Chapter 50
FIFTY
HARRIET
Freshly cut grass and the sweet perfume of wildflowers swaying in the early afternoon breeze fill the mid-April air. There’s something satisfying about the first trip out of the house without a jacket, like a final farewell to the colder weather as we inch toward summer.
I soak up the vitamin D as I sit on the bench, eyes closed and legs stretched out in front of me.
It’s nice; though, I’m secretly hoping we’re not hit with a heatwave while I’m still pregnant.
Full-term plus one-hundred degrees sounds gross.
At almost thirty weeks, it’s crazy to think my pregnancy is coming to an end. It’s been both too long and too short.
When I open my eyes, I spot Talia cresting the hill of Foxtail Park where we’re meeting.
Call me a coward, but there’s less risk of her storming off when I catch her up to speed about the stolen song if we’re in public.
She wouldn’t be mad at me. Peter, obviously, but the last thing I want is for her to contact Tate, guns blazing, and try to resolve this herself.
She’s a brilliant lawyer, steady and calm in every situation. This is different and very delicate.
“Look at you, topping up your freckles.” She hands me a takeout cup filled with my favorite smoothie from Peaches before sitting down. “This is a nice change of scenery.”
“Decided to mix it up before the sun disappears again.” It’s not a total lie why I chose this meetup location. We’ve had two huge rainstorms this month, with severe flooding in the valley.
“Good call.” She sips on her lime-green smoothie. “Did Jo make it home okay?”
“Yeah. I was sad to say goodbye, but she’ll be back after the baby’s born.”
We sit in comfortable silence, smiling at familiar faces from town on a midafternoon stroll and watching an eagle soaring through the skies.
I despise awkward conversations, and to this day, Talia and I have never struggled to say what’s on our mind. Lawyers must inherit a weird sixth sense, because she grabs my empty cup, throws it in the trash can, and narrows her eyes at me.
“What is it? Your mood is weird, and you’re tapping your foot incessantly.”
“It’s Tate,” I blurt and immediately regret it when her face falls. “Wait, that came out wrong. He’s fine. I presume. He might not even be aware of what’s going on—”
“Harriet. Tell me,” she interrupts, face tight. “We can stop pretending he doesn’t exist.”
With more grace and less babbling, I relay everything from the moment Tate’s song came on the radio. She doesn’t speak, and her expression hardly shifts from its impassive state.
Once I’m finished, I wait for her to digest all the information.
A hundred different reactions played through my head, with her not wanting anything to do with this situation as the top contender.
What I hadn’t prepared for was her indifference to hearing her husband’s name after months of avoiding it.
I certainly didn’t anticipate her next move.
She whips out her phone and starts typing away furiously. “You have everything from the Copyright Office when you registered your songs?”
“Uh, yeah.” I peer at her screen. “Who are you texting?”
“A friend. He works in entertainment.” My phone buzzes in my pocket. “I’ve forwarded you his contact details. He’s expecting your call later today.”
Damn, she moves fast. “Talia, you don’t have—”
“I’m guessing Peter doesn’t know you’re the exclusive rightsholder of the song. Or maybe he does. Either way, he’s a fucking moron.” She still hasn’t looked at me. “If you decide to proceed with an infringement suit, you’ll need proof of those rights.”
“Hey.” I cover her phone with my palm. “Can you stop for a second?”
Her hand trembles under mine.
“If this is too much for you, it’s okay.” I squeeze her fingers.
Her hazel eyes are red-rimmed when she finally glances up. “Tate wouldn’t… He wouldn’t do this if he knew the song was claimed, especially by you. We might not be together anymore, but he’s a good guy.”
“Oh, honey.” I drag her in for a hug. “I know that. We all do.”
She sniffles into my shoulder. “I want to help, but I can’t be directly involved. I’m sorry.”
Translation: she doesn’t want to risk seeing Tate.
Talia hasn’t once uttered a bad word about her estranged husband. If anything, you wouldn’t know he was a huge part of her life since they were sixteen years old.
“You’ve helped.” I rub her back. “From pestering me to register my songs to this very moment, you’ve helped tremendously.”
“Whatever I can do from the sidelines, I will.” Talia swipes angrily at her blotchy cheeks. “I bet Warren and Parker want to shish kebab his ass?”
“That’s putting it politely.”
She laughs, her pent up sadness subsiding until a fire burns in her eyes. “Let’s squash the little cockroach.”
Mentally and physically drained from the last thirty-six hours, I drag my feet up the path to the cottage.
Talia and I went for a short walk after we decided on a strategy, talking about anything other than Tate.
I then ran a few errands, got my car detailed, and paid a visit to Margot before finally coming home.
My smile fights the fatigue when I spy Warren’s truck in the driveway. A warm glow comes from the upstairs window.
“Hello?” My greeting meets a loud thump and muffled fuck.
“You’re early!”
“I’m hungry!”
“And I’ll sort that, sweetheart, but for now, stay where you are.” His voice pitches in a panic as I hear him scrambling around, followed by more cursing.
Interest piqued, I sneak up the stairs, strategically avoiding the creaky floorboards, which is difficult when you’re waddling most of the time.
He’s working a twenty-four shift soon and should’ve slept most of the day.
Something tells me he hasn’t from all the cardboard boxes and toolbox in the corridor.
Movement comes from the bedroom that’s due to be the nursery, and I slowly push the door open to catch Warren in the act. He knows me well, because he stands in the doorway, blocking my view, his arms tucked behind his back, wearing a bashful expression.
“Oh, hey,” I chirp.
He shakes his head. “You’re not very good at following instructions.”
“Guilty.” I try to peer around his big frame. “Whatcha doing?”
A rosy hue paints his cheeks, a perk of him being beardless, though I sometimes miss it. “I know you’d planned on doing it when you finished work, and you can change it up if you hate what I’ve done.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “What have you done?”
Warren’s gaze falls before he steps aside to reveal the room.
I suck in a surprised breath.
The once sterile white walls are now a pale sage, with stenciled white geese and frames filled with hedgehogs and deer dotted around.
Cream floor-length curtains hang from the window.
The crib is built, along with the wardrobe and changing table.
He’s even hung the mobile Talia gifted me.
In the corner, half-built, is the nursing chair I pointed out the other week.
A drill and screwdriver sit discarded next to it, which is what I’m guessing I interrupted.
It’s exactly as I imagined—no, better. So much better, my heart doubles in size.
Warren shuffles on his feet, watching me like a hawk. “Your sister helped me pick out the paint and showed me a few, um, Pinterest thingy-ma-bob-boards. I hope I got it right, but we have time to fix it before the baby arrives.”
“Warren?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Shut up and kiss me, you wonderful man.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. I’m swept up in his arms, broad hands cradling my face as he brushes his mouth with mine. Gone is the tiredness, and before I peel his clothes off, I pull away.
“It’s perfect.” I rub my thumb over his bottom lip. “Is this what you’ve done all day?”
He nods. “I only have the chair left to do. Now, you can enjoy your time off work before the baby arrives. Relax. Nest. Whatever you want.”
“Mm, rest sounds nice.” I drop my forehead to his chest. “Have you decided how to decorate the nursery at your place?”
He stiffens. “My place?”
“Yeah.” I glance up. “Sorry, I presumed you’d want the baby staying with you some nights.” And you would finally let me see where you live. The longer he puts it off, the more concerned I am that he lives in a rat-infested hovel. “Your kitchen renovations have gone on for a while.”
His jaw grinds, which only heightens my angst. At what point do I call out this aloof behavior? When our child graduates from college? We’d agreed to go slow, that I’d be patient, and I have been, but we’ve not exactly been going slow. He’s here most nights unless he’s at the firehouse.
“I’m beginning to think you’re hiding something.”
He rears back. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, I’ve never seen your place, for starters, and anytime I bring it up, you change the subject or brush it off.”
He sighs, eyes clamping shut. “I’m selling my house.”
“What?” Surprise laces my voice now. “Since when?”
“I’ve thought about it for a while. It makes sense to move closer to Iris Meadows.
Somewhere in between.” He paces across the hardwood floor.
An uncharacteristic move. “It seems pointless to build a nursery if I’m moving soon and everything is boxed up.
There’s nowhere for you to sit. It’s a bombsite. ”
This reaction is so unlike Warren, who’s ready to unravel right in front of me. All because of a house?
“Okay.” I catch him by the forearm, stopping him from wearing a hole in the floor. “Okay. I’ll drop it. I just wish you’d told me you were thinking of moving.”
His shoulders slump. “Shit. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
We stare at one another, waiting for the other to speak first. From the hint of frustration twisting his face, it’s my turn.
“I really love the nursery.” I link our fingers together. “I love all the tiny details. I love the blanket you picked out.”
I would love it if there were parts of yourself you weren’t afraid to share, because I’m certain I’m in love with you.