Please Me (Stark Trilogy 4.2)
Chapter One
“Well, I think it’s a brilliant idea,” I say, squatting on the floor and smiling into my daughter’s eyes, even though the words are meant for Abby, my business partner. “And so does Anne, don’t you, my sweet little girl?”
“Mama!” She belts the word, and it wraps around me like a hug to my heart. Her chubby arms reach for me as she toddles over, and I eagerly cuddle her close as she yawns and rubs her eyes, then snuggles against me. It’s forty minutes past her usual nap time, and although she’s peaceful now, I know that crankiness is imminent if I don’t get her down pronto.
Carefully, I settle her into the white crib that takes up a large chunk of the space beside my desk. “Nap time,” I say, then bend over and give her forehead a kiss. “Time for Anne to go sleepy-bye and dream of Miss Abby’s awesome idea.”
As her lids flutter closed, she reaches for me. But I know it’s not Mommy she wants but her blankie, and I bend down to grab the striped hospital blanket that came home with us just shy of twenty months ago. We’ve tried urging stuffed animals on her. A smiling tiger. A silly giraffe. But no animal wins out over her blankie.
Her lips curve into a smile at the same time as her little fingers curl around the blanket. I feel a hitch in my chest, as if the weight of my love for this tiny little person is too much to bear. Then I draw in a breath and try to shift my thoughts away from my youngest daughter and back to the world of smartphone apps.
When I turn, Abby flashes a wide grin, her eyes shining with humor. “You’re cracking me up, Nikki,” she whispers. “I mean, this has got to be the weirdest developmental meeting ever.”
I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. “What can I say?” I whisper back. “I like to be different.” I grab the baby monitor, then nod toward the back door and the patio beyond where we can talk without the risk of waking my little girl. “Come on.”
Anne’s always been a good sleeper. But like her namesake, Ashley Anne Fairchild Price, she’s a cranky little monster if she doesn’t get enough.
My sister Ashley was my rock when I was growing up, the reason I survived the horror of a childhood with our mother at the helm. I relied on Ashley. Looked up to her. And loved her unconditionall
y.
But dear God, that girl was a bitch if she didn’t get a good night’s sleep.
My youngest, I fear, is going to be a lot like her auntie.
The thought makes my chest tighten again, only this time the love is tainted with pain. Because Anne will never know my sister. For so many years, I’d believed that Ashley had escaped from the hell our mother had inflicted on us. I thought that only I remained caught in her spiderweb, forced to starve and suffer all sorts of abuse at my mother’s hand simply so that I could be her pretty, polished pageant doll.
Cutting had been my ultimate escape. A release valve for all the horror and pain that built up inside of me. And when the deep cuts on my thighs rendered me useless in a bathing suit competition, I finally found my freedom. From that particular horror, anyway.
Ashley’s escape was more permanent. Believing that she’d failed as a wife—that she would never live up to that model of perfection our mother so rigidly demanded—she killed herself.
Her death ripped a hole in my heart.
I’ve missed her for years, but now that I have children, her absence weighs on me even more. Now there are two little girls who will never know their aunt. And I’m the only one who will ever truly understand the hole Ashley’s absence will leave in their lives.
“You okay?” Abby catches my eye before settling into one of the upholstered patio chairs.
“Fine,” I say, then manufacture a smile, willing my mood to match the lie. “Mind wandering.” I take the chair next to her so that we’re both looking out over the pristine Malibu beach and the crashing waves of the Pacific beyond.
We’re at the beachfront cottage Damien built for me before we had kids. I’d mentioned that the only thing our stunning hillside house lacked was a back door that opened right onto the sand.