Restored (The Walsh Series Book 5) (17 page)

N
ovember

T
he waiting was the worst
.

We were now squarely in second trimester territory but the earliest available appointment with Tiel's doctor wasn't until later this week. The near-eternal wait was torture made tolerable only by the ridiculous names Tiel routinely proposed—we were
not
naming our baby Amadeus—and Riley's insistence that he could call one of his "gynecologist friends" who could squeeze us in for a last-minute appointment.

I was absolutely certain that "gynecologist friend" was another way of saying "vagina enthusiast."

Between me and Tiel, we were doing a marvelous job at freaking the fuck out over every tiny thing, too. We debated whether we were tempting fate by adding to the baby t-shirt collection or sketching designs for a bassinet, but never came to a conclusion.

Last week, she
screamed
for me while she was in the shower. The nine steps from the bed to the bathroom shaved years off my life but I gained them all back when I found her tracing the small belly that popped seemingly overnight.

Then, in a fit of panic after Tiel slept on and off for an entire weekend, I reached out to Nick for his expert opinion.

He assured me Tiel's doctor was thorough and worth the wait. "That's who I'd want treating my wife," he said. "But listen to me, man—
do not
lose your shit. Do not get on the internet and read terrible things from Doctor Google. Do not hover around her and piss yourself about everything she eats, says, or does. Do not show her that you're off your rocker, because you need to be the level-headed one here."

"I'm not
off my rocker
," I snapped.

"Fuck yes, you are," he drawled. "You called me because your wife is
sleeping
. Leave her alone. Pregnant women need sleep. Growing a person is exhausting work. D'you disagree?"

"No, but—"

"There is nothin' else to it, man," Nick said.

He rattled off all the precautions that I'd memorized from my first read of the baby books, as well as the warning signs. As if I didn't know those, too. He offered some statistics that were meant to be comforting but left me agonizing over the dark side of those numbers.

All of this rendered me completely useless at the office. I had a pile of new properties in need of design, and several consultation requests that merited attention, but I couldn't find my focus. I was staring out the window when my door rattled open and Shannon called to me in greeting.

"I need to sit for a few minutes before I go back down to my office," she said, out of breath. She dropped to the leather sofa and propped her feet on my pillows. In the process, her phone slipped out of her hands and she swore under her breath.

"I got it," I said, rounding my desk and fetching the device from under the coffee table. "How's Froggie today?"

Shannon smiled and rubbed her belly. "Froggie might be an expert break dancer, or a ninja warrior. Either way, this kid has all the moves."

I'd never seen a more pregnant woman in my life. People frequently asked whether she was having twins or triplets, and she always responded with a pleasant offer to suck her dick. Several weeks ago, Riley asked whether she thought another baby was hiding in there, one the doctor hadn't noticed. She kicked him out of the Monday morning status meeting for that comment.

She was due any day now, and for the most part, she was upbeat despite her obvious discomfort. She'd permanently ditched the heels in favor of flats, and couldn't sit through a meeting without a meal. I made the mistake of mentioning that she was eating like a Hobbit once, and she said her husband would make my body disappear if I ever mentioned it again.

So noted.

"What are you doing up here?" I asked, a vague wave toward the hallway I shared with Patrick and Andy. Aside from the attic conference room, this was the quietest part of the office, far away from the bullpen chaos of where Shannon's staff resided. "Isn't everyone required to come to your office?"

She made an impatient, snarling sound and adjusted the cushions again. "I was beginning to forget what it looked like up here," she said. "And my husband is parked in my office because he, in his commando wisdom, believes Froggie is making an appearance today, and he's driving me up the motherfucking wall."

"I love you but if you're going into labor, please do it in Patrick's office," I said, gesturing to the door. "I really don't think I'm qualified to assist in that kind of live action situation. And this rug is two hundred years old. We can't be destroying the rug."

"Say that to me while you're choking on my dick," she muttered before glancing back to me with a smile. "How are things? With you and Tiel?"

She asked some iteration of this question with some frequency, and though I'd initially interpreted it as a sideways comment about my marriage, I now knew it was her way of offering her support. She was there for us, willing to do
anything
we needed,
anytime
, and that realization made me hate the petty, self-centered disdain with which I'd once handled her involvement in my life.

"Good," I said, and I couldn't stop the smile from breaking across my face.

"Good?" she repeated. "Or
good
?"

"
Good
," I said.

"
Good
," she breathed, nodding. "Oh, fuck. Between this" —she paused, pressing her hands to her chest, tears shiny in her eyes— "and Riley's four-million-dollar project, and Andy getting rid of the Castavechias, and the work on my house is
finally
finished, I'm going to sob like a little bitch all day, aren't I?"

I nudged the tissue box in her direction. "The deal was finalized? The Marlborough Street brownstone that Riley's been sweating for weeks?"

Her head bobbed in agreement as she blew her nose. "It's in rough shape but the owners went bananas for Riley's design. Didn't even meet with the other architects they were considering. They upped the budget to get all the extras he proposed, too, because they fucking loved everything he had in mind," she said. "I mean, he did spill water all over himself during the presentation and I think he was wearing two different boat shoes, but they couldn't stop throwing money at him."

"It's his brand," I joked. "The mismatched, disheveled savant who's running creative laps around the rest of us."

We sat in silence for several minutes as Shannon worked to find a comfortable arrangement on the sofa. Occasionally she spoke to her belly in a sweet voice, and I couldn't hold back a smile when she informed the baby it was time to stop kicking her bladder and take a nap.

"I should probably waddle down the stairs now," she said. "But first—get your ass over here and hug me because I fucking love your
good
news."

T
he waiting was
not
the worst. It was sitting in doctor's office, surrounded by women at every stage of pregnancy, knowing that we were minutes away from discovering something—anything—about our little band geek. Only positive, baby-filled thoughts were allowed into my consciousness, but the dark ones were right there on the edges, begging to take control.

The door swung open, and it felt like our wait was over.

"Tiel Walsh," the nurse called.

She reached for her bag as she stood, and glanced up at me when I joined her. She was wearing a navy blue tunic and leggings, but there was no mistaking the roundness in her belly. That shirt wasn't going to fit much longer.

Tiel offered a concerned frown. She knew I hated these places. "You're sure you want to come along?"

"Of course I'm coming," I said, reaching for her hand. "I'd never expect you to do this alone, and I'm selfish. I don't want to wait to see our little band geek."

With her free hand, she touched her tummy. "Band geeks are all about timing and precision. This is no band geek. An abstract artist, maybe, or a little composer making it up as he goes along."

I shot a quick smirk in her direction. "Sound like anyone you know, Sunshine?"

We followed the nurse down a winding corridor, and into a narrow room. "The doctor wants to start with the ultrasound," the nurse said, nodding toward the exam table. "Hop on up."

The nurse chattered on about the weather, the girls' weekend to Miami she was planning with her book club friends, and her holiday shopping woes as she took Tiel's vitals and got her positioned on the table, and it diffused some of the tension.

"Doctor Opydo will be in shortly," she said.

Once the door whispered shut, Tiel sucked in a quivering breath and turned wide, anxious eyes on me.

"Whatever happens," Tiel said, reaching out for my hand, "we're going to figure it out. We're going to make it work. Everything's going to be fine.
We
are going to be fine. Promise me."

I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, and I squeezed her hand. "Always, Sunshine. We'll always figure it out. There is nothing that can happen today that we can't survive."

"Okay, and don't call the baby
it
," she said, her hand dropping to her bump. "The poor kid has been through enough already, with me not noticing him for more than two months and all."

"Him," I confirmed, and Tiel nodded. "Consider it done."

Doctor Opydo knocked, and entered the darkened room after a pause. "Good to see you two again," she said. She gestured to the flat screen monitor beside the table. "Let's have a look, and then we'll get some measurements and listen to the heartbeat."

When Tiel nodded, the doctor folded the sheet covering her abdomen down. I kept my lips on her temple and her hand in mine, and I watched as the screen filled with blurry patches. Tiel turned her face toward my chest, her eyes shut.

The doctor passed the wand over Tiel's belly, humming and murmuring to herself as she tapped the screen, and those minutes were the new worst. Instead of trying to decipher the fuzzy beige shapes, I brought my forehead to Tiel's and brushed her hair behind her ears.

"Riley landed a new project," I whispered. "All by himself, too."

"Please don't tell me you want to kick him out again," she said. "I really,
really
do not want to hear that from you right now."

I shook my head. "He can stay," I said. "He's been better about not wandering into our room."

"But not better with keeping the snake in the cage," she murmured. "One step at a time, right?"

"This is going to sound crazy," I said, chuckling, "but maybe kilts are the way to go with him."

"Well, look at this," Doctor Opydo said. She pointed at the display, smiling. "Someone wants to say hello."

I looked up, and breath caught in my throat. "Sweetheart," I said, and Tiel slowly shifted to see our perfect little composer in profile. Legs bending and stretching, heart flickering, fist tight against his mouth, tiny nose. It was all there.

Tiel reached out, her fingertips hovering over the image that seemed too vivid to be real. "He has your ears," she murmured. "Those are
your
ears."

"And your fingers," I added. "Is he trying to eat his hand?"

"Yes," the doctor said. "You've got yourself a thumb-sucker."

"Those legs," Tiel said. "They're so long. He's huge. He's going to be tall, like you. Isn't he supposed to be the size of an avocado? Or is it a cantaloupe? I can never keep track of the babies-as-produce thing, and how did he get so big? We don't even know how far along we are, and I don't know which fruit my kid is, and I already sound like an awful parent."

"Take a breath. You're doing fine. Baby is healthy and measuring around sixteen weeks," the doctor said. "You're about four months, and—"

Tiel brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. I brushed the tears from her cheeks. "Can you say that again?" she asked.

"You have a healthy baby," she said patiently as she patted Tiel's hand. "This little one has also been very cooperative this morning, and if you'd like to know the sex—"

"No," I said, and at the same moment, Tiel said, "Yes."

J
uly

I
t was
rough waking up like this, with the sun another hour from rising, my brain slow and sleepy, and my wife warm beside me.

But one more minute would turn that baby babble into baby cries, and if he reached the point of red-faced wailing, all hope for a peaceful morning would be lost. He did
not
like to be kept waiting.

Perhaps he was more like me than I was ready to acknowledge.

Also, Tiel needed as much sleep as she could get. That was the plan: I covered the diapers, she handled nursing, and the latter drained far more energy. We'd never discussed the division of baby responsibilities; it was on our checklist, but this kid had other plans as far as our baby-readiness checklist was concerned.

This kid
always
had other plans.

Her water broke four weeks early, on a swelteringly hot April day in the middle of a guest lecture she was giving at Berklee. In true Tiel fashion, she finished the lecture and
then
called me. We arrived at the hospital without the bag of supplies I'd been carefully curating, but Tiel didn't have the chance to step foot on the hospital's maternity wing before this baby made his appearance.

Dave, or David Wolfgang Walsh, named for Bowie, Grohl, and Mozart, of course, was born in the elevator. He was in a big damn hurry to meet us, and ended up swaddled in my most expensive suit coat. I still didn't understand how I managed to stay calm through those first minutes and hours. Tiel lost a lot of blood, and Dave was small and early—just like me—and fuck, my heart stopped every time they checked his blood glucose. It stuttered to a start only when the readings continued to stay normal.

But the minute that boy—all five feisty pounds of him—grabbed my finger and demanded my attention, I was lost. Somewhere in a dark closet of my mind lived the knowledge that my father was able to exchange the profound wallop of flat-out love that I knew wasn't unique to me and my son for hate, violence, and abuse. That made Angus even more of a monster, but I decided right then, with my son wrapped in a beautiful Prada summer wool and his grip tight on my finger, that Angus didn't get to hurt him, too.

The remnants of my Angus baggage dissolved that humid, overcast afternoon. In its place was this little man, whom Riley dubbed Simba not more than three hours after his arrival. This nickname came complete with Riley's theatrical rendition of "The Circle of Life" in our hospital room.

It wasn't until the next day, when Tiel and I were captivated by the sheer existence of Dave's little fingers and toes, that we finally recognized the full arc of the path we were walking together.

"All my best things come from elevator disasters," she said. "First it was you, and then this handsome young man."

I shuffled over to the alcove we'd arranged into a small nursery. The firehouse bordered on too big, and neither Tiel nor I liked the idea of a far-off baby's room. Instead, we created space within our room, and figured we had plenty of time to adjust. We also discovered that his every-three-hours milk and diaper requirements were best met with him within stumbling distance, at least where sleep-deprived parents were concerned.

Dave waved a drool-covered fist when I leaned over the bassinet. I'd only finished building it a few days before his arrival. He cooed and kicked, and that toothless greeting still hit me like a blow to the chest, even after three months.

"Good morning," I whispered, my finger stroking over his cheek. He had Tiel's dark hair and my lighter skin, and he had her bright, wild smile. I lifted him up and tucked him against my chest, my lips passing over his downy hair. "Let's get you changed, and over to our favorite lady."

At this point, I was a pro at diapering, but the learning curve had been steep. His hatred for cold wipes was well documented. He peed on me more times than I cared to admit. There were accidents I prayed I could scrub from memory.

I snapped the University of Hawaii onesie that Erin gave Dave when she was in town last month, and replaced the socks he'd kicked off during his sleep. He'd wiggle out of them again—somehow—and I'd keep putting them back on. He didn't care for swaddling, sleeper sacks, or footie pajamas, but Shannon insisted he was a hot potato and wouldn't shiver to death. Apparently Froggie was the same way, and at eight months old now, that little girl was healthy as a horse.

Tiel was leaning against the headboard when we returned, her hair tied in a messy bun and the nursing pillow at her elbow.

"How's my baby this morning?" she asked, reaching for him.

"He's excited to see you," I said, edging in beside her.

Dave adored Tiel. Save for his hangry fits, he was a happy baby, but he was happiest when he was snuggled up against her chest and listening to her sing. Who could blame him?

"In other words, hungry," she said, laughing as his wide-open mouth bobbed against her neck and chest. She eased her camisole down, and moved him into position on the pillow. "I think someone is going through a growth spurt. I'm going to wake up tomorrow morning, and you're going to be twelve pounds and busting out of this onesie like the Hulk, aren't you?"

She patted his bottom as he sighed in relief and started gulping.

Tiel was a natural. This was easy for her—exhausting, but easy. I always knew she'd be a good mother, and I always knew she'd do it her own way, and yet I was still surprised.

Part of me expected her to balk at the deluge of family and friends who all showed up within hours of Dave's birth, hovering and opinionated. She required breathing room, but she didn't seem to mind the way my noisy siblings fought over who got to hold him next, or how Shannon invaded
all
of her personal space to help Dave get the hang of nursing, or how Lauren and Andy switched off delivering home-cooked meals every evening when we returned from the hospital, and then stared Tiel down until she ate.

And it looked good on her. Her thoughts still traveled in strange paths and her rambles were charming as ever, but she now wore a calm confidence that I admired more every day. She'd even taken her family's stilted congratulations call in stride, later suggesting that I get a royal blue and white seersucker suit to match the one they sent Dave.

And oh yeah, I was all over that. Dave's suit, bowtie, and argyle sock collections were already reaching epic levels.

Our hot-blooded boy had no use for the hand-knitted baby blanket from Tiel's grandmother, but the fact our son warranted thoughtful gifts meant that I hated them a fraction less than I did before his arrival.

Giving birth in an elevator, and everything that followed, smashed some of those last self-conscious stones she carried, and she trusted herself more than I thought possible.

It was sexy as hell. I'd never been more attracted to her than I was now. I'd always been a fan of her body—before, during, and after pregnancy—but her radiance was warmer, brighter. I savored her in those rushed, groggy moments we found in the middle of the night when the work of parenting a newborn couldn't compete with our need for each other. She didn't apologize for her unwashed hair or the softness in her belly or her twitchy let-down reflex, and I loved it. No one else would ever share these experiences with her, and I treasured it all.

I could barely remember a life before our little family. It was as if I could condense all those years of anger and emptiness and self-destruction into a moment, an inch of my life, and every second with Tiel and Dave stretched into miles.