Page 5 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 2
While I get the babies changed and dressed in adorable matching outfits for our outing this evening, Tyler packs the diaper bags with everything we could possibly need—diapers, bottles, formula, changes of clean clothes, and burp cloths. Forty minutes later, Tyler carries both car seats out to my SUV, while I carry the diaper bags—two of them, purple for Will and pink for Lizzie.
Other than making a couple of visits to the pediatrician for check-ups and vaccines, and a few strolls up and down our quiet residential street, we really haven’t taken the babies out much. They’re just so young. We’re worried about them catching something. So this evening is a big deal. While my parents have come to our house several times to see the babies, this is the first time we’ve taken them to their house.
It’s an easy twenty-minute drive across town to my parents’ house. Tyler drives, while I sit in the back seat between the two car seats.
“Here we are,” Tyler says as he turns onto my parents’ street.
It’s a residential neighborhood of old, stately homes. Layla and I grew up in a veritable mansion built by our paternal grandfather in the early twentieth century. Tobias Alexander, who amassed more money in his lifetime than is seemly, was one of those early titans in the telecommunications industry. Upon his death, he left sizeable fortunes to both me and my sister—sums of money and investments that immediately catapulted us to the top ofForbes’most wealthy people under the age of thirty.
Our family home, which is a massive white marble structure that looks more like a stuffy old museum than a private residence, takes up an entire city block in an exclusive partof Chicago. There’s private parking in the rear of the building, along with separate housing for the staff. My parents have a butler and a housekeeper, a maintenance guy, a private chef they lured here from Paris years ago, and various other live-in help.
Probably one of the most notable features of the house is that it has an indoor pond, which is home to Layla’s collection of koi.
Tyler drives around to the back and parks next to my mother’s BMW. He carries the two car seats to the back door of the house, while I bring in the diaper bags.
Obviously expecting us, Charles, the butler, greets us at the door, opening it wide. He peers down into the car seats. “Just look at those two!” As he studies their striking coloring, he grins up at Tyler. “Well, I can easily tell who it is they take after.”
As we step inside, my sister’s squeal can be heard all the way across the industrial-sized kitchen. “The babies are here!”
Layla races to greet us, with Jason Miller, her boyfriend and official bodyguard, right behind her. She’s wearing her customary outfit—a pair of blue jeans and a burgundy University of Chicago hoodie. Her long black hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and her striking dark eyes are lined expertly with kohl.
Like me, Layla’s adopted. Our parents brought her home from the hospital just days after she was born. When it was discovered that Layla had a defective pancreas, her teenage birth mother, overwhelmed by the idea of taking care of a special needs baby, immediately surrendered custody of her to the state. The birth father, a foreign exchange student from the Middle East, was already out of the picture and had expressed zero interest in his daughter.
Layla takes Lizzie’s car seat from Tyler. “I’ll carry my niece,” she says as she exits the kitchen. “Ian, bring Will. Mom’s in the front parlor. Hurry up, because she’s dying to see them.”
Jason pauses to shake Tyler’s hand, and then mine. “Good to see you guys.”
“Likewise,” Tyler says, as I steal Will’s car seat from him and follow after my sister.
Before I’m out of earshot, I hear Jason ask, “How’s it going?”
“We’ve got a problem,” Tyler responds, sounding grim.
And then I’m out of earshot and can’t hear any more of their conversation. I follow Layla to my parents’ favorite parlor—there’s more than one in this monstrosity of a house. My mom likes the fireplace and reading chairs in this room, and my dad likes the antique mahogany bar. In fact, he’s pouring himself a shot of something when we enter the room.
Mom sets down her glass of red wine on the small round table sitting between two armchairs. She stands and meets us halfway, a huge smile on her face as she gazes down at her grandchildren. She bends down to get a closer look. “How are they doing, sweetheart?”
“They’re doing great,” I say. “Eating, drinking, sleeping, and pooping. Lots of pooping.”
“And they’re gaining weight?” she asks. “They’re thriving?”
“Yes. Everything’s going well.”
Lizzie wakes up at that moment, her blue-green eyes fluttering as she stares up at some unexpected faces.
Mom unbuckles her granddaughter and gingerly lifts her out of the car seat. “Hello, darling girl.” She kisses Lizzie’s forehead. “How’s my beautiful little angel?”
“Did you talk to me like that when I was a baby?” Layla asks, looking skeptical.
“Of course she talked to you like that,” my dad says as he takes a seat in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. He chuckles. “She spoiled you both rotten.”
“Martin! I did not spoil my children,” Mom says, giving him a fake scowl. “Besides, when they’re this age, you can’t spoil them. All they want is love and cuddles.”
Will begins to stir then, wriggling and making those adorable sounds babies make when they wake up.
“Well, let me see my grandson, then,” Dad says as he rescues Will from his car seat.
I smile as I watch my dad, the stern and stoic federal judge, lift his grandson into his arms with kid gloves.
