“Don’t make a scene, Olivia. You asked me to come here and I did. You’ve given me your news and now I’m going. In the meantime, perhaps you could complete your part of the dissolution document and return it to your lawyer as requested?”
He stared at her hand until she let go. The second she did so he started for the door. But the short walk to the ferry building or the ride across the harbor back to the office passed in a blur. All he could remember were Olivia’s words. I’m pregnant. They echoed in his mind, over and over again.
He couldn’t do this again—didn’t want to ever face being a father again—but circumstance now forced it on him. There were choices to make. Tough ones. Xander reached for the phone and hit the speed dial for his lawyer’s office.
* * *
Olivia was working in her studio when she heard a van pull up outside her house. She walked over to the driveway to see who it was and was surprised to see a courier there. She wasn’t expecting anything. The courier handed her an envelope, got her to sign for it and went on his way. Olivia felt dread pull at her with ghostly fingers as she identified the source of the envelope. Xander’s lawyer.
Slowly she walked to the patio at the back of the house and sat down at the table. She stared at the envelope, wondering what lay inside. She couldn’t bring herself to open the packet; she didn’t want to see in black-and-white whatever demand or dictate Xander had dreamed up in response to the news he was going to be a father again. She was still having a hard enough time coming to terms with the way he’d behaved when she’d told him the news yesterday. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to do or say, exactly, but it hadn’t been to simply get up and walk away from her—again.
A blackbird flew down onto the lawn and cocked its head, staring at her with one eye before pecking at the ground, pulling out a worm and flying away. She felt very like that worm must feel right now, she realized. At the mercy of something bigger, stronger and darker than she was. Helpless. It wasn’t a feeling she was comfortable with, and it reminded her of all the things in her life she’d never been able to control. Control had become everything to her. It kept her world turning on its axis when everything else fell apart.
She picked up the envelope and turned it over and over in her hands. Had she really thought for a minute that Xander would be pleased with the news that she was expecting another baby? Maybe, in a sudden rash of idealistic foolishness, she had. The news had obviously shocked him—it had shocked her, too. She hadn’t anticipated his utter indifference. So where did that leave them?
The obvious answer lay right there, in her hands, but still she couldn’t bring herself to tear the envelope open. Instead, she placed it squarely on the table and went inside and brewed a pot of chamomile tea—taking her time over each step. Only after she’d carried her tea tray back outside to the table, poured her first cup and taken a sip did she pick up the envelope again.
She placed one hand on her belly. “Okay, little one, let’s see what your daddy has to say.”
With a swift tear it was open, and she pulled the contents out. She scanned the letter quickly, then read it more slowly on a second pass-through. Olivia went numb from head to foot. Xander’s feelings couldn’t have been spelled out more clearly. While he was prepared to offer generous financial support toward the child, he wanted no contact with the baby or with her whatsoever. There was a contract enclosed, setting out his terms and the sums he was prepared to pay, but she didn’t even look at it.
Slow burning anger lit inside her. How dare he dismiss their baby like that? It was one thing to be angry with her—to not want anything to do with her—but to reject their child? It was so clinical and callous.
Olivia tossed the letter onto the table and propelled herself to her feet. She paced the patio a few times and came to a halt outside her studio. Through the open door she could see the canvas she was working on—a commission she’d earned as a result of her exhibition. Painting had always been her refuge in the past—through sorrow, through loss—but she knew that she needed to work this anger out of her system before she picked up a brush again.
With a growl of frustration she closed and locked the studio doors before she took the tea tray and Xander’s wretched communication inside. Then, after grabbing her keys and sliding her feet into an old pair of sneakers, she went out the front door and down to the beach. She powered along the sand, oblivious to the sparkle of light on the rise and fall of the sea and the growing heat of the sun as it approached its zenith in the sky.