My Peace

  mussed.

  “Gabe tried to kill me,” I tell him as I climb into the front seat. Gabe guffaws from the back.

  “Whatever, Tate. It was your idea.”

  “You’re both dumbasses,” Brand decides as he pulls out of the parking lot. “And may God have mercy on your souls when your wives see you.”

  That honestly shuts us both up. Mila will kill me… mainly because I skipped my evening dose of pain meds just so I could have a drink with Gabe.

  The truck is quiet, and then after a while, Brand speaks.

  “I’m so sorry about your grandfather, dude. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Thank you,” I answer, my forehead resting on the cool window. God, the cold feels good on my face. “No, there’s nothing anyone can do. But thank you for offering.”

  “Anytime,” he answers. “Anything. You know that.”

  “I do,” I agree. “You’re a good man, Brand.”

  I don’t hear his reply because I pass out slumped against the door. The next thing I know, Brand is carefully hefting me out of the truck.

  “Careful with his ribs,” Gabe calls from the backseat. He’s splayed on the seat, his arm thrown over his eyes. It gives me satisfaction to know that he’s not in any better condition than I am.

  “I can’t feel them right now,” I assure Brand.

  “I bet you can’t,” he grins. He walks with me to the back door. “You good from here?”

  “Of coursh,” I slur. He cocks an eyebrow. I try again. “Of coursh.”

  He shakes his head. “Night, dude. Sleep it off.”

  I creep through the house, but I realize I’m not creeping when I slam my foot into an ottoman in the living room.

  “Summabitch,” I curse at it.

  “Pax?” Mila stands in the doorway in one of my t-shirts. “Are you ok?”

  “Yeah, babe,” I assure her. “I’m sorry to wake you up.”

  She eyes me. “Oh lord. You and Gabe did a number on yourselves.”

  I start to apologize, but she holds up a hand. “Lord knows, you needed to blow off some steam. Let’s get you to bed. Do you feel like throwing up yet?”

  I shake my head. “Nah. I don’t throw up.”

  I am, of course, vomiting within the hour. I make it to the bedroom, and I retch into the toilet, and by now, I can feel my ribs again. The pain is excruciating every time I heave.

  “Fuck.” I wipe off my mouth, then brush my teeth before I head back to bed.

  Something bothers me, but I can’t put my finger on it. Something, something niggles at me. But I put it out of my mind and fall back to sleep.

  Whiskey makes sleep restless, though. I wake again a few hours later, when it is still dark outside.

  There’s a gnawing feeling in my gut and I think on it for a minute.

  It’s familiar, and my mind is fuzzy.

  I wake up enough to focus.

  It’s a hunger, but I’m not hungry.

  There’s an ache in my body, a need for something, something black, something hateful. In my sleep, I had tasted it in my mouth, the bitterness of cocaine, the sweetness of heroine, and I swallow hard. My hand shakes, and I swear to God it’s on my tongue, smeared on my teeth, causing my heart to pound out of my chest.

  Only it’s not.

  It was a dream.

  For the first time in years, I’m dreaming about drugs.

  Son of a bitch.

  The knowledge slams into me, hard and fast.

  I sit up and grab my water glass from the nightstand, gulping the fresh liquid down, trying to drown out the remnants of a taste I haven’t had in so long.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Why would I be craving that shit now?

  “Pax?”

  Mila’s voice is small and clear in the dark, like a bell, and she reaches for me. “You ok?”

  “Yeah, babe,” I lie. I can’t tell her what I’m craving. She’d be devastated and worried, and she doesn’t need that. It’s the first secret I’ve kept from her. It’s not something I take lightly.

  “Hold me.” Mila snuggles up against me, her body slight and soft. Her arm reaches around and pulls me back, into the bed, next to her.

  Her warmth, her smell… it’s familiar. It’s mine.

  This is where I belong.

  Not in the oblivion I once craved.

  I close my eyes, and the blackness is there, behind my eyelids, and once upon a time, I would have disappeared in it gladly. Tonight, though, I think about my wife. I think about my daughter. I think about the life in Mila’s belly. I think of sunshine. I don’t know when I finally fall back to sleep.

  All I know is that I do.

  8

  Chapter Seven

  Mila

  The Mansion, as Pax and I call it, is flooded with movers.

  “Where would you like this, m’am?” one asks me. He’s holding a box clearly marked “Nightstand.”

  “In the master bedroom,” I tell him patiently. I start to pick up a box, but Pax is walking through the door and he eyes me. I stand back up, my hands empty.

  “I can’t believe they were able to renovate the master in just a month,” I say to divert his attention. “It’s incredible.”

  “Well, it was my grandfather’s for fifty years. It needed a facelift,” he answers. He pulls me to him. “I paid them extra to have it done in time for you.”

  I kiss him softly.

  “We’re going to be ok here,” I assure him. “I don’t want you to worry. Wherever you are, it’s home.”

  “You’re just trying to distract me from lecturing you about resting,” he tells me.

  “I hate that you know me so well.”

  He chuckles. “Ha. Get used to it.”

  “Are you going to work?”

  He nods. He’d been off for a couple of weeks to recover, but now that he’s healing up, he’s back in the swing of things. “Yeah. Roger’s probably waiting outside right now.”

  “Ok. Have a great day. Hopefully a lot will be done by the time you get home.”

  “Not by you though,” he says sternly.

  “Ok. Not by me.”

  He’s out the door before I know it, and I’m alone again with the movers. Maddy took Zuzu for a playdate with Eli, so I can actually rest for a minute.

  I drop into a chair in the formal living room, and put my feet up on the gleaming coffee table in front of me.

  “M’am, that is an antique,” a voice says to me.

  I turn my head to find the housekeeper, Natasha, in the doorway. She’s troubled, I can tell, by my disregard for the formal furniture.

  “I know,” I tell her gently. “But my home is to be lived in, not looked at.”

  She moves across the room, and I find myself wondering, once again, why such a young woman would want to be a housekeeper for an elderly man like William. She’s around thirty, slender, pretty with long caramel hair that she keeps twisted into a bun.

  “Would you like some chamomile tea?” she asks. “You seem stressed.”

  “I am stressed,” I admit. “Moving does that to a person.”

  Natasha nods sympathetically. “Mr. Tate instructed me to watch out for you.”

  “You mean, supervise me?” I ask dubiously. She smiles, and she has a nice smile. It seems sincere.

  “Maybe,” she admits. “He doesn’t want you to overdo it.”

  “I’m only eleven weeks pregnant,” I tell her. “I’m fine. But if he asks, tell him I rested all day.”

  “Should I make you some breakfast?” she asks. “I can bring you some eggs and fruit, if you like?”

  “That would be lovely,” I answer. “Thank you.”

  I agree with Pax. I don’t like having people hovering about, but having someone cook me breakfast doesn’t suck. Natasha disappears into the massive house and I close my eyes. The first trimester is exhausting.

  Last time, I’d miscarried at thirteen weeks.

  I have it in my head that
if I can just get past that milestone, all will be well this time. It’s probably not rational, but it’s how I think.

  A mover pops his head in. “Miss? I have art supplies. Where should I put them?”

  “The loft above the garage,” I tell him. Pax is turning it into a studio for me, only it’s not finished yet. It will overlook the pond behind the house, which should be relaxing.

  Hey, you resting? Pax texts me.

  I shake my head. Yes. And thank you for putting a spy on my tail.

  Hahaha. I have to keep you in line somehow.

  Whatever.

  I’ll bring you home a burrito from El Loco’s.

  I love you, I answer immediately.

  I know the way to a preggo’s heart.

  I smile. I’m so lucky.

  Even now, as I look around the giant formal room with cathedral ceilings and wooden walls, I know that even though I don’t love this house, the opportunities available to us are such a blessing.

  I can make this house my own, I decide, as Natasha comes back in with a tray.

  “I’m going to be making a few changes,” I tell her as she arranges it on the side-table.

  “Oh?” she asks casually.

  “Yes. I want to make it homier here. So we feel more… well, at home.”

  “That’s understandable,” she answers. “Where would you like to start?”

  “Well, I’ll have the designer who is doing my studio come talk to me about it.”

  Natasha nods. “Would you like anything else?”

  I shake my head. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

  “I’ll be back for your tray a bit later,” she tells me before she leaves again.

  I sigh as a I take a bite of juicy melon. No, having Natasha here doesn’t suck.

  When she leaves, I realize that I don’t even know if she lives here, or off the premises. This house is really that big.

  I sigh, as I think about everything I’ll have to learn.

  It’s ok, though.

  This is a blessing, I remind myself. A blessing.

  So is the baby in my belly.

  I lay my hand on my abdomen, and imagine the life that lives within. Will it be a boy who looks like Pax? Or a girl who looks like me? I don’t want to tell Zuzu until I’m further along. Not with my track record.

  But Maddy though… I can tell my sister.

  And I do… when she brings Zuzu home later in the day.

  Eli and Zu are running through the empty corridors, and Maddy sits next to me on the couch.

  “Spill it,” she says, examining me. “You want to tell me something.”

  I stare at her, dumbfounded. “How do you always know?”

  She laughs, pushing her blond hair back with a manicured hand. “I know you, Mi. You know that.”

  I take a breath.

  “Ok. Well, I’m pregnant.”

  Maddy stares at me for a second before she shrieks and launches herself at me, wrapping herself around my neck. Her grip is like a vise, and it’s actually hard to breathe.

  “Should I call for security, m’am?” Natasha says wryly as she comes in to get my tray. I grimace.

  “Maybe.”

  Maddy swats at me. “Bite your tongue. When are you due?”

  “I’m eleven weeks,” I answer. “So I’m being cautious. Don’t tell anyone, Mad. I mean it. You know what happened last time.”

  She grabs my hand. “You know that miscarriages happen, sweetie. It will be ok this time. I feel it. Pax knows, right?”

  I nod. “Of course. And Natasha, and William knew before he passed. That’s it.”

  “Do you need anything else, Mrs. Tate?” Natasha waits. I shake my head.

  “No, thank you.” She turns, and I speak again. “Wait. Do you live here?”

  She twists back around. “M’am?”

  I feel silly. “I mean, do you live in this house?”

  She smiles. “Yes. I have a room off of the kitchen.”

  She disappears, and Maddy turns to me. “Do you really have security?”

  I laugh, and lift my tea cup. “No.” I take a drink. “I don’t think so anyway.”

  She rolls her eyes, and it’s just her and me… me and my sister, and this giant house suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. I can hear the kids’ laughter echoing from somewhere down the hall, playing hide and seek, and it’s all going to be ok.

  I feel it.

  Maddy visits for over an hour, only leaving when the baby starts to get cranky. It doesn’t escape my attention that she doesn’t leave until it’s almost time for Pax to be home. They’re clearly taking turns sitting with me.

  I freshen up, and and am waiting for my husband when he comes through the door.

  “Hey, babe, he greets me. His suit fits him perfectly, although he has loosened his tie. I’m pretty sure it’s the first thing he does when he walks out the office door. “How was your day? Did you rest?”

  “Yep,” I tell him honestly. “Maddy visited, the kids played. It was good.”

  “Good,” he answers, and pulls me to him. “Gimme some of that.”

  I smile against his lips, and he kisses me hard. “I missed you today,” he admits, and he grips my butt in one hand.

  “Good,” I grin.

  “Is it bedtime yet?” he growls into my neck. I smile.

  “Not yet.”

  He releases me. “Fine. Play hard to get. You’ll get yours.”

  I laugh, and we play with Zu for a while after Pax changes clothes. Honestly, I like him better in jeans and a t-shirt. A suit just isn’t him, even if he does wears it well.

  At dinner time, we sit in the dining room, and the table is so long. There is room for twenty at it, and the wood gleams in the candle-light.

  Zuzu stares at me from across the table.