They’re sheep. Their opinions don’t matter.
Unlocking my office door, I burst through and slam it behind me. Dropping my briefcase on one of the guest chairs, I fire up my computer and prepare to catch up on emails.
I need to lose myself in work.
I need to get so fixated and focused on numbers and lines and parametrics that the goings-on of the last twenty-four hours don’t fucking matter.
An hour passes.
Then another, and another.
By the time I’ve caught myself up and responded to the senders of most importance, I tend to the desktop of my computer, where I’d saved the draft for Abel’s shed just weeks ago. Covering my mouth with my hand, I pull in a hard breath, release it, then drag the shed to the trash folder.
I already sent him the design, but I have a feeling we won’t be discussing revisions anytime soon.
“Mr. Rutherford.” Marta startles the second I enter my apartment that evening after work, dropping a cleaning rag at her feet. With being gone, I’d reduced her shift to half days while keeping her full-time pay. My treat to her for a job always well done. I was home this morning, and I should have left a note, but my mind was elsewhere. “I didn’t expect to see you. You scared me.”
“Sorry, Marta.” I step into the kitchen, sitting my briefcase on the counter.
“Back so soon?”
“I had to cut my vacation short.” I yank the fridge door open, staring at the empty, sparkling clean shelves. Makes sense. No point in keeping a stocked kitchen when the man of the house is supposed to be gone for a month.
Pizza it is.
“Where’s Ms. Collins?” Marta asks, glancing around like she expects to see her hiding behind the fiddle leaf fig tree in the corner.
“We’ve ended our arrangement.”
“I’m sorry to hear it didn’t work out, sir.”
Crossing my arms, I ask, “Be honest with me, Marta. Did you know Mari was pregnant?”
Marta’s dark eyes widen. “I did not. I take it the baby … is not yours?”
Pressing my lips flat, I say, “No, Marta. The baby isn’t mine.”
Her gaze darts around, like she has something she needs to get off her chest, but she’s afraid to say it.
“What?” I ask. “What do you want to say?”
“I’d rather not.”
“You can tell me,” I say. “It’s not like I’m going to fire you for being honest.” I huff, shaking my head. “There aren’t enough honest people in this world, Marta. Everyone’s got something to hide and something to gain by hiding it.”
Including … even myself.
In my heart of hearts, I know it’s not right to be so upset with her when I wasn’t exactly forthcoming when we made our little arrangement.
But a baby is a game changer.
You can hide feelings. You can hide your intent. You can’t hide a baby.
“You want my honest opinion, Mr. Rutherford?” Marta lifts a dark brow, taking a hesitant step toward me.
I give her my full, focused attention.
“I think it was wrong of you to put her in that position. To make her an offer no woman in their right mind would’ve refused,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Regardless of her personal circumstances, you knew she needed money and you took advantage of that.” Exhaling, she places her hand over her heart. “Oh, goodness. That was a bit harsh of me, wasn’t it?”
I keep my expression blank, but I shake my head. “No, Marta. I needed to hear that.”
“She was a nice girl,” she says. “But I have to admit, I purposely kept my distance from her. I didn’t want to get close. I didn’t want to get attached. I’ve learned over the years to keep my distance from all the women you bring home because they’re never going to be around for very long. It’s easier to keep back and be cordial. They probably think I’m a bit cold, but it’s the way it has to be.”
“God, this situation is so fucked.” I bury my face in my palms, rubbing my eyes and groaning. “Maybe I have no right to be mad at her.”
“Maybe.” Marta smirks.
“And the guy who knocked her up? He has no intention of helping her. He’s just going to bail on her.”
Marta clucks her tongue in disapproval. “Shame.”
“She’s alone,” I say. “And homeless because I moved her out of her apartment. She has nothing. I’m sure she went home. To Nebraska. I can’t imagine she has anywhere else to go.”
“You should call her, sir.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I should.”
Thirty-Three
Mari
* * *
“Oh, my goodness, Maribel, look at this!” My mother holds up a lamb onesie and squeals.
“It’s way too early to be buying that stuff,” I say, yanking it out of her hand and placing it back on the rack. We came to Target for five things and somehow we ended up with an overflowing cart of random shit, and now we’re in the baby clothes section. “I’m not even out of the first trimester.”
“Don’t be so negative. I’m only trying to make lemonade out of these lemons,” she says, swatting her hand at me. “Not that the baby’s a lemon. But you know what I mean. I’m trying to make this fun, Mar. Work with me here.”
She plucks a miniature three-piece suit from one rack and a lavender polka dot dress from another, holding them up.
“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” she asks.
“I don’t know?”
“I knew from the very beginning with you,” she says, grinning as her eyes flash with bittersweet nostalgia. “Mother’s instinct. You were the easiest pregnancy. And the best baby. I’d give anything to relive some of those moments. Cherish them. It goes so fast, trust me.”
She points at me before placing the clothes back on their respective hooks and moving onto a haphazard clearance rack that looks like a pack of wild monkeys tore through it.
My bag vibrates, and it takes a second for me to realize someone’s calling me. For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone, and my mother is still yammering on about how easy I was to potty-train and how I never once tried to climb out of my crib.
But curiosity gets the better of me, and I reach in to check the Caller ID.
Hudson’s name is the last thing I expect to see flashing on the screen, but there it is in bold white letters.
Struggling to breathe for a second, it’s as if time freezes.
He hasn’t reached out to me since I left Montauk earlier this week. Not once.
What could he possibly want now?
Before I so much as consider answering it, I force myself to press the red button on the screen. I can’t talk to him. Not today.
Not ever.
Thirty-Four
Hudson
* * *
The call goes to voicemail, just as I suspected it would.
“Attention Airstream Passengers, Flight 607 from New York to Omaha’s Eppley Airfield will begin boarding momentarily. Please report to Terminal C at this time,” a woman’s voice plays over the speakers.