Claiming The Captain's Baby. Rochelle Alers
sister wanted Mya to raise Lily in Wickham Falls—a small town with a population of little more than four thousand residents—even though Samantha had complained about growing up in a small town and couldn’t wait to grow up and leave to see the world. She got her wish once she began her career as a flight attendant and got to visit many of the cities and countries she had fantasized about.
Sammie, as Mya always called her, had died a month ago and Mya was still attempting to adjust to the loss and her life without her sister. Sammie had returned to Wickham Falls for a rare visit with the news that she was six weeks pregnant. She told Mya of her affair with a New York City businessman, and despite using protection, she’d gotten pregnant. Her sister refused to disclose the name of her lover or tell him about the baby because he had been adamant when he told her he wasn’t ready for marriage or fatherhood.
The sudden ring of the telephone shattered her reverie. Unconsciously her brow furrowed when she recognized the name of the law firm that had handled Sammie’s will. She picked up the receiver before the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Ms. Mya Lawson?”
Mya nodded before she realized the person on the other end of the line could not see her. “Yes. This is she.”
“Ms. Lawson, I’m Nicole Campos, Mr. McAvoy’s assistant. He’d like you to keep your calendar open for next Thursday because he needs you to come into the office to discuss your daughter’s future.”
Her frown deepened. “Ms. Campos, can you give me an idea of what he wants to talk about?”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot reveal that information over the telephone.”
Twin emotions of annoyance and panic gripped her. She did not want to relive the anxiety she had experienced before the court finalized her adopting her niece. “What time on Thursday?”
“Eleven o’clock. I’ll call you the day before as a reminder and follow-up with an email.”
Mya exhaled an inaudible sigh. “Thank you.”
She hadn’t realized her hand was shaking when she replaced the receiver in the console. Leaning back in the desk chair, she combed her fingers through a wealth of brown curly hair with natural gold highlights, holding it off her forehead.
There never had been a question that she would lose Lily to the foster care system because her sister had drawn up a will that included a clause naming Mya as legal guardian for her unborn baby.
A week after Sammie gave birth to a beautiful dark-haired infant, she handed Lily to Mya with the pronouncement that she wanted Mya to raise her daughter as her own. At first she thought Sammie was experiencing postpartum depression, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality that her younger sister was terminally ill.
Sammie had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. Mya put up a brave front for her sister because she needed to be strong for her, but whenever she was alone she could not stop crying. The young, beautiful, vivacious thirty-two-year-old woman who was in love with life was dying and there was nothing she could do to help her.
Gurgling sounds came from the baby monitor on a side table. Mya glanced at the screen where she could observe her daughter. It was after three and Lily was awake.
Pushing back her chair, she rose and walked out of the office and down the hall to the nursery. Lily was standing up in her crib. She’d sat up at five months, began crawling at six and now at seven was able to pull up and stand, but only holding onto something. It was as if her precocious daughter was in a hurry to walk before her first birthday.
Months before Lily’s birth, Mya and Sammie spent hours selecting furniture and decorating the room that would become the nursey. The colors of sage green and pale pink were repeated in blankets, quilts and in the colorful border along the antique-white walls.
“Hey, doll baby. Did you have a good nap?”
A squeal of delight filled the space when the baby raised her chubby arms to be picked up. The instant she let go of the railing, Lily landed hard on her bottom but didn’t cry. Mya reached over the rail of the crib and scooped her up while scrunching up her nose. She dropped a kiss on damp, inky-black curls. “Somebody needs changing.”
Lily pushed out her lips in an attempt to mirror Mya’s expression. Mya smiled at the beautiful girl with long dark lashes framing a pair of large sky blue eyes. Lily looked nothing like Sammie, so it was obvious she had inherited her father’s hair and eye color.
She placed her on the changing table and took off the damp onesie and then the disposable diaper. At thirty-four, Mya had not planned on becoming a mother, yet learned quickly. She’d read countless books on feedings, teething, potty training and the average milestones for crawling, walking and talking. She had childproofed the house—all the outlets were covered, there were safety locks on the kitchen cabinets and drawers, wires secured off the floor, and all furniture with sharp edges were placed out of the way.
She gathered Lily in her arms and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You’re getting heavy.”
Lily grabbed several strands of Mya’s hair as she carried her down the staircase to the kitchen. “If you keep pulling my hair, I’ll be forced to get extensions.” She had made it a habit to either style her hair in a single braid or ponytail because her daughter appeared transfixed by the profusion of curls resembling a lion’s mane.
She entered the kitchen and placed Lily in her high chair. Opening the refrigerator, she took out a bottle of milk and filled a sippy cup. Lily screamed in delight when handed the cup.
Mya felt a warm glow flow through her as she watched Lily drink. Her daughter’s life would mirror her biological mother’s and her aunt’s. She would grow up not knowing her birth mother, but Mya had started a journal chronicling the baby’s milestones, photographs of Sammie and a collection of postcards from the different cities and countries her sister had visited. Once Lily was old enough to understand that her aunt wasn’t her biological mother, Mya would reveal the circumstances of her birth.
* * *
“Giles, Brandt is on line two.”
The voice of Giles Wainwright’s administrative assistant coming through the intercom garnered his attention. He had spent the past twenty minutes going over the architect’s rendering and the floor plan of six three-bedroom, two-bath homes on an island in the Bahamas he had recently purchased for the international division of Wainwright Developers Group.
He tapped a button on the intercom. “Thank you, Jocelyn.” He activated the speaker feature as he leaned back in the executive chair and rested his feet on the corner of the antique desk. “What’s up, cousin?”
“I’m calling to let you know Ciara and I have finally set a date for our wedding.”
Brandt “The Viking” Wainwright’s professional football career was cut short when he broke both legs in an automobile accident. Sidelined for the season and confined to his penthouse suite, Brandt had had a revolving door of private duty nurses before no-nonsense Ciara Dennison refused to let him bully her. In the end, Brandt realized he had met his match and his soul mate.
“Finally,” Giles teased. “When is it?”
“We’ve decided on February 21 at the family resort in the Bahamas. It’s after the Super Bowl, and that week the schools are out for winter break. And if adults want to bring their kids, then the more the merrier.”
Giles smiled. “I’m certain you won’t find an argument from the kids who’d rather hang out on a tropical beach than ski upstate.”
Brandt’s deep chuckle came through the speaker. “You’re probably right about that. Ciara’s mailing out the Save the Week notice to everyone. If the family is amenable to spending the week in the tropics, then I’ll make arrangements to reserve several villas to accommodate everyone.”
Giles listened as Brandt talked about their relatives choosing