CHAPTER SIX
Laurel
At six months pregnant, Laurel could no longer wear the burgundy dress from the Weller Systems anniversary gala.
Graham had sent three new gowns to the mansion for the charity exhibition. Each had been selected by a stylist and accompanied by a card listing the shoes, jewelry, and hairstyle intended to complete it.
Laurel chose the dark green dress because it allowed her to breathe.
She stood in the bedroom while Rosa adjusted the fabric around her stomach. The baby shifted beneath Laurel's ribs, pressing into a place that had already been tender for most of the afternoon.
“He does not like this party,” Rosa announced.
Laurel looked down. “The baby?”
“He has been kicking since you put on the dress.”
“He might like the dress and dislike the party.”
“A sensible boy.”
“We don't know that he's a boy.”
Rosa secured the final fastening and examined her work. “A sensible girl, then.”
Graham entered while fastening his watch.
His attention moved over Laurel, pausing at the curve of her abdomen. For a moment, his expression softened.
“You look beautiful.”
The compliment still reached her. Laurel disliked that it did, but denying the pleasure would not make her less hungry for it.
“Thank you.”
He approached and placed one hand against the side of her stomach. The baby responded with a hard movement.
Graham smiled. “That was a kick.”
“It has been happening all afternoon.”
“Why didn't you call me?”
“You were in meetings.”
“I would have answered.”
Laurel did not remind him that he had missed two of her calls that week. Instead, she took his hand and moved it slightly lower.
They waited together. Another kick pressed against his palm.
Wonder crossed Graham's face, open and unmistakable. He lowered himself until he could speak near Laurel's stomach.
“You should be gentle with your mother.”
“The baby has been hearing you negotiate for months. Gentleness was never likely.”
Graham kissed the curve beneath his hand and stood.
His phone vibrated.
Taryn's name appeared before he turned the screen away.
“The installation team has a problem with one of the exhibits.” He typed a response. “We should leave.”
Laurel looked at the bed. Her evening bag rested beside the three printed cards from the stylist.
“You said we wouldn't stay long.”
“Two hours.”
“And you'll remain with me?”
Graham stopped typing. “Of course.”
The promise was delivered easily.
During the first weeks after the twelve week scan, Graham had kept every promise.
He came home for dinner, attended appointments, and continued sleeping beside Laurel.
The message from Taryn remained undisclosed between them because Laurel had read only the notification.
She did not know how Graham responded, whether he responded, or what came before it.
She told herself that Taryn resented the distance Graham had created. She told herself that a message was not a relationship. She told herself that Graham had turned the phone facedown at dinner and left it downstairs when he came to bed.
By the fifth month, the late nights began returning.
One investor dinner became three. A weekend meeting required Taryn to travel with him to Chicago. Graham still asked about the baby and attended the most important scans, but Laurel began receiving his attention in scheduled portions.
He kissed her stomach before leaving in the morning. Sometimes he returned after she was asleep.
Tonight, she needed him to keep one small promise.
The exhibition occupied a restored freight terminal along the Hudson River.
Weller Systems had partnered with several galleries to raise money for public arts programs in underserved schools.
Digital installations filled the main floor, combining projection, sculpture, and interactive technology beneath the building's exposed steel beams.
Photographers gathered near the entrance when Graham and Laurel arrived.
Graham placed his hand against her back. He smiled for the cameras and bent to say something near her ear, creating the appearance of private affection.
“What did you say?” Laurel asked after the flashes stopped.
“That Russell wants us near the central exhibit in ten minutes.”
“You could have told me that from a normal distance.”
“The photographers needed the shot.”
Before Laurel could respond, Graham guided her toward a group of donors.
For the first half hour, he remained attentive. He introduced Laurel, brought her sparkling water, and told anyone who asked that the pregnancy was progressing perfectly.
Several people congratulated Graham before speaking to her. Laurel had become accustomed to this. His parenthood was treated as an achievement. Hers appeared to be a physical condition displayed beneath green silk.
A donor touched Laurel's stomach without asking. Graham laughed when Laurel stepped away.
“She has become protective.”
“I was protective before becoming pregnant.”
The woman withdrew her hand and apologized. Graham moved the conversation toward the charity before the discomfort could settle on him.
Taryn approached carrying a tablet.
She wore a fitted black dress with a narrow silver belt. Her lipstick was a softer color than the tube Laurel kept inside the locked drawer, but the perfume was the same.
“Graham, Russell needs you near the auction display.”
“I'm with Laurel.”
“It will take less than five minutes.”
Graham looked at Laurel. “Will you be all right?”
The donor was still standing beside her, pretending not to listen.
“Yes.”
“I'll come straight back.”
Taryn led him away.
Laurel continued speaking with donors while her feet ached inside her heels. Graham did not return. She saw him across the terminal beside Taryn and Russell, the tablet between them, another donor intercepting him before he could break away.
The baby pushed beneath Laurel's ribs again.
She placed one hand against the wall and shifted her weight. Several chairs stood near the stage, but reaching them required crossing the crowded central floor. Laurel considered asking a server for help and rejected the idea. She was pregnant, not incapable.
“Before you attempt that journey, I should warn you that two board members and a cellist are blocking the shortest route.”
Owen Price stood several feet away holding two glasses of sparkling water.
Laurel smiled despite the ache in her back. “Is the cellist especially dangerous?”
“He has been explaining experimental sound to the same woman for twenty minutes. Nothing is getting past him.”
“I only need a chair.”
Owen looked toward a low wooden structure beside the wall. “That is technically an installation.”
Laurel followed his attention. The piece resembled a bench assembled from mismatched sections of carved wood.
“Technically?”
“It costs eighty thousand dollars and represents the fragmentation of domestic memory.”
“Can I sit on it?”
“The artist claims participation completes the work.”
“Does participation include swollen ankles?”
“For eighty thousand dollars, it should include medical care.”
He placed one glass on a nearby ledge and approached the installation. After checking the small printed description, he offered Laurel his arm without touching her first.
She accepted it.
The structure was more comfortable than it appeared. Owen found a small cushion from an event chair and placed it behind Laurel's back.
“You didn't need to do that.”
“I own part of the gallery displaying it. If you collapse beside an artwork about domestic memory, critics will assume it was planned.”
Laurel laughed.
Owen handed her the water and stood beside the installation rather than sitting close enough to imply familiarity. His restraint made conversation easier.
“I didn't know you represented work like this.”
“I don't usually. One of my artists collaborated with the sculptor.”
“Which piece is yours?”
He pointed toward a row of illuminated glass forms suspended from the ceiling. Their light moved across the floor like water.
“The installation about urban displacement.”
“I saw it when we arrived. It's beautiful.”
“It is also responsible for the electrical problem that dragged your husband away.”
Laurel glanced across the room. Graham was no longer near the auction display.
Owen followed her attention but did not comment.
“How have you been?” he asked.
“Pregnant.”
“I noticed.”
“It has become my complete answer to most questions.”
“Then I'll improve the question. What have you been doing that has nothing to do with pregnancy?”
Laurel looked down at the water in her glass.
The question should not have been difficult. She attended foundation lunches, reviewed household decisions, accompanied Graham to events, and read restoration articles late at night. None of those activities formed an answer she wanted to give.
“I've been thinking about an old building.”
“That sounds more promising.”
“The Bellweather theatre.”
Owen's eyebrows rose. “On Ashland?”
“You know it?”
“I've been following the ownership dispute for years. The final estate claim was settled in August. It should be listed for sale before spring.”
Laurel sat straighter. “I thought the city intended to condemn it.”
“They completed another structural review. The exterior masonry needs extensive work, and parts of the roof have failed, but the main frame can be preserved.”
“You've been inside?”
“Twice.”
Envy arrived before Laurel could disguise it. “How?”
“The estate invited several gallery groups to assess whether the site could support a commercial arts space. Most of them decided restoration would cost more than demolition.”
“And what did you decide?”
“That I dislike buildings everyone agrees are useless.”
The answer brought the old notebook to Laurel's mind. She could see the sketch on its first page, the ticket window she had drawn from across the street, and the list of rooms that existed nowhere except paper.
“I used to pass it every night when I worked at the hotel.”
“You wanted to restore it.”
Laurel turned toward him. “How do you know that?”