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~ Cara ~
I’ve never thought about having kids. In my position, caring for myself was hard enough, all I could afford to focus on, much less being responsible for another human being. Everything I saw of motherhood at St. Christopher reeked of desperation, of miserable survival. It scared me away from the mere thought.
To be fair, motherhood isn’t what Damian is proposing. He just wants someone to conceive and carry his baby for nine months.
Then she’s done, washing her hands of them both.
For the first time since I can barely remember, there would be hope beyond the scraping by of life, and someone, a man in a far, far better place than me, desperately needs something from me. Me. A former transient. Not just extra napkins or a coffee refill.
Yes, I’ll be set. No more fear. No losing sleep fretting over tomorrow.
Am I that person?
I’m not. I can’t be. I’m not built that way.
There’s more to what he’s saying, what he’s offering. A man that looks like him, that’s absurdly successful, should have women–gorgeous ones–breaking down his door for the profitable opportunity.
“What if it doesn’t happen?” I ask, more out of unexplainable curiosity than genuine consideration. “What you’re thinking, it can’t be indefinite.”
“You’re young, and we’ll find out if you’re healthy enough. That’ll be verified by the doctors. Like I said, if they determine this isn’t a good idea, I’ll compensate you for your time and troubles.”
He means if the doctors find out there’s something wrong with me, that I’m not as healthy as he hoped. “Not everyone is meant to have a baby.”
Easing back, his brooding gaze falls to a far-off place for a minute, the flicker of sadness startling on his striking face. “A year,” he concedes in a low voice. “If you agree, we wouldn’t start immediately. I will need a few months.”
The sudden dejection, the unsaid yearning on this influential man who can buy anything squeezes something in me.
He really, really wants a baby.
I recognize the gnawing pain, know what it’s like to want something so bad as to be consumed by it. That was normalcy for me, to be like every day people I saw on the streets who ducked their heads or crossed the street so they could pretend they didn’t see me. Fathers doting on their kids instead of on survival. Does he look at fathers pushing a stroller or a grinning kid propped on his shoulders the same way, with the same vulnerable need? A growing parasite within him that festers each hopeless day until that’s all he can think about.
Maybe it’s the vulnerability in the eyes of someone who outwardly has everything, the quiet desperation, but I find myself asking, “If I accept, how would you pay me? I don’t have the proper documents, remember? I’m not planning to go through life with all that cash, and I can’t even open a bank account.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have arrangements made. And we’ll request duplicates from the administration. I’ll help you with that.”
He’s thought about this in the few hours I’ve shared my story, planned its details meticulously.
I glance away, considering my options. I’m flat broke and living day to day on the good graces of Bob. If anyone finds out about what he’s doing, both of us would be in trouble, not to mention I’d be out of my only source of income. What if that happens? Then what? Go back to the shelter?
No. I swore to myself that wouldn’t happen. I’ll never go back to the shelter. I’ll find a way no matter what.
On the other hand, this man is offering me a lot of money, everything taken care of for as long as I can last.
But I can’t. I can’t have a baby. I’m not ready and don’t know if I’ll ever be.
To have one and give it up without thought? No. I wouldn’t do that. I lost Mom and Dad, and every day I wish things had been different. I wouldn’t do that to my own child if I could help it, no matter how much this desperate man is willing to pay me.
“This is a big decision. Too many things that I’m not sure is for me.” I hate disappointing anyone, especially someone who’s in obvious distress. “I... I don’t think I’m the person for this,” I admit softly, breaking his hope as gently as I possibly can. “I can’t.”
Despair, disappointment flicker in his eyes, a quiet pain I’m all too familiar with.
“You haven’t heard the details,” he says, his voice somber. “For now, all I ask is for you to think about it. Stay here. Meet with the doctors. Talk to them. Ask questions.”
“Damian.”
“That’s all I’m asking, Cara. Your time, compensated. That’s it. After you meet with the professionals and you still don’t believe this is something you can agree to, we’ll pretend this never happened. You go on with your life, and I’ll find someone else. Just a few weeks.”
He thinks I might change my mind, that he can persuade me by throwing money at me. That’s his kind, after all. The wealthy elite. I can’t blame him for being him, just as I can’t change how my life has shaped my thinking.
“I’ll agree to the few weeks on one condition.” I watch his eyes glow with revitalized optimism in the winter light. A pang of guilt needles me. I don’t want to give him false promises, but I won’t let that stop me. “I get to go home.”
“How would I know you wouldn’t run to the authorities? Tell all about what happened?”
“Because I want something you can offer me. Not money,” I add quickly.
“A barter, then. Interesting.” Sitting back, he eyes me with steady awareness that’s doing strange things to my unruly stomach. “Go on.”
“The government issued documents you spoke of. My documents. I want them.” I swallow back the anxious elation. The thought of finally having them in my possession after all this time, of being able to actually live my life any way I can, lends me a boldness that has me tilting my chin up. “Those in exchange for my silence.”
He stares at me, unblinking. About five feet of smooth wood separates us. Suddenly restless, I nervously lick my lips. His gaze immediately drops to probe the mindless motion. He watches my tongue, my lips, marking them with bright, possessive eyes.
Staring. Just staring.
After being deliberately overlooked for half of my life, the intensity in which he watches me unsettles me to the bone.
My skin is too tight, air too hot. Everything crashing into me at once, like the salty air misted with sea droplets on my sensitive flesh. A pretty table with two cups of hot tea. The beautiful, serene garden surrounded by the scent of the untamed. Yet, nothing matters except for the man across from me.
The stare. It’s a touch, reaching out with gentle, masculine fingers to caress my insides.
A rattling noise jerks me out of the spell. I glance over to see Barbara rushing over with a large tray stacked with food. She’s wordless and efficient, probably having served her master and his captives a thousand times.
Only, a captive wouldn’t be served a gourmet meal prepared by a chef in an immaculate garden.
“How would I know you wouldn’t renege on this agreement once you have the documents in hand?” he asks as soon as Barbara leaves with the empty platter, as unruffled as the winter grass basking under the open sky. “There would be no guarantees for me, would there? That doesn’t sound like a fair deal.”
“I wouldn’t have any proof,” I throw out there. “Who would believe me? You’re rich, powerful. I’m just a worker at a diner.”
It hits me that I just voiced a massive weakness in my bargaining chip.
An almost imperceptible lift of one corner of his mouth below eyes that glitter.
And I know he already thought of that.
“A month, Cara. You’ll meet with the doctors, the experts. That’s all I ask for now. You will have your documents at the end of that time, regardless of your decision. You have my word.”
“Will I have your word I’ll be safe at home during that time?”
There’s a smile then, a full blown one that utterly changes him from stony, untouchable to cozy warm. “You have my word on that too.” He nods at the sandwich in front of me. “Shall we?”
Relief washes over me. I’m not a prisoner after all.
“This looks scrumptious.” Suddenly famished, I pick up the grilled chicken on brioche. “Bob has something similar on the menu, but it doesn’t look nearly as sophisticated as this.”
“You’re quite articulate for someone with a limited education.”
Having been found lacking most of my life, I tell myself not to be offended. Given my background, it was a reasonable observation. “I like to read, and I’m a fast learner. You can acquire a lot from books, magazines, and television if you pay attention and apply yourself. Things start seeping into your brain processes without you even realizing.”
Thoughtful, he considers for a beat. “Books, I’ll give you that. I’ve known of people achieving and excelling at new careers from studying books alone. But television?”
“Pop culture,” I put in helpfully. “Reality shows. Drama. Comedy. Mrs. Fernandez,” I reply to the unvoiced question in his eyes. “She loves television and watches it nonstop.” My teeth sink into the sandwich. At the explosion of artful flavors, I hum with approval.
Damian digs into his salad, studying me in between bites. “How long have you worked at Café Love?”
I shrug and reach for the tea. “A few years. How about you? What do you do when you’re not eating at Love’s?” And gawking at me.
“I build things,” he says simply.
“Like what?” I press.
“Mostly buildings. Commercial. Mixed use.” He gestures vaguely with his fork. “Nothing too exciting.”
It sounds more exciting than cleaning tables all day. “Did you have to go to college for that?”
If he thought that was an obvious question, he doesn’t let on. “Six years.”
Six years. I finished fifth grade, but that’s hardly something I would boast. “Oh,” I allow before taking another bite so I don’t have to add to it. How would I possibly follow that? This time the food goes down lumpy. I decide to change the subject so I don’t have to think about yet another glaring difference between me and the rest of the world. “This is really good. You must really like Bob’s cooking. You’re at Love’s so much.”
A shoulder lifts, falls. He helps himself to his drink before saying, “It’s not bad.”
“Not bad? You used to eat there once a week.”
One dark brow goes up. “Were you counting?”
A flush blazes through me. I don’t know why. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I work there, of course I should notice the customers. “After a while we know who the regulars are. They usually order the same things. You stopped coming.”
He leans in, gorgeous eyes twinkling. “Did you miss me?”
The blaze just turned into a red-hot inferno.
“We miss all our customers.” That’s a good one. “Bob hates it when they stop coming for no apparent reason. Sometimes they move on from the neighborhood, but we don’t know about it.”
“I was out of the country for a few months,” he divulges, sitting back.
Out of the country. Like Paige and Colin. Like some of Love’s regulars who come back with tales of adventures from overseas, showing off a tan along with pictures on their phones.
Yet another one of my pipe dreams, another useless what-if.
Maybe once Damian makes good on his promise and I have my identity established, I can save up enough for a trip. Nothing showy. Canada to start, perhaps.
“What are you thinking about?” Damian interrupts my daydreaming. “You’ve got this wistful smile on you.”
“Just how nice that must be, traveling. See the magnificent, exotic places I’m only familiar with through words and photos. Experience other cultures. Breathe history. I think the furthest I’ve ever visited was North Carolina when I was a kid.”
“Where would you want to go first?”
“Anywhere.” I’m not being factious. It’s just the truth. “My friend Paige-I think you know her–she’s in Copenhagen right now. She’s invited me to visit a few times. I would love to, but... well, you know.”
“I’ll take you.”
His expression hasn’t changed. There’s no teasing glint in his eyes, no telling, jesting smirk, but I laugh anyway. “Good one,” I wheeze out, waving off the ridiculous offer. “I’ll be happy when you take me home.”
He nods, somber. “You’re right. Colin and Paige are returning to the States soon, so maybe somewhere else. Pick a place, Cara. The first place you want to board a plane and feel firsthand.”
“Australia.”
It just came out. I’m humoring him. That must be it. It’s summer there right now, and I’m so sick of the relentless cold, always there, a lurking shadow ready to strike to take over every inch of me.
“Australia, it is then.”
He doesn’t mean it. For all intents and purposes, I’m a stranger to him. Even the nicest guy wouldn’t take a stranger on an extravagant vacation. He’s humoring me.
That, or he’s after something.
Wait... he is. He’s after a baby.