Aftershocks

by Catherine Coulter

  "What the hell does that mean? You're six months pregnant. That means you conceived in February."

  "No, you're wrong. I'm only a little over five months along. The baby is just big, that's all. And, as I said, you're not the father." She took another drink of wine.

  "When did you stop working?" he asked abruptly.

  "Let's see," she said, pursing her pale lips. "Today is Wednesday. I guess my last day was Friday. Yes, Friday."

  Thank God, he thought to himself. The drinking and smoking had been going on for less than a week; at least he prayed so.

  He stared a moment at her stomach. "Don't lie to me, George. I know you have every right to be angry,

  She interrupted him with a shrill laugh. "Angry? With you, doctor? Your conceit is showing again. You were quite right, you know. When I was in Nebraska in the wheat fields, I met the nicest man. He was directing the commercial. A much younger man than you. No more than thirty, and very much of my generation. We became quite chummy. He was nearly as good a lover as you. He could be the father, I suppose." She appeared to give it considerable thought, then shook her head. "But you see, then I was in New York, with Damien. He's not a terribly large man, so I'm not sure whether the child could be his." She patted her round stomach. "I guess I'll just have to wait and see who the kid looks like. Lord, I do hope he or she doesn't take after Norman Greenberg! Although," she added, her eyes lighting in fond memory, "it was a lovely weekend with him in Los Angeles."

  He didn't believe her, not for a second. He wished he could shake her and hold her at the same time. His child, he thought, his child, and he hadn't known. "Who is your doctor?" he asked, his voice oddly sharp.

  He watched her light another cigarette.

  "You have seen a doctor?"

  She blew smoke toward him. "I really don't see that it's any of you concern, doctor." He clasped his hands tightly in his lap. "You appear to have this mistaken notion that, without you, I'm quite helpless," she remarked indifferently. "Perhaps in your generation women are supposed to be ninnies who can't function without a strong man about? Don't kid yourself, doctor."

  He watched her stub out her cigarette and immediately light another. Her hands were shaking.

  "No," he said, his eyes still on her hands, "I never thought you in the least helpless. You must have gotten pregnant that last night we were together," he added without a pause.

  "My, but you still refuse to listen to me or believe me, don't you?" She shrugged elaborately. "That's nothing new. I should have remembered that once you made up your mind about something, nothing could change it, especially not a flighty postteenager. In any case, doctor, I have nothing more to say to you. I do apologize for the magazine layout. I imagine that it must have given you a moment's pause. But you're off the hook now. No more guilt. Do you mind showing yourself out?"

  He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms. Instead, he nodded, and rose.

  "It was very noble of you to come by," she said, anger spilling into her voice. "Needless to say I hope I never have to see you again. Oh, incidentally, that was a lovely wedding present you sent to Mariana and Tod. I thought myself that a giant toad would have been more appropriate, but then again, what do I know?"

  "Goodbye, George," he said. He did not pause, but strode quickly out of the living room and the house. He closed the door very quietly.

  George swilled down the rest of the wine in her glass. A bitter smile crossed her lips. He was gone. Forever. It was over now, for good. Well, what had she expected? She reached for the wine bottle and tilted it to her mouth. She didn't care; damn him, she wouldn't care.

  Two hours later, at four o'clock in the afternoon, there was another knock on George's front door. She stared bleary-eyed toward the obnoxious sound. She heaved herself slowly out of the chair and walked in a weaving line toward the front door.

  "Who is it?"

  There was a pause, and then a low, gruff voice. "Miss Hathaway? A telegram for you."

  Telegram. Someone was ill. She felt fear clutch at her, and quickly opened the door. Elliot stood before her. She tried to slam the door in his face, but she was clumsy and slow, and he pushed back and strode into the entrance hall.

  "Get out!" she yelled at him. "You lying...toad!"

  "You can call me every name in the book if it will make you feel better. Come on, George, let's get you packed."

  She stared him, blinking vaguely. "Packed," she repeated stupidly. "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm going to dry you out, sweetheart. Lord, but you're drunk."

  "Stay away from me, Elliot Mallory!" She backed away from him, her hands splayed in front of her to ward him off. "The child isn't yours, for God's sake! Get out!"

  "While you're cursing me, you can also tell me more about all your lovers," he said calmly. "Come on, let's go get your things together."

  Rage bubbled up inside her. Six months of hurt and loneliness. She flew at him, striking him with her fists, sobbing her fury.

  Elliot caught her against his chest and gently held her arms to her sides. "Forgive me, sweetheart," he whispered against her temple. Suddenly she became very still. "George?"

  She raised her face. "I'm going to be sick," she gasped. She wriggled out of his grasp and lurched clumsily toward the bathroom. She made it, barely.

  She didn't have the strength to fight him. He helped her down to her knees and held her while she lost all the wine she had consumed. She moaned softly, wishing she could die.

  "No," she whispered as he picked her up in his arms and carried her into her bedroom. He laid her gently down and straightened over her. "Just lie still. I'll be right back."

  Elliot laid a damp washcloth over her forehead. "Take these," he said, and lifted her slightly. She swallowed the pills. "Now wash your mouth out. It'll make you feel better."

  She gargled with the mouthwash, felt her stomach knot again and moaned softly as she spit it into the glass he held.

  "I don't believe this," she muttered.

  "I know." He couldn't either, actually. The sight of George drunk and then vilely sick shook him. And it was his fault, all of it.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "We're going to Carmel."

  George tried to struggle to a sitting position, but found it an impossibility and fell ignominiously back onto the pillow. "Like hell we are," she spat at him, jerking off the damp washcloth. "I wouldn't go to heaven with you!"

  "You have no choice. Now hush."

  She was beginning to feel drowsy. "What were those pills?"

  Something to make you more docile. "Just something to settle your stomach. Concentrate on getting your bearings again, George. Everything will be all right, I promise you."

  "Nothing will ever be all right," she said bitterly. "Your promises aren't worth the breath you say them with." But he never made any promises to you, did he, you fool? Not one.

  She heard him moving about her bedroom. If only she didn't feel so wretched, she thought, she could get up and kick him out. Damn him!

  Elliot smiled as he folded several pair of her more outrageous knee socks into a suitcase. But her underwear very nearly undid him. Gone were the silky, very sexy bikini panties and in their place were sensible, full-cut cotton ones. Her bras brought a brief smile to his lips. Not only were they noble in size, they were Puritan white, just like the panties. He felt an overpowering sadness at what he had done, and he prayed it could be undone. He packed her clothes methodically, looking every few minutes toward the bed. She was nearly asleep. So much the better, he thought. He couldn't imagine carrying her kicking and screaming to his car. He left the house very quietly, and locked her suitcase in the trunk.

  When he returned, he leaned over her to be sure that she was asleep, and gently lifted her in his arms. She stirred and muttered in an angry, slurred voice, "Put me down, you jerk! I'm not going anywhere with you."

  "It's all right, sweetheart," he said softly. He felt the baby move, and clasped her more tig
htly against his chest. He carried her to the car, gently settled her on the front seat and unfolded a blanket over her.

  She slept the whole way to Carmel, her cheek pillowed on his thigh. It was nearing sunset when he pulled the car into the parking lot of the Brittany Inn. He had managed to book the same room he and George had had eight months before. Elliot left her asleep in the car and quickly took care of the registration.

  George awoke abruptly when he laid her on the bed in their room. She stared up at him, confusion in her eyes. "I—don't understand," she began, trying to sit up.

  "We're at the Brittany Inn. I brought some orange juice. Would you like some? It'll help settle your stomach."

  His very professional tone made her scowl, but she eagerly accepted the juice. She drank two glasses without pause. She leaned back against the pillows and watched him silently as he unpacked the suitcases. She wished she didn't feel so bloody tired, so bloody helpless.

  "Would you like to have a bath?" he asked her, once he had finished putting their clothing away. "I brought shampoo, your dryer and anything else you'll need."

  She said nothing, but let her scowl deepen.

  "After you've bathed, we'll have dinner here in our room," he continued evenly. "No wine."

  "Bastard," she muttered under her breath.

  He only grinned at her. "All right," she said, real- izing she hadn't washed her hair in four days. Her scalp itched.

  "Good," he said briskly. "I'll run the water for you. Just stay put for a minute."

  She was leaning against the bathroom sink when he straightened over the tub. He much preferred her anger to the look of utter defeat in her eyes.

  "Would you like me to help you into the tub?"

  He reached toward the zipper on her robe, but she slapped his hands away. "I don't need your help, Dr. Mallory," she snapped at him. "I don't need anything from you!"

  His eyes caressed her belly. "It looks like you've already gotten quite a bit from me," he said.

  She glared at him.

  "Soak a while. It'll rejuvenate your mind after the pills I gave you. You're no challenge at all as you are."

  She clutched a tube of toothpaste and flung it at him, but he ducked it and let himself out of the bathroom.

  Chapter 17

  There was a rerun of Star Trek on TV. Elliot left it on. He wanted George to eat and was afraid that without the distraction, she wouldn't.

  He heard a knock on the door over the whine of her hair dryer in the bathroom. A fresh-faced waiter wheeled in a cart of food. Elliot made innocuous conversation with him, tipped him and closed the door after him.

  "George," he called. "Dinner's here. Spaghetti with clam sauce and lots of garlic bread."

  The bathroom door opened and George came out, looking much better than before. Nothing like a bath to soak out evil humors, he thought. Her hair was nearly dry, soft and silky about her face. She was wearing a clean nightgown and robe. She paused uncertainly.

  He smiled, pulled out a chair next to a small table and said matter-of-factly, "If you like, you can watch Captain Kirk while you're eating. I think it's the one with the woman Romulan commander who falls in love with Spock."

  "The cloaking device," she said, sitting down. "The woman, of course, loses out in the end," she added in a wintry voice.

  He refused to be drawn. "I ordered some more orange juice for you."

  "Thank you," she said.

  Elliot was thankful for Kirk and Spock. By the end of the show, George had polished off nearly all her spaghetti and was munching on the last of the garlic bread. She had drunk all the orange juice.

  Elliot rose, straightened the dishes on the tray and wheeled it outside to the landing. "I'm going to take a shower now," he said when he returned.

  She started and turned wide eyes to him. He watched her tongue slide over her bottom lip. "What's the matter?" he asked gently. He saw her gaze flick toward the bed, and understood.

  "Where are you going to sleep?" she blurted out. "George," he said very calmly, "we are going to sleep in that bed. I have no intention of ravishing you. Would you like to sleep now?"

  She nodded, clutched the arms of the chair and pushed herself up. He wanted to smile at her awkwardness. It seemed that she was still trying to find her new center of gravity. Once she was standing, facing him, she drew a deep breath. "I want to leave tomorrow. I don't want to stay here with you."

  He looked at her thoughtfully, searching for the right words to say to her.

  "Damn you! I don't want your pity!"

  He blinked at her. "Pity," he repeated.

  "I told you the child isn't yours Elliot. I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm not going along with it."

  "Sit down," he said.

  "Don't you give me orders, you cold-blooded jerk!"

  "Sit down, George." He strode toward her, and George plunked back down into the chair. He stopped at the chair opposite her, and clutched at its back until his knuckles whitened. "Now you will listen for a minute," he said evenly. "You will stop lying about the baby. And you will tell me why you didn't call me the instant you found out you were pregnant."

  "Why?" she asked, her voice cold. "So you could offer to pay for an abortion? So you could accuse me of getting pregnant on purpose to trap you into marriage?"

  "You honestly believed I would want you to have an abortion?" he asked quietly.

  She shrugged. "It didn't matter, really. By the time I realized I was pregnant, it was too late anyway. God knows I wish it hadn't been!"

  He closed his eyes a moment to gain control. He understood her anger and her distrust of him, and searched for the right words to say to her.

  "What's the matter, doctor? Does the thought of being a father distress you so much? It needn't. The child is mine, and mine alone. I will swear I've slept with every man in San Francisco if you try for custody rights!"

  He ignored her spate of words and locked his gaze on her face. "Do you really believe, George—no, don't look away from me—that I would have thought about, much less suggested, an abortion? Or thought that you had gotten pregnant on purpose?"

  She pushed the hair off her forehead, and shrugged. "Why not? I thought I knew you, but obviously I was wrong. When Randy Hansen came to see me in March, to accuse me of kissing you off, I realized how smooth you are, doctor. And I was a fool. But even fools learn. Now, if you will excuse me, I am tired."

  "You knew it was likely I would see you pregnant in that fashion magazine. Did you think I would ignore the situation?"

  "No, I thought you would likely call me. In fact, I was looking forward to it, knowing that at the very least you'd feel guilty as hell. I suppose men of your age would, even though I'm only a flighty model. But you came to my house, so terribly controlled and so forceful. It makes no difference, Elliot. None at all."

  "We'll see about that," he said.

  He saw her hands clench into fists, then open again. "There is nothing further to see about," she said, and rose from her chair. He said nothing more. Once she was in bed, he turned out the lights and went into the bathroom. He showered quickly, worried she would try to sneak away.

  She didn't move when he slipped into bed beside her. He stared for a moment into the darkness, then rose again. He lowered the thermostat to fifty degrees and returned to bed, a smile on his lips.

  When he awoke at dawn, he lay very still. George was snuggled against him, her body curved against his back, her arm flung over his chest. The feel of her new shape delighted him, and he wanted nothing more than to roll her over and caress her belly, to feel his child within her. Very carefully, he eased onto his side to face her. He drew her into his arms, and fell back to sleep with an occasional feather kick of the child against his stomach.

  George emerged slowly from a pleasant dream, aware that she was toasty warm. She stiffened, aware that she was molded against the length of Elliot's body, her face nestled against his chest. Her nightgown had ridden up a bit, and his bare legs
were pressed against hers. She tried to wriggle away from him without waking him, but succeeded only in making him tighten his arms around her. He murmured softly, whether in his sleep or not she didn't know, "Go back to sleep. The alarm hasn't gone off yet."

  So long, she thought, it had been so long. Her pride and rage had fought against her misery for a while, but even they had faltered, and she had felt like a brittle, fallen autumn leaf, crushed headlessly underfoot. Had she really expected him to merely telephone her when he saw the magazine? No, she finally admitted to herself. She had known he would come; she had wanted him to come to her. What would he do now? More important, what would she do? She felt tears sting her eyes and gulped them back.

  "Good morning."

  She froze in midstretch at the sound of his soft voice.

  "What time is it?" she blurted out, holding very still.

  "Nearly nine o'clock, and time for breakfast. Did you sleep well?"

  Elliot allowed her to pull away from him. "Yes, I guess so, but it got so cold."

  "Yes, it did," he agreed smoothly.

  "I have to go to the bathroom," George said after a couple of moments of silence.

  "Do you feel all right?" he asked as she climbed over him.

  "Of course," she said sharply. "I'm not sick!"

  "I hope you stay obnoxiously healthy." He paused a moment, dropping his eyes to her stomach. "You look beautiful, George."

  She stared at him a moment, aware that her hair was a tangled mess around her face and that she was swathed from neck to toe in a blue flannel granny gown. "Sure," she said, curling her lips at him, "and a swan has a short neck!"

  His laughter followed her into the bathroom.

  "Are you ready?" Elliot asked.

  George nodded. She was wearing a gray wool jumper with a pale pink silk blouse and low heeled shoes, and her hair was pulled back with a gold clip.

  "Will you believe me if I tell you you look very nice this morning?"