Chapter 32
CHAPTER 32
E lla
“Are you sure you don’t want company? Moral support? I won’t say a word. I’ll just sit there.” Archer sounds more nervous than I am, but I don’t stop to consider why that might be. I assume he’s just excited for me and doesn’t know how to help.
“No, I’m good. You’re sweet. Thank you.”
We drove to San Francisco together and now we’re sitting in Archer’s truck outside my lawyer’s office building. “I’ll just hang here, get a coffee or something. Then I can drive you back.”
“No, really. You were so nice to drive me all the way down here, but it’s the middle of the workday. Go back and take care of the piles on your desk. Tatum said she’ll meet me. She works nearby.”
Archer lingers, and I’m not sure what else to say. I don’t think he should come into the adoption meeting with me because I don’t want my lawyer to think I’m bouncing from one man to another. I told my lawyer on the downlow that I’m not going through with the marriage to Callum and expressed my fears about how that will look, but she said we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Having Archer there will just complicate things.
“I’m staying.”
“Fine. I’ll see you after.”
I race down the hallway of Cindy’s office with a spilling cup of Starbucks in my hand, hoping I don’t slip on the shiny floors. Spoiler alert, it’s happened before. I’m wearing penny loafers and a navy-blue pencil skirt that ends well above my ankles, reducing my chances of getting tangled up in myself. My purse strap slides down the arm of my suit jacket as I run, so the purse whacks my thigh as I struggle not to drop the folder in my other hand or lose the coffee cup entirely.
In other words, I’m a hot mess heading into what feels like the most important meeting of my life. Forget auditions for starring roles or sit-downs with A-list producers. I don’t think I’ve wanted any of those meetings to go right as much as this one.
I know it’s just a meeting with my lawyer, and there’s no one there from the adoption courts to judge me, but I dressed up and tamed my hair into a low chignon as though I’ll be video recorded and assessed for parental fitness. I’ve been waiting too long for this opportunity to risk anything going wrong.
Yanking open the glass door to my lawyer’s office, I’m greeted by the receptionist, who acknowledges me with a tip of her head as she finishes a conversation on her headset. I wait at the waterfall desk, trying not to convey my nerves by tapping a finger on the slick, glass surface or shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.
Finally, she ends her call and smiles at me. “Ella Fieldstone,” I tell her. “I have an appointment with Cynthia Cannon.” She types information into her computer and nods at me.
“She’ll be right with you. Would you like some water? Coffee? ”
I hold up my paper cup. “I’m good, thanks.”
Perching on the edge of a fuzzy couch covered in off-white boucle fabric, I peer at the display of magazines on a low marble table. They’ve been arranged in a fan, and Town and Country magazine happens to sit atop the pile. I flip through the issue but don’t really focus on any of the headlines or pictures. My hands need something to do, so I fan through it a second time, trying harder to take an interest in anything on the pages that shuffle by.
After what feels like three hours, Cindy breezes into the lobby and extends her arms toward me like I’m a long, lost cousin who survived passage on the Titanic . “Finally,” she says, backing away and holding my arms. “We’re there.”
“I still can’t believe it,” I tell her as we walk down the brightly lit hallway to her office. I barely notice the assistants’ cubicles and partners’ offices that we pass on the way to our destination, the large corner space at the end of the hallway. When I walk into Cindy’s office, I notice the spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge and feel grateful for her exorbitant hourly rate that affords her this vista. It’s all worth it if we really are “there.”
Cindy points to a chair, which is when I realize I’m still standing in the middle of her office, gawking at the landscape, as though I’ve never been here before. Or been anywhere. “Have a seat.” She goes around her desk to sit in her chair and looks up at me. “Ella?”
I move toward a chair and drop into it on a wobble that almost lands my ass on the floor. I have to steady myself with both arms of the gray wingback chair, and when I look over the desk at Cindy, I notice her grin. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“No, I’m really nervous.”
“That’s normal. But this is exciting, Ella. It’s going to happen.”
I nod, still in disbelief. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
“I know. I know you have, and I’m so excited for you.” She takes a folder from the top of a stack on her immaculate wood partner desk. On the side facing me, a vertical row of drawers with gleaming brass handles taunts me to slide them open just so I have something to do with my hands, but years of doing TV interviews have taught me to keep them in my lap. I inhale a cleansing breath and let it out like I do before every scene, which reminds me of the day Archer laughed at the face I make when I do it.
The moment Archer’s face enters my mind, I can’t shake it. The only thing that would make this moment better was if he were here with me. No, that’s not right. It’s not just his presence here in the room that I want. It’s his presence all the time.
Much as I’ve tried over the past few days, I can’t deny the fact that I wish it were the two of us getting ready to adopt a baby and start a life together.
Shaking myself back to the present, I plaster a smile on my face and try to push Archer from my mind. The idea of a tiny baby girl reels me in.
“I have so many questions. What can you tell me about the baby? Where is she? How old is she? I want to know everything.”
Cindy opens the folder and shuffles through the pages inside before she starts reading the details. “She’s four weeks old. She was dropped off at a Safe Surrender site at Alta Bates Hospital, as you know from your friend, and she’s currently in the care of a private, pre-adoption agency. I don’t have the identity of her parents because it was an anonymous surrender, but her mother left a family health history and she’s been examined by pediatricians. No health issues, no red flags. And she’s adorable.”
Cindy slides a photo over the surface of her desk, and I grasp it in my hands, staring down at the face of my future daughter.
“I mean, it’s not over until it’s over, but I don’t see anything on the horizon that gives me pause. Unless there’s something I don’t know, I can’t foresee any roadblocks to prevent this from happening.”
I realize I’ve been holding my breath while she said the last part, needing to hear the words, but also worried about what would happen if I added a roadblock she didn’t see coming. I let the air out slowly and summon my nerves.
“I have a question,” I begin, giving myself a moment to rethink the wisdom of asking it. I don’t need to rock the boat, do I?
“Sure. What’s that?”
“The elephant in the room… Is there a chance that I won’t be able to adopt if I’m doing it as a single parent? Be honest with me.”
Cindy’s mouth pulls down into a frown. “I wish I could say that it doesn’t matter. I wish I could say that perception is irrelevant, but I’ve seen things go south more than once. It’s not fair, but it is what it is. I wish I could offer you the guarantee I know you’re looking for.”
I twist my hands in my lap, unsure how to get out of the mess I’m in and coming up empty. “So…even though we’ve done everything right, there’s a chance I’ll be denied.”
“A chance. I’m not saying it’ll happen, but you should be prepared in case.”
Cindy blinks but not a muscle in her face moves. Her expression stays passive with a practiced indifference like a doctor forced to convey bad news. I fixate on her lashes sweeping down over her cheeks each time she blinks and wait for her to say something. Finally, her lips start moving.
“Is there a chance you might still marry him?” She’s as calm as if she’s asking if I want fries with my lunch order.
“I—no. I’ve actually been seeing someone else.”
She nods. “This would have been good information to know.” She sounds disappointed, but I can’t believe she’s actually serious. I’m tired of being judged over my dating choices.
“Okay, well, I’m telling you now,” I snap, feeling judged and defensive. After all the work I’ve done over the past year to get my old reputation behind me and paint a new picture of myself as a responsible future parent and all the happiness I feel in a relationship based around love, I don’t appreciate the implication that I’m doing something wrong.
She holds up a hand, still blinking. “I’m not saying you need to stay with the wrong man for the sake of the adoption. I’d never tell you that. And I’m on your side here. I just want to make sure we do everything right to give you the best possible chances.”
A breath chokes in my throat, and I realize how fragile I feel with my future in the hands of other people. I assess Cindy from where I sit, noticing her dark hair pulled tight into a clip at the nape of her neck. I don’t think she has to undergo quite the struggle I do to tame her hair into place. Her red blouse with its jaunty bow at the neck softens the austere look while still communicating power. I feel like an impostor in my navy suit, like someone from a movie wardrobe department dressed me up to look serious. My hands fist in my lap as I try to control my emotions.
“So you’re saying my chances of getting a court or adoption agency or whoever to approve me as an adoptive parent aren’t as good if I do it as a single parent?”
I already know the answer to this question. It’s why I’ve been so careful about my reputation for the past year. It’s why I overlooked red flags long before Callum cheated.
“All I’m saying is that I’ve seen it go the wrong way in the past. I don’t want that for you. If you really want to make this ironclad, don’t go in as a single parent. I’ve seen these things fall apart, and there’s been a lot written about your dating life that could be seen as unstable for a vulnerable child.”
I nod, my mind scrambling to come up with a plan for how to make everything work. “I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize my chances, not when there’s a baby girl who needs a mom. I want to be her mom—just from seeing that picture, I know it’s what I want.”
Cindy looks relieved, and I should feel the same way. But as I sign the paperwork she pushes my way, I can’t help feeling uneasy.
I know how Archer feels about having kids. He’s made it abundantly clear, and I’m not about to try to convince him he’s wrong when I understand where his fear comes from.
It seems crazy, though, when I see him with Fiona. He’s so great with her. He absolutely lights up like the favorite uncle he is, the man she knows him to be. It’s like she sees something he doesn’t—that he’d make the best dad in the world if he just allowed himself to try.
I have to at least talk to him about the possibility. Because maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance of him seeing it too.