Chapter 68: A New Page
Edrick
Now that the issue of Moana’s pregnancy was settled, in our household at least, I felt much more at peace than before. Ella seemed to get happier by the day, and would chatter away about her future sibling almost every night at dinner. The issue of figuring out how to best bring it up to my parents was still something I would have to deal with, but at least I had a little time; it’ wasn’t as though my father was walking around my penthouse and would see Moana’s growing belly, unlike Ella, who would’ve seen it happening before her very eyes. Part of me wanted to keep up the lie and tell my parents that I wasn’t the father, but I knew that it would be useless with Ella running around. Eight year olds don’t exactly make the best keepers of secrets.
Things seemed to settle down into a new normal over the next several days. The servants were kind to Moana and helped her whenever she needed it, but she was still mostly independent with her work. However, I couldn’t help but wonder if she would really still be considered a ‘nanny’ once she got further on in the pregnancy, and especially once she had the baby. I had the money to continue paying her for caring for Ella, of course, but I did wonder occasionally if it would be appropriate — especially once my family found out.
I just kept telling myself that we could cross that bridge when we came to it, though, and that bridge was still quite a ways away. I could take some time to think about the best plan of action as to how to address it when that time came.
I noticed that Moana seemed to be spending more time doodling in her sketchbook — well, not really doodling, as she was admittedly far better than that. Whenever she had some time to herself while Ella played or was busy with her violin and piano lessons, I would catch her sitting in some sunny corner with her sketchbook in her lap.
If I was being honest, it made me a bit curious. She seemed so focused on her drawings; what, exactly, was she drawing?
She caught me looking a few times, too. But I wasn’t only looking at her sketchbook.
When I would see her in the sunlight, her hair would turn an even more fiery shade of red. And, as the pregnancy progressed, she seemed to have a maternal glow about her that made her even more beautiful. I caught her sometimes looking at me, too, and we’d both quickly look away at the same time with an unspoken rule between us to not say anything about it.
But, when I couldn’t sleep at night, I kept those images of her in my mind; particularly the one image that was still burned into my memories of the morning that I found her sleeping with Ella. Sometimes, just thinking about it made me fall asleep, but most nights it kept me awake more than anything.
I tried not to think about her. It wasn’t the right thing for me to think about her. Even though she was carrying my child, she was still the same as before: my very human nanny. I couldn’t have any sort of romantic relationship with her, and that was final. Even the thought of it had to be cast out of my mind before things went too far.
That was why, one night, I decided to climb out of bed and get myself a drink; maybe the alcohol would make the picture of her in the sunlight leave my mind.
I quietly walked to the living room, barefoot in nothing but my pajama pants, and poured myself a glass of wine at the minibar. I sunk down into the large, plush armchair with a sigh, and swirled the red liquid around in my glass before taking a sip.
“Bleh.” I made a face to myself as I realized that the wine had gotten too warm and now tasted foul. I got up and grabbed the bottle, shuffling over to the kitchen to dump it out into the sink. When I was finished, I walked back to the minibar and decided to go for the old tried and true: whiskey.
As I was pouring the whiskey, however, I noticed something: Moana’s bedroom door, which I could see from where I stood, was cracked open. The light was on. Something in me wanted to check to see why she was up this late and if she was okay, so I quietly walked over and knocked softly.
There was no answer. Maybe she fell asleep while reading?
I slowly cracked the door open a little more and poked my head in, but she wasn’t in her bed.
“Moana?” I quietly called out, stepping into her room. Her bathroom door was open, and she wasn’t in there. I decided that she must have fallen asleep in Ella’s room, so I walked over to the bedside table to shut off the lamp with a sigh.
That was when I saw her sketchbook lying on the bed.
My curiosity got the best of me. I couldn’t help myself; I set my glass of whiskey down on the side table and picked up the sketchbook, opening it. As I flipped through, I saw countless drawings of the city view from her balcony, each one getting better than the last, as though she was practicing.
Then, I came across the sketch I’d found her working on during one of the nights we slept together. I sank down onto the edge of the bed as I looked at it, taking in how beautifully she’d finished it. It was the finished drawing of Ella and I on the ferris wheel. Ella was sitting on my lap, pointing with her finger out over the crowd with a smile on her face. Moana had stylized it, of course, and had removed my surgical mask and sunglasses. My eyes looked so lifelike as they followed Ella’s finger.
I turned the page then, and suddenly felt a skip in my chest as I saw what she’d drawn next.
That must have been what she’d been working on so much lately: little doodles of baby shoes, baby clothes, and, when I turned the page…
A list of names.
Adam. Genevieve. Liam. Celeste. Noah… She hadn’t only been drawing these past several days, but she’d also been thinking of names. Something about it warmed my heart, to think that she was sitting in those patches of sunlight thinking about our baby’s name.
Suddenly, I heard the floorboards creak next door in Ella’s room. I cursed under my breath and quickly threw the sketchbook down on the bed, tiptoeing out and just managing to get out to the living room before I saw Moana sleepily come out of Ella’s room, then shuffle over to her room and shut the door behind her.
I breathed out a sigh of relief. How could I explain that I was in her room, snooping through her sketchbook at night?
But then again, as I walked back to my room, I realized that I’d have to explain it anyway — because I’d accidentally left my glass of whiskey on her bedside table.
