Chapter 7 - THE NURSERY IN THE BROWNSTONE
-7-
Back in Park Slope, the second-floor nursery of the red-brick brownstone was rapidly taking shape. Sunlight streamed through the large, double-paned windows, illuminating freshly painted walls of soft, calming sage green and a vintage white crib resting against the far wall.
Natalie stood in the center of the room, smoothing down the edges of a woven cotton rug with the toe of her sneaker. At thirty-four weeks pregnant, her body moved with a slow, deliberate caution, but her spirit felt lighter and more vibrant than it had in a decade.
Downstairs, the front door opened, followed by the familiar, heavy tread of Arthur Sterling’s footsteps climbing the wooden stairs.
"If you're painting baseboards again, Natalie, I am calling your obstetrician and having you placed under house arrest," Arthur announced good-naturedly as he appeared in the doorway, holding a flat-packed cardboard box from a Swedish furniture store.
Natalie laughed, turning around to face her uncle. "I'm not painting, Arthur. I was just adjusting the rug. Besides, nesting is a medically recognized instinct."
"Nesting is one thing; assembling a mahogany dresser by yourself while carrying a full-term baby is an extreme sport," Arthur retorted, setting the flat-pack box down with a sigh. He walked over, gently placing a hand on Natalie’s shoulder and guiding her toward a comfortable velvet rocking chair by the window. "Sit down. You've been on your feet for two hours."
Natalie sank into the rocking chair with a grateful sigh, resting her hands over her stomach. "You know, Uncle Arthur, you don't have to spend your weekends playing general contractor for a stubborn pregnant woman. Don't you have a corporate takeover to ruin?"
"Corporate takeovers can wait," Arthur smiled warmly, pulling up a small stool and sitting down opposite her. "Besides, watching Preston’s life disintegrate into a pile of ash has been the most entertaining litigation of my career. He was served with formal default notices on the Tribeca condo this morning. By Friday, the deed will be officially transferred into your sole name as part of the emergency settlement."
Natalie looked out the window at the quiet, tree-lined Brooklyn street. A stray dog trotted past, its owner walking leisurely behind it. "What's going to happen to him?"
"Preston?" Arthur shrugged indifferently. "His partners at Whitmore & Sterling voted him out unanimously. His accounts are frozen, his credit rating is ruined, and he’s currently facing a federal grand jury investigation for wire fraud and embezzlement of corporate funds. He’ll likely spend the next few years trying to pay off legal retainers by working as a junior compliance clerk in some windowless basement—if he's lucky."
There was no satisfaction in Natalie’s heart upon hearing the news. Only a profound, steady sense of closure.
"I used to think he was invincible," Natalie murmured softly, resting her head against the back of the rocking chair. "I thought his ambition was a shield protecting our future. I didn't realize it was a cage."
"Ambition without ethics is just a slow-acting poison, sweetheart," Arthur said, reaching out to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. "You built a cage for yourself by trying to play small. But you broke out of it. And this little girl," he tapped her belly gently, "is going to grow up knowing that her mother didn't just survive the storm—she built the ark."
Just then, a sharp, melodic chime echoed from the front entryway downstairs.
"Are you expecting a delivery?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.
May you like
Natalie frowned. "No. The furniture delivery isn't scheduled until tomorrow."
"Stay here," Arthur instructed, standing up and smoothing his suit jacket. "I'll go see who's ringing the bell."
