Page 38 of Baby Daddy
CHAPTER 18
Drake
Leaving our skates behind in the trunk of my car, which was still parked outside my parents’ mansion, we headed inside to say goodbye to my mother.
The interior of our house was even more majestic than the exterior. Comprising over twenty thousand square feet, there were over thirty rooms, including a home gym and a special Japanese dining room where guests dined seated on pillows around a table built into the floor. My father, who regularly entertained Japanese businessmen, got the idea for the dining room from his golf buddy, Conquest Broadcasting head, Saul Bernstein, who had a similar one in his neighboring house. Keep in mind that being a neighbor in this über-exclusive gated community meant living a mile away.
My focus stayed on Dee as she stepped into the grand entryway, which was larger than her entire cottage. Clearly, she’d never been in a house of this magnitude. The expression on her face was a mixture of awe and intimidation. Her eyes widened, taking in the fine antiques and artwork, French rugs and furnishings, and towering vases filled with exotic fresh flowers.
“Mommy, this is just like Cinderella’s palace,” exclaimed little Tyson, who was as happy as a clam and didn’t share her mother’s inner reservations. “Look at this really pretty egg,” she chirped, picking up the jeweled, pink enameled one that stood on a gilded stand on the entryway console.
“That’s a Fabergé egg dating from the nineteenth century. It belonged to the Czar. My father won it at an auction and gave it to my mother for her fortieth birthday. He paid a record twelve million dollars for it.”
Terror washed over Dee’s face. Call me a bastard, but I found it amusing.
“Ty, put that down immediately, and don’t touch anything else.” She snatched it out of her daughter’s hand without giving her a chance and nervously set it back on the stand.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously, Dee, don’t worry so much. Everything in this house is replaceable. My mother doesn’t fret over her possessions no matter how grand or rare they may be. I was brought up with the philosophy not to love things that can’t love you back.”
“I was brought up with nothing.” The somberness of her words struck a chord, and I suddenly realized that I took my privileged upbringing for granted. I couldn’t fathom what it was like to grow up poor and unloved in a trailer park.
As we continued through the house, Dee began to relax a little even when Tyson insisted on trying out every overstuffed Louis the Whoey chair, pretending she was a princess. Her eyes wandered across the paintings lining the walls.
“Your parents collect paintings?” my new assistant asked, staring at an original Picasso.
“Yes, for years. They’re one of the foremost collectors of twentieth century art in the world.”
“What about that painting over there?” she asked, pointing to a life-size portrait of an elegant little girl with blond braids and golden halos circling her big blue eyes, much like Tyson’s.
My sister. “That’s by the late painter who went by the name PAZ. Payton Anthony Zander, the father of my buddy Jaime, who does some of our promotional trailers.”
Moving closer, she studied the canvas. “It’s really well done. I love his technique. The little girl reminds me of—”
“My mommy is a painter,” interjected Tyson brightly, sparing me from having to reveal the story behind the painting.
Dee’s cheeks flushed pink and my mind flashed back to the whimsical portraits scattered on the walls of her living room. I had meant to ask her about them.
“The paintings in your house…you did them?”
“Yes.” Her voice was small but laced with pride.
“My mommy wanted to be an artist when she was growing up.”
“Tyson, please—”
Before she could reprimand her precocious kid, I cut her off. “You’re very talented, Dee. Have you ever thought about exhibiting?”
She let out a little laugh. “Hardly. I can barely afford to frame them.”
“You should let my friend Jaime take a look at your paintings. In addition to his ad agency, he owns an art gallery in West Hollywood.”
Moving away from the painting, she digested my words. “Maybe after I get settled in my job at Tyson’s school in the fall.”
“My mommy’s going to be an art teacher there,” chimed in Tyson.
My chest tightened. I was reminded that Dee was just a temporary fixture in my life. The temp. As soon as my regular assistant Mona returned, she’d likely be out of my life. And so would sweet, rosy-cheeked Mighty Girl. But maybe introducing her to Jaime would be a way to extend our relationship. My mood lightened.
We made our way to the dining room. My mother, now clad in a stylish velour jogging outfit, was seated at our massive dining room table, mapping out the seating arrangement for the Gunther Saxton gala. It was as if she was putting together the pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle. She had a system in place, but neither my father nor I knew how she did it. Nor did we want to.