Page 8 of The Baby-whisperer and the Brute
The connection was weak, but I could hear her reply well enough. “I’m still in St. Croix. How are Skyla and Claire?”
“Howarethey?” I worked to moderate my angry tone. “They miss you. They need to see their mother. When will you be back?”
She laughed. “Now you know how it feels to be tied down all the time. I can’t tell you how many amazing parties I missed because I couldn’t get a sitter—not to mention what it did to my summers.”
It was getting harder for me to control the fury burning in my veins. How could she not miss her own children?
They looked just like her—exquisite little beauties who displayed their mother’s Swedish-Filipino ancestry and fashion model bone structure along with a hint of my own Scotch-Irish heritage.
And when they weren’t misbehaving, they were the sweetest creatures God had ever put on earth.
It had killed me to be away for work. I’d literally counted the days each time until I could come home and see my little family again—that was, until I no longer had a home to return to.
Now apparently, Anouk had grown tired of the reality of parenting, just as she had bored of the more mundane aspects of day-to-day, year after year marriage.
In the same way she’d preferred the travel, celebrity-studded parties, and material trappings associated with being married to a sports star, she seemed to prefer the “Hollywood” version of motherhood, one where her children were more like set decoration than actual people.
While her apartment and social media pages were filled with gorgeous professional photos of our pretty daughters, she spent as little actual time with them as possible. They were mere accessories in her glamorous life.
“I’ve always wondered… why did you want to have kids?” I asked.
I could almost hear her answering shrug through the line. “It’s what you do. And you wanted children so much—I wanted to make you happy.”
Happy. I huffed a humorless laugh. Had we ever been happy? Not since the first few weeks, when it was all wild passion and extravagant dates and gifts.
“I looked over the papers you sent. I’ll sign them… if you’re sure it’s what you really want.”
“I’m sure. I’m fine with visitation for the summer,” she said blandly. “They’re better off with you, anyway. You’re a good father.”
“Yeah, well…” I stopped there. What was there to say?
No matter what kind of father I was—and I suspected it wasn’t all that great—I was all Skyla and Claire had for the next three months. I had to find a way to be goodenough.
I needed to get off the phone anyway. Things had gone far too quiet in the other room where the girls were supposed to be watching a video.
“Let me know when you get back in the country. We’ll set up a time for you to come visit them,” I said.
On the other end of the line, Anouk made a non-committal noise. “I may pick up a job or two while I’m here. They’re casting for an Italian swimsuit campaign next week.”
“Okay well…” I sighed. “Take care.”
Picking up a small brush and a handful of tiny hairclips and elastic bands from the top of my dresser, I headed to the girls’ playroom to attempt, once again, the task I’d been trying futilely to perform all day—wrangling my children’s unruly thick hair into some sort of style presentable for the party.
Not only would they be meeting the Prince and Princess of Aubernesse, otherwise known as Alexander and Cinda Wessex, they’d be meeting the Wessexes’ son AJ and all the other neighborhood children.
If my daughters were going to be living here all summer, I wanted them to be liked by the local kids and have some friends.
I entered the playroom, and sure enough, the squeaky animated video was playing on the flat screen TV, but the girls were nowhere in sight.
“Sky? Claire baby? Where are you two?”
From beneath a pile of stuffed animals in one corner of the room came a delicious double trill of giggles. I smiled.
“Hmmm… I wonder where they could be?” I asked in an exaggerated tone. “They don’t seem to be in here. Claire? Skyla? Where are you?”
I didn’t move toward their hiding spot but took a seat on the red leather sofa that sat in front of the television. If I took them up on their favorite game—hide and seek—they’d dart away, and I’d never get them to the party on time.
Small though they were, my kids were fast as jackrabbits and somehow able to spring away from my grasp like little grasshoppers.
