When You Least Expect It (28 page)

“Jeremy, please stop. This is insane!” India called out.

“I’m going to teach you about respect, little bro,” Peter said, dropping one shoulder and feinting forward.

I dodged back, my fists still up. “If you’re going to start giving lessons in manners, I suggest you start with your wife.”

“Hit him, Peter!” Stacey hollered, distracting me just long enough that I didn’t step back when Peter swung at me. His fist connected with my left shoulder, sending pain vibrations down my arm.

“Ow!” I exclaimed. “That really hurt!”

Peter swung at me again, but I was ready for him. I ducked and stepped to one side, and he fell past me. When he turned back around, I was ready. I took a wild swing at him, but misjudged and ended up punching his fisted hand. This time, the pain that erupted was so intense it caused my eyes to water.

“Christ!” Peter said, shaking his hand. “Didn’t you ever learn how to fight?”

“Jeremy, you hit like a girl!” Lainey said.

I was tired of being criticized. I took another swing at Peter, but my arm just swished through the air as he stepped back. He moved forward suddenly and punched me in the gut.

“Ugh,” I grunted, doubling over as waves of nausea hit me.

“For Christ’s sake, Jeremy, step into it,” Lainey shouted. Still sick from the gut punch, I looked over at her, and she demonstrated, turning her torso as she punched the air.

I imitated Lainey’s movements and succeeded in landing a punch on Peter’s left shoulder. He grunted, and I felt a rush of adrenaline. It had worked! I looked back over at Lainey for more advice.

“Hit him again!” she yelled, demonstrating another low blow with her left, followed by a high, fast punch with her right.

Without thinking, without wondering if could pull it off, I did exactly as I was told—landing a hard blow to Peter’s abdomen, followed by a quick clip to his jaw. He made a low, guttural sound, staggered backward, and fell heavily onto the lawn.

“Yes!” Lainey cheered.

Stacey screamed and rushed forward. “Peter! Oh, my God, Peter! You killed him!”

Christ, had I killed him? I wondered. Fear spread through me. But no. Peter was already getting up, propping himself up on his elbows. I stared down at him, feeling an odd mixture of shame and pride for having actually knocked him down. I held a hand out to Peter, offering to pull him up. Peter ignored me, choosing instead to struggle to his feet, amidst Stacey’s weeping.

“That’s it, we’re leaving,” Stacey said, wrapping one arm around Peter’s waist, as though he’d need her support to stand. She pointed a finger at me. “You just stay away! I’m not going to let you beat him up anymore!”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. I glanced down at the back of my right hand. My knuckles were bleeding and raw. I flexed my hand and then flinched. It really hurt.

“Can’t we all just go inside and talk this through?” India tried one last time.

But Peter and Stacey ignored her. They turned to leave, Peter’s arm draped over Stacey’s shoulders.

“Shouldn’t you at least help him into the car?” India asked me.

“Peter, do you want some help getting to the car?” I called after them.

Peter didn’t answer, but Stacey turned around and shot me a filthy look.

“Guess not,” I said to the retreating backs.

As soon as they were out of view—although probably not out of earshot—Lainey whooped and thumped me on the back. “That was awesome,” she said. “That was a wicked right cross. I didn’t know you had it in you!” She beamed at me.

India just stared at me, shaking her head. “You are ridiculous,” she said. But she was smiling as she said it. She noticed me shaking my hand, and took it gently in her own. “You’re bleeding.”

“My war wound,” I joked.

“Come on inside, I’ll get you patched up,” India said.

“Aren’t you going to call me your hero?” I asked, following her.

“Lainey, are you coming in?” India asked, turning back. “We haven’t had dessert yet.”

But Lainey was stifling a yawn. “No, thanks. After all that excitement, I’m beat,” she said. “I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” India and I said together.

———

India finished brushing her teeth and spat toothpaste into the sink. “I hate to admit it, but that felt good.”

I passed her a face towel. “Watching me fight Peter?”

“No. Well, that, too—he had it coming. But I meant standing up to Stacey. It was cathartic. And it means I won’t have to go to her hideous baby shower, so bonus.” India smiled at me. “I didn’t know you could fight like that.”

I blew on my bruised knuckles. “I have hidden depths.”

“Yes, you do,” India said, stepping closer to me. She kissed me softly on the cheek.

“What was that for?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For looking out for me,” India said. She smiled at me. “Are you coming to bed?”

“You’re not still mad at me?”

“Do I sound mad at you?”

“No,” I said carefully. “But maybe you’re
so
angry, you’re now plotting some sort of long-con revenge on me. It starts off with you suggesting sex, and ends with me curled in a fetal position praying for my mortal suffering to end.”

“That’s an attractive image,” India said. “Have you always been this paranoid?”

“Yes. I just hid it well for the first seven years of our marriage. Look.” I took in a deep breath to quell my nerves. “I didn’t mean what I said that night about not being sure I wanted to go through with the adoption. I was just a little freaked out, and it all came out wrong.”

“That’s what my mom said,” India said. “I told her about our talk that night, and she said you were probably just overwhelmed and that I should cut you some slack. Don’t look so surprised. My mother can be surprisingly perceptive.”

“I guess so.”

“Anyway, I was upset for a while, but I’m okay now. And I appreciate that you stood up for me tonight. Hell, you got into a fistfight for me.”

This was true. My hand was still throbbing. “So all I need to do to impress you is to punch my asshole brother?”

India grinned wickedly. “It’s a start. Now are you coming to bed?”

I had been planning to floss my teeth, but it took me less than two seconds to decide good oral hygiene could wait a night. I dropped the dental floss back in the drawer and closed it firmly shut.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Lower. A little lower,” I told Miles. He was holding up the very last photograph to be hung for my show that evening. Miles had spent the afternoon at my studio, helping me hang photos. In return, I’d promised him an unlimited supply of junk food and a video game he’d been pining for. “Wait, that’s too low. A little higher.”

Miles blew out a long, martyred sigh and lifted the picture up a half-inch.

“Right there!” I darted forward to mark the spot with a pencil. “Okay, you can put it down.”

“Finally,” Miles said. “My arms were about to break off.”

“No one said that
Mutant Martians
was going to come cheap,” I said.

“It’s called
Mutant Zombies from Hell,”
Miles corrected me. “And it’s the best game ever. My friend Crunch has it.”

“You have a friend named Crunch?” I asked.

Miles nodded.

“I really hope that’s a nickname,” I said. “Go rest your arms. There’s a package of Oreos in my office.”

Miles bounded off in search of chocolate while I nailed in a picture hanger at the marked spot. Once it was secure, I carefully hung the photograph and then stepped back to admire the effect.

Stripped of equipment and props, my studio made a pleasingly stark gallery. I stood in the middle of it and looked around at the exhibition of my maternity portraits. I’d had the pictures framed simply, with white mats and thin black frames, and with Miles’s help, each series had been hung in a chronological grouping. A flat stomach, a gently curved stomach, a full round belly. A woman pregnant in one photograph and holding her baby in the next. A small boy gazing up at his mother’s swollen belly, and then smiling down at his new baby brother, with their mother blurred in the background. There were ten series in all, including Lainey’s, beginning with that first photo shoot on the beach to a portrait I’d taken of her just last week, in which she sat on the rickety wooden stairs at the end of the boardwalk, her knees bent in front of her, gazing contemplatively out at the ocean. Maybe I was biased, but the photographs of Lainey were my favorites. I thought I’d managed to capture how her tough façade would sometimes slip away, giving a glimpse of the vulnerable young woman underneath.

“I look fat,” Lainey complained from behind me.

I started and turned. I hadn’t heard her come into the gallery.

“I thought you were home napping,” I said.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Lainey said, scratching her stomach. “I’m too uncomfortable. Every time I lie down, the baby starts squirming around.”

“Mimi says that the last few weeks are the worst,” I said sympathetically. “Can I get you anything? A cold drink? A chair?”

“You can talk to your future kid, and tell him or her that it’s time to move out. I want my body back,” Lainey said grumpily. She rubbed her lower back and glanced around at the display. “You got them all up?”

“What do you think?”

I was normally confident in my work, and had put on a number of shows over the years. But this one was different. The women in these photographs all had something I didn’t—couldn’t—have.
Was my longing transparent? Or had it given me a unique perspective on the subject matter?

Lainey looked thoughtfully over the photographs. She’d seen them all before, although not hung all together like this. She walked over to the series that ended with the new brothers.

“I like this one,” she said. “This kid is funny. He has an old face. Like he’s wise or something, you know?”

“That’s exactly why I picked that photograph. There were others where he was smiling at the camera, but there was something about his expression in this shot that seemed special,” I said.

“It’s the light, too. The way it’s falling over them.”

“That’s the nice thing about natural light,” I said. “You can’t manipulate it, like you can with artificial light, but you get these amazing results.”

Lainey nodded thoughtfully. “Did you see those candids I took at the Wagner wedding? I picked up the prints earlier and left them on your desk. There’s a good one of the bride looking over her shoulder and laughing at something one of her bridesmaids was saying.”

“I did. It was a great shot,” I said, feeling as proud of her burgeoning talent as I was of my show. The photograph she was referring to was extraordinary. The bride had not just been laughing—she’d been lost in hilarity, her head thrown back, her eyes screwed shut. She was ethereally beautiful in her mirth. “The client’s going to love it. I’m putting it in the front of her album.”

When Peter had referred to Lainey as my apprentice, his patronizing tone had annoyed me. But there was some truth in it. She had learned a lot during her time at the studio. Still, while I could take credit for teaching her the mechanics of how cameras worked, how to judge the light, even how to placate an overanxious mother-of-the-bride, Lainey had a feel for the work that couldn’t be taught. An understanding of what to look for in your subjects, when you should draw closer and when it was better to
hang back, the perfect moment to press the shutter button. Lainey was a natural.

“I think you’re ready to start taking on a few jobs on your own,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.

“Really?”

I nodded, and smiled encouragingly. “Absolutely.”

Lainey rubbed her swollen belly. “But I’m due soon,” she said.

It was a simple statement of fact that belied the layers of complications. Once the baby was born—Lainey’s due date was only two weeks away—what then? Would Lainey move out of the guesthouse? That had always been the agreement—that she would move out and that we wouldn’t have any further contact after the adoption was finalized. Still, I felt uncomfortable kicking her out. Where would she go? Could I really drive her to the bus station and buy her a one-way ticket to Los Angeles? But at the same time, how could she remain in our lives once the baby was here?

“Hey, Lainey,” Miles said, reappearing with the bag of Oreos in hand. He held it out to her. “Want one?”

“Thanks,” Lainey said, taking a cookie. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping,” Miles said, through a mouthful of cookie.

“Yes, you’re clearly hard at work,” Lainey said, smiling at him. Miles grinned back at her.

The bell on the front door jingled. “Anyone need three cases of cheap-but-not-too-cheap wine?” Jeremy asked, struggling under the weight of the boxes as he came in. “Because if so, I’m your guy.”

“Thank God,” I exclaimed, rushing to help him. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

“Nice. Glad to see you’re keeping the faith,” Jeremy said. He grunted as I slipped the top case of wine out of his arms. “Where do you want these?”

“Over there,” I said, nodding toward a long table, already draped with a starched white tablecloth. Rows of wineglasses were set up on it.

“Is this all you’re serving? Just booze?”

“No, we’ll also have bottled water. In fact, it’s back in my office, so when you have a minute, would you bring it out? And my mom is bringing hors d’oeuvres.”

Jeremy flinched. My mother did not have a stellar reputation for her culinary talents.

“No, it’ll be okay,” I assured him. “I ordered platters from the deli. She’s just picking them up. Oh, and someone has to take Miles home. Maybe my mom will do that.”

“Can’t I stay for the party?” Miles asked indignantly.

“Do you want to stay?” I asked, surprised.

“No,” he admitted. “But it’s nice to be asked.”

“What happened to Georgia’s poetry?” Lainey asked. “I thought she’d written a poem for each series of portraits? She read one of them to me. It was … interesting.”

I flushed with guilt, but Jeremy just laughed.

“India told Georgia that the poems would upstage the pictures, and the show would be more powerful if it remained a wordless event,” Jeremy said.