The Best is Yet to Come
Part 5 of 5

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 20,448 (Part 5: 3,902)
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

"Bridget? Can I talk to you a minute?"

Since her feet were still quite swollen from being on them so much the day before, Ella rather had a captive audience for this conversation; Bridget was reclining on the sofa with her feet up, and put down the book she was reading. "Of course you can."

From the look on her face—broad smile, sparkling eyes—Bridget had a feeling she knew that this talk was going to be about.

"Yesterday was awesome," Ella said, sitting on the ottoman beside the sofa. "But not only because I turned sixteen and you gave me a really great book." She looked hesitant. Bridget decided to prompt her.

"A certain someone showing up didn't hurt, I think."

Ella flushed pink. "Yeah."

"Well, Ella my dear," said Bridget. "Whatever the case before, I definitely think he's noticed you now."

Bridget didn't think it possible, but her smile broadened, her blush deepened.

"He seems like a very nice young man," she continued, feeling strangely like her mother as she did so. "I liked him a lot."

"Everyone likes him," she gushed.

"You really like him," said Bridget.

She nodded, looking to the bracelet on her wrist, running her finger over the chain. "Yeah. I do."

"Is there a problem?"

"No problem," she said, then looked to Bridget again, her eyes plaintive. "He wants to take me to a movie."

Bridget's eyebrows shot up. She hadn't expected this, a minor bombshell in the grand scheme, but a bombshell nonetheless. "On a date?"

She nodded again, tentatively, then more vigorously. "On a date."

"You must have had a really good long talk last night."

"More than talk," she said softly.

For a moment Bridget was convinced that she had completely misread that sweet little kiss last night—then remembered that this was Ella, who had a good head on her shoulders, her father's sharp intelligence. "Oh?" she asked in as casual tone as possible.

"Yeah." She seemed to consider something before continuing. "Bridget, after we sat in the garden talking almost all night, just before he left, standing under the Christmas lights, he kissed me. It was the nicest thing ever."

Bridget smiled, feeling a bit teary. In some ways she felt like Ella was growing up right before her eyes, and she'd known the girl less than a year. "Nothing too Hollywood, I hope."

She blushed as she said with a laugh, "No."

"Good," she said. "I'd hate your father to feel—"

"That's just it," interrupted Ella, looking torn. "I'm afraid he won't let me go."

She thought about what Ella said, thought about Mark's reaction to the kiss, and had to concede it might be a hard sell. "I think he'd think of worst-case scenarios. He trusts you. He knows you're a smart girl. But you know how he is when things are sort of… beyond his control."

Ella nodded, pursing her lips.

"He also worries that something might happen that you won't be able to get yourself out of. You know?"

Ella looked down. "Yeah."

"And…" She swallowed hard, contemplating how to broach this most delicate of subjects. "…well. There's the concern that all fathers have that their daughters might turn up like… um. You know. Like me." She indicated her big tummy.

At this Ella laughed out loud. "I understand."

"He's this way only because he loves you, like any good dad would."

"I know he does."

"So the most we can do is ask, plead your case, and abide by his decision."

"That's right up his line of work." Ella gave her a sidelong glance. "If it were totally up to you, would you let me go?"

Bridget recalled that she fought for the right to date at a similar age, and she smiled. "I think you're a bright young woman," she said at last; Ella puffed at being referred to as such, "and you've got a lot more common sense than I had at your age."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I'm not giving you any ammo to use against your dad if he says no," she said with a wink.

"You're a crafty stepmom," she said with a smile.

Bridget thought that that would have been the end of the conversation, but did she didn't go.

"Something else?"

"Had a question. About… um. This." She drew a circle with her hand over Bridget's stomach.

"Do you mean… sex?"

She blushed and nodded. Bridget felt heat on her own face, sure she was giving Ella a run for her money in the blushing department.

"I thought you…" she stammered, "your father said you…"

"He didn't give me details. I could tell he mortified to say anything more than just a woman and a man… well. Do stuff when they really love each other."

She smiled, imagining Mark stumbling through such a conversation, couldn't imagine Natasha saying anything except not to give it away to anyone but the richest of men. She steeled herself as she asked, "What did you want to know?"

"Um. Does it hurt?"

Bridget's blush intensified. "I'm not gonna lie. It does."

Ella looked confused, as if she had been convinced that everyone had been lying about the pain to keep her wanting to do it. "Why does anyone do it, then?"

"It doesn't hurt every time," she explained. "Usually just the first time. Sometimes the first few times. But it's also something really wonderful when you do it with a person you love who's worthy of you, someone you can open up to completely without reserve." She swallowed again, thinking specifically of her hard crush on Liam, remembering how fierce her own feelings were at that age. "And the first boy who's interested might seem really special and worthy for just noticing you, the first time you're in that situation might feel like the real deal, but you can't be tempted to share something that extraordinary with just anyone." She paused for a moment. "Does that make sense?"

She nodded. "Yeah, it does."

"I thought I was ready at your age, but I really wasn't," she confessed. "But every… woman is different. So, having said that, if you decide you might be ready… I want you to know you can always talk to me or your father—"

She chuckled. "Oh my God, my father could barely get the word out of his mouth. I can't imagine discussing the details with him."

"He might surprise you," Bridget said. "And it's better to talk to him, to us, than to no one at all. Your friends don't have the experience we do. Any embarrassment we all might have in talking about, um, things like birth control… that will be nothing compared to your trying to tell us you're up the spout."

Ella blushed. "Point taken."

At that moment there was a knock in the doorjamb. They both turned at once and to Bridget's horror it was Natasha standing there. She wondered how much Natasha had heard. "Ella. Your grandmother told me you were in here. Did you forget about lunch?"

"Mom, sorry. Let me get my bag."

"Okay," she said, smiling benevolently, at least until Ella left the room and her footfalls could be heard on the stairs. That was when her whole demeanour changed. Her tone was vicious as she asked Bridget, "What do you think you're doing?"

The towering Cruella had a distinct advantage over the prostrate pregnant woman on the sofa. She figured she'd make Natasha do the work. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Who said it was your job to talk to my daughter about sex?" she hissed.

"If a curious young woman has the courage to ask me for advice about sex," said Bridget evenly, "I'm going to talk to her with the respect and honesty she deserves."

"Sounded like you were encouraging her to do it."

"I was encouraging her to be smart about it," she said. "I don't know if you remember being a teenaged girl, but were you more or less likely to try something your parents forbade you to do?"

Curiously, she evaded answering the question. "You are not her mother."

"No, I'm not," said Bridget, pushing herself to sit more upright. "But I am her stepmother, and I'm not going to defer to a woman who more or less gave her over to her father as being too much trouble. I'll stick with my instincts, and follow Mark's lead, if it's all the same to you."

"Do you really think you're the best role model?" she asked with a haughty sniff. "You've got to be pushing fifty, you're overweight, you're pregnant, and your track record before finally and eventually settling down leaves much to be desired."

Bridget was about to retort how rich this was coming from a woman on Botox overdrive with skin stretched tighter than a tanned leather drumhead, when she heard Mark's voice boom out.

"She's a far better role model than you'll ever be," he said. "You may have contributed half your genetics and carried Ella in your womb for nine months, but Bridget's already a better mother to my daughter than you have ever been. She's there for her, she loves her, and she doesn't shrink from the responsibility of parenting her."

Natasha clenched her teeth, saying nothing.

"Leave our house," commanded Mark. "You are not welcome back."

"Ella and I are—"

"Not going to lunch," he said decisively.

"You can't keep her from me."

"Actually, I can," he said. "I shouldn't have to lecture you on family law, Natasha. She's sixteen. She is no longer legally bound to you for visitation. And in case you've forgotten, in England sixteen means she can leave home if she chooses. If you put up a fight, I could make a very strong case that you essentially abandoned your parental rights years ago." Bridget felt wrong in thinking of him as especially sexy when he spoke in such a commanding, severe way, especially on such a serious subject, but he was. "Go on. Go back to New York. She'll call you if she wants to." He stood there fixed to the spot until she preceded him out. Bridget pushed herself to her feet and decided to go upstairs to find Ella.

The girl was on her bed, sobbing into her pillow. Bridget sat down beside her. Ella stiffened. "Hey," said Bridget, reaching out to stroke her hair; the girl relaxed as soon as she realised it was not her mother. "What's wrong?"

"How is it possible to hate someone and love them too?" she said between sobs. "I don't want to go with her anywhere. It's hours of bad food and her telling me how screwed up my father is." She paused. "I bet she thinks you're screwed up too."

"I don't care what she thinks. And besides, she's always thought I was screwed up," said Bridget.

Ella actually chuckled at that.

"I'm sorry she's so awful to you," Bridget continued. "It might perk you up to know your father kicked her out of the house." She flipped over, a look of shock on her face as she sat up. "You don't have to go anywhere."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Nope."

Ella smiled, her relief palpable. "Thank God." She leaned forward and hugged Bridget tightly.

A sound in the room caused Bridget to turn her head. It was Mark. She smiled. His look was tender; he reached out to stroke Ella's hair.

"I take it Bridget told you you're off the hook for lunch."

"Yes," she said, sitting back away from Bridget, turning her teary eyes up to him. "Thanks."

"You'd've been proud of your father, sending her on her way," said Bridget.

She smiled up at him. "Ah," she said. "I'm always proud of my dad."

"Ella," prompted Bridget. Now was as good a time as any, with the warm loving feelings circulating in the room. "There was something you wanted to ask your dad, wasn't there?"

She pursed her lips, glancing to Bridget momentarily. "Dad," she began, wetting her lips with her tongue. "You liked Liam, right?"

"He seemed nice," he said cautiously. "Why do you ask?"

"He… wants to take me to a movie."

His eyes went to Bridget's.

"He is nice and won't do anything but hold my hand, I promise," she blurted out, her face a picture of earnestness. Bridget tried not to laugh.

"A movie."

"Yes. The cinema, like they say here. You know."

"Yes, I know." He stood, pacing around a little, running his hand over his face. "Just a movie?"

"Yes."

Mark looked at Bridget. "What's your opinion? You clearly have had more time to consider this than I have."

She shrugged. "A matinee can't hurt."

He looked to Ella again. "And then you'll come straight home?"

"Yes. I promise, I swear."

He thought about it some more. "How old is he?"

"He'll be seventeen in three months," she admitted.

"Seventeen," he repeated with a great exhalation of breath, looking to the ceiling. She might as well have said he was thirty.

"He's in my class though," she said, "because of his birthday."

Mark turned back to where Ella sat on the bed, pointed a finger at his daughter, and spoke sternly. "Next Saturday. He comes here to pick you up, and he drops you back home immediately after the show. I want a film you've never seen, no remakes or derivatives, and I want details from it when you're back, because I'm then taking Bridget to see it. Understood?"

Mark had been very serious, but Ella did not seem to notice in her glee. She was getting far more than she ever expected out of this negotiation. "Absolutely. Yes, yes, yes."

He sighed, conceding at last. "All right," he said stoically.

The supersonic squeal as she leapt to her feet to hug him was actually slightly painful to hear. "Oh, Dad, thank you," she said. "I promise I won't let you down. You can totally trust me."

Mark only tightened his embrace, looking down at his wife with a smile. Bridget nodded slightly. He mouthed I know in return. Suddenly, Ella popped up to grab her mobile then ran out of the room. "Betsy!" they heard her then cry.

"Well," he said. "I think that went well."

Bridget got to her feet. "First you give Natasha a telling-off that she's deserved for years and years, then you successfully mediate your daughter's first date." She embraced him, kissed his cheek. "You are very sexy when you're authoritative."

He chuckled, turning his head to kiss her properly, his hand playing over her belly. "You'll be seeing that a lot in the years to come. I promise."

………

The thirteenth of October turned out to be the big day. Labour started early in the morning, just after breakfast, as if the child was already anticipating his (or her) father's love of schedule. It was unlike any pain she had ever known, and she cried with every bolt through her stomach. Mark was a champ, though, remaining as calm, cool and collected as ever as he gathered up her travel bag then helped her to the car. Ella came too, made phone calls and held Bridget's hand as they sped to the birthing centre.

"Does it hurt?" Ella asked. Bridget could not help but laugh, strangely thinking of their conversation months ago about sex.

"Like hell," she replied, gritting her teeth just as another pain shot through her.

"We're almost there, darling," said Mark calmly from behind the wheel. How he could remain so calm was beyond her—but she was glad he could. He really was her rock.

The world looked to be a strange place from a position on her back; she was transferred to a gurney and was wheeled to a room where her contractions could be monitored. Thus far the pregnancy had been textbook perfect, but with her being older than most first-time mums (quite a delicate way to put it, if she did say so herself), they were being extra cautious. She suspected that Mark would have been that way anyway even if it were twenty years earlier. She thought about the first time he'd done this, sat waiting for Ella to be born, and turned to look at him. He looked a touch dishevelled. In his haste to make sure everything was in order for her, he had dressed in the first thing he could find—khaki trousers and a dark blue jumper. She asked, "Is this like before at all?"

He looked to her—what a sight she must have been, lying on her side and curled into a foetal position around her contracting belly—and she decided at once that he thought she was mad. "What?" he asked.

"When Ella came. Were you tending to bags and arranging care?"

"That hardly matters, Bridget," he said a touch curtly; it occurred to her that maybe he thought she was asking it out of some kind of jealousy.

"No, I'm just curious. I can't imagine Natasha allowing herself to be viewed in such an undignified state."

He looked at her and smiled. "She informed me I was to wait in the waiting room," he said sombrely, but quickly turned his mood around. "Night and day, you two."

"I would never dream of asking you to leave," she said, as another pain hit her. "You had a part in making this baby, and by God, you're having a part in bringing him into the world."

He actually laughed and took her hand, which she wondered if it was so wise of him to do, as she was likely crushing the bones. "Or her."

"Or her," she allowed.

The attending nurse appeared, and after timing contractions (still reasonably far apart; no imminent birth), observing the view below, and feeling Bridget's stomach, she was looking very serious. "I know you wanted to try to avoid a Caesarean," she said, making a notation on the chart as she came straight to the point, "but a vaginal birth is absolutely out of the question now."

"What? Why?"

"The baby's breech."

She blinked. "What?"

"Feet first," supplied Mark.

"Can't be turned around?"

"I'm afraid not. We'll be prepping you for an emergency Caesarean at once."

"Emergency?" she said, feeling panicked. "Is something really wrong?" Mark stroked her hair.

"It's only called that because labour has already begun. Remain calm. We do this more frequently that you'd think."

The decision was made to go with regional rather than general anaesthesia. Mark was still allowed to come, though it was recommended he stay with her near her head; some fathers just couldn't take seeing their wives, girlfriends, etc. undergoing the Caesarean procedure. He opined as that was yet another reason to be there, not an excuse not to be. "You couldn't keep me away," he said.

Everything from there went off without a hitch; Mark joking through his nervousness that the baby making a backwards entrance into the world was bound to be auspicious helped her to relax as the little one was brought forward.

"Well," came the voice of the doctor afterwards; there was much scurrying and scrambling, though she could hardly see from her position (and the position of the curtain) what exactly was happening. "Ten fingers, ten toes; a nice, solid weight." They heard a cry—their baby's cry—and the doctor added, "And a healthy set of lungs too." The doctor appeared at their side with a beaming smile. "Congratulations. It's a boy."

Bridget had thought she would be strong and not cry, but the truth was when the doctor made this announcement, she crumpled into sobs. Mark leaned forward. He wiped away her tears and pushed sweaty fronds of hair from her face before kissing her on the lips. "You're going to be insufferable about having known, aren't you?" he teased through his own tears of happiness.

"Shut up and make them bring our son to us," she replied before tearing up again.

They had a few other details to attend to—namely, the discreet line of stitching just below her abdomen, both internal and external—before they would allow the newborn to be brought to them. She could not find the words to express her joy when they did. He was perfect, she decided, and she didn't think she was being biased: soft crown of brown hair; long, tiny fingers and toes; and the tiniest dimple in his chin, just like his father. He calmed immediately upon being rested near her head.

"Ella will be pleased," said Mark quietly, his voice thick with emotion, as he ran his fingers over the silky hair, "that her names will get to be used."

"I think she'll be pleased for more than that," said Bridget with equal emotion.

………

It was one of those modern places that allowed the baby to be in the same room as the mother, and she was happy for that, because the Caesarean meant extra hospital time. When visitors were allowed, they came in droves; Ella was allowed in first, and the tears came immediately upon seeing her new little brother nestled in Bridget's arm. "Oh my God," she said, bending close for a better view. "He's such a little peanut." She looked up. "Colin Malcolm?"

They both nodded.

She beamed proudly. "Liam says congratulations, by the way," she added. The first date had been a roaring success, such that Mark had been forced to accept that his daughter was quite a responsible young woman, and with some graciousness of spirit on his part, he allowed additional dates to occur. More often than not, Liam was at the house, where they watched movies together—with the door to the room left wide open.

Mark's parents were also there, and they'd brought Una Alconbury with them. She looked as pleased as any parent would have been, and said what everyone was thinking: "Pam and Colin would be so proud." His parents nodded and kissed them both in turn, oohing and aahing over their second grandchild. Malcolm seemed especially delighted, making a big deal about there now being a boy to carry on the family name, though Bridget knew in her heart of hearts a girl would have been equally welcome to him.

Shazzer came to visit too, and she could only bring her hands to her mouth as she cried, which was very unlike her. "He's gorgeous," she breathed at last.

"He's six hours old," reminded Bridget.

"Shut up," she said, stroking his velvety skin, admiring his cupid's-bow lips. "He's still gorgeous."

There were flowers and cards from Jude and Tom, who promised visits for the Christmas holidays. She was happier than she could possibly say.

Later, after the visitors left and the lights were lowered, the baby happily full after his latest feeding, Mark, who was staying in the room with her, laid beside her, spooned up against her, her back pressed into him, his hand tenderly over her sore stomach.

"I feel like I've been saying this a lot lately," he whispered, "but I am the luckiest man alive."

………

When all was said and done, Bridget was quite glad that it hadn't rained on her wedding day after all, that a bit of upset stomach was all she'd had to endure. She was quite sure that she wouldn't be able to take much more than the current level of good luck she'd been given.

The end.