Finding Colin Firth: A Novel (26 page)

He held her for barely fifteen seconds, but it felt like forever—in a good way. She could smell his soap, the faint scent of laundry detergent, and the feel of his arms around her was better than anything she could have imagined.

She backed away, afraid that he’d kiss her when she couldn’t handle it; the idea of it scared her so much that she moved across the room and turned her back to him. Thirty-eight years old and unable to act normal in front of a man. God.

“Should I go?” he asked, leaning against the counter, his hands in his pockets.

She turned around. “No. I’m just . . .”

“Overwhelmed?”

She nodded. “Exactly that, yes.”

“Meeting your daughter is monumental, Veronica.”

Yes. And so is being in your arms like that.

“My head feels like it’s going to explode,” she said.

“If you’re all talked out, we can just watch a movie.”

He’d surprised her. “That’s exactly what I am. All talked out.”

“That’s two for two on reading you,” he said.

He didn’t seem to be flirting; there was gravitas in his expression. Compassion again. She hadn’t been able to read him before, and it was unnerving that he was so good at reading her.

“A movie sounds perfect. Take us both out of our lives for a couple of hours.” She thought about the film she had on deck for tonight. “Have you ever seen
A Single Man
? About a British professor grieving over the loss of his partner in the early 1960s? I missed it when it first came out, but now that I’m an extra on the Colin Firth movie shooting here in town, I plan to watch every one of his films. He was nominated for an Oscar for this role.”

“I had no idea you were an extra for the movie. That’s great. What’s it like?”

She told him about mostly sitting around for two days, and how yesterday they’d started filming a scene in the meadow. “My job was to walk and check my watch at the same time, and I almost messed that up.” She didn’t have to mention the finger jabbing. She was glad to be finished with heavy conversation and memories.

“Well, let’s celebrate your new gig by watching
A Single Man,
then. I haven’t seen it.”

And so fifteen minutes later, they sat in the living room, watching the opening credits of
A Single Man,
a slice of blackberry pie on a plate in front of him and two cups of coffee on the table. If anyone had told her a few weeks ago that one night in late June, she’d meet her birth daughter, tell Nick DeMarco her life story down to the last detail, then watch a movie with him, his feet up on the ottoman, his arm stretched out across the back
of her sofa, his fingers brushing her own shoulder, she would have laughed. Now here they were.

“This pie is insanely good,” he said, his fork cutting through another bite. “Is this one of your special kinds?”

“It’s just plain old Happiness Pie.”

“Nothing plain or old about happiness.”

She smiled at him, a weight lifting off her shoulders—why, she wasn’t sure. She just knew that she never wanted him to leave this room. As long as he didn’t touch her or try to kiss her, that was. Yet, anyway.

The morning light streaming in through the filmy curtains on the window in her room at the Three Captains’ Inn woke Gemma, and she was surprised to find Alex in bed beside her. A full week away from him and she’d gotten used to hogging the center of the bed and the blanket. She’d gotten used to him not being there. And lately, yes, his not being there was a good thing. But the sight of him lying there, facing away from her, his broad, tanned back, the way his thick sandy-blond hair curled behind his ear, was still familiar and comforting.

They’d argued all night long, getting nowhere. They’d gone out to dinner, for Chinese food, since she was craving sesame chicken and fried dumplings, and she’d laid out her plan to him. She would find a great new job as a reporter, despite disclosing her pregnancy. She would work until the last minute, then take maternity leave. During her leave, they would line up a loving nanny with impeccable references, then she would return to work on schedule. They would alternate taking off for when the baby was sick or had an appointment with the pediatrician. Both of them would take off for in-school teacher conferences, concerts, and various holiday celebrations. She would not,
under any circumstances, become like Caitlin Auerman, she’d added to herself.

“Absolutely not,” he’d said after a long, hard stare.

“Yet my plan is exactly what you’re planning to do, isn’t it? Except you won’t be taking maternity leave—no need, right? And I’ll be your nanny, won’t I? I’ll be the one staying home with the baby. I’ll be the one taking the baby to doctor’s appointments.”

“For God’s sake, Gemma, you’re not going to be the damned nanny. You’re going to be the mother. Get that through your head.”

“But your life doesn’t change at all.”

“Yes, it does. I’ll be solely responsible for taking financial care of our family. I’ll be a father. My entire life is going to change. How dare you say it won’t?”

“You’re not giving up everything you want. Why can’t you see this?”

“Gemma, what are you giving up? You don’t have a job. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.”

She’d known he would say exactly this.

“So if the roles were reversed,” she said, “if it were you who’d lost your job, you’d be fine with staying home with the baby, being a stay-at-home dad, your entire life revolving around the baby instead of prosecuting criminals, pursuing justice, making a difference in the world.”

“Gemma, you’re pregnant. You don’t have a job. You’ve sent out a bunch of résumés and haven’t gotten a call back. How easily do you think you’d get your dream job when you have to disclose at an interview that you’re pregnant?”

“Can we just eat,” she said, stabbing her fork in a dumpling. She was surprised she didn’t lose her appetite.

“Gem, I love you. We’re going to have a baby. Aren’t you happy about that at all? We’re having a baby.”

She put her fork down, tears stinging her eyes. “I’m not going to be a good mother anyway,” she whispered. “I don’t have a maternal bone in my body.”

He reached across the table and took both her hands. “You do so. You’re incredibly loving and kind and generous. You have a huge heart, Gem. You’re going to be a great mother.”

“I don’t know where you get that faith from,” she said, and as usual, that faith buoyed her up some, made her feel better. “Do you really think I’d be a good mother?”

“You will be a great mother. No doubt.”

Now, the memory of how relieved she’d been to hear him say it, to hear in his voice how much he believed it, made her spoon against him in bed, her cheek against his warm shoulder. She wondered if he could be right, if she could work at it, develop maternal instincts. Maybe once you had the baby, hormones and biological impulses took over. She would love her baby, that much she knew. Maybe love was three-quarters of the battle, the big motivator.

He turned around to face her, lying on his side, and the streaming sunlight lit his hair. “How are you feeling, Gem? Tired?”

“Actually, I feel pretty good. I’m really looking forward to today’s plans. I’ve got three interviews scheduled. One with a teenager who’s giving her baby up for adoption, and two with residents of Boothbay Harbor who have strong opinions on Hope Home and the effect they feel the home has on the town.
One woman thinks that a home for pregnant teenagers encourages teenagers to get pregnant, encourages a false sense of protectiveness. Another feels there should be a center in every county in the state.” She was hoping to meet with at least one former resident of Hope Home who had lived there in the sixties or seventies, and Pauline was working on arranging interviews.

“I see you’re in full reporter mode,” Alex said. “But I meant how you’re feeling physically. Don’t you have anything to say about being pregnant? How it feels? Whether you think it’s a boy or a girl? Names you’ve been thinking about? You’ve had a whole week to think, remember?”

“I’ve spent the week getting used to the idea of being pregnant at all. Not thinking names.”

He leaned up on one elbow. “I’m thinking Alexander Jr. if it’s a boy. Gemma Jr. if it’s a girl.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Gemma Jr.?”

He trailed a finger down her cheek. “I’d love a mini Gemma. With your beautiful face and that whip-smart mind.”

She almost started to cry. “Why do you love me so much, Alex?”

“Because I do. And we’re going to work through this. Somehow.”

Somehow. Somehow they’d have to.

She kissed him, hard, and felt his hands travel under the blanket onto her stomach, then up, slowly, to her breasts.

“They’re bigger,” he said, wriggling his eyebrows at her.

“Oh, that’s romantic.”

He laughed and pulled the blanket over their heads, shifting himself on top of her, and somehow Gemma forgot all about interviews and baby names and the world.

After a fabulous breakfast of country omelets that Bea whipped up for them, Gemma walked Alex to his rental car in the driveway. She’d been dying to sneak into the kitchen to ask Bea how last night had gone with meeting her birth mother, but the dining room was packed with guests, and she knew Bea would be crazed in the kitchen. She’d find her after Alex left.

He lifted his face to the beautiful late June sunshine. “The air up here is amazing. So fresh and clean. I’m not thrilled we’re living three hundred miles apart, especially now that you’re pregnant, but at least you’re in a picture-postcard town. And maybe this place really will help you see things my way a little bit. Suburban life, slower pace, no killer taxis, everyone knows your name, playgrounds everywhere you look, preschools that cost less than a house.”

“You’re not supposed to be telling me your evil plan to get me to embrace moving to Westchester, Alex.”

He smiled. “I just want us both to be happy. I don’t know how we’re going to work that out. But it’s what I want.”

“Me too.”

He hugged her and kissed her good-bye, reminded her to take her prenatal vitamins and to stay away from Caesar dressing and unpasteurized cheeses, and then he was gone, the silver car turning on Main Street and disappearing out of sight.

By five o’clock, Gemma was exhausted and wanted to crawl right back into her comfortable bed at the inn, but she
remembered Alex wouldn’t be there to give her a massage—both back and foot. Suddenly, she didn’t care about having the bed to herself and avoiding talk of suburbs and preschools. She’d forgotten how wonderful he could be, how much she could count on him, how good he could make her feel. But she had no idea how they could find a happy medium. Without her moving to Dobbs Ferry. Next door to Mona Hendricks.

She sat on the porch swing, resting her head against the rim and staring up at the beautiful puffs of clouds in the blue sky.

“Ready to go?”

Gemma sat up, glad to see her friend June standing in front of her car in the driveway, and her adorable nine-year-old son, Charlie, waving to Gemma from the backseat. Gemma grinned at him and waved back. They were headed to a birthday party for June’s husband, Henry, at the bookstore they owned. A night off from working on the article, from thinking about her life, was just what she needed, and then later tonight was Movie Night again at the inn at nine o’clock.