Page 54 of The Decoy

My mother glides back into the room, dressed in an ivory knit set, her dark hair swept up into a flawless chignon. She holds an iPad under her arm like a five-star general heading to a tactical meeting, while also looking like she’s stepped off the pages of Architectural Digest or something. But the second her blue eyes fall on me, her cool posture melts into maternal love.

“Ellis, darling, stop hovering by the terrace doors like a tragic, misunderstood heroine in a Victorian novel and come sit with me,” my mother insists, setting her tablet down and steering me toward one of the plush chairs. She pauses, her hands lingering on my shoulders before her gaze moves to my midsection.

She lets out a dramatic gasp. “Just look at you! You have the most exquisite little curve. I’ve already told the country club committee that I will be taking an extended leave this spring. Being a grandmother is a full-time position that I refuse to delegate.”

“Mom,” I laugh, setting my mug down onto the table. My mother’s excitement about the baby is a relief and also entertaining. “You don’t need to take a leave. They’re likely to fall apart without you.”

“They certainly will, but that’s their tragedy to manage,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. She turns her gaze toward Brody, then my father. “Charles, why don’t you and Brody go have a visit in your study. I’ll be keeping our girl here busy for most of the day.”

“Yes, dear,” my father says, standing and turning to Brody. “Shall we let the ladies get to it?”

“I think we should,” Brody chuckles. He sets his coffee cup down onto its saucer and stands.

As my mother focuses on something on her tablet, Brody walks toward me, leans down, and slides a hand around my back. His stubbled jaw brushes against my temple. “You gonna be okay?” he murmurs against my ear. “She looks like she’s about to draft an entire blueprint.”

“I’ll survive,” I say, turning my face into his neck. “Go hang out with my dad. Drink some good scotch.”

Brody turns his head just enough so he can look at me, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a lazy smirk that makes my stomach flip. “Just call me if you need a break. I’ll come rescue you.”

He presses a lingering kiss against the side of my neck before backing up and heading down the long hallway toward my father’s private sanctuary.

By three p.m. that afternoon, the sunroom at the south end of the estate has been completely transformed into what looks like a high-end showroom.

My mom has set up two long tables, covering every square inch of surface with velvet swatches, butter-soft Italian leather samples, imported wallpaper books, hand-carved wood stains, and digital renderings from the two designers she flew in last week from Europe.

“Now,” she says, pacing in front of the tables with tortoiseshell reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. “I was thinking of a soft, classic palette for the nursery. French gray, organic linen, brass fixtures, and maybe a hand-painted mural along the north wall. Something airy, cultured, and relaxing.”

I sit comfortably in one of the oversized armchairs, a glass of water resting in my lap, one hand absentmindedly tracing my belly beneath my sweater.

“Mom, he’s a baby,” I point out. “He doesn’t need murals to sleep through the night. He needs a crib, a changing table, a dresser, but mostly just a boob and his mommy.”

“Ellis, honestly.” My mom peers over the top of her glasses with an affectionate look. “He’s my grandson. He cannot be expected to stare at plain drywall while digesting breast milk. Surrounding him with aesthetic beauty builds character. Besides, your father brought up the idea of a nautical theme this morning with sailboats and brass anchors. I told him no maritime decor was getting anywhere near my grandson’s nursery. I would personally make it my mission to redecorate his office in pastel gingham if he insisted on the nautical theme.”

I let out a laugh. “Mom, there’s nothing wrong with a nautical theme.”

“No, but we’ll stick to a classic, timeless setup for the suite here. It’s practical, elegant, and peaceful. But I must say … I’m quite eager to see what you end up doing at your home. Or will it be at Brody’s?”

My hand stills on my stomach. “Honestly, we haven’t really talked much about it yet,” I admit. “We’ve just been busy and haven’t had a single minute to sit down and work out the logistics, let alone a nursery theme.”

My mom pauses, her teacup hovering an inch from her lips. She softens and steps over to my chair, placing a hand over mine on my belly.

“Well, this is a big life shift for both of you,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. “And men don’t express their anticipation like we do with decor. You know, your father once took four full months just to select a humidor for his cigars because he didn’t want to make the wrong choice.”

She straightens, smoothing her ivory skirt. “Now, back to bedding. We have to discuss thread counts, because he deserves the highest.”

By late afternoon, after hours of comparing Egyptian cottons, testing the density of plush rug swatches and then debating the structural weight of high-end stroller frames, my mom clears her iPad screen and lets out a long sigh.

“Well,” she announces, placing her reading glasses onto the table. “That was delightfully productive. I believe we have successfully laid the groundwork for a masterpiece.”

She walks over to the French doors, looking out at the fading winter light stretching across the lawn. “Let’s go see the men before your dad bores Brody to death with endless anecdotes about the family business.”

I smile, rising from the chair. “Lead the way.”

We walk side by side down the long, sunlit corridor toward the west wing. The house is quiet, except for the hum of the heating and our steps on the stone floor.

As we approach the heavy, double-panel oak doors of my father’s study, I notice the right door is propped open. My mom doesn’t bother knocking, she just pushes the door open and waltzes right in.

“Alright, gentlemen, design time is officially over,” my mom declares. “I hope you haven’t — ”