We were up until almost midnight—Lia, Tasha, Chris, and me—finishing the party favors Lia wanted to give all the guests. There were homemade bubble wands that curved to make our initials, glass vials of bubble solution, and little fabric bags of flower petals. Lia claimed they were sachets to make everything smell pretty. I’m fairly certain they were originally intended for a different project that she knew we didn’t have time for and turned them into potpourri as a last minute gift.
“How is Lia?” Paul is sitting on the arm of my favorite chair in my study, nervously rubbing his hands on his knees. He has been here since shortly after breakfast time, vacillating between being unsure if he’s ready to walk his daughter down the aisle or if he’s excited to see Lia in her dress. She’s let me see her through all the fittings, wanting my opinion every step of the way, but she wanted it to be a surprise for everyone else. After the rocky start we had thanks to her former step-mother, Lia and I have worked hard at communicating. We talk until we think we’re done talking, then clarify our positions one more time. Usually, our conversations end with us sweaty, sticky, and exhausted from great sex. After being interrupted while outside near the pool, Tasha and Lia developed a series of colored scarves that they’d leave around the house as warnings.
“Lia is not puking, which she’s grateful for,” I answer him. “She is pretty tired and sore, though.” Her bouts of morning sickness and all day sickness subsided as she reached the third trimester, but our little one’s constant movement is keeping Lia up at night. As much as I hate seeing her so miserable, the entire process of the pregnancy amazes me. “I think she got up to pee at least three times last night.” I managed to stay awake through two of them, trying to be supportive.
Paul snorts and tries not to smile. “It’s practice for the sleepless nights to come.” He goes silent as he counts on his fingers. “She has what, three weeks left?”
I nod and fasten the cuff links Lia made me as a wedding gift. They look like miniature versions of the sculpture hanging in my office. The mirrored surfaces are so tiny they could be disco balls in a doll house. I really don’t know how she could capture so many details in such a small form. “The weeks are going to go so quickly. We have our staycation sort of honeymoon with maternity spa specialists coming up to the house daily to give massages and otherwise pamper Lia.” With the pregnancy so far along at this point, Lia’s doctor doesn’t want her traveling outside of the city in case she goes into labor. We planned some day trips around town, but nothing that exhausts her. I know we both need to rest up in the days to come in preparation for the little one’s arrival.
Paul grins, his reflection visible in the over the door mirror I’m using for adjusting my tie and cuffs. “So, Beck, do you think you can tell me what you’re having? Lia still refuses.”
With all the drama surrounding the reveal of our relationship and pregnancy, Lia wanted something that was just ours. As much as I wanted to scream the news from the top of Huntsworth Industries and put it in our company newsletter as soon as we found out at the ultrasound appointment, I knew that it was important to Lia. With so much out of our control, she wanted just a tidbit of news that only we were aware of.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling. “Your daughter threatened my family jewels if I even consider it. I’m sorry, Paul. You’ll know in less than a month,” I offer.
No one except Tasha knows that we’re having a little girl, and that’s how Lia wants to keep it. With my own grand-daughter due to be born just three days after my daughter, the OB/GYN is joking that she will do a two-for-one deal on the delivery room if Lia and Tasha deliver on the same day. Given how close they have been for most of their lives, it’s half-expected that they’ll go into labor together. Lia claims it’s hormones, and I say it is their sheer stubborn determination to stay the same. If one broke a bone or got a sprain as a child, we could practically set the clock by when the other would start screaming about having fallen and hurt herself, too.
My excitement over having a second daughter is hard to keep to myself, and anything pink we’ve bought was smuggled into the locked nursery where wedding attendees won’t be able to see it. The fact that I haven’t spilled the news by accident to even our housekeeper has been miraculous. I’m lucky that technology was not so far advanced when Carrie was pregnant with Tasha. I don’t think the younger me had the willpower to keep such a secret.
Paul glowers at me, trying to force the knowledge out of me with a sulk. He doesn’t have even a quarter of the effect Lia does. “She already told me you’re having a girl, so you can stuff the silent treatment, Beck.”
I know she wouldn’t have told her dad, especially without my knowing, so I just shrug. “Then you’ll have to see if you’re right when the baby’s here.” I hope he won’t call my bluff, and I fix my hair as he seethes behind me. While we have chosen a handful of names, we haven’t picked the one yet. We want to meet our daughter and get to know her before settling on a name, and we know we would both slip up beyond calling her “the baby.”
“You and my daughter are so damned stubborn!” Paul stands up and stomps his way over to the window. “I just want to know if I’m having a grandson or granddaughter. Is that too much to ask?”
“Has the wedding planner gotten the floral arch up?” It’s not a smooth segue, but I hope the distraction will work. I value my friendship with Paul, and he has been upset over the secrecy for a few months now. We’ve known since our sixteen-week checkup, and Lia had even considered us not finding out.
Paul hums in response to my question, tapping the window. “Yeah. They have some kid up on a ladder attaching the rest of the flowers. It looks like they’re purple or blue, maybe. Dark is all I can tell from here. I don’t know. Lia would know the right name for them.”
The florist is right on schedule. Hiring a wedding planner to take care of everything except the actual designing was my best idea for our union. I know Lia is an amazing artist and she is fully capable of creating everything we had made for our wedding. However, I wanted her to be able to relax and enjoy our day without unnecessary worries. It took some convincing, but she willingly handed over her sketchbooks and photos of what she wanted, and I wrote the check. Even with me begging for more from Lia and the designer pushing for a larger budget on what we decided, we only spent half of what Carrie and I had on my first wedding. I did not have the job then I do now. The most extravagant expense was having fabric designed especially for us. The midnight blue accent on Lia’s gown had strands of silver woven into it while mine had an even deeper indigo shade that bordered on being black. The pattern was subtle, and I only knew that Lia was pleased with the fabric. I was happy with how the tux fit, but my tailor always did a great job.
A chirping tweet goes off in Paul’s pocket, and he swears while pulling out his phone. “This thing has been blowing up today. Oh, good, it’s just Donna.” As soon as his divorce was finalized, Lia and I set her father up on a date with the finance secretary. While it was still too early in his rebound phase for them to settle down, they had been going out on dates regularly. “Donna wrote that Lia has closed herself in the bedroom, refusing to come out or let them in. She wants to know if you can go do something?”
Paul is still talking behind me as I exit the room and sprint down the hall for the stairs. Any excuse to see Lia is a good one, but if she needs me there isn’t a force that can stop me. I take the steps two at a time and see Tasha and Donna leaning against my bedroom door. Their voices are soft and cajoling, the way one might talk to a wounded animal instead of a pregnant bride.
“What’s wrong?” I ask them. Tasha is in her bathrobe cinched tight at the waist, though her stage of pregnancy has the edges just barely meeting over her stomach. “The baby?”
Tasha holds her hands up, stopping me in my tracks. “She’s just having an emotional moment. You know pregnancy and sh-tuff. Yeah, stuff.” Tasha checks her watch and sighs. “I need to get dressed, so you go de
al with my step-mom.” She stands on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. “Do not mess up her hair, Dad. The stylist spent like an hour getting it just right.”
“I would never!” I protest.