Stark International: Under My Skin Part 27

Not only has Stella come armed with a notebook filled with every detail imaginable about Ronnie, but more important, ever since Jackson first decided to bring Ronnie out here, Betty has been telling the little girl that Uncle Jackson is her daddy, and that very soon a court will give them a piece of paper to make it official. In the meantime, Betty's said, Ronnie gets to go live in a city with a beach.

She made what could have been scary seem like an adventure, and I will be forever grateful.

We didn't want to overwhelm the little girl, but we did want to celebrate, and so we've laid out a spread of chicken strips and pizza and invited a few friends to come join. Charles and Harriet have already stopped by and left, and I'm guessing that this newest arrival is Ca.s.s and Siobhan.

I follow Ronnie to the entrance hall and see that I'm right.

"I'm Ronnie," the little girl announces to Ca.s.s. "And that's my daddy and my aunt Sylvia."

"I know," Ca.s.s says. "She's my best friend. I guess that makes us friends, too, huh?" She's looking down at Ronnie and speaking with such comfortable a.s.surance that I'm both impressed and intimidated. I still feel a bit like I'm putting on an act when I talk with her. As if I'm only playing the role of aunt or mother, but not really living the part.

"I'm Ca.s.s, by the way. And this is Siobhan."

Ronnie contemplates Ca.s.s, her bow-like mouth puckering, then looks up at Siobhan. "Do you like dogs?"

"Are you kidding?" Siobhan says. "Dogs are awesome."

"Aunt Sylvia says you have a dog," Ca.s.s adds. "Can we meet him?"

Ronnie glances at me, and I nod, and she takes off running. "Come on!"

Ca.s.s shoots me an amused glance. "We'll be back," she says and they hurry to Ronnie's room. Fred's tucked away there in his crate, the king of Ronnie's newly redecorated princess-themed room, courtesy of Nikki and Damien, who managed the overhaul in just a few hours.

"You doing okay?" Jackson asks, sliding his arm around my waist as we walk back into the living room to join Nikki and Damien.

I'm not sure if he's talking about the situation with my dad or settling in to having a little girl around, but right now, either answer is the same.

"I'm great," I say, bending to snag a piece of pepperoni pizza from the box on the coffee table. "You're free. Ronnie's here and she's happy. Fred's housebroken. And my resort is safe because my architect can get back to work." I flash a smile to Jackson and Damien in turn. "I'm not even worried about the investors who've pulled out because I am going to burn up the phone lines and find new investors on Monday."

"Actually, you're not." Damien glances at Jackson. "It's covered."

I look between the two of them, confused.

"I talked with Damien earlier," Jackson explains. "Why should I ask someone to gamble on a project that I'm not willing to gamble on myself? And, frankly, I don't consider it a risk. I think we'll end up filthy, stinking rich."

"You're already rich," I say. "But I know how much the shares cost, and, Jackson, that's a serious chunk of change. Are you that liquid?"

"We are now," he says, and I feel a nice warm flush from the way he pulls me into that equation. "I'm going to talk to Isaac Winn about selling him my thirty percent interest in the Winn Buildingthe portion that's not part of Ronnie's trustand buying out the rest of the Cortez shares."

"Jackson! You're sure?" The Winn Building represents a landmark in his career. I can't believe he'd want to let go of it so completely.

He lifts a shoulder as if this had been nothing more than a casual decision. "I'm familiar with all the relevant players. I think it's a sound investment."

"It is," I say. "The resort is going to kick vacation and leisure a.s.s and make us a huge profit. But, Jackson, that was the first building you kept an ownership interest in. You really want to get out altogether?"

"Sylvia has a point," Damien says. "And thirty percent is steep. Especially to sacrifice on a property like Winn that has the potential for serious growth."

Jackson's eyes are on me. "I think Cortez has a similar potential."

"I agree with you," Damien says. "And that's why I have a suggestion."

We both turn to him.

"Sell Isaac a fifteen percent interest in Winn. I'll cover the difference personally."

I gape, then realize my mouth is hanging open. "But you never do that." He's wildly protective of his personal a.s.sets. In fact, when the investors first made noises about pulling out after we lost our original architect, Damien had specifically declined to invest personally.

"Never's a very long time," Damien says as he looks straight at Jackson. "And this time, I think it's worth the risk."

"Honestly, so much has happened my head is spinning," Ca.s.s says. She and I are in the huge guest bedroom that Jackson and I will be sharing. We've snuck away from the festivities for a quick BFF catch-up session. "I'm surprised you're still clinging to sanity." She narrows her eyes. "You are still sane, aren't you?"

I roll my eyes, then perch on the edge of the bed. "As sane as I was before. But that's not saying much."

Ca.s.s only grins, then starts counting out on her fingers. "Engaged. Small child. Non-felonious fiance. And a father who's confessed to committing murder. There's more, I'm sure, but that covers the high points. Seriously," she says more gently. "Are you doing okay?"

"I am," I say. "Jackson being free trumps everything."

"True that. But" She scrunches up her face as if she's caught a whiff of something unpleasant. "I mean, your dad. It's kind of freaky. Have you talked with Ethan?"

I shake my head. "I left him a voice mail to call me. I think he gets back from Mexico today. And since he can't go see Dad yet anyway, I didn't want to worry him."

"Are you going to go see your dad?"

"I don't know. And, honestly, I don't want to think about it. Or talk about it, for that matter. Not forever. Just not today. Because there's nothing I can do anyway, and tonight is about Jackson being free and getting Ronnie. Okay?"

"You'll call me if you need me?"

"Duh."

She laughs. "Fair enough. You're off the hook for now. But . . ." She trails off, making the face again.

I shake my head, and force myself not to smile. "What?"

"Ronnie's entirely precious. And you seem really good with her."

I frown. "I shouldn't have said anything to you. I completely adore her, and Jackson is floating." All of that is true. What I don't say is that I can't seem to shake the feeling that I'm a character in Barney or some other kids' show, just playing the part of the grown-up. And while I want to step out of the role, I can't. Because what's my fallback persona? The girl who grew up with my parents? Without a script, I'll be swinging without a net. Yet with a script, it doesn't seem quite real.

But I tell myself this is all new. And since I really love Jackson and I really love Ronnie, I can make it all work.

I tell myself that. But I'm not certain that I believe it.

"So when's the paternity hearing, anyway?" Ca.s.s stands up and starts for the door, and I follow, understanding that this is her way of changing the subject. And, yeah, I'm grateful.

"Next week," I say. "We'll have to pop out to Santa Fe, but we'll only be gone for a day or two."

"And the wedding?"

"That one has a longer fuse. Next summer. I want to get married at the resort."

"h.e.l.l, yeah, you do. I'll be best man?"

I laugh. "Definitely."

We've reached the living room, and I immediately see Nikki chatting in the corner with Stella and Siobhan, but it's not until I look toward the far side of the room that I see Jackson. He's standing hand in hand with Ronnie in front of the window, their backs to me. Night has fallen, and they are looking out over the lights of the city spread out in front of them.

"Wow," Ronnie says, and I hear Jackson's soft chuckle.

"Yes," he says. "Very wow."

Then she lets go of his hand and hugs his leg tight. "I love you, Daddy," she says.

And in that moment, I can actually believe that everything will be just fine.

That belief lasts approximately seven more hours.

That's when I'm the only one left awake in the apartment.

We'd put Ronnie to bed at seven, after she'd hugged everyone good night and distributed a few sloppy kisses to "my Ca.s.sy" and "Uncle Damien."

Stella had already retired to her room, complaining of a head cold.

Ca.s.s and Siobhan left about ten minutes after Nikki and Damien, and although I'd been looking forward to unwinding with Jackson, it quickly became clear that wasn't going to happen tonight. Or, at least, not if I wanted him conscious.

He'd told me he was going to go lay down, and suggested that I join him with a bottle of wine.

I did, but by the time I got there, he was sound asleep on top of the covers, still in his clothes but dead to the world.

I took his shoes off, but left him dressed, opting to cover him gently with a blanket. G.o.d knew he had to be exhausted, both physically and mentally, and I didn't want to risk waking him up when he so desperately needed sleep.

I tried to drift off, too, but couldn't seem to manage it. And I was just about to try to induce sleep with a gla.s.s of the wine I'd poured when the high-pitched screams of a little girl had me leaping out of bed and sprinting across the apartment.

That's where I am now, frantically trying to soothe her. I hold her in my arms, this small bundle who is half-in and half-out of sleep. Who is crying out, her body red from the effort of trying to breathe through the tears and the convulsions. Who is screaming for her Grammy, but Betty isn't here to help her, and I'm too fl.u.s.tered to know what to do. Me, who has lived with nightmares my whole life and still doesn't have the power to help this poor child.

I think that hours must have pa.s.sed and my ears are splitting from her cries and Jackson hasn't come and my body aches with the effort of holding her. But still she is crying and now I'm crying too, and I'm about to start screaming myself, I'm so lost and afraid and impotent.

And that's when Stella rushes in, her bathrobe half-open over a long cotton nightgown, her hair that is usually pulled back into a sensible bun falling loose around her face.

"Oh, baby," she says, and I feel a sudden stab of self-loathing when I see that her words are directed at me. At the fact that I must look so rattled and so helpless. "Here, let me have her."

She takes Ronnie, then bounces her on her hip. "It's okay, precious. Stella's here. Did you have a bad dream?"

As Stella coos to her and bounces her, the little girl's sobs slow into hiccups, and then, miraculously, fade away. Her body softens with exhaustion, and her thumb goes to her mouth.

"I've got her, Miss Sylvia," Stella says, finally looking up at me. I realize I've been standing there, frozen, watching her work some sort of magic that I don't possess.

"Right," I say. "Thank you."

And then I head out of the room and back to my bedroom, feeling a little bit lost, a little bit useless, and a whole lot scared.

twenty-seven.

"So what do you think?" I ask Ronnie, who's standing beside me as we peer into the refrigerator. Nikki stocked it for us with kid-friendly yogurt, milk, and juice boxes, and those refrigerated staples are supplemented in the pantry by blue boxes of macaroni and cheese, some cereal with cartoon animals on the box, and a huge bag of goldfish crackers.

There isn't, however, much in the way of grown-up food.

Apparently, I need to make a grocery store run.

It's mid-morning on Sunday, and Jackson, Ronnie, and I have been up for a few hours. We've watched morning television and snuggled on the couch, and had cereal for breakfast. As far as I can tell, Ronnie has no lingering effects from her nightmare last night.

The same can't be said of me. I feel a bit like I'm walking on gla.s.s, but I'm determined to put it behind me and write it off to simply being both surprised and unprepared. I haven't told Jackson about it, though, and neither has Stella, who has gone out to do some sightseeing at Jackson's urging.

"Apple juice," Ronnie demands, holding out her little hand for the box. I pa.s.s it to her, help her stab the straw through the hole, and frown at the refrigerator.

"Why don't we make a special dinner for Daddy? We can pick up something yummy when we go to the store."

"I heard my name," Jackson says, coming in from the other room where he's been working on his laptop.

"We're planning dinner," I say, accepting his kiss, and then moving in for another.

"Ice cream?" Ronnie suggests, her expression entirely serious.

"I think we might need something that's not dessert," Jackson says.

Her lips pucker as she thinks about it. "Why?"

I glance at Jackson. "She has you there." To Ronnie, I say, "How about meat loaf?" I can actually make meat loaf, and according to the notebook that I now consider my personal bible, Ronnie will eat it. Three-year-olds, it turns out, have a rather limited palate.

"With ice cream?" she asks, because she's clearly inherited her father's determination.

I glance at Jackson, who is fighting a grin. Then I turn back to the little girl. "Perfect," I say. "And maybe some green beans, too?"

She sticks her tongue out and wrinkles her nose. Jackson grabs up the dish towel and pretends to sneeze, but it's very clear to me that he's laughing.

"Fench fies!" Ronnie says. "Pease, Sylvie?" She makes prayer hands and looks up at me with eyes so blue and familiar it makes my heart squeeze. "Pretty pease?"

I crouch down so that we're eye to eye and put on my most serious negotiation face. The truth is, I have no idea what I'm doing. For all I know, I should be setting firmer boundaries. Making strict rules about ice cream. Watching out for ways to sing the praises of green vegetables.

But I can only do what I can do, so I tap her nose lightly. "I tell you what. If you promise to eat at least a few green beans, you can have french fries, too. Deal?"

"Deal." She thrusts out her hand, sticky from the chocolate her father snuck her earlier. We shake gravely, and then I turn to Jackson, waving my soiled palm. He shrugs sheepishly.