And so, she and Sam were a secret, skillfully skirting their children’s lives like a well-trained concierge. This was for the kids’ benefit… but it was also kind of fun. The sneaking around and stolen glances gave the relationship extra heat. And, somewhat disturbingly, was an insight into her own husband’s liaison with her business partner. In the meat-and-potatoes world of adult tedium, affairs were sweet and sticky dulce de leche.
Benny had met Sam, and so the occasional run-in was permitted: Sam was a coworker, just like Savannah. The two liked to throw a baseball under the willow tree or make dinner together. Taco pizzas or sloppy joes were Liv’s son’s favorite meals to cook with the gentle, patient chef. After a while, Ben started bringing him up in conversation: Sam said bananas float in water. Sam thinks the Mets have a real chance this year. Sam was one of twenty invited to a Friday night Shabbat, and not just because he offered to make beef brisket.
But Liv had never met Sam’s daughter, Dottie. Sam talked about her but hadn’t offered to show pictures. Sam’s ex-wife had a firm no kids on social media policy, and so his five-year-old was absent from the ghost town that was his never-updated Facebook page. Liv assumed that sharing this part of his life with her—arguably, the biggest and most sensitive part—was something he wasn’t ready for, or felt she wasn’t ready for. So she was more than aware of the significance when, one afternoon, Sam leaned back into the old sofa they’d first made love on and said, “Would you like to see some pictures?”
Liv’s heart leaped straight up in the air. “I’d love to.”
And only now, as Sam started fiddling with his phone, did the reality of a future together suddenly come into full view. A blended family. The four of them, under one roof. Would they live here in the brownstone? Sam in the bedroom she’d shared with Eliot, Dottie in the guest room, guests on the sofa? Would Sam be okay with raising Ben Jewish, would they have to start doing Christmas, what would Ben think of that? It was far, far too soon to think about any of this, and the too-early introduction of all the questions gave Liv a faint headache. Oh shit, she thought, lightheaded, as she accepted the phone Sam handed her. Am I about to meet my… stepdaughter?
A rush of hot-cold swept her body. She closed her eyes and inhaled a grounding breath. Then she focused on the picture on Sam’s phone, both panicked and excited by what it would present.
Liv had never found other people’s children as awe-inspiring as her own. Before becoming a parent, babies appeared to be squirmy, starry-eyed drool machines. Ben, on the other hand, well, Ben was a delicious and perfect baby, king of the babies, the best baby in the world!… But this sudden change of mind did not extend to every baby. Her child was magnificent. Other children were fine.
And then Liv Goldenhorn set eyes on Dottie Woods.
A new part of her heart, hitherto undiscovered, unlocked.
In the picture, a blond-pigtailed girl was mugging at the camera. She was wearing a yellow slicker, mid-stomp in a puddle. Her chubby face was streaked with mud. She was supremely, ecstatically happy.
Dottie Woods was perfect.
She also had Down syndrome.
“We found out when Claudia was pregnant. We could have…” Sam drifted off. “We didn’t.”
All at once, Liv wanted to know every single thing about her—did she have a favorite movie, who were her friends, what was her nighttime routine? Was she shy or gregarious? Cautious or a whole ball of trouble?
What did it mean to have a child with special needs?
Sam’s voice became wobbly in the near distance, telling her what an awesome kid Dottie was and that Down syndrome didn’t define who she was. “Her smile lights up the room. She’s just a typical little girl.”
A long-dormant desire awoke fast and hard, like someone breaking the surface and gasping for air.
I always wanted a daughter.
Liv started to cry. It took her completely by surprise. Sam was just as alarmed. “What? What’s wrong?”
Liv couldn’t answer. She put her head in her hands and wept.
Sam made a worried noise and shifted closer, willing to wait for an explanation. She pressed her face into his flannel shirt. The smell of his fabric softener—that clean, sweet, domestic smell—calmed her. The reasons for her emotion started to bubble up.
Because she had not had a daughter of her own.
Because her marriage had failed and Eliot was gone.
Because she loved her son so completely.
Because she was falling in love with the man next to her.
Because she was going to fall in love with this little girl and everything would change and nothing would ever be the same. And that was going to be hard, so hard, so mind-blowingly hard.
But it could also be good. It could also be so good.
“Liv,” Sam tried again. “What’s wrong?”
She looked deep into his caramel-brown eyes, pressing her hand against his cheek. The truth was the impossible made real. “I’m just… so… happy.”
67
Zia wrestled with discussing the money Layla needed with Clay. While it might be possible to ask one day, it was impossible now.
The Jungle of Us’s biggest financier had dropped out. There were problems with shooting permits in Brazil. The writer was lagging on the latest draft, the studio was getting cold feet about an important gay sex scene: the list went on. As one of the executive producers, Clay was doing everything he could to help put out the fires. And on top of all that, the conversation Zia and Darlene shared in their yoga studio had been placed as a blind item. Which sexy movie star is keeping a yoga-toned girlfriend secret from his many fans? Our spies say this dark-haired beauty is begging her jungle man to commit!
Zia read the gossip blog three times before the words sunk in. “But that was a private conversation!”
Clay swept his hands through his hair. He’d been in fourteen-hour rehearsals and punishing training sessions for weeks. “Doesn’t matter.”
A vague memory of two girls in matching leopard-print Lululemon came into focus. They’d spied on her? “I was talking with Darlene. I was being careful.”
“Not careful enough. I just—” Clay released a frustrated breath. “Look, it’s not a big deal…”
Zia dropped the phone on Clay’s kitchen countertop. Shame twisted her stomach. “Then why are you upset?”
“Because you need to be more discreet, Zia! Privacy protects us both.”
“I was being discreet.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I need to be able to talk to my friends about my boyfriend!” Zia raised her voice without meaning to. “That’s normal, that’s what normal people do.”
“I guess we’re not normal, then.”
“Well, it’s starting to feel really, really wrong.”
The silence that filled the penthouse had the weight of concrete. Zia’s heart pounded beneath a too-tight new bra. This was supposed to be a relaxed and sexy night.
Clay put one hand on the kitchen counter carefully. His voice was guarded. “What are you saying?”
It felt like an invitation to break up: I’m saying this isn’t working. I’m saying this is over. Is that what he wanted? Was he breaking up with her? No. They were not breaking up over one little mistake. Clay was leaving for Brazil in two short days: this was not the time to negotiate new rules, or God forbid, take a break. He was stressed and sleep-deprived and ultimately, what he’d said earlier was right. This wasn’t a big deal.