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Shaun’s harsh laugh startled him. “Why would I be upset about that? I mean, yeah, it was a shock and all, but upset?” He shook his head.
Now it was Blake’s turn to look blank.
The kid blew a disdainful “pffh” of air between his lips. “The man didn’t care Jack about me. Oh, he made noises at first like he was going to, I don’t know, fill some gap in my life or something…” Shaun propped one foot up on the dashboard, banging his fist against his knee. “Give me a break.”
Blake didn’t know what to say to that, although a vague anger suffused his thought. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
Shaun rubbed his hand over his thigh, then picked at a loose thread from a hole in the denim. “It had nothing to do with you. No big deal.”
“But it does have something to do with you, which makes it a very big deal.”
The boy’s sad shrug made him feel like slime. But his confession sparked more than a few other questions in his brain, all of which centered on Cass’s relationship with her second husband, none of which were any of Blake’s business.
He told himself.
“I really am sorry I wasn’t able to come down before,” Blake said quietly, needing to justify himself somehow while still skirting the truth. “But it wasn’t as if we didn’t see each other. Besides, I thought you enjoyed coming up to Denver. Getting way from the house.” He glanced over. “Going to Broncos games.”
The boy went through his hat-off, shove-fingers-through-hair, hat-back-on routine. “Yeah, I guess. It was okay.” Since that’s what you want to hear, Dad, his expression said, that’s what I’ll give you.
“But it wasn’t what you wanted.”
That merited a grunt.
“I told you,” Blake persisted, “I was busy. Getting away this past year wasn’t easy. The business—”
“You own it, for crying out loud. You can do anything you want.”
“It doesn’t work that way, buddy.” At Shaun’s not-buying-it glare, Blake added, “Just because I don’t punch a time clock doesn’t mean I have more free time. If anything, I have less. And this year was a killer in terms of expansion—”
“Dad, please. You make ice cream.”
Blake’s hand squeezed the steering wheel, hard. Anger hissed through his veins, at Shaun for his insolence, at himself for creating the situation that created the insolence to begin with. “Yeah. I make ice cream. By myself, in my kitchen, one gallon at a time.”
Again, no response.
“Maybe this doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, but in ten years Troy and I have set up three processing plants around the country and sold more than a 150 franchises in thirty-seven states. That didn’t happen by working nine-to-five.”
He could feel duplicates of his own deep-brown eyes scrutinizing the side of his face. “And was it worth it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re rich, right?”
Wondering where this was heading, Blake carefully replied, “Let’s just say it’s been a long time since I’ve worried about meeting the monthly bills.”
“And, like, what has all that gotten you, exactly?”
Ah. They’d pulled into the wide driveway fronting the three-car garage at the side of Cass’s house. Blake cut the engine, then leaned back, one hand on the steering wheel. Typically for this time of year, the wind had picked up, hazing the air with dust and pollen. But the clog in his throat, he guessed, had little to do with the sudden jump in the pollen count. “I’ve been able to provide jobs for a lot of people, Shaun. You won’t have to worry about college—”
“Dammit, Dad! Can’t you give a single straight answer?”
His heart pounding, Blake met his son’s angry gaze. “Give me a straight question, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Fine,” Shaun retorted. “Are you happy?”
Blake squinted out the windshield, jabbing a hand through his hair in a gesture that echoed his son’s. “No. Not really.”
“So what’s the freakin’ point?” Shaun said with such vehemence Blake whipped his head back around. “What is it with grown-ups and their fixation with success? So you’ve, like, buried yourself in this business. And now you’ve got all this money, right? But, what else do you have?”
An early season lizard darted up the adobe wall as Blake stared out the windshield, trying to figure out what to say. “Are you talking about us, Shaun?” He turned to face his son. The lowermost earring in Shaun’s lobe glinted dully. “About my not being here for you?”
“Man, you just don’t get it, do you? Dude—I’m not talking about you and me! I’m talking about—”
“Oh! Oh! Come quick!”
They both looked up to see Lucille frantically waving from the second-story deck, the fringed ends of a gold-and-purple scarf she’d tied around her head plastering to her face in the wind. “It’s Cassie!” she yelled, clawing at the scarf. “She fell, now she’s having contractions, and she won’t let me call anyone—”
Blake was out of the car like a shot, aware of Shaun’s car door slamming a split second behind his as he bounded across the driveway and up the stairs into the house.
Her mouth set in a grimace, Cass adjusted the pillows behind her back, then leaned up against the black lacquer headboard. “They’re just Braxton-Hicks. They’ll pass.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Blake saw her lips thin even more in an attempt to mask the contraction. He instantly leaned over, placing his hand on her abdomen. Obeying an instinct for which he’d long since had no need, he sneaked a glance at his watch, breathing out a small sigh of relief when he felt her muscles relax after barely twenty seconds. He caught her glower, the bright-blue eyes faded to almost the same gray as her sweater and maternity pants. In that outfit, she was practically invisible against the muted-plaid bedspread covering the enormous bed. She swatted at his hand, which he posthaste removed.
“If I’d needed my midwife, I’d’ve called her.”
“I doubt it.”
She shot him a look, then levered herself higher up, lacing her hands together over her middle. “I’m not having this baby, Blake. Not today, at any rate.”
He gave her thigh a friendly pat. “That’s my girl. As much of a pain as ever.”
Her eyes flitted briefly to his, then away. But he saw the smile twitching her lips. “A gal’s gotta maintain her reputation, after all.”
Blake sat on the edge of the bed, carefully palming the knot her hands made over her tummy. “What happened?”
He could see her struggle to remain aloof as she contemplated their layered hands. “I can’t see underneath me,” she said softly, like a child trying to downplay an errant deed. “I was on my way into the living room and misjudged where the step was, that’s all. And my sandal twisted out from under me.” One shoulder hitched. “So Mommy went boom.”
“And then the contractions started—”
That got a sigh of pure exasperation. “I told you. They’re not contractions. Not real ones, anyway. I’ve been having these for the last month.” A fierceness out of all proportion to the situation blazed in her eyes. “They do seem to come on when I’m particularly stressed. And I think the last few days would qualify, wouldn’t you?”
He gently squeezed her hand, then removed it, tamping down the irrational, absurd surge of jealousy. He’d left her, for God’s sake—what did he expect? That she’d stay alone for the rest of her life?
“Yes,” he finally said. “I imagine they would.”
“You okay, Mom?”
They both looked over at Shaun, who’d come a few feet into the room, wearing that hopeful, frightened look of a kid desperately seeking reassurance.
“Yes, honey, I’m fine,” Cass replied with a tired smile. “Lucille just went a little nuts, that’s all.”
“A pregnant woman lands flat on her tuchus four feet in front of me, I’m going to go nuts,” came from the doorway. “It’s an old lady’s prerogative.” Lucille stomped into the bedroom—or she would have stomped if she’d weighed more than a feather and the room hadn’t been so thickly carpeted—sweeping the scarf’s tails over her shoulders with a gesture worthy of Greta Garbo.
“Well?” she directed at Blake, though her eyes remained pinned on her quarry. “Did you talk some sense into her?”
Reluctantly, Blake stood. “I…” He caught Cass’s warning glare. “Actually, I think she’s probably fine. The contractions seem mild and short and she’s not in any pain.” He frowned at her. “Are you?”
She shook her head. Blake lowered his voice, although he decided against wagging his finger at her. Since he wasn’t really keen on the idea of having it bitten off.
“But she will stay in bed. Won’t she?”
On another sigh, she nodded, then said, “Only if everyone will quit obsessing about me.”
A brief tremor of familiarity swept through him. At about the same point in Shaun’s pregnancy, Cass had slipped off a ladder while hanging curtains in the nursery. She’d started contractions that time, too. And she’d refused to get herself checked, just like now. And Blake had bullied her into staying in bed, just like now.
That time, though, she had accepted his railroading with good humor, love shining in her eyes. Now her acceptance seemed tainted with bitter resignation. She clearly didn’t want him here. Yet her very resistance had set off a faint, persistent alarm—illogical though it was—way at the back of his brain that her not wanting him around was exactly why he needed to stay.
“You want something to eat, sweetheart?” he heard Lucille ask, jarring his thoughts. “Some juice, maybe?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Cass said with a hint of a smile. She slid down into the pillows, then over onto her side, shoving one pillow underneath her bulging middle. “I think maybe—” she yawned “—I’ll just take a little nap…”
Her eyes closed the instant the words were out of her mouth. Blake looked up to catch Shaun looking from one of them to the other, and he instantly surmised what Shaun had been about to say when Lucille’s screams had interrupted him. No, he hadn’t been talking about Blake’s relationship with him. He’d been talking about Blake’s relationship with Cass.
Oh, God, he thought on an exhaled breath after Shaun and Lucille left the room. Blake wasn’t the only one who wanted his family back. Which meant—maybe—he had an ally.
Of course, this also meant that Cass had an adversary—since somehow he suspected she’d rather give birth while riding a galloping camel than get back together with him—but, hey. Sometimes the odds are in your favor, sometimes they’re not. Such is life, right?
On his own way out, though, he glanced around the bedroom his wife had shared with another man, at the mottled tan walls and thick taupe Berber carpet and lifeless chrome-and-glass nightstands. He caught himself wondering if the baby Cass carried had been conceived in that bed, then sharply reminded himself he was being juvenile.
Just as he reminded himself that she didn’t owe him a damn thing. And certainly not a shot at something he’d forfeited so long ago.
His gaze once again swept the room. For all its lack of charm or warmth, nothing in here had come cheap. A study in minimalist extravagance. And again, very un-Cass, who adored chintz and frills and lace. And cats. The woman was crazy for cats, he remembered suddenly. When they’d been married, they’d had four, not counting the outside strays Cass would “secretly” feed.
He looked back at her, then crossed over to the beige tweed chaise in the corner of the room, pulling a gray mohair throw off of it. That’s what was wrong, he decided, gently covering the obviously unhappy woman who still held his heart in her hands. There were no cats in this house. No goofball kittens, no swaggering toms, no prissy longhairs to climb up in your lap and leave a veritable fur rug in their wake. He skimmed one knuckle over the soft pile, shaking his head.
No wonder she was so miserable.
Finally.
Once she was positive Blake was gone, Cass opened her eyes, tucking one hand underneath her cheek, only to choke with the effort not to cry when she smelled his scent on her hand.
This wasn’t going to work, his being here. She wished he’d go away, leave her alone to sort out what was left of her life in peace. Okay, sure, when push came to shove, he’d made a rotten husband and father. And yet, she mused as she hitched the throw higher on her shoulders, she’d never known a kinder human being. When he was around, anyway. And she didn’t need, or want, kindness. Kindness was dangerous, made you believe in things that shouldn’t be believed in.
And pity was even worse. And that’s what it would become, wouldn’t it? When he found out? She didn’t think she could stand that. So what was this nearly overwhelming, idiotic urge to beg him to stay and make it all better?
Well. Apparently, she hadn’t changed any more than Blake. At least, not as much as she’d wanted to believe. Not on the inside, at least. But then, perhaps growing up wasn’t as much about conquering your weaknesses as it was about seeing them for what they were. And then never, ever letting them get the upper hand.
She was exhausted was all, she told herself. And the contractions had given her more pause than she’d let on. Still, her sadness had gone beyond weeping, to a sort of not-quite numbness a millimeter short of despair. She’d like to think it was nothing more than hormone-induced moodiness, exacerbated by recent events, but she’d given up lying to herself for Lent. And for however many days on earth she had left after that.
In all this, the baby was the only thing that seemed to make any sense. Not that Cass loved this child more than Shaun—as if that would have been possible—but by virtue of Shaun’s being first, she spent so much time worrying about him and fussing at him that sometimes love got lost in the shuffle. She’d made lots of mistakes with Shaun, more than she liked to admit. So maybe she was being a Pollyanna, but somehow she hoped this child would give her an opportunity to make things, if not right, at least better. Even if, once again, she was doing this all on her own.
Such was obviously her lot in life, one with which she should have long since made peace. Because being on her own was good for her, made her stronger. Lord, she thought on a tight smile. The life-as-spinach philosophy. Hey—she could write a book, go on Oprah.
She lay there, feeling the little one squirming inside her, watching the pine tree outside her window shudder noiselessly in the wind—the triple-glazed windows allowed no sound. After a year, she still hadn’t adjusted to the airless silence. But Alan couldn’t stand outside noises. Or dust.
Weenie, she thought irritably, clutching the pillow. How would he have dealt with the noise and mess and dirt of a child?
Well. Moot point now, wasn’t it? Fifty years old, no spare tire, no predilection for junk food, no history of heart disease, and the man drops dead while jogging. Major coronary, gone within minutes, the paramedics assured her. He didn’t suffer, they said.
No. He wouldn’t.
Her eyes squeezed shut again as she realized she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. Her brain felt cluttered—so many decisions to make so quickly, none of them easy. But there was one thing, if nothing else, Cass knew—fish would play strip poker before she’d ever marry again. Not for her sake, not for the child’s sake, not for anyone’s sake. Two unmitigated disasters were quite enough for one lifetime, thank you. Especially as she’d be paying, literally, for the second mistake for the rest of her life. So from now on, she was relying on nobody but herself. God knows, she wasn’t perfect, but at least she wouldn’t give herself a broken heart She didn’t think, anyway.
A tear dribbled down her cheek, tickling her nose; she irritably swiped at it, despising herself for feeling like a whiny toddler who couldn’t have a cookie before dinner. But after all, she reminded herself, cookies weren’t good for you.
Spinach, however, was.
She should write that down.
Chapter Three
Since Shaun missed his bus the next morning, Blake drove him to school. To his combined relief and annoyance, the boy wasn’t in a talkative mood, yet Blake still felt as though someone had played basketball with his brain by the time he returned to the house to find Lucille on the second-story deck, madly planting pansies in assorted pots and tubs. Still, the sight—the idea—of someone planting flowers was reassuring somehow. And at this point, he’d take whatever tidbits of reassurance he could get.
“Got enough flowers, here?” he asked the industrious little figure whizzing about like a dazed parakeet.
“I bought them before—” She cut herself off, shaking her head, then shoved her sunglasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. “If I don’t get them into the dirt, they’ll all die.”
His eyes narrowed, Blake scanned the horizon, waiting for the awkward moment to dissipate on its own, like an unpleasant aroma. “Cass still asleep?” he asked after a moment.
“Far as I know.” Speaking of unpleasant aromas, enough perfume for an entire chorus line wafted over to him on the stiff breeze. Blake casually moved upwind of her, squinting from the glare bouncing off the rhinestone trim of her electric-blue sweatshirt. She lifted her head, peering at him from the south side of a floppy-brimmed straw hat with chiffon ties securely anchored beneath a wattled chin. “You get Shaun to school okay?”
“We just made it,” he said to mirror-coated sunglasses. “If I’d known he was supposed to catch a bus, I would have hustled him out a lot sooner.”
Crimson lips spread out into an amazingly wide smile. “Wouldn’t have done you a bit of good, cutie. Kid misses the bus every single day. And every single day Cass chews him out for it.” The hat quivered as she nodded toward a white wrought-iron patio chair with a plastic floral cushion lashed to it. “So sit. Enjoy your coffee while I putz.”
So he sat, occasionally offering a comment in response to one from Lucille as he nursed a cup of Towanda’s miraculous coffee, staring toward the west at white-capped Mt. Taylor glittering against an endless sky. As warm as it had been yesterday, the temperature had dropped again overnight; he flipped up the collar of his denim jacket against the breeze. At least the March sun still listed southward enough to splash a few welcome rays across the western-facing deck, taking the chill off the air. Still, it was a magnificent spring morning, at such odds with the understandable tension in the house.
Suddenly aware he was being eyed, he smiled. Her brow knotted, Lucille didn’t return it. Tension coiled at the base of Blake’s neck, as if he sensed what was coming.
“I shouldn’t have insisted you stay here,” she said, returning to her task. Silver gecko earrings swung in dizzying circles as she poked and prodded in the soil, a three-inch-wide silver-and-turquoise cuff smothering a wrist that looked far too frail to support it.
His fingers tightened around the mug’s handle. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you still have feelings for Cassie.”
Blake allowed the breeze to carry away a brittle chuckle. “You don’t mince words, do you?”
“At my age, what’s the point? So, am I wrong?”
