29
PARKER
The house we were parked in front of told a hundred stories all on its own. From the garden beds surrounding the front porch, their dormant flowers brown and waiting for the spring warmth to once again reach them, to the way the paint on the window shutters looked brand new, despite evidence of old wear layered beneath.
It was a single-story house with an old tire swing hanging off a giant oak tree in the yard. Christmas decorations were spread around the porch: a wreath hanging on the front door, and a snowman holding a Happy Holidays sign beside an aged bench.
It was a home, yet it held so much more than families and beds. The warm light emanating from the sheer-curtained windows boasted of home-cooked meals and laughing with friends. Warm fires and s’mores under the starlight.
It was a picture of everything I dreamed of wantingas a child. It was everything I hoped to give my own baby.
Beckham stared at the house, a heavy breath lifting his shoulders. I let him have however long he needed. Ten minutes later, he looked over at me with a look in his eyes that spoke a little of his fears, but a lot of his relief.
With a small nod of encouragement, I released his hand and grabbed the casserole dish and Tupperware. Beck eyed the movement, but with the way his nerves seemed to have a chokehold on him at the moment, he seemed to silently agree that the food was better off in my grasp than his.
We both got out of the truck and joined in front of the grille before he led me up the creaky porch steps. Beautiful garlands hung around the banister, tiny fairy lights weaved throughout. From the porch, I could smell sweet vanilla laced with a hint of cinnamon wafting from the house.
Without a knock, Beckham opened the storm door and let us in through the chipped oak main door.
“Ellis?” Beckham’s voice floated into the house as the warmth from a crackling fire in the small living room to the right surrounded us in comfort.
“In the library, hon,” a soft female voice replied from down a narrow hall.
Beckham took the casserole from me, disappearing for a moment to likely set it in the kitchen before appearing back at my side and weaving his hand in mine. He led me down the hall. Paintings of horses and vast landscapes and herds of cows hung on the wall in richwooden frames, some with people among the animals and nature, and others more bare.
We turned into a room with a wide entrance and were met with cherry wood shelves full of hundreds of books. The nostalgic smell of aged books hit me, bringing me back to winters in the library when I wanted to snuggle up with a book and not freeze in my parents’ house.
With her back to us, a woman with graying hair set a book on a shelf, attempting to squeeze it into a narrow slot between two others. The ends of the strands were a rich brown tinted with hints of red, while her roots grew in silver.
As she tried to shove one of the books to make more space, Beckham dropped my hand and crossed to her, leaning over her small frame to do the hard work for her. With an airy, sweet laugh that sent a wave of peace washing over me, she successfully shelved the book.
Beckham dropped his massive bicep, the muscle looking even bigger next to her, and looked down at who I presumed to be Ellis.
She faced him, brushing her hands on her faded jeans. “Thank you, dear. I think I may have one too many in my collection.”
She must’ve spotted me out of the corner of her eye, because her head swiveled in my direction. As soon as we locked eyes, a heartwarming smile lit her lips. I couldn’t help but do the same.
“There are never enough books,” I reassured her.
That only made her eyes brighten more.
“Ellis, this is Parker Summerhill. Parker, this is Ellis Swan. Garrett’s mother.”
A pressure like none I’d ever felt before lit behind my eyes, and I internally forced myself not to cry. The last thing this woman probably wanted was for me to sob at her feet the moment we met. To her, I was a stranger. To me, she was so much more.
With unhurried steps, she crossed to me, a slightly wrinkled hand held out. “Hi, Parker.”
I took hers, her skin soft and warm. “Hi, Ms. Swan. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Please, call me Ellis. And who might you be to Beckham?” Her eyes darted suggestively to my stomach, her eyebrows waggling with excitement. “He didn’t tell me he was having a baby.”
Beckham’s nervous laugh flitted up from behind her.
“I’m his girlfriend.” The title passed my lips with confidence, and it only made her smile widen.
“A girlfriend, huh?” She looked over her shoulder at Beckham. “Is this new?”
“As new as this house, Ell,” Beckham said.
