my child? That I appreciated being kept a part of Pippa’s life, but that I didn’t expect or even crave anything more than what I already had? She was my child, but I was not her mother.
“Thanks again for the pictures.” Steven settled a check on my desk.
I didn’t pick it up. He’d have written it for too much, again, and I didn’t want to be ungracious by arguing with him about the amount. I liked taking pictures, but I liked paying my bills, too. Besides, taking his money made this not a favor, but a job. I think we both preferred it that way.
“Livvy, are you coming to my birthday party? It’s a pretty princess party.” Pippa twirled. “And I’m going to have a piñata.”
I laughed and tugged one of her long, silky curls. “A pretty princess piñata for Pippa. Perfect.”
She tipped her face to look up at me, her eyes squinched shut with glee. “Yes! And all my friends are coming.”
“Then I guess I should come, too. Since I’m your friend.”
Pippa hugged my thighs just briefly before dancing off again. “Yes, yes, you’ll come to my paaarty. And bring a present.”
“Pippa!” Steven said, exasperated.
Devon chuckled and met my eyes. I think he understood me more than his partner did. Steven, hovering just a little too close, watched me. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. I could imagine how he felt. So I stepped back and watched Pippa, who twirled again, already chattering at her daddy about where she wanted to go for dinner and what she wanted to watch on television when they got home.
“I’m going to take Pippa out to the car. Get her strapped in the seat. Devon?” Steven lifted Pippa’s coat, an entirely impractical white, fur-collared jacket. “You coming?”
“Yep. I’ll be right along.”
Devon waited until the sound of Steven’s boots and Pippa’s patent leather shoes echoed away down the concrete stairs. He shrugged into his own coat, a soft brown leather that hit him at midthigh and belted at the waist. Something in the way he turned his head as he tied the belt caught my eye, and I lifted my camera to take a shot.
It blurred, but I took another as he glanced up at me with a self-conscious smile. I’d missed what I was looking for, something elusive I couldn’t have described in words. “Look back at your hands.”
The moment was lost, though, and I pressed the button to view the blurred shot, thinking how I could fix it. Devon peered over my shoulder. He laughed.
I looked up. “See? It takes practice.”
“And talent,” he told me.
Devon is a tall, broad man with skin the color of dark caramel. He shaves his head and wears a cropped goatee, and when he flexes I always expect to hear the purr of ripping fabric as he pops the seams on his shirt. He’s also one of the most gentle men I’ve ever met.
“You should come in and let me take your picture. Just you.”
Devon raised a brow. “Uh-huh.”
I punched his arm gently. “I like taking portraits when I’m not at Foto Folks. It would give me material for my portfolio, anyway.”
“We’ll see.” He smoothed the front of his coat. “I meant what I said, Liv.”
“About coming over? I know.” My camera made a nice barrier between us. I didn’t want to disappoint Devon, and I knew that’s what would happen. He wouldn’t understand my feelings about his daughter. Nobody seemed to.
“It’s just…we’re family, you know? All of us. I lost my parents years ago and my sister doesn’t speak to me.” Because he was gay, he didn’t have to say aloud. “Family’s important. I don’t want you to think you’re not welcome to be a part of her life.”
I nodded. “I know, Devon.”
“Merry Christmas, Liv.”
“Thanks. Same to you.”
He touched my shoulder gently and left, closing the door behind him. When he’d gone I sat back in my chair and opened the file with the photos I’d taken today.
Devon’s family had disowned him at age seventeen, when they’d found out he was gay, and he’d never reconciled with his parents before they passed away. He’d made his own family, gathered friends around him to love and be loved in return.
Pippa was my child, but not my daughter. Steven had requested we not call me Pippa’s mother, and that I sign all parental rights away upon her birth. I’d had no objections. I hadn’t counted on Devon’s love for family making this so complicated.
I took a last look at the photos of the little girl and her parents, her real and true parents. She looked like me and even acted like me a little, and I was blessed to know her. But I was not her mother, and never would be. I took one last look at the photos, and then I closed the folder.
Chapter Five
I didn’t take the photo of Pippa along to my father’s house to show him on Christmas Day. We never spoke of her, or mentioned my pregnancy, which had been unexpected and definitely not welcomed by most people in my life. Instead I took bags full of gifts for Cindy’s and Stacy’s children, four of them apiece, nieces and nephews I didn’t bother putting “step” in front of.
We had a big ham dinner. We opened gifts. My brothers both called, and I spoke to them. I fended off questions about my love life and bragged about my work—not the part at Foto Folks or the photos I took at schools and for sports teams, but the brochures and ads I’d created for personal clients. I relaxed and enjoyed my family and hoped they enjoyed me, too.
I declined the offer to spend the night, and drove the hour and a half home with my iPod blasting everything I could play that wasn’t a Christmas carol. I pulled my car next to Alex’s in my parking lot at just past midnight.
It had been over a week since I’d seen or spoken to him, and I thought about knocking on his door as I passed. Not that he was required to check in with me or anything. In fact, so long as the rent was paid on time, we really didn’t have to interact at all. But we had, and I missed it. I peeked and saw a line of light beneath his door; I took a deep breath and knocked. He didn’t answer, and my courage fled. Rather than knock again, I started up the stairs, and had made it just inside my door when I heard his voice.
“Olivia?”
The best part of skiing is that first moment looking down the mountain. Getting ready to push off. To speed and swoop. To fly. This felt like that moment.
“Hi, Alex. Merry Christmas.”
He wore a pair of jeans and an unbuttoned, long-sleeved shirt over nothing else, his hair rumpled and one cheek creased. “Merry Christmas. I heard you come in.”
“Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. I was in a post–Christmas dinner stupor.”
“Do you want…to come in?” I held the door
