“Oh, stop,” said Melissa. “She’s beautiful.” She was drunk on hormones, adrenaline and exhaustion.
Orialis Melody Spencer Fairchild weighed nine pounds, three ounces and was twenty-two inches long. With her genes, she would turn gorgeous, I had no doubt. Still, there was a wee bit of pleasure in handing her to Brad after I’d swaddled her and watching a look of confusion come over his face.
“She does look like Nicolas Cage,” he said. “After a bender.”
“I think she looks exactly like you,” I said, keeping my tone warm.
“She’s huge,” he said. “Is this normal?”
“She’s on the larger side, which makes Melissa’s delivery even more heroic, but she seems perfectly healthy,” I said. “Family picture?”
“Not . . . not right now,” Melissa said. She glanced at Bradley. “Maybe just of Orialis, Ophelia and me,” she said, reaching to hold her child. “Hashtag girl-power.”
“There’s still time to rethink the name,” Ophelia said. “Another Shakespeare name? Goneril, maybe? Cressida? Anything would be better than Orialis.”
I sure did like that kid. I winked at her, and she grinned back.
“It goes with Ophelia quite nicely,” Melissa said, staring at her daughter. “Ophelia, come get in this picture. Bradley? Can you take a few?”
After fifteen minutes, I offered to take a picture of the four of them, and they accepted. But I could read Brad’s body language, and with Nic Cage’s face staring up from an infant’s body, I had a feeling that Brad wasn’t going to make the best girl dad to Orialis.
* * *
Sure enough, a month after he became a father for the second time, my ex-husband knocked on my door, suitcase in hand. It was nearly a year to the day after he’d told me he wanted a divorce.
“Are you here to tell me about the church of the Latter-day Saints, or are you selling essential oils?” I asked, not opening the door.
“Lillie. How are you?”
“Fine,” I said. I didn’t open the door. Zeus stood at my side, wagging, the dopey dog. “Attack,” I whispered. He looked at me and smiled his doggy smile.
“Can I come in?” Brad asked. “I have a lot to say.”
“You can say it from there,” I said.
“I guess I deserve that,” he said, looking up at me from beneath a furrowed brow, his freaky blue eyes penitent. “Lillie, there are no excuses for what I did, but there are reasons.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I’d like to apologize,” he said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and, well . . . I don’t think Melissa and I are going to work out.”
“You’re leaving your wife a month after she gave birth?” I asked.
“It was a mutual agreement,” he said.
“So she kicked you out.”
“I like to think of it as coming home to my true wife. I had a breakdown, Lillie. I haven’t been myself. I’ve always loved you. I miss our family. I want to live with you and Dylan again. Share the holidays again. My parents miss you so much, and I . . . I’ve learned so much about myself.”
I looked at my watch. “You done?” I asked.
“So can we try again? Please? Twenty years is worth a second chance, as you said.”
Looking at his familiar, handsome face, I did remember the now-distant longing for the past. I thought I’d done such a great job creating our life, our home, our family. I remembered feeling so special because Brad Fairchild of the amazing blue eyes and classic bone structure, this son of Beacon Hill, had chosen me, the down-to-earth daughter of a hardworking fisherman.
“You never deserved me, Brad,” I said. “And you know what? You didn’t deserve Melissa, either. I’m glad she dumped you.”
“But you hate her!” he said.
“Nah. Not anymore,” I answered. “As for you, I’m sorry, Brad. You’re just not worth it.” I smiled. “But we’ll always be Dylan’s parents.”
“Well, where am I supposed to go?” Brad asked. “Can I at least rent the studio from you?”
“The prenup was that good, huh? I’m guessing you can’t afford to rent the studio, and even if you could, I wouldn’t have you here. Go home to your mommy,” I told him. “Now. You’re on Silva property, and you’re trespassing. Time for you to go.”
With a disappointed sigh and a tragic face, Brad turned around and trudged back to his Jaguar.