Now she was a part-time photographer. She’d won a few awards and she’d even taught Fazire how to take photos. And she was married to Will Jacobs who thought the sun rose and set in her.
Fazire liked Will. Will had moved in with them rather than taking Becky away and Fazire approved of this. He found he very much liked having lots of people around the house and lots of conversation and more food on the table. Will was a bit intense but only in the best ways. He loved deeper, thought harder and cared more for people than, well, almost than Sarah and Becky did.
He also could hold a pretty mean grudge so Fazire tried to stay on his good side.
And he knew what Fazire was and he didn’t mind a bit.
And, lastly, he liked baseball.
Yes, Will was okay in Fazire’s Book and Fazire did, indeed, have a book.
Becky waved at Fazire before she collapsed into the grass beside him. She was barefoot and wore a pretty dress. She smiled such a quirky, sweet smile it almost took your breath away. She also liked the sun, just like Fazire, and they used to spend hours outside in the summers baking away.
“Good day, Mistress Becky,” Fazire greeted cheekily.
“Quit calling me that,” she replied but it wasn’t in a nasty way. In fact, she had a smile in her voice. He only called her that because it annoyed her and she was very easy to annoy. And sometimes when she was done being annoyed, it made her smile or giggle and even Fazire’s best wish granted was nothing to one of Becky’s smiles or giggles.
She was his mistress though and he tried to explain this to her so often, he lost count.
“You’re getting brown,” she observed, looking down at Fazire’s nicely tanned, suntan-oil-slicked, very-rounded body exposed by the swimming trunks.
“Do you want to go swimming?” he asked hopefully. He and Becky had gone swimming in the pond more times than he could remember. And today, such a hot day, he felt it was the perfect idea.
She turned on her side and shook her head. He noticed for the first time something was on her mind.
He threw aside his sun-reflecting mirror and turned on his side too.
When Becky had something on her mind, Fazire was always there to listen.
He didn’t say a word. He just waited.
“Fazire . . .” she began and then looked away. “I’m scared even to ask,” she whispered.
“You can ask me anything, Becky.” And it was true. He didn’t know much and she’d figured that out years ago, considering she was very clever and she realized he spent most of his existence living in a double-decker bottle, but he would do his best.
She nodded and looked back at him, her green eyes warm but, indeed, frightened.
“Will and I have been trying to have a baby for years.”
“I know,” Fazire nodded sagely. She’d talked to him about this before. She talked to Sarah about it too. She’d tried and tried to have a baby but each time she tried, she lost it. Sometimes this was painful, sometimes she would bleed. A lot. Sometimes, no, actually every time, this was very scary for Will and Sarah and Fazire.
Losing a baby always made her sad and it was worse and worse every time.
“I want to have a baby,” she said in a rush, almost as if she was afraid of the words, afraid to hope, to wish. “I won’t be greedy, just one. I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. It doesn’t even have to be perfect, just someone to love. Someone that Will and I made. Someone—”
Fazire went quite still.
All these years.
“Are you asking for a wish, Becky?”
She looked at him carefully, silently, before she nodded.
He couldn’t believe it, after all these many, many years. She was older than most women who had babies these days but this, this was a wish he could grant.
He smiled at her and he reached out and touched her belly.
He looked her straight in the eyes and said, “Your wish is my command.”
But Fazire didn’t do exactly what she said.
He did make her perfect.
He made her bright and funny and very, very talented.
He made her sweet and thoughtful and very, very caring.
He made her generous and kind and very, very loving.
He decided not to make her beautiful, at least not at first, because she should know humility and not grow up with conceit.
Though, she would become a beauty, a splendid beauty beyond compare.
Just . . . later.