My son blinks up at me, golden lashes fluttering as he takes in the unfamiliar ceiling. He’s awake. Alert. Curious. One chubby fist is curled around the edge of his blanket, the other in his mouth.
Darragh isn’t with her. He called earlier to say he’s helping Sophie get ready. They’re flying to a Midwest clinic this weekend to see a specialist about her allergies.J.P. has been tested, and so far, he’s negative for all allergens.
My son squeals and kicks, the sound rich and happy. He’s not had a cold in a few weeks.
Ana faces me. “You ready for a whole weekend?”
“We sure are. You ready, champ?” I murmur with a baby fist bump. “First weekend in Manhattan.”
In the past month, I’ve been taking him for a few hours. Mostly bringing him to see my mother, who met my wife and gave me her seal of approval.
She’ll meet the rest of the family on Christmas Eve. I suggested she should have a glass of wine before we drive to Astoria. Or two.
“Where do you want this?” Ana holds up the diaper bag and a knapsack.
“Nursery. Come on.” I lift my son out of the carrier and lead Ana to J.P.’s room.
“Let me get the door,” Scarlett says, bouncing ahead. “And let’s show her the constellation ceiling lights we set up.”
J.P.’s been here before. Napped in the crib for an afternoon visit while Darragh, Ana, and Sophie visited and got to know my wife a little more.
The first time Ana saw the nursery, she said, “I assume Scarlett did all this?”
My humble wife answered for herself, “Nope. It was here when I moved in.”
Ana’s attention snapped back to me. “I’m impressed.”
I sighed. There was no point dodging it. “Shea-Lynne sent a designer.”
Ana’s lips curved into a smile. “Of course she did.”
“But it was my vision. I just…outsourced the execution.”
Something warm flickers in Ana’s eyes today as well. Approval. Relief.
Relief that I made it out of the darkness, too.
J.P. grunts loudly and squirms in my arms, his face scrunching in unmistakable protest.
Scarlett is already there. “I’ve got him,” she says easily and places him on the changing table with practiced hands. “Looks like a diaper situation.”
Ana watches my wife for a beat. Really watches her. Not territorial. Not tense. Satisfied. Happy.
After his diaper change, J.P. lets out a delighted shriek as Scarlett scoops him up and presses a kiss to his temple. With my son on her hip and all the natural instincts of being a mother, she brings him to the bookcase to show him all his stuffed toys.
“I should go,” Ana says, backing away. “It’s always hard to leave him. With anyone. Text me if you have any questions. Pictures are encouraged.”
Quid Pro Quo. All that she sent to me. She deserves it.
“Got it,” I say with a smile.
“Thank you, Scarlett,” Ana says to my wife with a soft wave.
“Anytime,” my wife says, smiling and cuddling my son.
Ana leaves the nursery, and I follow her into the hallway, then out into the corridor.
“I’ll be done in a minute,” she tells her guards, who take the stairs.