Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters 5)

She completely and hopelessly loves our daughter.

My grin stretches. I completely and hopelessly love them.

Rose catches me staring, and I don’t pretend I wasn’t. As her eyes narrow, I hear her ice-cold voice. Richard.

I reply through my gaze, Rose.

“Sadie!” Jane calls out in glee. She almost slips off her booster seat to chase the orange tabby cat that prances beneath the table.

“No, Jane,” I tell her before Rose can. “Wait for Sadie to come to you, honey.”

Jane nods, remembering, and she sits still on her booster seat, but her eyes widen big and dart every which way the cat goes.

Sadie rubs up against my ankles, purring softly. We brought her home over a year ago, and she’s been mostly content. She has temperamental days, but I can’t fault her for them. I scoot my chair back so I can lean down and scratch behind her ears.

“What were you saying about Charlie and Beckett?” Rose asks Jane.

“Oh well…” Jane tries to tear her gaze off Sadie beneath the table. “The Name Ceremony is all about names and…and I…I think Charlie and Beckett should know theirs.”

She means the meaning behind their names. Jane likes hearing about her namesakes, and she often asks about Charlie and Beckett’s, so it’s no surprise she’d want to share this information with them.

Rose raises her wine glass, filled with sparkling water, and she clinks her knife to the side.

Beckett giggles, “Mommy!” and he kicks his legs in delight.

Rose nods to him in acknowledgement and then proclaims to the table, “Jane Eleanor is asking for a preamble to today’s ceremony. Are we all in favor?”

“I am,” I announce.

Rose places her hands on her hips, staring me down. “You just want to delay fate,” she concludes.

“If I truly wanted to delay the Name Ceremony, I’d find another way besides adding in a preamble that continues the topic of names.” I’ve zeroed in on my wife, the world shrinking to just us in a quick, sudden moment.

Rose cringes. “I see you have a twitch in your eye, Richard.”

“You’ve forgotten what a wink is, darling?” I did wink at her, just to see her eyes flame, even for the briefest, most torrid second.

“I don’t forget anything. You’re just terrible at winking.”

“Impossible.” I grin, especially as her gaze drifts to my lips like she’d love to simultaneously kill me and kiss me. “I’m skilled in everything. It’s more likely you’re just not adept at spotting a good wink from a bad one. Don’t take it to heart. You can’t win them all. Not when I can.”

Rose gags at my narcissism. “I suggest a new preamble. We silence all those named Richard Connor Cobalt.”

“No, Mommy.” Jane shakes her head vigorously. “Freedom of speech.”

Rose looks too proud of Jane to be upset at losing the battle.

Jane licks the mac-and-cheese sauce off her thumb. “What’s a preamble?”

Rose answers as she walks over to the dining hutch. “It’s an introduction.”

“Like an opening statement to a statute,” I add.

Jane mouths all of our words as though processing each one. Rose procures a cloth napkin and slams the doors closed. I study her for a moment, as she lingers with her hands on the drawer. Then Eliot stretches against my chest. I stroke my thumb in circles across his back, and he falls back to sleep.

“Rose?” I call out, my voice even-tempered. I don’t want to frighten or excite Jane over the possibility of Rose going into labor.

Rose pulls her hair into a ponytail and then returns to the table, eyes ablaze. “I’m fine.”

I don’t believe her fully.

Her nose flares like she’s restraining pain. With a tight collar, she slides the cloth napkin to Jane. “This is for you, my little gremlin.”

Jane nods with a merci, and I adjust Eliot on my side, about to ask Rose what’s wrong. She must sense this because she shakes her head at me. Then she picks her phone off the dining table.

In seconds, mine buzzes.

Not a contraction. – Rose

Then another text.

Holster your concern, Richard. We have a ceremony ahead of us. – Rose

With my free hand, I respond: the ceremony can wait if you’re in pain. I watch her glare at my message and type feverishly. I anticipate her text more than I would any other.

“So we’ll begin,” Rose declares just as she sets her phone down.

Read my lips. – Rose

My eyes flit up.

And she mouths, patience, Richard.

Patience? I nearly laugh at the idea of Rose telling me to be patient. I’d remind her that she’s the impatient one between us, but she clinks her glass again.

“Jane, would you like to tell Beckett his namesake?”

Jane nods enthusiastically and sits straighter. “Beckett Joyce Cobalt,” she recites theatrically. “You were named after Samuel Beckett, a play…a play-something or other.”

“Playwright,” Rose coaches.

“A playwatt,” Jane nods.

Beckett is more concentrated on not eating his peas, but Charlie is listening to Jane with an expression that Lily recently dubbed “the who farted” look.

“And this playwatt is famous for something or other named Waiting for Gouda.”

I put my fingers to my mouth, my grin blinding.

Rose presses her lips together to keep from laughing. She slips into her chair, and we both silently push the responsibility of correcting her at one another until I’m the first to concede.

“Godot,” I correct, swallowing my humor. “Gouda is a cheese.”

Rose snorts into her own cloth napkin.

“Something amusing, darling?” I tease.

Rose takes a deep breath, collecting herself, and unties her ponytail—just to flip her hair over a shoulder as though to say fuck you, Richard.

I nearly harden.

“Continue on, Jane,” Rose says, “You’re doing a perfect job.”

“Beckett,” Jane proudly announces, “your middle name is from a writer called James Joyce.”

I always pick out their middle names. Rose chooses their first. Most disagreements between us are settled by a bet or a game. With a win or a loss. This, we just knew. I value middle names. I go by mine. Rose values first names. She goes by hers.

“And Charlie.” Jane tries to stand on her booster seat.

“Jane,” both Rose and I say sternly for her safety, and her bottom thuds to the seat.

“Charlie,” Jane begins again like nothing went wrong, “Mommy was antipating”—she means anticipating. I’d correct her, but she speaks too quickly—“a girl. You were meant to be Charlotte after Charlotte Brontë.”

Rose decided to alter the name to Charlie once she saw that they were twin boys.

Jane stumbles over her words as she tries to recall the reasoning behind Charlie’s middle name. She looks to me for help.

I seize the expression tight. My mother never wanted me to exchange that look with her, not even when I was a child. If you’re a big boy, you’ll figure this out on your own.

I did, of course. I thrived without parents, but this expression, this exchange with my daughter, holds an incredible amount of value to me. I’m necessary in my children’s lives. It’s not a weakness on their part.

Can you help me?

Always.

I will always help them.

“Charlie Keating Cobalt,” I say to my oldest son.

“That’s me,” Charlie says in a much clearer tone than most two-year-olds.

“And do you know why you were named Keating?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re named after the poet John Keats.” Since Rose decided to alter Charlotte to Charlie, I followed suit and altered Keats to Keating. To this day, I remember the rare smile that spread across her face when I called him Charlie Keating.

It was like she took a st

ep to the side, and I willingly stepped with her.

“Right.” Jane nods as though she hadn’t forgotten. “And so it shall be.” She taps her spoon against her purple plastic cup, mimicking her mother.

Rose rises to her feet. “And now the Name Ceremony shall begin. Jane Eleanor Cobalt, will you accept the honor of naming your brother?” We haven’t checked the gender, but Rose is positive we’re having another boy.

Without any scientific indication, I can’t be as sure.

“I will.” Jane reaches for the notebook and nearly topples her cup.

Boy or girl, I’ve had a middle name in mind, but I won’t say what until Rose chooses the first name. She’s written twenty names in the notebook, and Jane is supposed to point to her favorite.

Why is this more like chance? Jane can’t read.

And so, Rose believes she’s letting “fate” guide her to the perfect name. I believe she’s letting our daughter randomly decide.

Jane spends barely a second with the notebook before pointing to a name. “This one!”

Rose steps hurriedly to Jane, wide-eyed. “Are you sure you don’t need a minute longer?”