“You didn’t eat today?” He tsks at me. “Am I going to have to start sending food to you during the day? Packing your lunch?”
“You’ve already hired a cleaning service for me. I’ll manage my own food, thank you very much.”
“You have to promise me you’re going to make sure you’re eating.”
“Okay, Dad. I promise I’ll make sure I eat.”
He smiles, but he also states, “I’m serious. Promise me.”
“You’re real big on the promises these days, huh?” I tease, but his eyes are unrelenting, damn near boring holes into my skull until I acquiesce.
“Fine,” I say on a sigh and hold up my free hand in the air. “I promise. Sheesh.”
Of course, his responding smile is victorious. “Good.”
Truthfully, prior to Izzy’s arrival in my life, I can’t remember a time when I’d simply forget to eat. Hell, I’d schedule client appointments around my lunch schedule. But everything about my life has felt off ever since I got the call about Isabella and Oliver, the one that changed my life forever.
It’s like the anxiety and stress and grief and every other hard emotion rolling around inside my heart have made some of the simplest things feel like impossible tasks.
The first week after their funerals, I was pretty much a nonverbal, insomniac zombie, just kind of meandering around my apartment. I couldn’t sleep, could hardly eat, and I cried what felt like every hour of every day.
Isabella wasn’t just my sister; she was my best friend. She was my family. My only family in this life. And now, all I have left of her is this sweet little baby in my arms.
I stare down at Izzy and silently wonder if we’re going to be okay.
It’s just you and me, kid, I mentally whisper. Just you and me.
When the threat of emotion starts to migrate into my throat, I clear it and distract my heavy thoughts with something else.
“So…uh…how did your meeting go, by the way?” I ask Remy as he pulls two plates out of my kitchen cabinet.
“My client spent the entire meeting holding Izzy.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“I told you he loved kids,” he answers with a soft laugh.
“And seriously, Izzy didn’t give you any problems?”
“Like I said, she was an angel. Slept the entire time.”
Thank goodness.
I lean down to kiss the top of Izzy’s head. Good job, sweetheart. Good job.
Remy starts to dish our food onto the plates, but when his cell phone rings, he pauses to answer it. “Hey, Phil. How’s it going?” he greets the caller, but before his conversation progresses further, my phone starts ringing loudly from my purse.
With Izzy held securely in my arms, I snag the phone out of the front pocket, and even though I don’t recognize the number, I answer. “Maria Baros.”
“Hey, Maria. It’s Michael Longview.”
My smile is genuine. “Oh wow. It’s been a while. How are you and Shelly? How’s Paris?”
About two years ago, I helped Michael and his wife Shelly sell their Nolita apartment so that they could move to France. Their architectural firm had landed a big project just outside Paris and required their full-time attention.
“We’re great,” he answers. “Paris is great. But we’re missing having some New York roots. We’d like you to fix that for us.”
Izzy starts fussing, and before I can even blink, Remy is already pulling her out of my arms and setting her in her vibrating chair. His phone still pressed against his ear.
“I’d love to help,” I tell Michael as I get to work making a bottle while Remy busies Izzy with a pacifier in her mouth. “You want to find something in Nolita again or branch out to a different neighborhood?”
“Definitely Nolita.”
“And square footage?”
“Nothing smaller than four thousand.”
Once Izzy’s bottle is ready, I turn and relieve Remy of pacifier duties and lift her out of her chair. Both of us still on the phone. He goes back to plating our food, and I take Izzy into the living room to feed her on the couch while Michael gives me an idea of what he and Shelly are hoping to find in terms of bedrooms, bathrooms, and views.
Per usual, Izzy girl goes at her bottle like a woman starved.
“We shouldn’t make any changes until the markets open…” I hear Remy say into his phone as he sets our plates on the coffee table.
“We can come into town in about two weeks,” Michael comments into my ear. “Would that work for you?”