On Second Thought(109)

I adjusted light and smoothed skin and cropped relatives. It was easy work. Ah, here was a gorgeous shot—the bride was African American, in profile as she said her vows, a tear glistening on her cheek, echoing the diamond earring she wore, the contrast in her skin tone and dress stunning. I’d submit that one to a photography magazine. “Nice work, don’t you think, Hector?” I asked. I’d really been on my game last weekend. Good for me.

A knock slammed at the front door, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Boomboomboomboom! Ollie leaped up, grabbed his blanket and went racing to the door, his barks muffled by fleece. I followed.

It was Daniel. And it was past nine.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“I’m an uncle again!” he said, giving me a big hug. “Congratulate me! I was in the delivery room, which, believe me, was not on my bucket list, seeing my sister spread from east to west. I need some acid to wash out my eyes.” He let me go, grinning like an idiot. “Oh. Shouldn’t have hugged you. I have all sorts of fluids on me. I came right from the hospital.”

His happiness was contagious. “Oh, hell, it’s okay. Boy or girl?”

“Girl, and please God, she won’t be the little demon her sister is. Maisy Danielle—I totally earned that middle name, by the way, hauling my sister’s leg back so she could push, telling her she was amazing while trying not to look at her parts. Nine pounds, two ounces, head like a frickin’ moon. My sister won’t be able to walk for weeks.” He folded his brawny arms across his chest, still smiling. “Nice name, right?”

“Very nice. Congratulations, Uncle Dan. Come on. I might even have champagne somewhere.”

“I’ll take a beer. Actually, I’m kind of gross. A brother tends to sweat from every pore when his sister’s water breaks. In my truck, no less. Any chance I could take a shower first?”

He was clearly buzzed with adrenaline. “Sure, come on in. There are seven bathrooms in this house.”

“See this stain?” he said, pointing to his shirt. “It’s blood. How gross is that? And I don’t even want to think what this is.” He continued to talk as I led him upstairs. “She was a champ, though, my sis. Hardly yelled at all. Then my mom got there, and she was all irritated that she missed the drama, but it was Jane’s fourth, you know? The kid slid out like a greased otter. We barely made it to the hospital. I think she pushed five times.”

I led him down the hall to one of the unused bedrooms. Couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in here, but it was clean, vacuum marks still on the rug, a splotchy painting on the wall.

Strange, that there were rooms in my house I didn’t go in.

Daniel opened the door to the bathroom. “Wow. This is bigger than my apartment.”

Yeah, it was a little on the obscene side. Tasteful, sure, but enormous. Nathan had deemed white and glass bathrooms very “last decade,” and so this one was made out of dark wood and soapstone. One side of the room had a counter with double sinks, elaborate lighting above, below and alongside the counter, as well as four live orchids. Someone was keeping them alive, Ainsley or the cleaning service. There was the toilet room (with bidet, which, being American, I found creepy). A giant tub with water jets, and, in the far corner, the shower, hidden by a wall of smoked gray glass.

“Towels are everywhere,” I said, indicating the row of a dozen symmetrically rolled white towels. “Take your time. Enjoy.”

“I will. Thanks. Hey, got a clean T-shirt I can borrow?” he said, pulling off the one he was wearing.

Good God. Muscles everywhere, and skin, glorious skin.

“Sure. I’ll be right back. Keep your pants on, mister. No flashing me.”

He winked, and I found myself smiling as I went down the hall to my room. I had a giant Yankees T-shirt my father had brought me that I slept in sometimes. I wasn’t about to give him something of Nathan’s. That... No.

I grabbed the shirt and came back to the bathroom. Daniel was now barefoot, fiddling with the controls in the shower. His work boots and socks were by the door, his mighty torso rippling like Thor’s. I said a brief prayer of thanksgiving to FDNY, their training program and gyms. I was a widow—I wasn’t dead. He had an eight-pack, and just above the waistband of his jeans were those wonderful V-lines. A happy trail.

“How do you turn the light on?” he asked, and I jumped and cleared my throat. Hot in here.

“Oh. Um...I’m not sure. Wave your hands. Some of the switches are motion sensors.”

The bathroom was big enough that the shower required its own lights. It was gloomy-dark in there. Daniel waved an arm, the motion causing his shoulder to bunch and flex hypnotically. Nothing happened (light-wise, though my ovaries were sighing happily). I tried a few light switches—under the sink, next to the sink, in the toilet room, the tub’s underwater lights.

I went over to the shower. It had three showerheads—north, south and above—one of those rainshower things, as well as a detachable sprayer. On the shelf, there was a line of products—lemongrass soap, shampoo, conditioner and moisturizer. A razor. A loofah. There was a control panel (don’t judge me...this was all Nathan’s idea) where you could adjust the temperature of the water and which showerheads to use.

I waved a hand. Nothing. Jazz hands failed to get us light. I moved closer to the control panel, thinking there must be a switch there. Temperature, steam feature, tile heating. Nothing that said light.