What's Yours Is Mine (35 page)

When you look at it from her point of view, I can quite see how Grace got the wrong end of the stick. My own fault for keeping the drug trials quiet. Maybe if I hadn't been so cross with her, I'd have said something earlier. I felt she was shutting me out of her life, so I did the same to her. Bloody childish, really. I feel bad about what I put her through. She must've been worried sick. Ella says she didn't leave my bedside for two weeks straight.

The tractor finally turns into a driveway, and I spot the turning I want a few yards ahead. I swing the Range Rover into the rutted lane, and make my way slowly up to a stone cottage at the end. It's a pretty little place, even in January. Smoke coming out of the chimney, and bright red
holly berries around the front door. The sort of place Americans would love.

I park the car and get out, glad I didn't bring the hybrid. It would never have made it through this mud. By the time I reach the front door, it's practically up to my knees.

I knock, and a few moments later, the door opens. “Mr. Hamilton? Do come in. I'm sorry about the mud. We keep meaning to get around to having the driveway done, but there's always something more pressing.”

“Really, don't worry, Mrs. Phillips. Couldn't matter less.”

“Diana, please.”

She ushers me through the back to the kitchen. A familiar Aga warms the room, but in every other way, it couldn't be more different from the kitchen at home. Coats and anoraks thrown over the backs of chairs, children's pictures tacked to the walls, clutter and books and papers littering every surface. At least four pairs of wellies are jumbled by the door to the garden. I quite like this sort of family chaos, but it'd drive Grace nuts.

“Did you get the letter?” I ask, as the woman clears a heap of old newspapers from a chair and invites me to sit down. “I asked them to courier it to you from London to make sure it reached you in time.”

“Oh, yes. We got it yesterday. Everything's fine, no need to worry about that.”

She smiles warmly, and I find myself liking her immediately.
I can see why she's in this job. “She's just upstairs. Would you like me to fetch her?”

“I don't want to disturb her—”

“Oh, no, it's quite all right, she's ready for you. I won't be a minute.”

My heart is beating twice its usual rate. If I didn't know what a heart attack felt like—a bloody great tank revving its engine on your chest—I'd fancy myself in the middle of one.

Mrs. Phillips comes back into the kitchen, and I leap up. She smiles, and tilts her arms, so that I can see my daughter's face. “Say hello to your daddy, Ava.”

Big blue eyes look straight into mine. A light fuzz of ruddy hair haloes her head. She's so tiny, it's hard to believe she's real. She looks like a perfect porcelain doll.

Unexpectedly, she smiles. In that instant, my heart is lost. I know my life will never be the same again. I will do anything and everything to keep my little girl safe.

I'm staggered by what Grace has given up for me. Whatever my wife may or may not have done in the past, that one act of love wipes everything clean. She had the chance to bring this perfect little person home, and she chose me.

“Do you want to hold her?”

I hesitate.

“The two of you better start getting used to each other.” Mrs. Phillips laughs, placing her gently into my arms. “You'll be seeing a lot of each other from now on.”

Tentatively, I cradle my daughter against my heart. “Hello, Ava,” I whisper. “I'm your daddy.”

“It's a pretty name.” The woman smiles. “After the film star?”

I nod, not taking my eyes off the baby. “Ava Catherine. After my wife's mother. She died just after Christmas.”

“I'm so sorry. But I'm sure she'd have been thrilled you named the baby after her. It's a lovely thing to do.”

Catherine's death took everyone by surprise. She'd been doing so well. As Grace said, it would've been easier in some ways if she'd never come around from the coma. Grace had already said her goodbyes. This way, it was like she had to lose her all over again. But if she hadn't come around, of course, I'd have been toast.

We couldn't find Susannah in time for the funeral. She sent Grace an email a week or two later, full of news and excitement, but she didn't give a forwarding address or even a phone number. Grace had to break the news via return email. She still hasn't heard back.

Susannah didn't mention Ava in her email. She
did
, however, mention Michael—at least a dozen times. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, it seems: being away from him made her realize they were soul mates. He's been dropping by every other day since she left to ask if we've heard from her, so clearly he's just as smitten. I give it six months before Susannah's back on our side of the Pond, causing her own unique brand of chaos and trouble.

Mrs. Phillips collects Ava's things, and walks the two of us out to my car. “Have you got a car seat?”

“A car seat?”

She laughs. “Hold on, let me get you mine. You can bring it back next time you're passing.”

I watch as she expertly installs it into my backseat, and then I gingerly place Ava in it before wrestling with the ridiculously complicated five-point harness. Mrs. Phillips waves us off as we lurch back down the lane. She's fostered over a hundred babies in her time, apparently; she's kept track of every one.

I drive home at a slow crawl, a trail of infuriated drivers building up behind me. It's almost dark by the time I reach home. The lights are on in the kitchen, and I can see Grace silhouetted at the sink, washing up. I haven't told her about Ava. I wanted to surprise her.

Carefully, I unbuckle my daughter and scoop her into my arms. She smiles at me, as if she knows where we're going.

Grace turns as we come in, and as she looks at us her face is a picture of disbelief and wonder.

“Hello, darling,” I say. “We're home.”

My thanks to my brilliant agent, Carole Blake, and the infinitely patient and charming Caitlin Alexander, one of the best editors in the business. I'm privileged to work with both of you.

Oli Munson and all those at Blake Friedmann and Ballantine Bantam Dell: thank you.

A special thanks to Simon Pigott of Levision Meltzer Pigott for researching the issues surrounding surrogacy law; and to Katrina Erskine at the Portland Hospital for her advice on the medical issues raised in the novel. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone.

My father Michael and WSM Barbi provided a wonderful and peaceful retreat in New Zealand for me to finish my final edits. The rest of the family kept their crises to a minimum during the insane days when I raced to deliver the manuscript on time, for which many thanks.

My children were marvelous about tiptoeing around me when I was in a meltdown. Henry, Matthew, and Lily: for once, it wasn't your fault.

But most of all, I thank my husband, Erik: for reading every draft and never looking bored, for spotting the howlers before I embarrassed myself in public, for his pithy, constructive criticism; and for not leaving me when I was impossible, unreasonable, paranoid, hysterical, delusional, and inconsolable. I couldn't do any of it without you.

Tess Stimson               
Vermont, August 2010
www.tessstimson.com