waitress could ever be. And the fact that Tiffa and Jack are so happy makes me almost positive.”
“Lots of women, younger than you, and with a lot less talent, raise children alone every day.”
“And some of them probably do a damn good job, too,” I admitted, trying not to let his comments bother me.” Some of them don't. “My eyes met Wilson's defiantly, and I waited, wondering if he would press me further. He searched my expression and then looked away. I wanted him to understand, and I desperately needed his validation, so I turned to the one thing I knew he would grasp.
“There was a poem you quoted to me once, by Edgar Allan Poe. Do you remember?” I'd memorized it after that night. Maybe it was to feel closer to him, to know something he knew, to share something he loved, but the words had spoken to me on a very primal level, haunted me even. It was my life, boiled down to a few rhyming lines.
Wilson began to quote the beginning lines, a question in his expression. As he did, I spoke the words with him, reciting them. His eyebrows rose at each word, and I could tell I had surprised him by my mastery.
“From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone.”
Wilson stopped, staring down at me in the dusky light that spilled around our concrete perch.
“It's the next part I can't ever get out of my head,” I ventured, holding his gaze. “Do you know what comes next?”
Wilson nodded, but he didn't quote the lines. He just waited for me to continue. So I spoke them, delivering each line the way I interpreted it.
“And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then – in my childhood, in the dawn
of a most stormy life – was drawn
from every depth of good and ill,
the mystery which binds me still.”
There was more, but it was this line that resonated, and I gathered my thoughts, wanting to be understood.
“The mystery of my life binds me still, Wilson. You told me once we can't help where we are scattered. We are born in whatever circumstances we are born into, and none of us has any control over it. But I can make sure this baby isn't scattered like I was. I have nothing to give but myself, and if something were to happen to me, my baby would have no one left. I can't guarantee this child a happy life, but I can make sure she doesn't love alone. I want to layer her in love. Mother and father and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. I want her to have family surrounding her so there is no mystery and no fear of being alone or abandoned . . . or scattered.”
Wilson nodded again, but his face was troubled and his grey eyes morose. He leaned in and kissed my forehead, and I smelled peppermints and aftershave and had to steel myself against the desire to breathe deeply, to pull his scent around me like a warm blanket. I sensed his unrest, as if he disagreed with everything I had said but didn't want to hurt my feelings. I wondered if it was the fact that he would be an uncle to my child, to Tiffa's child. He would be one of the layers of love I was so painstakingly constructing.
“So what's next, Blue? Where do we go from here?” I didn't know what he referred to exactly, so I took him literally.
“Tomorrow I have to tell Mason.”
“Well look who's here. Couldn't stay away, could ya?” Mason crooned, looking down at me from his open door. He was silhouetted in the light from his little apartment over the garage. I had called him, telling him I was outside and needed to talk to him. He snapped his phone shut and began walking down the stairs, his swagger pronounced. He obviously thought I wanted to do something more than talk. I held my purse in front of me, not wanting him to get an eyefull until I was ready. I heard a door slam. Wilson rounded the corner. So much for him staying in the car.
“Where the hell have you been, Blue?” Mason reached the bottom of the stairs at the same time Wilson reached my side. Mason's eyes strayed to Wilson and a dark look passed over his features. “Thought you'd trade me in for this uppity pansy?”
“I'm pregnant, Mason. It's yours,” I shot out, not wanting to make small talk. I needed this over and done as soon as possible. I moved my purse to the side so he could get a good look at my stomach.
Mason's eyes shot to my belly and back to my face. I wasn't obviously pregnant if I wore the right clothing. I'd made sure to wear a fitted T-shirt with slim white capris so there was no doubt.
“Oh, that's rich!” Mason howled, running his hands through his hair, and I immediately felt bad for him. I didn't blame him for being outraged. It was a major sucker punch, and I knew exactly how he felt; I'd felt the same way several months ago. He pointed at me, his finger only inches from my face.
“You show up here after almost six months, and lay this on me? No way. Uh uh! I'm not buying it.”
“Not buying what, Mason?” I challenged. I tempered my sympathy with the need to accomplish what I'd come for.
“How do I know the kid is even mine, Blue? I sure as hell wasn't your first, and I definitely wasn't your last. If I recall, Adam here was in the picture around that time, too.” Mason eyed Wilson sourly. Wilson just shook his head and crossed his arms. The Adam thing just wouldn't go away. It did no good to try to deny or explain anything.
I shrugged, not arguing. It was better if Mason doubted me. He would make less of a fuss. I handed him the
summons Jack's brother had prepared.
“I didn't come here to make trouble, Mason. I didn't come here to fight. I want to give the baby up for adoption. This explains termination of rights. You need to show up at court on this date, sign on the dotted line, and you're done. You never have to see me or my big belly again.”
Mason glanced at the paperwork and for a minute I thought he would rip it in two.
“I gotta work. I can't make it.” He scowled, tossing the paper aside. It fluttered to the ground, and we all stared at it, waiting for someone to make a move. After a second, I stooped to pick it up.
“I understand,” I said, sweetness dripping from my voice. “You're definitely gonna want to hold onto that job. Because if this adoption doesn't work out, I'm going to file a paternity suit and sue for child support.” I kept my face blank and my eyes innocently wide.
Mason swore, and Wilson bit back a grin. He gave me a thumbs up under his folded arms. His grin faded when Mason proceeded to call me an F-ing whore.
“Watch yourself, chap,” he bit out, and Mason eyed him warily, most likely recalling the kung fu from their last meeting.
“You aren't getting a damn dime from me, Blue.”
“Show up on Thursday, and I never will,” I pressed the paper against his chest, holding it there until he reached up and grabbed it, wrinkling it in his fist. “See you, Thursday.”
I turned and walked away, not glancing back to see if Mason watched or Wilson followed. I slid into the passenger seat of Wilson's Subaru and fumbled for my seatbelt, needing to feel secure, needing to reassure myself that I was safe. Safe from Mason's anger? From his palpable sense of betrayal? Maybe. I just knew I felt scared and inexplicably sad. Wilson climbed in beside me and started the car. My hands shook so badly that the clasp slipped and ricocheted back against the window, smacking the glass with a sickening crack. Wilson leaned over and pulled the seat belt across me and clicked it without comment, but I felt his eyes on my face as he pulled away from the curb.
“You're shaking. Are you all right?”
I nodded, trying to swallow the shame that filled my mouth and made speaking difficult.
I could feel Wilson's eyes on me, studying my profile, trying to peel back my mask. I wished he would just let it go.
“Do you love him?” The sympathetic query was so unexpected that I laughed, a harsh bark that held little resemblance to mirth.
“No!” That was easy. “I'm embarrassed and I'm ashamed. Love has nothing to do with it. It never did.”
“Does it make it easier . . . not loving him?”
I pondered that for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah. It does. I'm just glad he didn't offer to make an honest woman of me.”
Wilson smiled wryly. “Yes . . . there is that.” He turned up the radio and The Killers streamed out into the Vegas night, “Miss Atomic Bomb” making the dashboard vibrate. I thought the conversation was over when Wilson reached up and punched the knob, silencing the music.
“What if he had?”
“Had what? Asked me to marry him? Get real, Wilson.”
“Would you want to keep your baby then?”
“And we could be a happy little family?” I squeaked, incredulous. “It's bad enough that this baby has our combined DNA. It doesn't deserve to be raised by us, too.
“Ahh, Blue. You wouldn't be a bad mother.”
“I wonder if that's what someone told my mother when she found out she was pregnant with me.”
Wilson swung his head around, surprise evident on his handsome face. I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. I didn't know if I would be a bad mother. I didn't know if I would be a good mother. But I knew I wouldn't be as good a mother as Tiffa Snook, not yet anyway. And that was the bottom line.
Thursday came. I had slept poorly all week, worried that Mason would show up with his parents in tow and that they would sue for custody of my unborn child. If that happened, I would be keeping my baby. Giving her up to Tiffa and Jack was one thing. Giving her to Mason and his parents was another. But Mason was unaccompanied in the courtroom when I arrived Thursday morning. He was an adult and didn't need permission for what he was about to do. I wondered if he had even told his parents. He wore a tie and a shell-shocked expression, and I felt bad all over again.
When the judge questioned him, making sure he understood his rights as well as the rights he was terminating, he nodded and then looked at me. I didn't sense anger anymore. He just seemed stunned. With a notary looking on, he signed the documents, and Tiffa and Jack hugged each other tightly as if they too had been terrified of a derailment. I felt faint with relief and struggled to hold back a sudden flood of emotion. As soon as the proceedings were over, I found Mason. I owed him that much.
“Thank you, Mason,” I said quietly, extending my hand.
Mason slowly took my outstretched hand in his. “Why didn't you tell me sooner, Blue? I know we were never serious, but I . . . I wanted to be.”
It was my turn for shock. “You did?” I never thought Mason liked anything about me but the sex. It occurred to me then that my low opinion of myself may have blinded me to his true feelings.
“I know I can be an asshole. I drink too much, I say things I shouldn't, and I get mad too easy. But you could have told me.”
“I should have,” I acquiesced. We stood awkwardly, looking everywhere but at each other.
“It's better this way, Mason,” I suggested softly. He looked at me then and nodded.
“Yeah. I know. But maybe someday you'll give me another chance.”
No. I wouldn't. Mason was part of a past I didn't want to repeat. But I nodded noncommitally, grateful that there was peace between us.
“Take care of yourself, Blue.”
“You too, Mason.” I turned and made my way to the door. Mason called out behind me, and his voice seemed awfully loud in the almost empty courtroom.
“I never pictured you with a guy like Adam.”
I turned and shrugged. “Neither did I, Mason. Maybe that's part of my problem.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Why is your recliner in the middle of the floor?”
“I like to sit under the vent.”
“Are you cold? Don't be shy about turning up the thermostat. This little space isn't exactly expensive to heat.”
“Wilson. It's August in Nevada. I'm not cold.”
“So . . . why is the recliner in the middle of the floor?” Wilson insisted.
“I like hearing you play at night,” I admitted easily, much to my surprise. I hadn't planned to tell him. “The sound travels through the vent.
“You like to hear me play?” Wilson sounded shocked.
“Sure,” I said easily, shrugging as if it was no big deal. “It's nice.” Nice was an understatement. “I just keep wishing you would play something by Willie,” I teased.
Wilson looked crestfallen. “Willie?”
“Yes, Willie,” I insisted, trying not to giggle. “Willie Nelson is one of the greatest songwriters of all time.”
“Huh,” Wilson said, scratching his head. “I guess I'm not that familiar with his . . . work.”
He looked so flummoxed that I couldn't help myself and burst out laughing. “Willie Nelson is a country singer – an old-timer. Jimmy loved him. Actually, Jimmy kind of looked like him, just with darker skin and less scruff. Jimmy had the braids and the bandana, though, and he had every album Willie had ever put out. We listened to those songs over and over.” I didn't really feel like laughing anymore and abruptly changed the subject.
“There's one song you play that I especially like,” I ventured.
“Really? Hum a bit.”
“I can't hum, sing, dance, or recite poetry, Wilson.”
“Just a bit, so I know which tune you like.”
I cleared my throat, scrunched my eyes closed, and tried to think of the tune. It was there in my head, like a cool stream of water. Beautiful. I attempted a couple of notes, and gaining confidence, hummed a few more
, still with my eyes closed. I felt quite pleased with myself and opened one eye to see how my humming had been received.
Wilson's face was bright red, and he was shaking with laughter. “I don't have a clue what song you're humming, luv. Maybe you should hum a few more bars until I have it.”
“You . . . jerk!” I fumed, slapping at him as he laughed harder. “I told you I couldn't sing! Stop it!”
“No . . . really, it was brilliant!” he wheezed, warding me off. I gave up with a huff and started dragging my recliner from the middle of the floor, indicating I wouldn't be listening anymore, now that he'd gone and embarrassed me.
“Come on, I'm sorry. Here. I'll hum now so you can poke fun at me.” He pulled the chair back directly under the vent. “Sit right here and put your feet up.” He pushed me down gently into the chair, and lifted my feet so they were propped on the recliner's footrest. “Even better, I'll run up and get my cello, and I'll bring it down and I'll play for you.”
“Not interested,” I lied. The thought of him playing his cello for me made me feel slightly breathless and lightheaded. Thankfully, he just laughed and jogged out of my apartment. I could hear him flying up the stairs and his door bang above me. In minutes he was back, carrying the huge cello case. He snagged one of my armless kitchen chairs, sat down in front of me, and pulled out his shiny black cello. He proceeded to tune and tighten his strings as I watched, trying to hide my anticipation.
“Perfect.” Apparently satisfied, he began to run his bow over the strings, finding a melody. His eyes met mine. “When you hear it, tell me.”
“Why don't you just play . . . the way you do when you're alone. I'll just listen.” I gave up any pretense of not being interested.
“You want me to practice?” He stopped playing abruptly.
“Yeah. Just do what you do every night.”
“I practice for at least an hour most nights.” It was spoken like a challenge, and I responded immediately.