The Baby Gift

by Day Leclaire

  "Oh, no. Not Christmas." Her hands slid around his waist and she hugged him. "First your momma, then Rhonda. No wonder you don't like that time of year.”

  “She died the week before the holidays.” It was a relief to tell her, something old and painful easing within him as he talked. “Dad was in Italy on a business trip. My youngest brother, Pietro, was a newborn. After she died, Luc tried to take care of us all. But he was only fourteen and child welfare finally stepped in. We were placed in foster care until Dom could be notified and get home.”

  "Did they keep you all together?"

  “No. There were six of us. Too many for any one home to take in." He felt a suspicious moisture dampen his shirt and frowned "Hey, you're not crying, are you?"

  She shook her head. "No," came her muffled response.

  He didn't believe her. Hooking her chin with his finger, he lifted her face to his. "You are crying." He couldn't remember anyone ever crying for him… except his mother. But then, she’d cried over everything. "Don't, sweetheart. It's ancient history. No harm done.”

  She swiped at her cheeks. “I can see the scars, even if you can't," she maintained fiercely.

  "Little scars." What phrase did she always use? He pinched his fingers together. "Itty-bitty scars.”

  "You shouldn't carry any scars at all." Her tears lessened and her expression grew lighter. Gently, she returned the chain to his neck. "Maybe we can get rid of some of them.”

  "And how do you propose to do that?"

  "Let's see..." She rolled on top of him and rested her forehead against his, winding her fingers deep in his hair. "Do you know what today is?"

  "Not really." He caught her mouth in a quick kiss and then laughed. "That's strange. I really don't know. That's never happened before."

  "Well, let me tell you. It's the first day of spring. A time for new beginnings. What better day to heal old hurts?" Her hands dropped to the opening of his shirt, plucking buttons through holes. Her eyes were dark and loving and filled with a soft feminine generosity. “Let me heal you, Alessandro.”

  He was helpless to resist. He wanted her. Needed her.

  Took her.

  "Alessandro? I need you.”

  He followed Lauren's voice into the kitchen "What's up?"

  She stood gazing down at Nick, who sat in the middle of the floor, pots, pans, lids and an assortment of wooden utensils spread out around him. She didn't appear happy. “I’ve decided,” she announced in a brave voice. "It's time."

  "I'm almost afraid to ask. Time for what?"

  "Nick's hair has gotten too long." From the way she said it, he'd have thought it was the worst possible tragedy. "I have to...to—"

  "Cut it?" Alessandro suggested, taken aback when she swiveled to glare at him. "What? What did I say wrong?"

  "Don't you dare make light of this."

  "Who's making light of it?"

  "A baby's first haircut is a milestone."

  "A milestone long overdue, if you want my opinion." Apparently she didn't, since her glare grew more fierce, promising serious retribution. He pitched his voice to soothe. "Honey, you'll be doing the kid a favor.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. "A favor."

  "Right. He's supposed to be a boy, but with all those waves and curls he's starting to look a bit—" A quick glance at Lauren's expression had him back-pedaling. Fast. "Not that there's anything wrong with looking a bit— But you have to agree. He is a boy."

  “Thank you kindly for pointing out the error of my ways." Boy, he hated when she went seriously Southern on him. Nothing cut worse than words that sounded sweet enough to rot teeth, while somehow managing to flay a man alive. "I need scissors if I'm gonna correct my parental incompetence." She held out her hand as though she expected him to produce them from thin air.

  “Tell you what. You get the scissors. They're in the medicine chest in the master bath, and I’ll have a little pep talk with Nick. We'll be ready for you as soon as you get back." He didn't even attempt to argue the "parental incompetence” part. There wasn't a chance in hell that could lead anyplace he wanted to go.

  She opened her mouth to argue, but to his everlasting relief she changed her mind. He didn't plan to ask how he'd gotten so lucky. The minute she'd trotted off, Alessandro folded his hands across his chest and fixed Nick with a man-to-man look. "That was a close one."

  Nick indicated his agreement by picking up a wooden spoon in one hand, and a pot lid in the other. Showing off his eight pearly teeth in a wide grin, he banged the spoon and lid together, thoroughly pleased with the clatter he created.

  "Okay, little buddy. Listen up. It's time for another first for you. This one's going to be a breeze. Not for your—" His brows drew together in a frown as he considered how best to finish his sentence. Then his frown eased. There was only one description that fit. "Not for your momma. This won't be anything close to a breeze for her. More like a hurricane, which means highly destructive and accompanied by a heavy downpour."

  "Ma-ma." Nick crowed, banging the lid with even greater enthusiasm.

  "Right. I suspect she'll cry her way through each tiny snip, but don't let that scare you. It's a woman thing. As you get older you'll find there are a lot of women things you'll have to deal with."

  Alessandro unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over a nearby chair. Stooping next to Nick, he removed the boy's shirt, as well. "Your best bet is to hold your peace and let them cry it out. Trying to rationalize tends to make women mad, as you might have noticed by that stellar example I just set. You don't want to do that. And using logic only makes them madder. You definitely don't want to do that. Or argue." He winced. "You're too young to hear what happens then, but trust me. It's very, very bad."

  "Ma-ma." Nick crashed the wooden spoon against the pots and pans. "Ma-ma. Ma-ma. Ma-ma."

  Alessandro whistled softly. "I gotta hand it to you, buddy. Once you finally learn a word you stick with it."

  Leaving Nick to his Ringo Starr imitation, Alessandro rummaged through the recycle bin by the backdoor and pulled out a layer of newspapers. He spread them in a broad circle on the kitchen floor. "Okay, Nick. Now remember what I told you," he instructed. "No fussing. It'll give your momma the perfect excuse to never cut your hair again. And we can't have that. Don't get me wrong. I like the opposite sex just fine, but we don't need to look like them. A man should look like a man."

  Setting a chair in the middle of the papers, he continued his Lecture. "Also... While fussing is a no-no, so's grinning. Try not to act too happy. No point rubbing in the fact that she should have done this months ago and you're pleased as punch that she's finally gotten around to it. Are we clear about how to handle this?"

  Nick stared with such an intent expression, Alessandro could have sworn he understood every word. Unable to explain what drove him, he held out his arms. Nick used the leg of the chair to lever himself upward and then he threw himself into the embrace. He carried a scent unlike anything Alessandro bad ever smelled before—fortunately, not that of a dirty diaper. He'd had close and personal contact with that particular odor over the past few days. A little too close and personal for comfort.

  No, this was entirely different. A unique fragrance filled Alessandro's nostrils, something fresh and young and earthy. Something distinctive. Something he hadn't taken the time or opportunity to register before, perhaps because he'd been so careful to hold himself at a safe distance, reluctant to establish any sort of intimate contact. But he wasn't safe any longer and Nick's scent flooded his senses, changing his perception of the boy.

  It was almost as though he'd imprinted Nick's essence on some primal level, claiming it as his own.

  This was his son.

  "Gracious, Alessandro." Lauren hurried into the kitchen carrying a pair of scissors and a comb. "Have you seen the size of that master bathroom?"

  He reluctantly released Nick, not quite sure what had just happened. He fought for equilibrium, fought to make sense of an irrational instinct
. But coming to terms with any sort of instinct was well outside of his realm of experience. "The master bath?"

  "It's huge," She suddenly noticed their state of undress and her eyes widened. A betraying flush brightened her cheeks and a feminine awareness gleamed in her gaze, a hunger that gave him far too much satisfaction. "There's... You know. A—a tub," she continued a trifle incoherently.

  He buried a smile. "Most bathrooms have them."

  "Yes, well." She made a swift recovery. "Did you also notice it's big enough to swim in?"

  "It's a whirlpool rub. For soaking."

  She appeared instantly intrigued. "The sort that blows water at you and swirls around?"

  “That's the kind. Have you ever bathed in one before?”

  "Never in all my born days."

  "Would you like to try it?"

  She lit up, her wide smile stealing away any lingering traces of stress and exhaustion. "You wouldn't mind?"

  "Be my guest."

  Her smile dimmed slightly. "I'm not sure." She fussed with the scissors and the comb. "It seems a frightful waste of water."

  He made a decision then and there. No matter what it took, he'd get her into that tub. And he'd make sure she filled it to the brim and whirlpooled herself into a cute little pixieish prune. "I think we can spare the water this once." He took a seat and settled Nick on his lap. "We're ready, but I can’t promise how long he'll be this calm. Let's get started."

  As he'd predicted, the tears started right up. "Do you really think he needs—”

  "Yea, I really think he needs." He fixed her with a steely gaze. "And if you can't bring yourself to do it I'll take over."

  "No, no," she insisted bravely. "It's my responsibility."

  She crossed to the sink and filled a glass with warm water. Returning to where they sat, she dipped the comb in the water and gently worked it through Nick's baby curls. Picking up the scissors she fussed for a solid three minutes before making her first snip. Alessandro caught the curl as it fluttered toward the floor. It rested in the palm of his hand, appearing incredibly small and silky. He hadn't expected to be affected by the moment. After all, it was just a hair-cut. But he found something about that one tiny lock of hair unexpectedly moving.

  He held it out. "You'll want this for his baby book."

  The tears fell in earnest then. "No. You keep it for yours. His daddy should have the first one. I’ll save the next."

  "Thank you." The words came out gruffer than he'd intended. "I'd like that."

  The rest of the haircut proceeded faster and easier than he'd expected. Lauren cried her way through it, but Nick didn't squirm or fuss or protest in any way. Instead, he sat solemnly, watching the entire procedure with the same intense curiosity he'd displayed while listening to Alessandro's instructions. When they were through, Lauren dusted the stray hairs off the two of them and helped Nick into his shirt before returning him to his pots and pans.

  "I’ll do you next," she told Alessandro unexpectedly, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks. "You're looking a bit shaggy around the edges."

  "That's all right I can wait until I get back to San Francisco."

  "No, I'd like to do it."

  He didn't argue. "Be my guest."

  She dipped the comb in the water again and drew it through his hair as she had with Nick. There was something unexpectedly sensuous about her movements, the languid pull of the comb, the soft warmth of her breath caressing his jaw, her slow, easy movements as she shifted from one position to the next. He could smell the soap on her skin and the faint hint of herbal shampoo she'd used that morning.

  Her breasts shifted beneath her sweater and he closed his eyes, remembering their sweet weight in his hands. He wanted her. Here. In the kitchen. It was crazy. Nick played no more than three feet away and all he could think about was stripping the jeans off Lauren's hips and yanking the sweater over her head before tumbling her to the floor and making love to her.

  Desperation prompted him to speak. "My mother used to line us all up and cut our hair." He couldn't say what sparked the memory. But at least it took his mind off Lauren and what he'd like to do with her. "Luc would sit there the way Nick did and let her get it done. The twins would make her life a misery, hiding in every nook and cranny they could think of until she dragged them out by the ear."

  “That's Stefano and Marco?"

  "Yeah." He didn't even bother questioning how she knew anymore. "Then they'd turn on the charm. Not that it worked. Momma knew how to handle the Salvatore charm. After all, she'd had years of experience with Dom."

  "And the rest of you?" she prompted, snipping cautiously around this ear.

  "Pietro was just an infant, so he escaped the lineup. Rocco would perch on the edge of the chair and scowl, hoping to intimidate his way out of it."

  "And you? What did you do?" she asked with gentle compassion. "No, don't tell me. You'd try and reason with her."

  "The entire time she was hacking away. I don't think I ever shut up."

  "I'm sure she loved every minute."

  "She probably did." He rubbed a hand across his brow. "I still miss her."

  "She sounds like a wonderful mother."

  "She was." He had difficulty asking his next question. "Was Meg a wonderful mother? Did she…" He exhaled roughly. "Did she resent having to raise Nick alone?"

  Lauren's snipping took on new urgency. "Nick was the most loved child in the world. He still is."

  "You haven't answered my question. Did she resent what happened between us?"

  The scissors fell silent and he wished he could see Lauren's expression. "Meg never resented her relationship with you." A blunt honesty underscored her words. "Nor did she resent Nick or the need to raise him alone. She fell...confused. And perhaps, for a while, betrayed."

  "I'm sorry," he said simply.

  "It wasn't your fault. And Nick compensated for a lot of heartache."

  "You want me to change the subject, don't you?"

  "If you wouldn't mind."

  "Okay. Have I told you how much I like your critters?" The scissors made a hasty clipping sound and her gasp sounded close to his ear. Aw, hell. "Problem?" he asked crisply.

  "No. No, no. Everything's just fine."

  “I can't glue the hair back on after you chop it off."

  "True. Fortunately, you can grow out any small errors of judgment."

  “How small an error of judgment?" he asked ominously.

  "Small. Tiny. Itty-bitty." She cleared her throat. So… You like my critters, do you? I didn't realize you knew what they were called.”

  "You could say it came to me in a dream. And I like them very much." He hadn't expected to, but to his surprise, he found their whimsical charm appealing. Santa and his reindeer held the place of honor on the mantel, the one in front often sitting askew. It had become a secret game between them, with Lauren shifting the deer out of alignment, while he straightened it whenever he passed. "I keep wondering where your next creation will crop up."

  "I'm surprised you even noticed."

  "I didn't at first, not until I had the oddest feeling I was being watched. I finally located the rabbits peeking at me from under the couch. It took me a while to find the flock of sparrows roosting on top of the wall clock." His favorite, though, had to be the family of elves, cavorting among the pine boughs covering the coffee table. They never failed to provoke a smile. “The one I haven't figured out yet is the woman under the Christmas tree. Is it going to be a crèche scene?"

  "You'll have to wait and see," she replied.

  "Cryptic."

  "Personal."

  "Even more cryptic."

  "I'll tell you what..." He had the sneaking suspicion she was trying to change the subject again. "I'm going to make some more ornaments later today. Why don't you lend me a hand?"

  "No." The word escaped more abruptly than he’d planned, but he couldn't help it. "Not a chance."

  "Why?"

  He used her excuse. "It's p
ersonal."

  Silence descended, broken only by Nick's determined drumming. "Maybe I can guess."

  "I don't think so." There wasn't a chance in hell he'd told Meg this particular story. It went too deep, hurt too much.

  "If I do, will you help?"

  "Sure." He sounded entirety too flippant, but he couldn't seem to help himself. "Why not?"

  "Okay."

  She didn't say anything more, but concentrated on cutting his hair. Her fingers shifted through the layers. Smoothing. Soothing. Caressing. It took every ounce of self-possession not to snatch her into his arms. He wanted to feel her hands on him again, taste her sweetness on his tongue, see every inch of pale, silky skin glowing in sunlight as it had beneath the moon's softening rays.

  "I think it has to do with when you were in foster care."

  Damn.

  "I think while you were there they tried to get your mind off your loss by involving you in their Christmas traditions."

  He caught her wrist and pulled her around to face him. "How the hell do you know about that?" The scissors clattered to the floor. He fought for control as he picked them up and set them out of Nick's reach. But for once that control eluded him. Fury—along with a soul-corrupting torment—overrode every other thought and consideration. "And don't tell me you got it from Meg. I wouldn't have told her the story. I wouldn't have told anyone."

  "They were paper snowflakes," she continued in quiet, steady voice. "Each of the children was supposed to cut one out. Then you were going to dip them in heated wax and sprinkle glitter over the top. Once they'd cooled you each could hang your ornament on the tree. It was a silly activity. Much too young for a ten-year-old. Didn't they realize that? Didn't they know anything? Heck, they even made you put your name on it like you were some snot-nosed kindergarten kid or something."

  It came roaring back, as bleak and dark and painful as if it had just happened. "Shut up, Lauren," he whispered hoarsely. "Just shut the hell up."

  She didn't shut up, each word pounding like a blow from a sledgehammer. "You did what they asked, but inside you were furious, your emotions more out of control than they'd been in your whole, entire life. They were all laughing and havin' a grand old time. Jokin’. Making you celebrate Christmas when all you wanted to do was go and hide in a dark corner. You were alone and scared. Your mother was dead. The police had taken you from your home, even though Luc had started a fistfight with them in order to keep you all together. Your family had been broken up and your brothers were each sent someplace different. And no one knew where to find your father. Maybe he had died, too, and they were keeping it a secret from you. On top of all that, these strangers were insisting you cut out a bunch of stupid paper snow-flakes."