Contessa

Copyright 2012 © Lori L. Otto

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Lori L. Otto Publications

64 70 67 72 6f 75 70

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

DEDICATION

to first loves

JACK

CHAPTER
1

I
’
d been a father for six years before my son was born. During the pregnancy, I had wondered if it would feel differently to have a biological child of my own. I had feared that it would, actually. Now that he
’
s here, I can admit that it does feel different, staring down into a face that is half mine and half his mother
’
s, but I also realize that this feeling isn
’
t one that I ever should have been afraid to confront.

The notion of loving two people differently had been introduced to me years ago, but I didn
’
t understand it until Jackson was born. Eight days ago, I held my namesake for the first time and breathed a sigh of relief. I
’
d had to be strong for Emi through her difficult pregnancy. When she worried, which was more often than anyone felt was good for her, I had to assure her that everything would be fine even though I wasn
’
t certain that it would. No one was. Our son
’
s conception was a miracle. Doctors said it would never happen. Once we were pregnant, the same doctors predicted a miscarriage. They said his birth would never happen. But against all odds, Jackson Andrew Holland the third–Trey, as everyone else has already started to call him–almost made it to term.

After a few weeks in the hospital, it feels good to finally have him in our home.

His blue eyes open slowly, trying to focus on the new world around him.
“
Hey, buddy,
”
I whisper, starting to push the rocking chair again. The motion lulls him back to sleep quickly, just like it had always put Livvy to sleep when she had first come into our home.

I can remember when we bought the chair. Her foster parents had suggested it after she started in-home visits with us, and I thought it was silly. She was three and a half at the time. None of my nieces and nephews liked to be rocked by the time they were her age. When I asked my twin sister what she thought, she admitted that her children may have liked it, but when there are four kids and two parents, solitary activities like a quiet hour with their mother in a rocking chair simply didn
’
t happen. Another child was always jealous, and made it known with unsettling tantrums.

Livvy loved to be rocked. When she was too big to fit in the wooden rocker, she would sidle next to me in my rocking recliner and watch movies with me until she
’
d fall asleep. I can
’
t remember the last time she did that, though. It
’
s been years. My little girl is growing up.

When I
’
m sure Jackson is sound asleep, I stand up carefully and flick off the lamp in Livvy
’
s room. Being in her converted studio with walls she decorated with crayons, markers and paint takes me back to a time when my daughter was my everything. My Contessa.
Daddy
’
s little girl.

I never wanted to leave Emi and Livvy for those months at the end of Jackson
’
s pregnancy, but the decision to relinquish my international clients to other consultants was the right decision for us. I knew I wanted to be around to watch my children grow up, and traveling with a baby at home wasn
’
t something I was ever willing to do. It had been easy to take Livvy on trips with us, and exposing her to different countries and cultures seemed to enhance her creativity. While I would work, Emi and Livvy would explore museums and parks. In the evenings, we
’
d settle down to a quiet dinner for three followed by family time, playing games with ever-changing rules that only made sense to our daughter.

She was funny and smart and so imaginative, but I knew early on that her mind worked differently than mine. I was fascinated, seeing the world through her eyes, but recently, our varying ways of seeing things had begun to cause friction. Over the course of a few months, while I was handing over my clients in Japan, Spain, France, and England, Livvy and her mother grew very close.

When I
’
d come home on weekends, I noticed changes in her. Her hugs weren
’
t as tight. Her smiles weren
’
t as big. Her conversations didn
’
t always include me, and she never bothered to explain things that I didn
’
t understand. She and her mother had inside jokes and stories that only they knew about. Emi would fill in the blanks for me, typically after Livvy had gone to bed. Our daughter didn
’
t seem to want to share things with me anymore.

“
Poppet?
”
I call to Emi softly from the bedroom door, careful not to wake our son.
“
Can you take over for a bit?
”

“
Of course,
”
she says, setting her computer aside and holding out her arms. I place the swaddled baby in her grasp, and she kisses his forehead and strokes his cheek. When she leans over, her long hair mixes with the messy patch of hair on Jackson
’
s head, the strands intermingling, the colors identical.

“
I
’
m going to go pick up Livvy from class,
”
I tell her.
“
I think I
’
ll take her for ice cream or something. Is that okay?
”

“
It
’
s great,
”
she says.
“
Take as much time as you need. I can manage here.
”

“
I can send Donna by after she locks up the Art Room,
”
I suggest.

“
That would be fine. Maybe I can convince her to make dinner.
”

“
I
’
ll be back in time to cook, love. You just take care of yourself and our boy.
”

“
Okay. You take care of our little girl.
”

“
She
’
s not a little girl anymore,
”
I comment pensively.
“
How can she be ten already?
”

“
Time flies.
”

“
It does,
”
I agree. She pulls me toward her for a kiss and squeezes my hand. I kiss Jackson
’
s cheek before leaving them in the bedroom.

Donna, the mother of Emi
’
s best friend, who had become a constant in Emi
’
s life when the friend–Nate–died, waves from the head of the class when I enter Nate
’
s Art Room, the non-profit we
’
d founded in his name. Livvy spends every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon here, and at least a few hours on the weekends, too. She loves spending time with Donna, and more importantly, she loves spending time painting. My daughter is a brilliant artist.

I stand at the back of the room, noticing the twelve other kids that are quietly working at their desks. When I glance back in Donna
’
s direction, she immediately knows my question, and points to the door that leads to the courtyard.
“
She
’
s sketching,
”
she says quietly. Although Livvy is in these classes, which are pretty structured, she is afforded many freedoms and rarely stays on task with the rest of her classmates.

She an
d one other boy are clear stand
outs, although in different ways. The artists who volunteer to help instruct the kids often bring other projects for Livvy and the boy who shares her workbench. They work well together, but in solitary fashion. They never speak much, but they share everything. Any words that are exchanged are always complimentary and encouraging. They seem to inspire one another, and have since he was accepted into the school four years ago.

When we founded Nate
’
s Art Room, Nate
’
s mother and Emi were clearly enthusiastic about the project and felt it was an apt tribute to a man they both loved. I wasn
’
t sure how involved either woman would be in the day-to-day activities when we started, and I didn
’
t feel I was ever equipped to find people to help run the organization. Donna has taken the helm, though, and feels it is a way to stay closer to her son, who had died in his late twenties. She runs the business and loves her charitable work. I
’
m very pleased we
’
ve gone into this partnership together. Emi loves Donna like a mother, and Livvy adores her, too. She calls her Granna, and is closer to her than either Emi
’
s parents or mine.

When I first exit the building, I don
’
t see anyone. I hear voices, and behind a picnic table and a tree, I see Livvy lying on her back with a sketch book propped up on her knees and her eyes trained on something above her. The boy who works next to her in class is leaning against the brick wall, pointing out something in the tree. If they heard me come outside, neither acknowledge me.

“
Of course the limbs get smaller!
”
Livvy says with a giggle.
“
Limbs are always thicker closer to the tree.
”

“
But, no, that
’
s not what I
’
m trying to show you. Maybe a tree isn
’
t the right subject here. We should go to a building or something. The Flatiron Building is a good example. Wanna go?
”

The Flatiron?
It
’
s fifty blocks south! My heart stops, but Livvy answers him before I have a chance to intervene.

“
We can
’
t leave the Art Room, Jon,
”
she says.

“
I know,
”
he concedes, sounding disappointed.
“
But it was probably the first building I saw that made me understand the concept. I mean, you can still see it close up, it
’
s just not as noticeable. Like, if you look at the yard here–
”