“That poor man,” Fee says, her hands covering her face once the door slides open. “He didn’t know where to look.”
“He works in a hotel.” I take her hand and watch as Lulu skips through the very elegant yet staid hotel lobby, swinging Norm by his ear, drawing indulgent looks from the hotel residents. “I’m sure he’s seen and heard all kinds of things.”
“She made it sound as though we were ushering a one-night stand from the building, like I was just trying you out for the position of daddy.”
Sliding my hand across her shoulder, I press my lips to her ear. “I love it when you call me daddy.”
“Stop that,” she sort of giggles.
“Tell me more about positions”
“Pervert,” her mouth says. Her eyes say and I love it.
We’re so wrapped up in each other for that brief moment, we don’t realise Lulu has tripped until someone is helping her up. Dusting her off. Handing her Norman before straightening. He turns his head, those cold blue eyes immediately finding mine. The resulting sensation is like ice water through my veins.
“Carson, what is it?”
I’m aware of Fee’s fingers on my arm, feel them tightening and the tiny cry as I sense her following the line of my vision. Like a machine, I disconnect my gaze from the acknowledgment in his. Inclining my head, I look down at the woman who owns my heart.
I remember reading something once that a Greek philosopher. It suddenly makes sense. Anger is so easy, it’s anyone’s business. But being angry with the right person, to the right degree and at the right time, for the right purpose and in the right way, is not in everyone’s power. I find this so true today.
“Fiadh, I believe you’ve already met my brother.”
41
Fee
“I . . . I. . . ” I am going to be sick. Right here, on the marble floor of the St Regis. “I didn’t know you had a brother,” I eventually whisper, suddenly very relieved for the solid feel of his arm under my fingers. Except, that I can feel him, experience his breath on my cheek, watch the laughter leave his eyes like a blown out match, make this moment real. Not a nightmare it seems.
“I guess, according to him, I don’t.” His lips twist ironically. “This is like some fucked up joke the universe is playing.”
Then why aren’t we laughing? Why are we frozen to the spot while my daughter meets the man whose only contribution to her existence was some kind of prophylactic failure?
“Carson, I don’t know how to say this.” Oh, my God, they’re brothers. This is so, so wrong. His fingers cover my own, pre-empting my explanation, somehow deepening his distress before I can even say the words.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
And so I don’t. If only banishing the realisation were so easy.
Lulu glances our way, curiosity melting into anxiety before her attention is recalled. There’s a woman standing next to him. The sperm donor. The liar. She crouches down, bring her gaze level with Lulu’s.
“Please.” I try to propel Carson forward, my first instinct for my daughter over anything else.
“So fucking pathetic.” The proclamation is muttered, maybe not meant for my ears, yet it feels like a knife digging into my chest anyway. “It’s like I’d almost convinced myself she was . . .” He huffs an unhappy laugh. “Now I see why. She’s not like me. She’s like him.”
“She’s not like anyone,” I retort the moment before we reach them. “She’s like Lulu.” And if you can see that, can’t deal with that then— “Lulu. Come to me, please.”
She’s not like him. She’s not. That little girl has more concern for her stuffed rabbit than he’d ever shown me. More love in her little finger than he’ll ever have.
“Car.” The man I’d know once as Brett cants his head in an almost mocking greeting.
“Carson? As in the elusive brother?” The woman standing beside him is as effusive in her delight as he is cold. “Oh, my goodness! You said he couldn’t make it, Simon.”
“And he didn’t,” Simon, Brett, whatever, returns. His expression is soft as he places his hand over her fingers where she holds his upper arm. Then his gaze flicks to my hand, curled in almost the exact same place. Just a different brother. “In case you’ve forgotten, our engagement dinner was last night, darling.”
“Oh, hush. That was just one of them. For my friends, mostly,” she explains, her accent cultured with just a soft hint of something Southern. She’s very pretty in that sleekly sophisticated kind of way. Caramel highlights and nude pumps, her wardrobe colour choices are muted, though very unlike her personality. “Not everyone can make it to Plano,” she says, waving away her explanation as though we’re already privy the wedding details. “But that doesn’t matter now. I’m just so happy to meet you!” She steps forward and, for a frightening minute, I think she’s going to throw her arms around us. Instead, she demurely holds out her hand. “Melissa. Melissa Dupriest. Soon to be Hayes. My friends call me Melly, and as you’re practically family, you must call me the same.” The woman brims with a nervous kind of excitement, though her genuine pleasure is clear.