Over. (This. Is. Not. Over. #2) (38 page)

             
The special occasion? Rossi was just elected for a second term two days ago so everyone flew up to DC to celebrate. Eva just made Rossi leave, claiming to be tired, citing age as the reason. Truthfully, Eva feels uncomfortable enjoying life without Laura nearby and she’s sure when the news reports the festivities tonight, Laura will be offended that she wasn’t invited. Everyone walks on eggshells for Laura these days. She’s been in such good moods that no one wants to set her off. In my opinion, she’s using her moods to control Eva since Lola seems so close to her mother now. Once again it appears that a bit of sibling rivalry has sparked between Laura and Lola.

             
But everyone is enjoying themselves tonight. Though Winnie and I are pregnant, we’re still up and running, not quite at the stage where we’re wondering why in the hell we got pregnant again. The kids are loud, the adults are drunk and those of us who are currently pregnant are stoked off coffee. In fact, Malcolm keeps giving me snide looks for drinking coffee while carrying his beloved ginger. That’s what he calls our unborn daughter: the ginger. After Roman, I was trying for a girl, Malcolm was trying for a redhead. He’s praying the ginger looks like me since Roman appears to be created in his exact image and likeness. Currently Malcolm is eating his gelato and Nicky and Roman keep eyeing it. They’ve already had theirs and I’ve already told them no more. Malcolm is now sitting in front of them eating painfully slow, making sure to savor each spoonful of the gelato, much to his entertainment and Roman and Nicky’s dismay.

             
“Good stuff.” Malcolm keeps saying after each spoonful. “Glad I’ve got some more to go.”

             
So what’s been going on with us? Well Boston is our home base but DC is our home away from home. Every family of ‘the crew’ has an apartment in Georgetown in order to keep close to the Rossi administration. We’ve been traveling back and forth seamlessly so there’s nothing to report there. It’s tiring, it’s hectic, but it’s also a whole lot of fun. Walking in and out of the White House is like second nature to us. Capitol Hill has actually lost much of its luster in our eyes because it’s so real to us now. We enjoy it, we have fun but we’re much more excited about our personal lives these days. So I guess I’ll start with Nicky.

             
Just like Malcolm’s parents, he doesn’t remember a day when Malcolm wasn’t there. Ever since Nicky’s first summer in London when he was three (a trip that annoyed the dickens out of Jon but he was busy as hell that year as his tech firm was in its beginning stages), he was taught by Angie and Wynston to call Malcolm ‘Pop’. (But that’s only when Jon’s not around. Matt has been sworn to secrecy on this matter. Nicky will still call Malcolm ‘Mac’ when Jon is present, best believe that.) Malcolm is giddy as can be over the word Pop since he always addresses Nicky as his oldest son in every interview, though all of Boston and the nation knows that Nicky is from my first marriage.              Three years ago, the journalist who broke the news on the fire and adultery story, made the mistake of writing:
… and in attendance was President Rossi, and Attorney Malcolm Blair with his step-son Nicholai.
Malcolm issued a response to that ‘malicious’ (Malcolm’s word not mine) title applied to Nicky’s status within the Blair family:

             
“The next time a ‘journalist’ refers to Nicholai St. James as my step-son, consider your column, news hour, or broadcast either shut-down, eliminated or canceled.”

             
This created some buzz considering Malcolm has a reputation of being the smirking, smiling, witty, courteous type.

             
“Why, I think Malcolm Blair has issued a threat.” The journalist retorted. “And all over calling Nicholai St. James by his official title of step-son.”

             
The next week that journalist was fired from The Boston Globe. That same week his home burned down. (I swear I didn’t do it.) Two weeks later this journalist issued a formal apology. A year later he had yet to land another journalism job. Six months later he found dead from a drug overdose. Pretty morbid isn’t it? No one ever makes the mistake of using Nicholai and step-son in reference to each other.             

             
“My heart hurts for that man’s family.” Malcolm said over breakfast one morning while reading the journalists’ obituary in The Globe.

             
“Mmm hmm. Did you give that man an overdose?” I asked while crunching on a slice of bacon.

             
“No, Red. Come on … did you burn down his house?”

             
“No, Malcolm. Jeez.”

             
We finished our breakfast in peace.

             
Malcolm and my son, Roman, was born three years ago. He’s dark just like Malcolm, even has the same smirk as him. Sometimes he winks at you. He loves to wear ball caps that are pushed down far enough to hide his eyes and he loves his kiddie basketball hoop. He really does look and act a lot like his dad, which made me think that Malcolm was pretty proud of him. Up until last week, I really thought Malcolm liked Roman. Roman had just woken up, Malcolm and I were in the kitchen feeling the ginger kick and then we heard
it
. Whistling. I thought Roman sounded beautiful, Malcolm damn near had a heart attack.

             
“No son of mine will be a whistler.” Malcolm said with conviction.

             
“Well Malcolm, if he likes to whistle–” 

             
“Red, I’d sooner die before a son of mine becomes a whistler.”

             
“O … kay …”

             
Seems like uncle Cadence is teaching all the kids how to whistle during their week-long summer vacation in DC. I think it’s cute, Malcolm thinks Cadence has ulterior motives. What those motives are, Malcolm doesn’t know quite yet. Needless to say, Roman’s whistling days are over.

             
It takes a village to raise a child. Those are words of wisdom. It’s our village that keeps us sane, happy and excited about life. We’re constantly walking our kids to each other’s condos and leaving them there so that we can head to dinner with our spouse. I take my little brother for a week at a time to give my mom and dad some alone time. They do the same for me when it comes to Nicky and Roman. The fellas will take all of the kids so that Rena, Winnie, Jacob’s sisters and I can get away and have fun. Usually we head to New York to drink, catch a play, eat good food and just enjoy each other. Then we ladies will take the kids so that the guys can head to Vegas or Atlantic City to lose all of their money. I meet somebody for lunch each day, doesn’t matter who, someone’s texting me. I still go to shitty dives with Jasmine and Rena and sushi bars with Rena, Matt and the crew. See, it’s easy to love life when you have a community of people that are helping you every step of the way. Never underestimate the power of community.

             
And then there’s love. Malcolm and I have entered a new stage of our relationship: complete comfort. We don’t mind telling each other that we need to break away from the house alone for some peace and quiet. We don’t feel guilty for needing to energize our mind with personal reflection and silent solitude. Actually, when all of the kids head to DC to spend a week with Cadence and Lola, Malcolm takes that week to get away alone. He usually heads to Savannah and stays at the Bohemian Hotel on the Riverwalk. He tells me of the utter serenity he feels when he sits on his suite’s balcony, grateful for his life, his sons, his work, his family, his friends and me. I usually relax around our condo, grateful that no one’s there asking me for juice.

             
And while Malcolm and my relationship has evolved into a comfortable stage, there are still those twinges of ecstasy that come to me, just like before. I still feel madly in love with him, I haven’t graduated from that stage yet and knock on wood, I never will. (My parents look like they’re having a good run in the love and attraction department, so I have hope.) I still get anxious when I know he’s about to walk into the condo or a restaurant. I still get a little excited when he’s sent me a text message and I’m about to open and read it. I still feel proud when we’re at a ball or gala and I’m standing next to him, my arm linked in his. I still feel safe when I hear a noise in the condo and I see he’s already on his feet to investigate it. I still feel relaxed when we’re in the truck at night driving together listening to Adele, Kanye (he’s turning me into a fan) or Sinatra (when those two little boys are with us). I still love to head to Hilton Head during the Fourth of July week and we’re finally one of those married couples that leave the kids at home with grandma or grandpa, jump in the car, crank up Coldplay and head to a bar. I still feel frisky when I’ve sipped too much scotch at Oyster Bar and I still slide my hands into his pants. He still tells me to enjoy myself. So life is both familiar and comfortable. Or, as I like to call it, perfect.

             
Oh, and by the way, Malcolm and I have dinner with the Fultons once a week. Regardless of that, life is still perfect.

Malcolm             

“Daddy.”

             
“Yes.”

             
“Daddy.”

             
“What?”

             
“Daddy.”

             
“Roman.”

             
“Daddy.”

             
“Roman.”

             
“Pop!” Nicky screams at me.

             
“Nicky.”

             
“Daddy.” Roman yells in my ear.

             
“Roman.”

             
“Pop!”

             
Roman’s on my left and Nicky’s on my right. Now both of them are hanging on my neck. Both of them want more ice cream. Both of them just heard their mother say no more ice cream. Both of them think they’re going to get my bowl.

             
“Pop!” Nicky says as he slides the spoon out of my hand and digs into my pistachio gelato.

             
“Give me some please!” Roman screams to him.

             
“Give some to your brother.” I tell Nicky as both he and Roman climb on my legs and devour my gelato.

             
“Malcolm Blair.” Red says.

             
“Baby, I tried.” I say to her, my hands up in surrender.

             
“Really?” She backhands me on the shoulder and I can’t help but drift my eyes to her stomach. I have two sons but I’ve only seen Red pregnant once before so the feeling of seeing her like this still seems brand new. This will be our third one. Three. Three kids with the redheaded girl from St. Bernadette’s library. In three months we’re expecting the ginger. Damn, life is good.

             
I smile and then wink at her before leaning over and tugging at her bottom lip.

             
“Fuck me tonight.” She whispers.

             
“Red … ” I say before stealing a look at Nicky and Roman. I can’t believe she just said that so loud.

             
“What?” She shrugs. She has no idea what my problem is. “And harder than last night.”

             
“Danielle.” I look at Nicky and Roman again, hoping that they haven’t heard how wanton their mother is.

Funny thing is that I never thought I’d be the conservative parent. I naturally assumed Red would be the one the children and I would have to loosen up. But now that I’m a father to two boys with a
ginger on the way, I can honestly admit that I’m the more protective between Red and me. For instance, Nicky going to London for one month out of a year is
way
too long. Completely unacceptable. Red thinks the duration of his trip is just right. Then Cadence takes all of the kids, including Nicky and Roman for one week each summer up to DC for uncle/bad ass kids time. I just about pull my damn hair out the entire seven days. Red doesn’t know this but I take my week getaway vacation in our apartment in Georgetown when Cadence has them, not Savannah. There’s no way in hell I’m letting Cadence have my boys for an entire week with me hundreds of miles away.

Then there’s the food issues the kids have. Let’s just put it like this, Nicky’s on time-out from eating omelets. At one point, he was eating one omelet a day, for seven days straight. Too many eggs! Kids can have high cholesterol too. And now,
Roman eating this pistachio gelato is just about driving me crazy. He doesn’t chew his food properly and has a tendency to swallow it whole. This is the reason why we don’t keep grapes in the house. At this moment I’m deathly afraid that he’s about to choke on this pistachio nut he’s currently sucking on. As a matter of fact …

             
“Give me that.” I say to him as I open my hand for him to spit it out. He looks at me and then swallows it whole. “That’s it, no more.” I say to him as I push the bowl exclusively in front of Nicky.