But she couldn’t do it.
Tess had once wondered how her friend Hallie could have ever refused money from Cristiano Moretti under similar circumstances. Now, for the first time, she understood. It was because, after losing so much, sometimes a woman had only her pride left to cling to.
She set her jaw. “We’ll be fine.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve already called my lawyer.”
Confused, she turned to him. “A lawyer? Why?”
“Now that I have proof of Esme’s paternity, I cannot evade responsibility.”
She sucked in her breath. “What do you mean?”
“Tess.” Stefano’s dark eyes glittered in the gray morning light. “Did you really think I’d leave you and Esme without a penny? My driver will return later this morning to collect you and Esme, and take you to my lawyer’s office in Midtown. He’ll arrange for your bank account and funds to buy a nice apartment in any neighborhood you desire. My driver will be at your disposal anytime, day or night. All your needs will be provided for, anything you need to make your life more comfortable. A housekeeper, a cook, charge accounts at every department store, private school for Esme.”
Tess’s mouth was open. “What?”
Stefano gave a hard, careless smile. “Why does this surprise you? It is now my duty to provide for you. You will never have to work again, Tess. Or do anything you do not wish to do.”
Behind him, dimly Tess could see the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan skyline across the East River as the Rolls-Royce turned into her neighborhood.
When he’d said he wanted to take responsibility, for a moment she’d actually thought he intended to help raise their child, to be a real father; instead, he just meant money.
She should have been thrilled by his offer. Lola would have told her so in no uncertain terms. But she wasn’t. Stefano made her feel as if she and Esme were merely another unpleasant obligation, like an electricity bill.
Sadness filled her heart. Her shoulders sagged as she turned away, staring out at the Brooklyn street. Her street.
“Tess?”
As they pulled up in front of the bakery, she said in a low voice, “I don’t want your money.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s all arranged. Watson will be back in about two hours, won’t you, Watson?”
“Maybe three, depending on the traffic, Your Highness.”
Stefano reached over the baby’s car seat to take Tess’s hand in his own. “You’re free,” he said in a low voice. “You and the baby can enjoy your lives.” He paused. “Someday you’ll find a man who deserves you both.”
“Thanks,” she said over the lump in her throat, pulling her hand away. His patronizing words burned her to the core. She would have preferred it if he’d told her that he found her boring and that he’d rather eat glass than raise a child. At least then she could have respected his honesty. Instead, he was trying to make it sound like he was abandoning Tess for her sake, which shamed her. “I guess this is goodbye, then.” She tried to toss her head, to smile. “And good riddance, right?”
“What does that mean?”
“A man like you would never want to commit to a family. Especially not a family like us.” Avoiding his eyes, she unbuckled Esme and lifted her into her arms, along with the diaper bag. Getting out of the back seat of the Rolls-Royce, she looked back at Stefano, so thuggishly handsome in his well-cut suit. The man she’d loved with such fierce, unwavering loyalty for so long.
That man had never truly existed. He was a man she’d made up in her own heart, someone noble and strong who just happened to have Stefano’s face and voice.
Looking one last time into his dark eyes, she whispered, “Goodbye, Stefano.”
She closed the car door firmly, shutting the door on her heart’s fairy-tale dreams.
“Here you go, miss.” The chauffeur set down her beat-up old stroller from the trunk, opening it for her on the sidewalk. “I’ll return to Brooklyn for you and Miss Esme shortly.”
“Thank you,” she said, proud of herself for keeping her voice steady. As she settled her baby in the stroller, two young men passed by on the sidewalk, smiling at her. She vaguely recognized them as customers from the neighborhood and tried to smile back at them, but she couldn’t manage it. Her heart was too sad. Squaring her shoulders, she looked ahead.
Foster Bros. Bakery, the sign proclaimed in neon, over the faded paint of a sign original to 1940. The bakery had been expanded in the 1970s, and the window display now showed artificial wedding cakes with old, cracked white frosting over foam foundations. With a deep breath, Tess pushed open the door, causing the bell to chime.
Inside, the tables scattered across the rose-colored tile floor were far emptier than usual. There was only one customer, a white-haired poorly dressed regular named Peg, who came in each morning and paid for her coffee with nickels and dimes, then sat invisibly in the corner for hours, drinking coffee refills and reading newspapers other customers left behind.
Uncle Ray’s head popped up over the bakery case.
“Where have you been?” he demanded as Tess came forward with the stroller. “Your aunt was so worried. We woke up this morning and had no idea where you were. Do you know how many messages we’ve left on your phone? She was about to call the police. The hospital. The morgue!”
Tess hung her head. “I’m sorry, Uncle Ray. I should have called.”
He glared at her. “You shouldn’t have stayed out all night! And with Esme, too.” He looked down at the baby with a frown. “You should be ashamed, Tess. And since you weren’t here to bake this morning, we have no pastries. Dozens of people walked out after they saw I had almost nothing to sell!”
The glass bakery case was indeed mostly empty, without Tess’s pumpkin and maple scones, or pecan rolls or cherry Danish twists. The only pastry on offer was her aunt’s morning glory super-bran honey-sweetened, carrot-and-zucchini muffin, which was a little too healthy for most.
“You could have asked Emily or Natalie. They’re amazing bakers and—”
“They needed their sleep. They have class. I can’t let them lose their only chance of college.” Not like you did, his eyes seemed to say.
Tess’s cheeks went hot. But she couldn’t blame him for being upset. This bakery had been handed down from father to son for generations. Her uncle took it seriously.
After Tess’s mother died when Tess was twelve, her aunt and uncle had brought her here to live with them. Tess had often puzzled over her uncle’s appearance. He didn’t look like bakers should look. Bakers were supposed to be fat and jolly, spreading joy to the world with cake and bread. Instead, Raymond Foster had the ascetic look of a marathon runner, spare and muscular, with a gaunt face and the downturned mouth of someone disappointed with his life. And now, because of her, he was even more disappointed.
Tess’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll go back and start baking, Uncle Ray.”
“It’s too late for pastries,” her uncle barked. “Make cookies. Maybe we can sell them at lunch and after school.”
“All right.” Biting her lip, she paused. “Last night...it’s not what you think. There was a good reason I didn’t come home. I... I saw Esme’s father.”
Her uncle’s eyes widened. “You did?”
She nodded.
Uncle Ray looked around. “So where is he?”
She swallowed. “He had to leave for London.”
“Ah.”