Anchor Me (Stark Trilogy 4)

"When I get back. I have the trip, remember?" He glances up at me. "That's when I'll shoot digitally. And when my app comes in so handy. I would have come to your office today. I'm the client, remember?"

"True enough. But I wanted to see you here."

Frank is a travel photographer, and so he spends most of his time bouncing around the globe. He recently hired me to design an app by which he could display and sell his work even when he's on the go, and I came today ostensibly to go over some of the tweaks in the programming with him.

"Is something wrong?" He looks at me with a furrowed brow. "I've got a lot of subscribers now--we're not going to have a chunk of downtime while I'm in Europe, are we?"

"The app's fine. Honestly, it doesn't even need any tweaks. I just wanted to talk to you."

"Oh." He stares at the loop in his hand, then puts it down on the table before looking at me. "Are you okay? I heard about you fainting. In Dallas."

I make a face. "On the front lawn of our old house."

"You're sick?"

There's so much concern on his face that I'm certain he hasn't heard any of the other rumors.

"I'm not sick," I assure him as I keep my eyes fixed on his face. "I'm pregnant. You're going to be a grandfather."

At first, his expression is entirely blank, and I'm afraid that I've made a horrible mistake. That he's been fine knowing me--a daughter who's really more of an acquaintance. Someone he can point to and say that he has some connection with, but nobody real. Somebody he can just walk away from again if he feels the urge.

But a grandchild will be different. So small and trusting. So easily hurt.

My breath hitches in my throat. I'd been a baby when he walked away. And it's with a sudden burst of horrible clarity that I realize the risk I've taken opening my heart even a little bit to this man. It's one thing for him to walk away from me, but I don't know that I could survive the pain if he eased his way into my child's life, and then blithely turned his back.

"I--" I'm planning to say that I'm sorry. That I shouldn't have presumed he would care.

That I never should have come at all.

But he cuts me off, and when he speaks, I see that his eyes are glistening. "Nikki--oh, Nikki, that's wonderful. I can't--" His voice breaks and he clears his throat. "I'm very, very happy."

A wild, crazy relief cuts through me, and I realize a tear is trickling down my own cheek. I wipe it away, sniffling a little, but smiling. "Wow. We're kind of a pair, aren't we?"

He chuckles, then pulls me into an awkward hug. For a moment, I'm limp, and with a quick shock, I realize that this is the first time that he's really held me like a daughter. I draw in a breath filled with hope and love, then squeeze him tightly. "Thanks," I whisper.

"For what?"

I lift a shoulder, not really sure myself. "For coming back."

"No," he says. "Thank you for letting me back in."

I sit down on one of the gray, folding chairs, feeling a little wobbly and emotional, then wipe my nose. "I thought I saw Mother yesterday."

It feels like a complete non sequitur, but Frank seems to understand the way my mind works even better than I do, because he cocks his head, pulls a chair close to me, and says, "Do you want to let her back in, too?"

"No."

The word is sharp and fast and firm, but even as I say it, my heart aches. Now that I'm going to be a mom, the absence of my own mother seems doubly painful.

"No," I repeat, this time with less certainty. "But I want to know what she's doing. She left Dallas. I think she came here. I think she's watching me, and I don't know why."

He rubs the side of his mouth with his thumb, something I've noticed that he does when he's about to say something he's not sure I'll like. I first noticed it when he asked me to change the menu configuration on the app. I didn't mind doing it, but apparently he thought I'd be irked that he didn't care for the way I'd laid out all the elements.

"What?" I press, when he stays silent.

"Now, don't take this the wrong way, but maybe you imagined her. Your mother's not exactly the type to hide in the shadows, is she?"

I hesitate, because the times I've seen her she's seemed so real. But he's right--Elizabeth Fairchild is not the kind to hide. "I don't know," I say. "But you might have a point. I'm not keen to think I'm hallucinating, but that's better than having her be real," I tilt my head from side to side. "So thanks. I think."

He chuckles. "That's what fathers are for." As soon as he's said the words, I can see that he wants to take them back. He is my father, but we've never really gone there. And in this one conversation, I've had a fatherly hug and this paternal support. Obviously, he's thinking that maybe he's taken it a step too far.

But he hasn't. Just the opposite, in fact. And when I say, "Yeah, that's exactly what dads are for," I hope he understands.

He clears his throat. "So, ah, I know you don't need me right here--you did just fine over the years without me--but I'm wondering if now, well, with you being pregnant and all--" He pauses to take a deep breath. "Well, I was just wondering if I should postpone my trip."

"Oh!" I hadn't even thought of that. He's leaving for Ireland tomorrow morning, and from there, he's going to the Cotswolds and then Paris and Prague and a bunch of different destinations in Germany and Italy. It's a six-month-long itinerary, and he's not just traveling to shoot stock, he also has some specific gigs lined up.

"No," I say. "You should go. I mean, I want you here, of course, but it's not like anything much is going to happen for a while. And you'll be back before I'm due."

"I don't know . . ."

"I do," I say. "This is your livelihood. I'm not going to stop working. You don't need to either."

His mouth thins and he nods. "All right. If you're sure."

I nod, but part of me isn't sure. Part of me wants him here. Part of me thinks that's what parents do.

And part of me wonders how I can actually be a parent without understanding the nuances at all, having never really experienced them.

"I'm sure," I repeat, and then nod, because I know it's the right decision. "And thanks, Grandpa."

14

I spend the rest of the afternoon tweaking Frank's app because I want it to be fully functional before he leaves the country. Fortunately, I finish it at the office, because by the time I get home and am ready to settle in with Damien, I'm pulled under by exhaustion again. I end up dozing on the couch with my feet on his lap while he alternates between reading science journals and financial reports.

"This is tops of my list," I murmur when I manage to peel open my eyes.

"What's that, baby?"

"Questions for the doctor. This one is at the top. When does it end? I feel like I'm only living half a life."

"Ah, but it's a half with foot massages," he says, putting down his magazine and rubbing my swollen feet and ankles in a way that makes me think I've discovered heaven. "And I looked it up. It gets better after the first trimester."

"I'm not sure this massage can get any better."

"I meant the exhaustion," he says with a laugh.

"How about the swelling in my ankles and feet?" I've switched to flats, but it's still uncomfortable. "It'll get better after the first trimester, too, right?"

"Actually, it's usually worse later. Apparently, swelling is normal early in a pregnancy, just not common."

"Great." I frown as I prop myself up on my elbows. "You really looked all this up?"

He looks at me like I've just asked the world's silliest question. "Of course I did."

I sigh, feeling satisfied and loved. Yes, I think before I drift off. Of course, he did.

I wake in bed to the sound of a helicopter landing in our backyard and remember that Damien has a breakfast meeting in San Diego. But he'd told me he would be back by noon if I needed anything.

I can't imagine what that would be since my entire day is going to consist of working on the Greystone-Branch project in my office, something I fully intend to jump into after I eat the pancakes that Damien left warming for me in the oven.

So far, I haven't had pregnancy cravings, but if I do, I hope it's for chocolate chip pancakes, because the ones Damien makes are almost as orgasmic as the man himself.