Читать книгу Single Mama Drama - Kayla Perrin, Kayla Perrin - Страница 11

I decided not to call the police after I spoke to my sister. Emotionally, I was drained, and needed a night’s rest before I dealt with that awful task. I was a little surprised that I hadn’t heard from them; it would be so much easier if they contacted me, as I didn’t have the first clue as to where to start.

I had enough to cope with heading to bed—the bed I had shared with Eli for three months in this apartment. The reality that he wouldn’t be joining me was too overwhelming to contemplate. It required me having a second glass of wine before I dared to get under the covers.

The stress of the day had clearly worn me out, because I fell asleep almost immediately. The sound of the ringing phone woke me up. Startled, I first glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was 12:04. Then I rolled over toward the night table and checked out the illuminated call display.

PRIVATE NAME.

Falling back onto my pillows, I groaned loudly. Damn it! A friggin’ reporter! My God, did these people never give up?

After I’d hung up with my sister, there had been no calls at all, giving me the false confidence that the media had given up—or at least had gone home for the day.

No such luck, clearly.

A few minutes passed and sleep wouldn’t come to me, so I crawled out of bed and went to the window and peered outside. My building had only six floors, and even being on the top one, I had a good view of the street below. To my chagrin, I saw that there were still camera crews and vans parked out front. As if they expected me to leave the building and go out partying in the wake of my fiancé’s death.

“Morons,” I muttered.

I lay back down, trying once again to sleep, but failing. The bed was too big and Eli’s presence sorely missed. Damn those vultures for waking me up. Wasn’t there some movie star doing Ecstasy in a local club that they could go and harass?

The minutes ticked by. A quick look at the digital clock told me it was 12:48. Nearly one in the morning, and I was wide awake.

I needed to fall asleep again. Because, come morning, bright and early, Rayna would be up—and I needed to be rested to deal with her.

I forced myself out of bed and went to the kitchen. There, I opened another bottle of white zinfandel. I’d already had two glasses, but if I was ever going to fall asleep again, I needed another one.

Or two.

Or even three.

I opted for one. I might have wanted to drown my sorrows in alcohol, but I had a two-year-old in the next room who needed me sober and alert in the morning.

I curled up on the sofa, the first piece of furniture Eli and I had bought after putting the down payment on this place. The leather was amazingly soft and supple, the nicest I’d ever felt.

I could still smell Eli in the leather, could still remember how we’d enjoyed lying together on this sofa and watching a movie after Rayna went to bed.

It was irrational, but a huge part of me expected him to walk through the front door, a lazy smile on his face. I even kept glancing in that direction.

Waiting.

And waiting.

As I finished off the third glass of wine, it hit me anew that Eli would never walk through that door again.

I’d never share a bottle of wine over dinner with him.

Never watch him tickle Rayna as she climbed on his lap.

Never have a chance to find out what had sent him into another woman’s arms.

It was that last thought that was the hardest to deal with.

“It doesn’t matter why,” I told myself as I went back to the bedroom. “All that matters is that he did cheat on you. He doesn’t deserve your tears.”

But as I climbed back into the big empty bed, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. I buried my face in the pillow and cried like a baby.

When the tears ended, anger took over. I gripped the pillow as if it were Eli’s neck and squeezed hard—like I wanted to break it with my bare hands.

My emotions spent and my breathing ragged, I finally sat on the edge of the bed and rested my toes on the cool floor. “Damn you, Eli. Damn you for destroying all our dreams.”

This time, when I lay back against the pillows, sleep claimed me quickly.

Something hard landed on my stomach with the force of a cannonball, immediately jarring me awake.

“Eli, what are you doing?” I asked, my eyes flying open. But instead of Eli, I saw Rayna.

And in that moment, I remembered.

Rayna’s smile was as bright as the morning sun as she beamed at me, pushing any sadness from my heart. “Hi, Mommy.”

Easily, I returned her smile. Oh, to have that childlike exuberance at simply greeting another day.

“Hi, baby.”

“Go Carwa?” Rayna asked.

I glanced at the digital clock on my bedside table. Seven-fourteen in the morning.

Normally, I’d be up and getting ready for work. But my head throbbed from fatigue and a hangover, and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep for another couple hours.

I pulled Rayna close. “How about lying down with Mommy for a while?”

“It’s morning,” she replied, as if the idea of sleeping in was a crazy one. Then she wriggled free of my arms and eased her body off the bed.

So much for sleeping in.

Groaning, I forced myself to sit up. Coffee was the first order of business.

I trudged out to the kitchen. Rayna was dragging a chair from the table toward the fridge.

“No, no, no.” I hurried to her and lifted her into my arms. “Let me get what you need, okay?”

She pointed to the freezer. “Popsicle.”

“Popsicle? Honey, you need breakfast.”

“Popsicle,” she reiterated.

I didn’t bother protesting, and opened the freezer door. In Rayna’s mind, freezies and Popsicles were an essential food group.

“You want red?” I asked.

She bobbed her head up and down.

I lowered her to the floor so I could find a pair of scissors, and cut the top edge off of the freezie. When I handed it to her, she grinned widely and wandered into the living room.

I followed her, sat her on the sofa so she wouldn’t make a mess, then turned on the television for her. Moments later, I was back in the kitchen pouring coffee grinds into a filter.

As the coffee percolated, I went to the bathroom and took two Advil. My head was throbbing, and I knew I’d need them.

I was back in the kitchen, opening the cupboard to retrieve a mug, when I heard, “Where Daddy?”

Glancing down at Rayna, I lowered the mug onto the granite countertop.

“Oh, sweetheart.” I lowered myself to her level and drew her close. “Mommy has to tell you something.”

She extended the empty freezie container to me, which I took and placed on the counter. Then I picked Rayna up and carried her to the kitchen table.

“Daddy gone?” she asked.

Sitting on a chair, I cradled Rayna on my lap. I pressed my lips to the top of her head, inhaling her clean scent. She was so innocent, so fragile. And I had to destroy her world.

“Oh, baby.” I closed my eyes and sighed before continuing. “Daddy is…”

Dead.

No, not dead. I couldn’t say dead. She wouldn’t understand what that meant, anyway.

I wracked my brain for something appropriate to say. “Daddy is…gone away. He didn’t want to leave, but he had to. And now he’s in a place called heaven.” I paused. Rayna was listening intently. “The thing about heaven is that when you go there, you can’t come back. It’s a very beautiful place, with lots of pretty waterfalls and animals. So it’s a place where Daddy is very happy. It’s just that, since he’s there now, he won’t be coming back here. When people go to heaven, they stay there forever. Which means we won’t be seeing Daddy again.” I ran my hands over Rayna’s hair. “But we can’t be sad, because Daddy is happy there. It’s just that we’re going to miss him very much.”

I steeled myself, waiting for Rayna’s tears, but she did something I didn’t expect. She wriggled out of my arms, then looked up at me and said, “Circle cereal.”

“You’re hungry?”

She nodded.

“And you want circle cereal?”

“Circle cereal!” she agreed enthusiastically.

That was her way of describing Cheerios. I stood up. “All right, then. Let’s get you some cereal.”

She ran to the cupboard ahead of me. My daughter hardly ever walked. If she wasn’t running, she was skipping. If she wasn’t skipping, she was galloping.

My sweet baby, I thought as I watched her. She’d just lost the father she adored, and she didn’t understand.

I guess it was a blessing.

At precisely eight o’clock, the telephone rang. I plucked the receiver off the kitchen wall and put it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Vanessa Cain, this is Dean Musselman with CNN. I was wondering if I could schedule—”

“No comment,” I quipped, and hung up.

Dean’s call was only the first of many—six more from reporters, and three from acquaintances who’d heard the story and were calling to offer condolences. Soon, the constantly ringing phone had my head pounding. I took the receiver off the hook and went to the bathroom to down another Advil.

Then I got my cell phone from my bedroom, turned it on and dialed Carla’s number.

“Carla,” I said, relieved when she answered.

“Sweetie,” she said warmly. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” I replied. Then added, “Understatement of the century.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I told her. “Please don’t apologize.” I finally understood why some people hated pity after they’d suffered a tragedy. It left you feeling even more helpless in the wake of their sadness.

“Will you be home today?” I asked.

“Yeah. Why? You want to do something? Maybe take the girls to the park?”

“Actually, I was hoping that you could watch Rayna, same as always.”

“Watch Rayna?” she repeated, sounding surprised.

“Yeah. I’m gonna head to the office.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Your boss expects you to go to the office today?” Carla asked, and I’d never heard her sound more mortified. “You know what, that woman is a total—”

“It’s not her,” I interjected. “It’s me. I want to go to work.”

There was a pregnant pause, and I could easily picture Carla’s face—her mouth slightly ajar, her eyes narrowed in confusion.

“This was your idea?”

“I can’t stay here,” I said. “Stay here all day and think about what happened. Plus, have you looked outside your window? With the Jerry Springer media circus downstairs, how long before our building becomes a new South Beach attraction? And how long will it be before the reporters get brave and come knocking on my door? No, I’ll be far better off at work, away from all this.”

“If you’re sure,” Carla said, but she didn’t sound convinced that I was making the right decision.

I groaned softly. “I have no clue what’s right. I’ve never been in this situation before. I don’t know what the protocol is.”

“I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

“I know. And you’re probably wondering how I can even consider going to the office. But if I stay home and see Eli everywhere, what good am I going to be to Rayna? Not to mention the endless phone calls from the reporters, which is only making all of this worse.”

“I’m not judging you,” Carla said. “Obviously, you have to do what you feel is best. And you know I’ll be here as I am every day, more than happy to babysit Rayna.”

“Thank you, Carla. You’re the best.”

“Anytime.”

Fifteen minutes later, I dropped Rayna off at Carla’s place on the second floor and returned to my apartment to get dressed. My head still throbbed, and when I walked into my bedroom, all I wanted to do was collapse onto the king-size bed and let sleep take me away from my problems. It was tempting, but I feared that if I lay down, I’d spend the day in a catatonic state of depression, and that would get me absolutely nowhere.

So I drank a second cup of coffee, dressed in a smart blazer and skirt, and headed out of my apartment.

I was halfway down the elevator when the realization struck me that I had to drive out of the parking lot, and that the media likely had every conceivable exit or entry point of the building covered. And by now, I was certain they knew what I looked like.

Sunglasses wouldn’t cut it.

I made my way back to up to my apartment, where I found a colorful scarf in my closet that I’d purchased at a boutique on Ocean Drive, but had never worn. One of those impulse buys that had made perfect sense at the time, but not the morning after.

Well, it would be put to good use today. The media might snap off shots of me and get video footage as I drove away, but at least they wouldn’t be able to see my face.

“Why does it matter?” I asked myself as I opened the door to my car minutes later. It wasn’t like I had anything to hide. These reporters weren’t hounding me because they secretly thought I’d murdered Eli. So what if they caught me looking grief-stricken, or less than perfect? Wasn’t that par for the course when a person suffered a devastating and public loss such as I had?

As I planted myself behind the wheel of my car and started the engine, it instantly dawned on me the reason I was so mortified at being seen on TV.

Shame.

Sure, Eli’s cheating wasn’t my fault, but people could be tremendously cruel. They could—and would—form judgments of me without even knowing a single thing about me. They’d say, for example, that I was a pathetically hopeless romantic who should have known better. Or worse, that I was a gold digger for being involved with a man who’d been a well-paid athlete.

I didn’t even want to imagine what Eli’s ex-wife would say about him if she decided to talk, considering I knew their split had been nasty. If she was still bitter, she’d likely paint an ugly picture of him that would only make me look more desperate for having been with him.

Was it really the public’s opinion I was worried about, or my own sister’s? Nikki had told me that I was blind where Eli was concerned—in fact, blind where most men were concerned—and that she knew my relationship with Eli would fail.

Now it had.

And the last thing I wanted to do was publicize my shame and humiliation to the entire world.

Yes, I sucked at being able to choose the right man. But it wasn’t like I was the only woman in the world with that problem.

Slowly, I started to drive out of the indoor parking lot. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my chest began to hurt. I let the air out of my lungs in a rush, then gulped in more as my car rolled outside.

Every member of the media surrounding the garage entrance came alive. It didn’t take more than a second for all of them to rush the car. Clearly, they’d done their homework. Probably had gotten my records from the DMV so they knew what I was driving. They swarmed my car like ants, and my heart lurched with fear. Then adrenaline took over, and I pushed my foot down on the gas. The car surged ahead, and I screamed when a Fox News cameraman had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit.

“Oh my God, oh my God!” My car hit the asphalt of the street, and still people converged on me. My hands shook, but I tried to control the steering wheel as best I could. I didn’t let up on the gas, though, determined to get away as fast as possible.

I drove right through the stop sign, nearly colliding with a Mercedes. Screaming, I jammed both feet on the brake. The driver swerved to avoid me, tires squealing in protest as he did. The man hit his horn and gave me the finger out the window.

For a moment, I was so terrified I thought my heart would implode. And I was suddenly wondering if I was up for the drive into downtown Miami. A quick look in the rearview mirror told me I had no choice, when I saw all the video and still cameras pointed my way, reporters racing down the street after me as if I were a fleeing felon.

Absently, I turned right on the first street I came to, my thoughts on what was happening rather than where I was heading.

“Good Lord, what is going on?” I asked aloud. Fine, Eli had been murdered. Yes, he had been murdered in a very lurid and juicy fashion. But why the heck were these reporters so interested in me?

Wasn’t the story intriguing enough with Eli’s background as a sports star? What did I, the clueless and unfamous fiancée, really have to add to make it more interesting?