by Susan Gable
“Bed with you?”
“Only because I slowed it down.”
“You want a medal?”
“No. I want you to say yes.”
“I’ll think about it.” Marriage. She stifled the shiver that crawled along her arms. Another big commitment thing. She was going to break out in hives, for sure.
The phone rang. They both glanced around the living room, trying to place the source of the sound. “I think it’s in the bathroom,” Jenna said.
His knee popped as he climbed to his feet and headed for the other room. Jenna heard him answer, then strained to hear more of the conversation. He came out with the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, nodding. “Okay, hold on just a minute. Here she is.” He covered the speaker with one finger. “It’s your mom. She says she and your dad are thinking about coming up for a visit.”
Jenna clamped a hand over her mouth and bolted for the porcelain god to whom she’d been offering up way too many sacrifices of late.
“Mrs. Quinn? Jenna can’t talk right now. Can I have her call you back?”
ONE WEEK and one more trip to the doctor’s office (under protest but at Sloan’s insistence) later, Jenna sat in Element-ry’s office. Waiting.
Dread made her stomach feel even worse than usual, so she pressed against the plastic balls in the elastic bands around her wrists, courtesy of Margo. Between that, small bits of soda and crackers every hour, and some ginger, the vomiting was at least under control. When the front door chime sounded, she whipped off the bands, stuffing them into the middle drawer of her desk.
She strolled onto the shop floor. Robert Quinn stood near the door; her mother, Mallory, perused the glass cases. “Hi!” Jenna chirped. “It’s so good to see you.” A peck on her dad’s cheek earned her a pat on the shoulder in return.
“Hello, honey.”
Her mother moved away from the case and gestured around the shop. “I love what you’ve done with the place. It’s so—” a pause while the normally word-efficient woman searched for the right term “—cute.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Mallory Quinn opened her arms and turned her face, offering her cheek. Jenna walked into the embrace. The fur of the mink coat tickled her skin, and the strong scent of floral perfume forced her to clamp her teeth together. She backpedaled. “So, what brings you to my humble place?”
“We need a reason to visit our daughter?” her mother asked.
“Usually, yes. And since it’s not my birthday…”
“Your father and I have light caseloads right now, so we thought we’d come up and see how you’re doing with the business, that’s all.” Once again her mother’s eagle-eyed gaze swept over the room. “Things slow right now, dear?”
“Post-holiday quiet, I guess.”
Her father nodded. “Makes sense. I imagine you’ll see it pick up again next week, just before Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m also thinking about a Web site. That ought to increase sales. And did I mention when we talked yesterday that the Maritime Museum and the gift shop at the airport are willing to take some of my pieces?”
“No. That’s great news, honey.” After shooting a warning glance her mother’s way, her father smiled at her. “Sounds like you’re on the road to success.”
“This time,” her mother murmured.
Jenna ignored it. “Thanks, Dad. I think so. I’ve finally found my niche.”
“At thirty, that’s a good thing.”
“Well, not all of us map out our lives at age twelve and never deviate from the plan, Mother.”
Her dad looked at his watch. “Two minutes. I think that’s a new record.” He winked at Jenna. “So where would you like to go to dinner?”
Her stomach rolled at the mere idea. “Oh, Dad, that’s not necessary, really.”
“I know it’s not necessary, but it’s something we want to do. So what will it be?”
Her mother sniffed. “Not that chain restaurant we went to last time, dear. Somewhere with real napkins and tablecloths, okay?”
“Is that place down by the bay open in the winter?” her dad asked.
She nodded.
“Let’s go there, then. I love the view.”
For her father, who’d run interference with her mother for Jenna her whole life, she’d do just about anything. Even sit in an upper-crust restaurant and try like hell to be civilized to the Ice Maiden who’d given birth to her.
The front door blasted open. Sloan stomped his feet on the rug, shaking loose snow from his boots. “Wooiiee, it’s cold out there today.” He glanced up. “Oops. Sorry, Jenna, I didn’t realize you had customers. Although I suppose the car in front should have clued me in, huh?” He pointed to the office. “I’ll just wait for you in there.” But before going through the archway, he detoured to her side and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “You look better today.”
“Well, he’s certainly a smooth one,” her mother said.
Jenna pasted a smile on her face and grabbed his hand. “Mother, Dad, I’d like you to meet Sloan Thompson. Sloan, my parents, Robert and Mallory Quinn. Mother, you talked to him on the phone last week when you called me. He’s my neighbor and he’s, uh, very important to me.” She leaned close as if to repay his kiss in kind and whispered, “I need rescuing now, cowboy.”
Sloan’s eyes widened, a brief flash of panic chasing through the bright blue. “Mr. and Mrs. Quinn.” He cleared his throat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Important to you, huh?” Her father stuck out his hand. “Coming from my daughter, that’s quite an endorsement, Mr. Thompson.”
“Please, sir, Sloan.” He disconnected from Jenna and moved to shake her father’s hand.
Her mother arched a cool eyebrow, giving Sloan a slow perusal. “Well. If you’re important to Jenna, then perhaps you should join us for dinner. We’d love to get to know you better.”
“Oh, you’re going out for dinner, huh?”
Jenna begged silently.
“Well, thank you, ma’am, I’d love to join you. Let me just make a few phone calls, take care of some business, and we can go.”
AFTER DROPPING their coats with the clerk and pocketing their claim stubs, Sloan offered Jenna his arm. She’d been quiet the whole ride over, and he knew she’d been fighting the effects of the swaying car. Poor thing.
He held her back as her parents approached the maître d’. Sloan could hear her mother request a good table with a view. “They don’t know, do they?” he whispered.
“No, and I’d like to keep it that way for now.”
“How the hell do you expect to do that? You’re turning green already, sugar.”
“Whispering, while cute courtship behavior, is not polite.” Her mother arched that damn perfectly groomed eyebrow at them again. The irrational urge to muss her hair rode him hard. She probably rolled from bed in the morning completely made-up. Where a woman with such a ramrod up her ass had gotten a daughter as free-spirited as Jenna was beyond him.
“Sorry, ma’am. You’re right.”
“This way,” the maître d’ said. He escorted them to a table by the front window and presented them with embossed leather menus that weighed a ton. Sloan barely heard the spiel of the specials because he was peeking at Jenna around the edge of the menu. The pallor of her skin set off the highlights in her hair and the soft green of her eyes. She’d applied more makeup than usual in a blatant attempt to cover up the signs she’d been sick as a dog lately. He still found her attractive as hell, and sort of fragile.
The urge to put his arm around her—to shelter her from the probing stares of her mother and the questioning looks from her father—shocked him.
“Sloan?” she said, apparently repeating herself.
“Yes?”
“To drink?”
“I’ll have a scotch. Straight.”
“I’ll take ginger ale, please,” Jenna said.
“What? No wine, dear?” her mother asked. “The me
al is on us. No need to be chintzy. Have whatever you like.”
“What I’d like, Mother, is ginger ale.” Jenna smiled at the waiter. “Thank you.”
Ordering and initial small talk out of the way, the lawyer in her parents came out clear as day as they took turns cross-examining him. Where was he from with that delightful twang? What did he do? What did his parents do? When he whipped out pictures of the girls, causing her mother to sputter on her wine, Jenna pinched him on the thigh beneath the cover of the linen tablecloth.
“I had no idea you had children.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ashley’s seven, and Brook’s fifteen.”
“They’re great kids,” Jenna offered.
Her dad looked pleased. As the waiter approached the table with a tray of appetizers, her mother looked at Jenna. “Somehow I never expected to see you dating a man with children, dear.”
Mrs. Quinn leaned back to allow the server to place a plate of escargot swimming in butter before her. “You do realize,” she said to Sloan, “that my daughter has only ever dated the same man for a period of—what was it, dear?—four months?”
“It was six, Mother.” Jenna stared at the crock of potato soup set in front of her.
“Nevertheless, it’s not fair to children to have them get attached to you only to have you not be part of their lives again.”
“You should know,” Jenna murmured.
“How do those coconut shrimp look, Sloan?” her father cut in with a smooth change of subject. “My frog’s legs look excellent.”
Jenna pushed back her chair, dropped her napkin to the table and scooped up her purse. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” With a quick glance of apology at Sloan, she scurried off, in search of the restrooms, no doubt.
He half rose as she departed, then eased back into his chair, offering her parents a weak smile. She was going to owe him big-time for this.
Jenna lingered in the bathroom as long as she dared. No point in giving her mother more ammunition. She re-applied some blush and lipstick, then headed back to the table. Sloan stood, pulling out her chair. “Thank you.”
The empty plates in front of her parents made her feel much better. She nibbled at the crackers provided with her soup and made a show of lifting her nearly empty spoon to her mouth, though she didn’t eat much. The now-cool soup didn’t carry as much scent as it had when steaming hot.
“Sloan was telling us about his sister and her step-daughter, Molly,” her father said. “About her heart transplant. Sounds like quite an amazing family.”
“They’re a tight-knit bunch. Sloan moved up here just so he could be closer to them.” Jenna pushed the brown crock away from her. A busboy swooped in, asked if she was finished, and whisked it away at her nod.
“Wasn’t the soup any good, dear?”
“A little salty,” Jenna lied. Salad proved more difficult to fudge. She spent a lot of time babbling about ideas for the store, moving the romaine around her bowl as she did. Oil and vinegar, her most bland dressing option, didn’t bother her, but the lettuce itself proved harder to deal with. Once again when the others finished, she pushed hers aside.
So far, so good.
Or not so bad, anyway.
“Did you know Jenna was valedictorian of her high-school class?” her mother asked Sloan.
“No, ma’am. I didn’t know that. Although I’m not surprised. She’s always struck me as a bright lady.”
“Yes. The girl has an IQ of 146, and instead of taking an opening at Princeton, she chose to go to Penn State. To get a degree in art.”
“And business, too, Mallory. Don’t forget that,” Dad said.
“And my mother will never get over the fact that I have a mind of my own, a very sharp one as she has pointed out, and I’m not afraid to use it to think for myself.”
“Ah, look, here’s our dinner,” her father said as their server approached. “Saved by the cuisine.”
Lemon butter swamped her plate, nearly floating her chicken piccata. She tried to ignore the aromas wafting from the other plates being set on the table. But her father’s Louisiana catfish and her mother’s poached salmon didn’t give her much choice.
The temperature in the room dipped, then shot up. Her fork trembled in her clammy hands. Parting her lips just a crack, she tried shallow mouth-breathing.
Didn’t help.
“Are you all right?” her father asked. “You’ve gone a bit pale. Is there something wrong with your food?”
“I— I haven’t been feeling well, Dad.” She eased her chair away from the table a bit. Sloan’s fingers closed around her knee, offering a covert squeeze of support.
Her mother stared at her. Then she set her fork down. Leaning forward, she looked closer. “You’re sweating. And you’ve turned the most unattractive shade of gray.” Her eyes narrowed, and Jenna could see her mentally compiling the list of evidence. “No wine. Ginger ale.” She sat straight up in her chair. “Oh, God, you’re pregnant!”
Jenna opened her mouth to say something—what, she had no idea—but her mother raised her hand. “No! Don’t say a word. We will not speak of this here.” She glanced around the room, as if to be sure no one in the restaurant had heard the horrible news about her daughter’s unexpected pregnancy.
“Mr. and Mrs. Quinn—” Sloan began, only to be silenced by another wave of the commanding hand and her mother’s “shh.”
It was the uncertain expression on her father’s face that made Jenna want to weep. His eyes glistened. “Daddy—” she began.
“Don’t ‘Daddy’ him. You’re not going to wrap him around your little finger this time. Once again, you prove how selfish and self-centered you are, Jenna. Why can’t you think about someone else for a change?”
Sloan jumped from his seat and threw his napkin onto the chair. He reached down to help Jenna up. “That’s enough. Nobody talks to her like that. Not even her mother. Come on, sugar, we’re leaving.”
Mallory Quinn’s mouth opened for a split second. “But-but we drove.”
“We’ll get a cab.” He wrapped his arm around Jenna’s shoulder and eased her away from the table. “Should you decide to be more reasonable, you know where to find us.” On the way out, he had the maître d’ call a local taxi company. Jenna rushed away from him, heading to the coat check to reclaim her jacket. He caught up with her in front of the restaurant, with tears coursing down her cheeks and puffs of dragon smoke issuing from her mouth and nose.
“I hope that steam coming from you doesn’t mean you’re pissed at me.”
She turned to face him and broke into laughter that alternated with sobs. “No. That was the best rescue ever, Tex.” She threw herself against his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her, once again struck by his need to protect her. “Don’t cry. Your face will freeze. Think how you’ll look with little icicles hanging off your chin like an old woman’s whiskers.”
Another snort-laugh was muffled by his coat. “Don’t. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Why not? I’d rather hear you laughing than crying.”
“Because.” She shoved him away and straightened up, her palms against her belly. “I’m not puking out here.”
“Why not?” he asked again, grateful the banter was keeping her mind off the ugly scene that had just played out—and thoughts of what came next where her parents were concerned. “The hospital’s just up the street.”
“That’s why not.” She stomped her foot into the coating of snow on the sidewalk. “I’m not going there again until it’s time to have this baby, mister.”
“Fine by me.”
In the dim light of the streetlamps, her face grew somber. “On the other hand,” she murmured, “maybe I really ought to reconsider having this baby at all.”
The sucker punch drove the air from his lungs, and he struggled to appear impassive. “Why? Can’t take feeling like crap every day for a few more weeks?”
She shook her head. “Children have to come first, Sloan.
Always. What if I can’t do that? What if I screw up? Look at my role model. Not exactly Mother of the Year, although she did get Lawyer of the Year once.” She knuckled her eyes.
“Jenna,” he chided. “You are nothing like that. You’re warm and caring. Hey, look at how you dealt with Brook when she came to you, in trouble.”
“I recall you didn’t appreciate how I handled that.”
“You know I changed my tune about it.”
A taxi eased to a stop at the curb. Sloan opened the back door and helped her in. After getting in himself and giving the driver directions, he pulled Jenna against his side. They rode to her building in silence. Once inside, he helped her with her coat. She stalked to the sofa and flopped down, gathering one of the throw pillows in her arms.
Twenty minutes later, he’d managed to get her to drink some ginger tea. He sat at the end of the sofa with her head cradled in his lap, stroking her hair and the soft skin of her forehead. Like a contented cat, she hummed her approval. Eventually she slipped into sleep. Sloan eased off the couch, substituting a pillow beneath her head, tucking a blanket around her. He pressed a light kiss on the tip of her nose. When the doorbell rang, she stirred, shifted, then burrowed deeper under the cover.
The monitor showed her father, clapping his ungloved hands together, waiting for a response. Sloan left the apartment door open and descended the staircase to the outer door. A private chat with Robert Quinn, well out of Jenna’s hearing range, was called for. “Come on in.”
In the stairwell, they appraised each other. Sloan swallowed hard. “Look, sir—”
“Son, I don’t think you have a clue what I’m feeling right now.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I do.”
“I’m not a very physical man, Sloan, nor prone to violence. But right now, I’m sorely tempted.”
“I understand, sir.”
“And do you understand how much I love my daughter? You’ve got two girls. What would you do if one of them turned up pregnant? How would you feel?”
“Like I wanted to strangle the son of a bitch who knocked her up before the time was right.”