Chapter Thirty-Eight
Liam
Olivia at the piano, playing Rhapsody in Blue and singing along, is about the last thing I thought I’d see when I hurried home from Happy Hour. She hadn’t even glanced at the Steinway after the first night.
Not that I regret buying it for her. The beautiful white piano suits her, and that hasn’t changed.
To hear her play again is a gift. To hear her sing along with a wistful joy in her voice is a blessing I didn’t dare imagine was possible.
The scent of caramelized apples fills my senses along with the music. All along I thought the size, comfort, and security of this place made it my home, but I was wrong. It’s the smell of her baking and the sound of her on the piano. It’s the soft yearning in her voice as she sings Gershwin.
She hits the final note and stays on the bench, her hands resting gently on the keys. The briny breeze toys with her hair, but she doesn’t move.
I hold my breath, afraid to break the moment. I take her in, etching every line into my memory.
The oven dings and my heart fills with disappointment. Olivia starts as though waking from a dream. She jumps to her feet, then flushes when she notices me. “Liam! How long have you been standing there?”
“Just long enough to hear you play.” Long enough to fall in love with you all over again.
Her flush turns scarlet. “Ugh. Sorry. I’m pretty rusty.”
“No, just pretty.”
She smiles, then walks to the oven to pull something out. I head over to see.
“I just made tarte tatin. Want some?”
“Of course.” She could offer me arsenic and I’d probably say yes.
“Okay, we need to wait ten minutes first.” She sits at the counter.
I join her. Her fingers fidget. What’s gotten her so anxious?
She lifts her eyes to meet mine. Hmm. Not a hint of tension. Something in her gaze feels calmer and steadier. More at peace.
“Good news at work?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything.
She smiles mysteriously. “Better.”
“Win the lottery?”
“Hmm… Sort of.”
“Not going to give me a hint?”
Her grin broadens.
“Totally not fair. I gave you a hint on your birthday.”
She scoffs. “Just one!”
“Mathematically speaking, one is infinitely better than none.”
She rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh. Fine. It’s about…” She narrows her eyes in thought.
I prop my chin in my hand and study her as she purses and unpurses her lips. She’s cute when she’s trying to be diabolical. Can’t believe she’s mine.
“I might need a bigger car,” she says finally.
“Like…a pickup truck?”
She frowns. “No. What would I do with that?”
I shrug. “Drive like a badass?”
The timer goes off.
“It’s ready!” She hops over to the kitchen, then stops and places her hands on her hips. She glares at the still-hot pastry like a general about to face an enemy battalion. “I haven’t done this in ages.”
“I’m sure it’ll taste fine.”
“No, I mean the flipping. It has to be done right. Mom made it look so easy.” She grabs a huge serving plate and places it over the pan, then inhales deeply. “One. Two. Three!” She flips it fast, then stops. “What do you think?” Her eyes are bright as she waits for my response.
“Probably perfect. Now show me,” I urge, playing the eager audience.
She lifts the pan a little, peeks inside, then bursts out laughing.
“What?”
“It’s crooked.” She takes the pan completely off and slides it into the sink.
“Hmm. You seem to have created the leaning tarte tatin of Pisa.”
Her shoulders shake.
“I’m sure it’ll taste great,” I say.
“Hopefully.” She crosses her fingers, her eyes still sparkling with laughter.
“I’ll be the guinea pig.” I grab a fork and take a bite.
The apple chunks are so gooey and thick, they’re almost like jam.
The buttery aftertaste adds a richness that mutes the acidity from the fruit.
“Wow. This is good.” I take another bite, nodding to myself.
“Don’t tell Frederich, but I think yours is better than his. ”
“No way!” She samples it, then her eyes widen. “Oh wow. This is just like how Mom’s tasted!”
I smile and kiss her temple. Although I’ll never know what it’s like to have a mom’s love, Olivia experienced it and misses it every day. I’m glad recreating her tarte tatin helps her relive some happy moments. Her brilliant grin is the best way to end the week. “You’ve replicated her recipe.”
“I did,” she says, half in awe. “Wow.”
I head to the wine cellar and pull out a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem. “Time to celebrate.”
She flushes and waves a hand. “You go ahead, but I can’t have any.”
“Why not—” I suddenly stop breathing. Even my heart feels like it stops.
“Liam… I’m pregnant.”
The soft announcement drops like a hammer.
I suck in a breath. The terms of our marriage haunt me: it ends six months after she has her first baby.
At the time I signed the contract, there seemed to be plenty of time to change her mind.
However, now that she’s actually pregnant, I realize I only have fourteen months or so to convince her to stay.
Icy panic and anxiety run sharp talons down my back.
An urge to beg her to reconsider—that I’ll be a great husband and amazing father to our children—swells, but I manage to push it down.
Olivia didn’t choose her path on a whim, and she won’t change her mind just because I ask.
She’ll need to be convinced that I’m worthy.
Fourteen months… You can do it.
But alarm isn’t my only emotion. No matter what happens, I’m happy Olivia’s pregnant with our baby. I should focus on sharing the joy of the moment, rather than dreading what might happen months from now. She should look back and only remember how blessed and lucky we were to have a baby together.
I smile. “Our baby.”
She nods, her chin wobbling.
I hug her and spin her around. “This is amazing. Now I get to hold the two most important people in my life in my arms.”
Her eyes shine as she looks up at me. “Thank you, Liam.”
“Thank you. You couldn’t have made me a happier man.” She wants the baby for reasons other than love, but that’s okay. It’s all love on my end. I’m going to pour all my affection on the child so they’ll always know they’re loved—that they have Daddy in their corner forever.
“Okay, you sit here. Let me get something so we can celebrate properly.” I place her gently at the counter and grab two glasses of blood orange juice.
Then once I’m back, I scoop up a generous portion of tarte tatin on my fork and bring it to her mouth.
She takes it, and I give myself another bite as well.
The caramelized apples coat my tongue, the taste now even sweeter because I’m sharing the moment with my pregnant wife.
I quickly pick up another forkful and move it toward her mouth.
“You know I can feed myself, right?”
“This one’s for the baby.” I look at her flat belly. “Daddy loves you, yes he does,” I coo.
She laughs. “Mom would’ve loved you,” she whispers softly. Her eyes grow tender as she looks at me.
My heart hammers. This almost feels like a love confession. I place a soft kiss between her eyebrows. “Well, I love her for gifting the world with you.”