Sophie (The Boss 8)
Emma had seen parts of me that she'd wanted her daughter to know. Now, I could see them, too.
I could raise the hell out of this ward.
Chapter Sixteen
The doorbell filled my stomach with butterflies. We’d been waiting for one more guest to arrive before our party was fully assembled. Our New Year’s Eve party was an intimate gathering; Mom and Tony, of course. And the girls—minus Molly, who’d gone home for Christmas break. Rudy was there, and Ian and Penny with their adorable twins, who captivated Olivia. Deja had driven out with Piet that morning, but the guest who was late was probably the one most important to me.
“Fuck. That. Flight.” Holli staggered in, wilted and exhausted.
“How was Shanghai?” I asked as Deja met her wife half-way across the living room.
“Far away,” she groaned. “I was in the air for thirteen hours.”
“At least you made it home for New Year’s Eve,” Penny said, jostling one of the babies from one hip to the other. I couldn’t tell them apart when they wore identical outfits.
El-Mudad stepped beside me and slid his arm casually around my waist. I loved that we could do that now, even if I noticed my mother turn away slightly.
“What do you think?” El-Mudad asked, keeping his voice low.
Through a tightly clenched smile, I responded quietly, “I think there are way too damn many kids here.”
“No, my poor, suffering Sophie.” El-Mudad chuckled in sympathy. “I mean, are you ready?”
I glanced across the room at Neil, whose conversation with Ian had been interrupted. When our eyes met, Neil raised one brow. He was so handsome in his beige linen suit, the jacket unbuttoned over a white button-down with no tie. Not wishing to be outdone, El-Mudad had chosen bespoke Tom Ford, also in white, with swirling gold appliques on the lapels. Mom had commented on how fancy we’d all dressed for the occasion.
She had shown up in an embroidered Caroline Rose caftan and sequined Joan Vass pants, but of course, we were over the top.
Maybe I was, a little bit. My strapless Caroline Herrera gown glittered with white and gold sequins that made me look like I was wearing a giant champagne bottle label. The black slash at the waist exacerbated the effect, but I’d worn it both for the New Year and for the other celebration we had planned.
“Now that the last of our guests have arrived, may we have everyone’s attention for a moment?” Neil called out in the same clear, authoritative voice he’d used to call meetings in the office. Everyone turned to look his way. El-Mudad and I crossed the room to join him as he went on. “We had an ulterior motive for bringing everyone here tonight. Would you all join us out on the terrace?”
“The terrace?” Mom objected. “It’s like twenty degrees out.”
“Is it?” Neil pretended to be shocked.
“Don’t,” I warned him. The last thing I wanted was for tonight to be marred by the memory of my mother and my husband snapping at each other.
Nothing’s going to mar your memories of tonight, Scaife, I scolded myself. I turned away so my smile wouldn’t spoil the surprise, though some of our guests weren’t quite as obtuse as my mom; Holli gave me a raised eyebrow to indicate she knew exactly what we had planned.
Okay, so we were a little predictable. And dramatic. Dramatically predictable, even, since our grand reveal involved a white tent with glittering light from golden bulbs crisscrossing over our heads. A semi-circle seating area of cushioned, backless benches surrounded a table decorated to match our gold and white theme. On the table, photos of our family—El-Mudad and his girls pre-preschool; one of the many wedding photos in which Neil was more distracted by his adorable grandbaby than his super hot bride; and one that Neil had brought out from an album he hadn’t looked at for years.
It was Neil, so much younger than he was now, impossibly young, wearing a puffy surgical cap and a yellow sterile gown, holding a very ugly, very angry infant already waving an angry fist at the world. He beamed down at the little bundle in his arms, his face transformed by the same instant, fierce love I’d seen when he’d first laid eyes on Olivia.
I’d gasped at the photo when he’d shown it to El-Mudad and me earlier in the day. It had struck me that when Emma had been born, Neil had been the age then that I’d been when we’d first reconnected. Twenty-four, faced with the birth of his first child, looking down the barrel of single fatherhood after obliterating his relationship, yet he’d looked whole.
As I walked into the tent beside him, I realized that at some point during all of this mess and wonderfulness, he’d become whole again.
A tall woman with tan skin and striking shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair waited for us at one side of the seating area; the Reverend Denise Ochoa would preside over the ceremony tonight. Olivia pushed her way through everyone to be the first in front of the group. She climbed up on one of the benches and shouted, “Happy abortion!”