Page 8 of Almost Christmas in Paradise

“One that’s potty trained though,” I add.

He opens his mouth, probably to say something flippant, but there’s a knock on the door. I check the security camera we keep in the kitchen, and it’s the building security with our breakfast. I go to get it, and when I come back, I set the table for two and pour my husband another cup of coffee. Once we’re seated, we eat in comfortable silence but hold hands under the table. I’m satisfied when he eats his entire omelet, but we worked up quite the appetite until almost one in the morning.

He sits back and lets me clear the table and wash the dishes. Once that’s done, I return to him and put a hand on his shoulders.

He puts his hand on top of mine and says, “Let’s get to it. I’ll go change and meet you in my office.”

When I get to his office, I sit on his desk. He’s kept the letter and flash drive in his safe here. He never took them with us when we moved, and I think it’s because he didn't want to taint our new home with this, but it’s always lurked in the background.

He returns a few minutes later in sweatpants and a matching pullover, looking handsome and content. I wonder if that look of contentment is to make me feel any better.

“I want to say something first,” I say to him. He sits behind his desk like a king on his throne. He pats his lap, and I sit on him. “We can’t control what’s in that letter or on that flash drive. You can’t control how you’re going to feel afterward. Certain feelings might not happen for days, weeks, or longer, but promise me you’ll give yourself permission to feel whatever you feel. Don’t worry about how I’m affected—”

“I can’t promise you that. Don’t ask me not to worry about my wife or my kids. That’s the one thing I can’t give you.”

I nod in understanding. I knew I was reaching. There’s no way I could make that promise either. “Understood,” I say. “But feel what you need to feel. We’re partners in this marriage and parenting thing. If I need to pick up the slack for you with the kids, that’s what I’ll do because that’s what you would do for me.” He nods and I continue. “Now, like I said, we can’t control what your father left in there.” I point at the safe. “But out here,” I say gesturing about the office. “Out in Paradise Land, there are some things we can control. Whatever is in there, I’m still going to love you. I’m always going to be your wife and the mother of your children.” He puts his hand on my stomach. “You’re still going to be the best father our children could ever have. They’re going to love you no matter what. You’re still going to have the love and respect of your mother, brother, and sister. You’re still the head of Paradise Construction. You’re still the wonderful, amazing, and loving man I met and fell in love with all those years ago. You’re still going to be the best uncle to Mason and Kyle and best friend to Wyatt. Those are really the things that define you. You’re still going to be Drake Paradise and nothing and no one can change that. Nothing in there will change anything out here.”

Chapter 8

Drake

Nia gets off my lap long enough to go to the safe and return with the sealed envelope and the flash drive. I haven’t touched either of those things since I put them in there. Hell, I don’t even like to think about them. They are one of the few things in this life that put me in a bad mood. When my father’s former lawyer, Howard Banks, handed them to me, it was as if my skin was burned. She drops both items on the desk in front of me. I push back in my chair, and she takes her place on my lap. I wrap my arms around her while I look down at the items.

“I don’t know which one I’m supposed to look at first,” I admit. The words get stuck in my throat, and the more I look at them, the faster my heart beats—and not in a good way, like when I see my wife from across the room. Or when she smiles at me first thing in the morning. Or when she told me she was carrying our third child a few weeks ago.

She flips the envelope over and ‘read this first’ is scribbled in my father’s neat handwriting. She looks at me, and when I nod, she unseals it.

“Do you want me to read it out loud?” I can hear the shakiness of her voice.

Right now, there’s no way I can touch that piece of paper. I don’t trust myself not to rip it to shreds if he says anything that upsets me.

“Please,” is all I say.

She takes a deep breath, slides her finger under the seal of the envelope, and opens it before pulling out the piece of paper and unfolding it. I tighten my arms around her and rest my head on her shoulder. With every second that passes, my heart rate increases.

“My dearest son,” the letter begins. “The first thing I want to write is that I love you. Please remember that. If you’re reading this, I’ve already been gone at least a year. I say at least, because knowing you the way I do, you probably took your time in reading this. The cat’s out of the bag at this point, and Howard has told you everything I’ve done.”

Nia takes a breath, probably so that I can digest what she just read. That’s not exactly what happened. Fate intervened and led me back to Nia on a cold Sunday afternoon in March.

“Continue, please,” I say.

“Let me tell you in my own words what happened. Yes, I found out about you and Nia Nash, and I did everything in my power to break the relationship. I won’t get into the technicalities of how I did it. Just know that I did it. I thought I had succeeded, but a few months later, I found out she was pregnant. I didn’t believe the child was yours at first, but a paternity test revealed that he is indeed your son. She gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy, and I made sure you knewnothing about it. I deceived her. I lied to her. I made it seem like you didn’t want her or Carter.” She stops again and takes a breath.

The fact that he says my son’s name is enough to make me scream. If he were alive, I would have cut him out of my life. I would have confronted him and told him he was no longer my father. I would have walked away from Paradise Construction. But he’s dead, and I never got the satisfaction of doing any of those things. It’s like a wound that will never fully heal.

“But you already know that. I’m saying it again because I want to take accountability. This was me. I did this, and Howard has nothing to do with it. In fact, he tried to talk me out of it dozens of times. He got angry with me and threatened to quit. He said I was selfish and cruel, and that no loving parent would ever do this. He told me I was a hypocrite, and my ways of thinking were out of step with the current time. He stood up for you, but I reminded him that our conversations were confidential. When he called bullshit, I threatened him. I say that so you don’t take your anger out on him because you can’t take it out on me.”

She puts the letter down almost as if it hurts too much for her to continue.

“I’m going to hold my commentary until later,” she says. “Are you okay?”

“As long as you’re here, I’m good.”

“Shall I continue?”

“Please.”

She takes the letter with shaky hands. After a deep breath, she continues.

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