Текст книги "Under My Skin"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

twenty-four

Jackson and I spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms in the bed at the Biltmore, swept into sleep by the tug of exhaustion that finally vanquished fear, at least for those few blissful hours.

I’m glad of the sleep. Glad to have had the chance to hold him close for what I dearly hope wasn’t the last time. And now, as we drive from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills, I tell myself that I’m glad we have this moment to share, too.

It’s all a lie, of course. I don’t want just this moment. I want all the moments. I don’t want to have held him close one last time. I want to hold him each and every night.

But my hopes are not running the show here, and so I sit quietly in the car, trying to be brave because right now I think he needs that. Lord knows that I do.

“Stella and Ronnie arrive at two,” he says.

“I know. You told me last night.” Once Damien had agreed to take care of Ronnie, Jackson had started the ball rolling to get her out here. Now, of course, his daughter’s care will fall to me.

I lean over and press my hand on his thigh. “I’ll handle it. I promise.”

He nods, his expression managing to be equal parts sadness and gratitude.

“Jackson—” I stop myself, not certain that this is a conversational door I want to go through.

I should know better than to open my mouth at all. “What?”

I consider simply telling him that I’m scared. It’s true, after all. But I owe him honesty, and so I dive in. “Are you sure you want to bring her here? Now that we know the movie might happen and the press knows all about her . . .”

I trail off, hating that I even have to remind him of all the scandal he’s been so worried about.

“I know,” he says. “And I hate even thinking about it. But we’ve thought about this before, and although it’s not ideal, we can shield her.” He glances sideways at me. “Except I’m not going to be around to help. Do you want me to keep the guardianship with Damien and Nikki? Do you think I should keep her in New Mexico with Betty?”

“No. I want her with me.” The words come automatically even though I’m not at all certain that answer is the truth. But it’s only a lie insofar as I’m scared of my own ability to take care of this little girl. As far as scandal is concerned, I think he’s right. It can be managed. It won’t be fun and it won’t be easy, but it can be done. Celebrities do it every day, and as far as PR manipulation goes, I won’t find better resources than in Los Angeles.

I nod, the motion centering me. “Seriously, it’s fine. Scandal doesn’t scare me.”

He looks at me, then stays silent for just a beat too long before saying gently, “You’re going to make a great mom.”

I feel my cheeks burn with the rising blush. “You see too much when you look at me, Jackson.”

He takes my hand. “I see competence. I see strength. I see you, Sylvia. Really. You’re going to be fine.”

I shake my head, not in protest of his words—although he really has not convinced me—but in astonishment that he is the one comforting me this morning.

Gently, I squeeze his hand. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I say. “I’m nine kinds of good. Really.”

I think he’s going to say something, but my phone pings, signaling an email, and when I check it, I also see that I missed a voice mail from last night. I check the log, then curse when I see who it’s from—my dad.

Jackson glances at me. “Are you going to listen?”

“No. Whatever he has to say, I don’t need to hear it.” But even as I’m saying the words, I’m pressing the button to play the message on speaker. I have no idea why. I guess I figure that whatever my dad has to say can’t be any worse than what Jackson and I are doing right now.

“Honey, it’s Dad. I just wanted to say one last time that I love you, and that I’m sorry. I won’t call you anymore. I just hope—well, I hope that someday we can talk again.”

And then the call ends, and that’s it.

I frown, because I heard genuine pain in my father’s voice, and I do not want to feel pity for that man. Not now. Not ever.

Shit.

I turn so that I’m looking out of the passenger window, not wanting Jackson to see my face. Because, damn me, I don’t want to reveal that something in my father’s voice actually moved me.

After a moment, his hand brushes lightly across my back. “It’s okay, you know.”

“What is?”

“To not completely hate him. That’s not the same as accepting, or even forgiving.”

I close my eyes and say nothing.

“Selling you to save Ethan was horrible. And I swear to god I could kill him for what he did to you. But at the same time I can’t help but wonder if he isn’t already dead inside. If making the choice didn’t kill him already.”

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. I neither care nor want to care about that man. “Maybe it did kill him,” I say, because I am determined to hold tight to my anger. “Because god knows he’s dead to me already. And,” I add as I turn in my seat to face Jackson once again, “right now the only thing I want in my head is you.”

I reach for his hand. “We’re both going to be fine.” If I say it again, maybe it’ll be true. Or, at the very least, maybe I’ll start to believe it.

We reach the station and park where Harriet told us, then walk inside to the reception area. From there, we’re led to a conference room, where we find Charles waiting, along with Damien and Nikki. Damien strides forward the moment we enter to shake Jackson’s hand.

“You’re supposed to be on your way to China,” I say to him, a little panicked by the fact that the boss I’m responsible for getting everywhere he’s supposed to be has completely blown his schedule. “You were scheduled to leave Los Angeles last night. Christ, Damien, they’re going to be—”

He holds up a hand to quiet me. “I handled it. Rachel’s taken care of everything. But my brother’s being arrested and my niece is arriving soon. I’m staying here, at least through the arraignment and bail hearing. Just in case there’s anything you need,” he adds, now looking only at Jackson.

It’s not money that Damien thinks Jackson needs—even if the court grants an astronomical bail, Jackson has the resources to pay it—it’s support. And I can tell by Jackson’s face that he realizes that, too. And he gives his brother both a smile and a silent nod of acknowledgment.

“Where’s Harriet?” Jackson asks.

“With Detective Garrison,” Charles says. “They’ll come get you from here.”

At that, Jackson nods stoically. As for me, I can almost feel myself go pale.

“What can we do?” Nikki asks Jackson. “Whatever you need, just say the word.”

“Can you go with Syl to the airport? Stella’s bringing Ronnie in. Maybe help her get settled?”

“Of course,” Nikki says, and I don’t argue, even though I’m more than capable of doing those things on my own. The truth is, as much as I’d like to say I can handle this by myself, I don’t think I’m going to be able to.

“I need to find someplace else to stay, too,” I say. “The boat has a spare room, but it’s no place for a little girl. And my condo is only one bedroom. Even if I give that room to Ronnie, that still puts me in a bind while Stella’s here.” Stella is a saint as far as I’m concerned. She’s staying for at least a week to help Ronnie and me get to know each other better—and to teach me all the ins and outs of caring for a toddler.

Jackson had intended to look for a rental house, but he hadn’t had much time, and the few places he’d viewed just weren’t up to par.

I glance at Jackson. “I wish—” But I don’t finish the thought. He knows what I’m going to say, because I’ve already said it at least five times this morning.

“I know,” he says. “You wish they could have gotten here before. Believe me, so do I.”

“Harriet will get you out on bail,” Damien says firmly. “You’ll see your daughter soon enough.”

I catch Jackson’s eye. We both hope he’s right. We both fear that he’s not.

“You should stay at Stark Tower,” Nikki says, looking to Damien for confirmation.

“She’s right,” Damien says. “Stay at the Tower apartment. Nikki and I can stay at the Malibu house. We’ll be fine. And Syl will be closer to Ronnie during the day. You will be, too, once you’re back at your drafting table. And I’ll need you pulling a lot of hours,” he says wryly. “I want my resort finished on time.”

“Your resort?” Jackson repeats, and Damien just grins.

For a moment, everything is light, and it feels almost as if we’re just standing around talking. As opposed to standing around a police station talking while we wait for Jackson to surrender himself. To be incarcerated.

Jackson meets my eyes, and I nod in agreement. The apartment is completely tricked out. Best of all, it’s right inside Stark Tower.

“All right,” he says to Damien. He turns to Nikki. “Thank you both.”

“Well,” Damien says, “that’s what family is for, right?”

“I guess it is,” Jackson says. “I never really knew before.”

The conversation lags, and I’m about to fill the awkward silence with a question about which guest room Nikki’d choose for a three-year-old when the conference room door opens. I clutch Jackson’s hand as Harriet enters with Detective Garrison.

“Mr. Steele,” the detective says. “Thank you for coming.”

Jackson raises a brow. “I’m not sure I had a choice, but you’re welcome.” His shoulders rise and fall as he gathers himself. “Okay, let’s do this.”

“There’s nothing to do, Jackson,” Harriet says gently. Her face breaks into a wide smile. “You’re free to go.”

His hand tightens around mine, but otherwise, he doesn’t move a single muscle. As for me, I’m certain that I’ve lost my ability to process words, because what she just said makes no sense.

Slowly, Jackson asks, “What are you talking about?”

“We have a suspect in custody, Mr. Steele,” Detective Garrison says. “He’s made a full confession.”

Jackson’s other hand reaches out for the table, and he slowly lowers himself into one of the chairs. His mouth opens, but no words form. Instead, it’s me who says, “Oh, my god, it’s over? It’s really over?”

I squeeze his hand as Harriet confirms what Detective Garrison has said, and Jackson looks up, his eyes searching mine, as if this is a joke and he’s waiting for the punchline.

“It’s over,” I repeat, and for a moment we just look at each other, basking in this moment. And I wonder if maybe—just maybe—the universe has decided that it’s had enough fun with us. That the joke is all done and we can go on with our lives instead of playing some sort of cosmic game of dodgeball.

“Thank god,” Jackson whispers. “Thank god.”

“Who confessed?” Damien asks the question, and it’s only then that I realize that Harriet’s smile is not as broad as I would expect.

“What?” I ask, suddenly wary.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and I think it’s strange that she’s looking right at me. “Sylvia, it’s your father. He turned himself in.”

twenty-five

“Here,” Jackson says, handing me a glass of wine even though it’s not yet noon. “Drink this.”

We’re in my apartment, ostensibly to pack a few things to take back to the Tower apartment after we pick up Ronnie. Right now, though, I’m doing little more than getting lost in my thoughts.

“I’m okay,” I say, tucking my feet under me on the couch. “Really.” But I take the wine anyway, because the truth is that I’m not okay. Honestly, I’m not sure what I am, other than numb.

I’ve been numb, I think, since the detectives met our plane in Santa Fe. First numb about Jackson being a suspect. Then his arrest. Then a pleasant numbness when we found out that he’d been cleared.

That should have been the end of it.

I shouldn’t have to feel this—this deep twinge of some emotion that I really do not want to identify. Not for him. Not for my father.

But it’s there, inside me, twisting me up. And all I want to do is stop feeling. And the only way to do that is to embrace being numb for a little bit longer as I hope that maybe it will all just go away.

I haven’t yet spoken to my father. I’m not sure I want to. According to Harriet, it will be a while before I can anyway because he has to be processed, and it’s the weekend, and things in the criminal justice system just don’t move that quickly. All I know is that he did it—all I know is that it’s true. Apparently the police kept a few facts about the crime back. A quotation that had been carved into the ivory statue with which Reed had been bludgeoned.

My father recited it to Detective Garrison.

He told the detective that he did it to protect Jackson, the man his daughter loved.

But I don’t believe him. Or, rather, I don’t completely believe him.

I think my dad killed Reed after Jackson told him about the blackmail photos.

I think my dad killed Reed to protect me, so that those photos would never have to come out. I think my dad was trying to save me.

But this is my dad, the man I’ve hated for years. And, honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about being saved by him now. After all, he let it get down to the wire for Jackson. He sat back and watched as the paparazzi swarmed around us. He waited, standing back, letting Jackson and me both suffer when he had the key to stop it all along.

I shiver, not wanting to think about any of that right now. All I want to do is revel in the knowledge that Jackson is free. That he’s safe.

That he’s mine.

Jackson sits beside me, then pulls my feet into his lap. I’ve kicked off my shoes, but am still wearing the skirt I’d put on this morning, and I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his fingers trailing gently over my calf.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“About what?”

I open my eyes to find him smiling softly at me, his expression so gentle it just about breaks my heart. “About being melancholy. We should be out buying confetti and throwing it from rooftops.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s against some city ordinance. I’d hate to get arrested,” he says, raising a brow mischievously.

I laugh.

“Seriously,” he says. “You can be happy for me and sad for your dad. Or confused or whatever,” he rushes to say, obviously seeing on my face that I’m conflicted about how I feel about my father.

“I’m so happy that you’re clear now,” I say. “And I’m grateful to my dad, because he’s the reason. But at the same time . . .” I lift my shoulders, unsure and unsteady. “What he did—and then what he did to you by not coming forward sooner.”

“I know, baby. But you don’t have to think about it right now,” Jackson says. “Just let it settle.”

“I don’t even know if I want to see him.” The word is a whisper, shameful because he killed the man who tormented me. And even though it came late, his confession has saved the man I love.

And yet I don’t want to be in debt to this man. Not when he owes me so much more than he can ever repay.

“You don’t have to decide that right now, either.” His fingers are still stroking me, easing gently along my skin. It is just a light touch, and I close my eyes and let myself go, surrendering to this need to be tended and soothed.

His fingers ease higher, teasing me. The touch is so soft that at times I’m not even certain I feel him. And yet how can I not? This is Jackson touching me. Jackson taking care of me.

Jackson, loving me.

I don’t know how long he strokes me, but I do know that with each caress I feel it more and more. As if he is polishing me, making my body shine with a sensual light. So that by the time his fingers sneak beneath my skirt to tease the soft skin of my inner thighs, I am aching for him. And by the time he reaches the juncture of my thighs to find me bare and gloriously wet, my vagina clenches in anticipation of those fingers thrusting deep inside me.

I’m breathing hard, my body warm, my breasts aching, and I arch my back in a silent expression of longing.

But he doesn’t penetrate me. Just the opposite, and I whimper because suddenly the contact disappears. I feel the shift of the couch cushions and open my eyes. He’s standing above me, looking down with such longing and passion that it makes my whole body tingle.

He’s changed out of his suit into one of the pairs of jeans he keeps at my apartment, and I can see the strain of his cock against the denim. It makes me smile. I like that he is bound. That he’s going just a little crazy. I like it, because it will make the explosion when he is released that much more astounding.

“Come with me,” he says, but he doesn’t wait for me to stand. Instead he picks me up, cradling me to his chest as I wrap my arms around his neck. It’s a position that suggests comfort and tenderness, but when puts me on the bed and steps back, I see a building heat in his eyes that suggests otherwise.

“Hook your ankles behind me. Now,” he demands, as if I were going to protest. “No words. No questions.”

I comply.

The position leaves my knees turned out so that the space from my feet to my cunt form a diamond, and there is just a tiny amount of space between his pelvis and mine. Just enough room for his hand to torment me sweetly.

And that is exactly what he does. That finger that was easing up my thigh does so again, trailing lazily up and down as I squirm, my hips undulating in a needful rhythm.

“I like that,” Jackson says, his voice so low I can barely hear it. “I like watching you silently beg. Your cunt slick and hot for me.”

I close my eyes and drag my teeth over my lower lip. “Jackson. Please.”

“Please what? Please this?” His fingertip trails lightly over my clit, and the shock of that touch ricochets through me.

“Or this?” He slips two fingers inside me, then presses down on my clit with his thumb, making me arch back, wanting more.

He pumps his fingers inside me, his thumb continuing to tease, and as he does, I’m losing the ability to think.

“I’m going to make you come, baby. I think you should just sit back and enjoy it.”

I try to answer, but he adds another finger and thrusts deep inside me, and I realize that I am incapable of forming words.

My cunt tightens around his fingers. I want it harder. Deeper.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “Slide one hand up inside your shirt.”

I do. My skin feels hot to the touch.

“All the way up and then squeeze your nipple. Harder, baby. I know you like it hard.”

He’s right, and I comply, biting my lower lip as I tease myself, and then gasping as he takes my other hand and slides it between my legs. “Tease your clit for me, baby,” he says as he thrusts his fingers inside me, finger-fucking me as I do what he says. As my worries and anxieties fall away. As pleasure builds. A celebration of now. Of freedom. Of life.

Of us.

“Come for me, baby.” His voice is low and steady and seems to roll over me, as sensual as his touch. “Come for me and tell me you’re mine.”

“I am,” I whisper. “Oh, god, Jackson, I am.” The words are ripped out of me as I explode, my muscles convulsing so hard around his fingers that I probably have bruised him.

I let the storm wash over me, then sigh as he whispers, “I’m going to marry you.”

“Yes,” I reply. “You damn sure are.”

twenty-six

“Daddy! Stella! Sylvie! Someone else is here!”

Ronnie races through the apartment toward the foyer where the elevator has just binged.

I’m standing by the wet bar with Nikki and Stella, but it’s Jackson’s face that I’m watching, and it has such an expression of rapturous adoration that I’m determined to figure out how to submit Betty and Stella for sainthood.

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 Cass and Siobhan.

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

“I’m Ronnie,” the little girl announces to Cass. “And that’s my daddy and my aunt Sylvia.”

“I know,” Cass 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 assurance 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 Cass, by the way. And this is Siobhan.”

Ronnie contemplates Cass, 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,” Cass adds. “Can we meet him?”

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

Cass 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 Building—the portion that’s not part of Ronnie’s trust—and 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 ass 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 assets. 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,” Cass 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.”

Cass only grins, then starts counting out on her fingers. “Engaged. Small child. Non-felonious fiancé. 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?” Cass 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.”

“Hell, 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 Cassy” and “Uncle Damien.”

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

Cass 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. God 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 glass 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 flustered 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 passed 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.