Adrianne Byrd - She's My Baby

“She’s missing.”

In any other family those words might sound off an alarm; but not with the Owenses, and not when the missing person in question was Samantha. “Sam is not missing. Sam just failed to tell anyone where she’s going—as usual. No big deal. She’ll turn up.” And hopefully not at my place.

“I’m not too sure. I’ve been calling her new apartment out in Las Vegas for two weeks. Finally, I reached one of her neighbors, Ms. Friedman, and just found out some disturbing news—”

“Ms. Owens, we have a problem.” Deonté Stylianos, her photo director, jetted into the room, red-faced and wild-eyed.

Leila lowered the phone and placed a hand over the mouthpiece. “What is it?”

“Erika hasn’t turned in the photos of the Laura Biagiotti collection. Those were set to go to the printers by five.”

Leila glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet. “It’s four. Why am I just now hearing about this?”

Deonté sighed. “I covered for Erika when she missed the first deadline because she swore to have the pictures to me in time for the printers.”

“Damn it.” Leila pressed the phone back to her ear. “Roslyn, I have to go. I have a real emergency to deal with right now.”

“But, Sam had a—”

“I’ll call you back. I promise.” Not waiting for a response, Leila hung up.

Roslyn exhaled a long frustrated breath and returned the phone back to its cradle.

“What did she say?” Patrick asked.

Roslyn frowned as she glanced over at her husband. “I didn’t get a chance to tell her. She had to go.”

Patrick flashed his deep-pitted dimples as he moved next to her and draped a strong arm around her waist. “Honey, maybe you’re making a big deal out of nothing? This isn’t the first time Sam has pulled a stunt like this.”

“I know, but this time it’s different. There’s another life involved.”

“We don’t know that for sure. Ms. Friedman could’ve been mistaken. Sam could have been babysitting a friend’s kid for all we know.”

He had a point; but as Roslyn thought about her sister’s elderly neighbor, doubt crept over her. “I don’t think we should go on our trip until we get to the bottom of this.”

“You’re joking.” Patrick’s body deflated as his arm fell from her waist. “We’ve been saving for two years to go on this trip. Barbados in December—you said it would be a dream come true.”

“I know, I know, but this thing with Samantha.” She shook her head. “Something’s not right. I can feel it.”

“Nothing is ever right with Sam. She pulls these little stunts for attention. You know that.”

She did.

As if sensing he was making some headway, he drew her close again. “The tickets are nonrefundable and the kids are excited. Besides, if there is a real emergency, Leila is more than capable of handling it.”

That was true as well. Leila’s tough-love tactics always worked better than Roslyn’s please let me try to fix everything for you strategy.

“You’re right.” Roslyn smiled, laying her head against her husband’s broad chest. “If anything is wrong, Leila will handle it.”

“Lord, save me from gold diggers and career-driven women,” Garrick Grayson prayed into his glass of eggnog before he downed it in one long gulp. At the very least he’d hoped to drown out the overly cheerful song “Jingle Bell Rock” that blasted from every speaker in his brother’s house.

“Hey, bro. You better ease up on that. I have no intentions of carrying you out of here with my bad back.”

Garrick flashed Orlando a wounded look. “It’s been a bad day. Indulge me.” He glanced around his brother’s crowded Christmas party.

Orlando shook his head. “This is about Miranda, isn’t it?”

“I stopped drinking over Miranda two years ago. This is about me perfecting the fine art of screwing up my life. I’m forty-five years old and I haven’t accomplished anything meaningful.”

“Ooh. It’s going to be one of those evenings?”

“C’mon. You know it’s true.”

Orlando laughed. “I don’t know any such thing. I know you’re a man with the Midas touch when it comes to wheeling and dealing, which is why Dad left the family business in your capable hands. God bless him.”

Garrick studied his brother. “You don’t feel slighted?”

“Heavens no.” Orlando laughed with genuine amusement. “I’m no architect and I don’t enjoy pushing paper around. The football field is where I belong.”

Garrick smiled at the truth of Orlando’s words. His brother had never made it past college ball, but he was just as happy coaching his beloved junior-high-school team.

Tamara, Orlando’s beautiful full-figured wife, looped an arm around her husband, and then leaned lovingly into him. “You’re supposed to be mingling.”

“I am.” Orlando delivered a quick peck against her voluptuous lips. “I’m making sure this bum you invited doesn’t guzzle all the eggnog.”

Tamara turned her glowing smile toward Garrick. “He’s harmless…and so is the eggnog. No alcohol.”

“I knew it tasted funny,” Garrick joked.

Sliding gingerly from one brother to the other, Tamara planted a kiss against Garrick’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, Garrick.”

“Merry Christmas, gorgeous.”

“How’s the new house?” Tamara asked.

“I’m enjoying it so far. Of course, I’ve only been there a week. But it seems like a nice quiet neighborhood.”

“Why didn’t you just build another house? You do such great work.”

“It’s a transitional house and it’s just me.” He shrugged.

“Then maybe I should come up and see you sometime,” she said in her best Mae West imitation.

They exchanged a few minutes of harmless flirtation—just long enough to playfully stir Orlando’s jealousy.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Orlando pulled his wife back to his side. “Me Tarzan, she’s Jane.”

“Oh, are we playing that one tonight?” Tamara murmured against her husband’s ear and slid her arm around his waist.

“I think I can dig up my leopard-print loincloth.”

“Hello. I’m still standing here,” Garrick reminded them.

The mushy husband-and-wife team chuckled. However, the duty of playing hostess called and, with a great show of reluctance, Tamara glided out of Orlando’s arm.

“I’ll leave you two alone, but, honey, don’t forget to mingle.”

“You got it.”

Garrick ladled another cup of eggnog as he watched his sister-in-law vanish into the crowd. “I envy you,” he blurted.

Orlando’s smile turned sly. “I know.”

Garrick chuckled, but his mood darkened in the next instant when Bing Crosby vowed solemnly that he would be home for Christmas. “Miranda is getting married again.”

“Tamara told me. Some doctor or another, right?”

“Yeah.”

Orlando fell silent for a moment, glanced around to make sure no one was listening, and then asked, “Are you still in love with her?”

“I’ll always love her,” Garrick admitted in a voice laden with emotion. “But, no. I’m not in love with her.”

“Tamara said she’s pregnant.”

Garrick lowered his head as he clenched his drink. The news hurt just as much the second time around. “Yeah,” he croaked.

During his seven-year marriage to Miranda, Garrick had waited, prayed, and then begged to start a family with his ambitious ladder-climbing wife. However, the answers were always: after this next deal, after this next trip, and after this next promotion—they were all deviations of the word no.

“It just means that it was never meant to be,” Orlando said, and then winced. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean—”