Chapter 83: Planning
The city below was a silent, glittering beast, but up here in the penthouse, the only sounds were the whisper of silk and the crackle of the fireplace. Stephanie stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the night. Her hands rested on the pronounced curve of her belly, a landscape of its own now, taut and alive with tiny, insistent movements. The long, dark fall of her hair was a stark contrast against the pale lavender chemise she wore.
Months had bled together in a whirlwind of fabric swatches, floral proposals, and the relentless, sweet tyranny of their impending future.
“The peonies or the orchids?” Veronica’s voice, a low rumble from the bed, broke the silence. She was sprawled amidst a sea of papers, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, a formidable CEO brought to her knees by wedding planners’ portfolios.
Stephanie didn’t turn. “The peonies are too… expected. The orchids feel more… us. A little wild. Unbreakable.”
A grunt of approval. “Orchids it is. Thank god. Another decision down.” Veronica tossed the binder onto the growing pile on the floor. “My mother has emailed me seventeen times today. Seventeen. About the merits of rum cake versus fruit cake. It’s a cake, for Christ’s sake. It gets eaten.”
“It is a symbol,” Stephanie said, a smile in her voice. She finally turned, her light blue eyes catching the firelight. “And your mother does not do symbols by halves.”
Veronica pulled off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “She’s trying to build a fortress with buttercream and fondant. I know it. You know it.” She looked at Stephanie, really looked at her, standing there with the whole city at her back. The fierce protectiveness that had become a constant hum in Veronica’s chest swelled. “You’re beautiful.”
Stephanie’s smile widened, the dimples carving deep grooves in her cheeks. “I am a whale. A beautiful, waddling whale.”
“You’re my whale,” Veronica said, pushing herself off the bed. She crossed the room, her tall frame moving with a predator’s grace that was somehow softened by the worn NYU t-shirt she slept in. She came up behind Stephanie, wrapping her arms around her, her hands splaying over Stephanie’s stomach. She rested her chin on Stephanie’s shoulder. “Our whale.”
They stood like that for a long moment, watching the silent pulse of the city. Then the baby kicked, a solid thump against Veronica’s palm. She laughed, a deep, surprised sound. “Feisty.”
“Like her mother,” Stephanie murmured, leaning back into the solid warmth of her.
“Or his,” Veronica countered, her voice a soft vibration against Stephanie’s neck.
The next morning, sunlight streamed into the open-plan living area, illuminating a new kind of invasion. The wedding binders had been pushed to one side of the vast marble table, making way for their successors: catalogs for cribs, strollers, and car seats. A sample of a ridiculously soft cashmere baby blanket was draped over the back of a chair.
Reyna was there, of course, a cup of black coffee in hand, examining a schematic for a modular crib as if it were a corporate merger agreement. “This one converts to a toddler bed. Then a daybed. Economical.”
Veronica emerged from the kitchen, a green smoothie in hand. “We’re not buying our child’s bed based on its ROI, Mama.”
“Everything is an investment, Veronica. Even sleep.” Reyna didn’t look up. “Stephanie, dear, this Swedish model has the highest safety ratings. Non-toxic paints. The wheels lock in four directions.”
Stephanie, feeling a bit overwhelmed, just nodded. She picked up a tiny, impossibly small white onesie from a stack Reyna had brought. It was pristine, sterile. It smelled of new fabric and nothing at all. Her thumb rubbed over the neat, unembroidered front.
She thought of the trunk in her mind, the one she kept locked in a dark corner. Inside it was a different onesie, lace-trimmed and yellowed with age, that had been hers. It had smelled of lavender soap and a ghost she refused to name.
“It’s very… clean,” Stephanie said, her voice quiet.
Reyna mistook her tone. “Of course. All organic cotton. The best.”
Veronica watched Stephanie’s face, saw the distant look in her striking blue eyes. She saw the way her fingers clung to the plain white fabric, a little too tight. She put her smoothie down. “You know what? This is all… a lot. For now.” She gently took the onesie from Stephanie’s hands and tossed it back on the pile. “Mama, we need a break. From the planning.”
Reyna finally looked up, her sharp eyes flicking between them. She saw the protective set of Veronica’s jaw, the subtle pallor on Stephanie’s face. She closed the catalog with a definitive snap. “Fine. One hour. Then we need to address the guest list for the rehearsal dinner. Your father’s cousin from Ocho Rios is causing problems.”
When she’d gone, the apartment felt suddenly, enormously quiet. Veronica went to the stereo system and put on some low, thrumming jazz. She then walked to Stephanie, who was still staring at the pile of baby things.
“Talk to me,” Veronica said, her voice low.
Stephanie shook her head, a quick, frustrated gesture. “It is nothing. It is stupid. I am happy. We are happy. This is… everything.” She gestured around the opulent room, at the evidence of their life together.
“But?”
“But…” Stephanie’s breath hitched. “It is all so new. So perfect. That little shirt… it has no history. It has no smell. My mother… she kept my things. In a trunk. They smelled like our house. Like her.” She looked up at Veronica, her eyes glistening. “I do not have a trunk, Veronica. I have nothing to give this baby from before. Nothing from me.”
The confession hung in the air, raw and honest. It wasn’t about the onesie. It was about the chasm between the life she was building and the life she had fled.
Veronica didn’t offer empty platitudes. She didn’t tell her it was okay. Instead, she took Stephanie’s hand. Her grip was firm, an anchor. “So we’ll make a new history. Our history. This,” she said, pressing her other hand against Stephanie’s stomach, “is the beginning of the trunk. Right here. We’ll fill it with our own smells. This apartment. The jasmine on the rooftop. My obnoxious perfume. That cheap diner coffee you secretly love.” A slow, genuine smile spread across her face. “And we’ll start by ruining that perfectly clean onesie.”
Stephanie let out a wet laugh. “How?”
“Come on.” Veronica led her to the kitchen. She rummaged in the fridge and pulled out a handful of berries—blueberries, raspberries. She grabbed a lemon. She laid the pristine white onesie on the counter. “Pick.”
Stephanie looked at the fruits, then at Veronica’s determined face. A real smile, this time, broke through. She picked up a raspberry, its red juice already staining her fingertips. She looked at Veronica, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Both,” she said.
She crushed the raspberry in her fist, letting the vibrant red juice drip and splatter across the white cotton. Then she took a blueberry and did the same, creating a messy, beautiful galaxy of purple and blue. Veronica sliced the lemon and rubbed the cut edge along the sleeve, leaving a sharp, clean scent.
They stood there, side by side, vandalizing perfection. Their hands were stained, the onesie was a glorious, chaotic mess. It was no longer sterile. It was theirs. It smelled of fruit and citrus and their laughter, mingling with the jazz in the sun-drenched room.
The baby kicked, a rolling, joyful movement. Stephanie placed her sticky hand on her belly. “See?” she whispered. “We are already making memories.”