But Belle doesn’t want simple. I’m not sure if it’s just a stage she’s going through or a result of having nannies who have always done her hair. Either way, it’s nearly brought me to my knees. Last week, she wanted me to do an intricate bun that was designed by the devil. In the end, I found a dad video on YouTube that explained it step-by-step. Mastering pigtails is next on my agenda. They might look easy, but they’re impossible to get even.
My big fingers are good at a lot of things, but tying a girl’s hair into fussy styles is not one of them.
Belle looks up at me. “Thank you,” she says with big a smile.
Worth it. All of it.
Sadie places an assortment of art supplies in a cloth bag. “I’ll get these ready while you browse. There’s a children’s book section over there.” She points to a cozy-looking corner of the store with towering stacks of books, beanbags, and stuffed animal displays.
As I watch Belle skip away, I wonder how I can live up to her trusting innocence. I’m terrified I’ll fail at the immense job of parenting her.
But the longer I spend with her, an even bigger fear is emerging, heavier than the weight of responsibility, bigger than the worry of messing up. It’s a boulder with the potential to crush me—this fear of what will happen when her mom returns and wants her back. I try to steel myself from getting too attached because she is not mine permanently. She’s like an unexpected gift that I’ll have to return at any moment. But I can’t seem to control how much I care, no matter how I brace myself.
“She’s adorable. And clearly loves art,” Sadie says with a warm smile toward Belle.
I nod but don’t elaborate. I learned long ago not to volunteer information. Even the most innocuous of comments can end up as tabloid gossip.
I debate asking about Poppy, but there’s something about this lady’s knowing, mischievous smile that holds me in check.
“We have a painting class starting in our art room that would be suitable for Belle’s age. Would you like to sign up your…?”
“Daughter,” I acknowledge after a moment’s hesitation. The word is rough and unfamiliar on my tongue, but I won’t pretend my daughter isn’t mine.
“She’ll love the class,” Sadie says with a grin. “The teacher is fabulous, and they’re making a fun holiday project. It’s full, but we can squeeze in one more child.”
Holiday? “Please don’t tell me it’s Christmas-themed. What’s the deal with Christmas around here?”
She laughs. “No. It’s something with fall leaves. But you’re right, Christmas is big here, and we start it earlier every year. It’s our claim to fame. Visitors come from all over to experience our historic Dickens Christmas Festival and all the other activities leading up to it. We only have two seasons. Summer, with our summer vacationers and sailing regatta, and Christmas.”
“Can I take the class? Please!” Belle asks, appearing around the corner with a giant stuffed dog that looks vaguely like a Labrador. Belle is obsessed with dogs.
I still have lines to memorize for tomorrow. “How long is it?” I ask Sadie, with a quick glance at my watch.
“Just an hour, from four to five p.m.”
Belle had to hang out on set all day while I had costume fittings. An assistant helped her complete the work her tutor in LA gave her before we left. Her new nanny hasn’t started yet, and it’s been tough to juggle rehearsals while keeping Belle entertained with a revolving door of babysitters. She deserves fun with kids her age.
“That’s fine,” I say, hoping I can tackle the new script revisions while she’s at the class.
“Great! I’ll take these things to the register and sign you up.” Sadie points to the bulging bag she filled. “This won’t be cheap.”
I shrug. Some might call this buying my child’s love. I just call it using what few advantages I have. “This also.” I point to the stuffed animal Belle holds.
A few minutes later, we’ve paid and registered for the class.
“So,” I say with an uncharacteristic bout of nerves. “How’s Poppy?”
“She’s good.” Sadie smiles but provides no more information. “Just go through that door. It leads to the back room where we hold the art classes. It should be ready to start.”
Belle grasps my hand and gazes up at me, apprehension evident in her eyes. I squeeze her hand in silent support and force an unnaturally enthusiastic smile, which makes my face feel like it’s going to crack. Her uncertainty brings back uncomfortable memories of my own shyness when I was younger. I rarely had anyone to hold my hand and tell me everything would be okay. I want to give that gift to her, more than any bag of toys or art supplies.
Children of varying ages mill about two long tables set up with paints, canvases, and an assortment of autumn leaves. A group of moms chat in the corner. I adjust my hat low and pull out my sunglasses. I don’t want a group of fans pushing Belle further back into her shell. She’s already nervous standing at the edge of the doorway, coming in as the new girl in a room full of children.
A lady with her back facing us stands on a chair, reaching for a glass container filled with paintbrushes at the top of the highest shelf. As she reaches farther, her chair tilts. In three strides, I’m there just as she topples over with a cry and lands in my arms.
Wide hazel eyes, more green than gold today, stare into mine.
“You!”
