by Joan Kilby
Rafe started. It was a reminder of how little he knew about Lexie. Questions flowed through his mind. What happened to the baby? Was that why she wanted this one so badly?
“Don’t be nervous. The procedure is completely safe.” Celine glanced over the doctor’s request form then set it aside. “You’ve been having some bleeding?”
“Yes. Twice now.”
Rafe’s head came up. Twice?
“You’ll need to take it easy when you leave here. But I’m sure your doctor told you that.”
Celine clicked buttons with her left hand while, with her right, she guided the transducer over Lexie’s abdomen. She went silent, concentrating on the monitor in front of her. “How far along are you?”
“About nine weeks.”
“Ah, that’s why I’m having trouble finding— There’s the little rascal. See him?”
Rafe cleared his throat, curious despite himself. “So, you can tell it’s a boy?”
Celine chuckled as she pressed into Lexie’s belly with the transducer. “No, that’s just a figure of speech. But look there, you can see the heartbeat.”
“Oh!” Lexie’s voice caught. “Rafe, come and see.”
Grudgingly, he got up and stood behind her, looking to where the arrow pointed. Inside the ever-shifting outline of a rounded body topped by an outsize head was a pulsating dot. Just a blip on the screen, really.
He made the mistake of glancing at Lexie. She was watching him, her eyes shining. Rafe felt a jolt run through him clear down to the soles of his feet.
It was nothing to do with the baby, he told himself. That was just the effect she had on him.
His palms sweating, he glanced back at the screen. The heartbeat was rapid but steady. This speck of life had come into existence because of him and Lexie. He couldn’t get his head around it.
All of a sudden he couldn’t bear being here another second, seeing Lexie’s excitement. Not knowing what he was feeling. All he’d wanted to do was make sure Lexie was okay, not take part in this…this prebirth bonding ritual. “I’ll wait outside.”
“Rafe?” Lexie said.
As he was shutting the door behind him, he heard Celine say, “Don’t worry. Some of the dads get queasy. I’ll check the placenta attachment now.”
Rafe walked straight through the reception area and down the main corridor, pushing through to the parking lot. He sucked in a lungful of air. Until a few minutes ago the baby hadn’t felt real. He’d thought he could just pay a monthly bill, like a direct debit on his car loan, to cover expenses and that would be it.
It was only genetic material that linked him and that blip on the screen. DNA, like the molecules floating in the background of Sienna’s portrait. It was purely biological; not emotional. He started to walk so he wouldn’t feel it tugging at him.
Lexie was carrying his baby.
He got in his car and pulled out of the parking lot in a screech of tires. Perspiration dampened his scalp and he flexed his hands on the wheel.
Sometimes you don’t know what you want until it happens.
Bullshit. He didn’t like babies.
He came to an intersection and put on his indicator to take the turn toward the freeway and home. He’d seen Lexie, eased his conscience and his mind.
But it wasn’t over. She still had that painting to deal with. Rafe thumped the steering wheel once with his fist. That was her problem. He should be updating his résumé, looking for another job.
The light changed to green. He sighed. There was really no decision to be made. He changed his indicator from left to right, checked his rearview mirror and ignoring the blare of a car horn behind him, eased into the next lane of traffic and made a U-turn.
He pulled up in front of the diagnostic center and parked just as she came out. He might never have gone anywhere for all she knew. For a moment she paused there in her filmy skirt and scoop-necked top. Her collarbone stood out as she turned her head, searching for her car. She looked frail, he thought, and without warning protectiveness swept over him.
He rejected that with a snort. She was frail like a Ninja. And she didn’t want him.
He opened his car door and got out. “Lexie!”
She walked over, moving slowly. “I thought you’d run off.”
“I— It was a bit close in there. Is everything all right? Is the placenta attached to whatever it’s supposed to be attached to?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to rest for a few days.”
“What about your painting?”
“I’ll call Jack, see if he can help me.”
Rafe glanced across the parking lot. He jammed his hands in his back pockets. “I’ll do it,” he said gruffly.
Her gaze narrowed. “Is this guilt? I don’t want any part of that.”
He liked her. That hadn’t changed when she’d gotten pregnant. Or when she threw him out.
Or called him immature.
With a shrug, he said, “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
LEXIE PARKED in her driveway, leaving room to get at the back wall of the carport where her painting crates were stored. She closed her eyes and slumped against the headrest, just for a minute until Rafe arrived. Sleep was overtaking her when she heard the sound of his car. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she felt a trickle of relief as he pulled in behind her. She’d half expected him not to show up.
She’d been surprised to see him at the sonogram center. And shocked when he’d actually come in with her. The expression on his face when he first saw the baby’s heartbeat… She’d thought for a moment he might have felt something, been struck by the miracle of the baby growing inside her. Then he’d taken to his heels, clearly scared witless by the enormity of it all.
The responsibility.
She shook off the disappointment. How many times could she put herself through this with him?
Fatigue dragged at her but she put her game face on. The placenta was in place, the baby was developing. Once she got the painting framed, crated and shipped, then she could rest.
Rafe parked at the curb in front of her house. He got out of his car and came down to the carport. “Do we have to build a crate? Should I go get wood?”
“I’ve got one,” she said, nodding at the shallow wooden box, six foot by five foot, against the back wall of the carport. “If you could carry it to the studio for me, that would be great.”
Rafe half carried, half dragged the crate across the lawn. He averted his gaze as he passed the trampoline. Was that where she’d conceived, Lexie wondered.
“It would be easier if I took one end,” she said when he paused for a breather. “It’s not only heavy, it’s awkward to carry.”
“Forget it.” He picked it up again, broad shoulders stretched, biceps taut beneath his short-sleeved shirt.
A warm tingling sensation stole through her. Even though she was pregnant. Even though they’d broken up. Even though she was dead on her feet. She was still attracted to him. As much, if not more, than before. But where once she would have run her hands over his shoulders, felt the firmness of his muscles, coaxed him into bed…now all she could do was issue directions.
“Lean it against the wall for now,” she said as he turned sideways to take it through the studio door. “I have to frame the painting before we can crate it.”
Crossing to the opposite side of the studio, she started to pull a large gilt frame from a stack of frames resting against the wall.
“Go sit down,” he said, edging her away. He’d worked up a sheen of perspiration and smelled of warm male.
“I’ll get the matting,” she said, moving reluctantly. From the long, slotted cabinet at the back of the studio she brought sheets of mat board in burgundy and olive-green and laid them on the table. Then she gathered her tools—a long metal straight edge, mat cutter, fine sandpaper, soft pencil and linen tape. She fixed him with a defiant stare. “I have to do the matting. It takes skill and practice.”
Rafe brought over a wooden stool. “Sit
as much as possible. And tell me if you feel any cramping.” He glanced at the painting. “Is it dry?”
“It’s tacky in spots but I can’t wait any longer. It’s due at the Sydney gallery tomorrow.”
She measured and cut the mat board to size, methodically yet swiftly, her movements efficient through long practice. While she worked she issued instructions to Rafe, at the other end of the table, to get the glass and place it into the frame. She’d had that specially cut months ago when she’d first started working on the portrait.
They’d been working in silence for some minutes when Rafe said, “When you were cramping earlier, you didn’t tell me that you’d had spotting before.”
“I talked to Sienna. She told me it was common. Not to worry about it.”
“And you never mentioned you’d been pregnant before.”
She’d wondered if he’d picked up on that. “We haven’t exactly been having heart-to-heart conversations lately. I didn’t think you’d be interested. And frankly…” She glanced at him. “It’s none of your business.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But I want to know. How old were you?”
Her hands started to tremble. She had to put down the cutter for fear of nicking the mat board. “There’s not much to tell. I was seventeen.”
He was silent a moment. “Did you have an abortion?”
“I…” She drew in a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Is that why this baby is so important to you?”
The child was her second chance. A shot at redemption. She hadn’t fully acknowledged that until this very moment.
Feeling tears burning the backs of her eyes, she blinked and glanced away. “All babies are important.”
“Did that father run out on you, too?”
She tried to make light of it. “You think you’re too young to be a father. That guy still had pimples.” She touched the heels of her hands to her eyes, hating that her hormones made her weepy. That Rafe still had the power to make her feel. “I don’t want to dwell on the past. Let’s get this done, okay?”
Finished with the glass, he held the mat board steady for her while she cut the long beveled edge. Next she sandpapered it lightly then got Rafe to bring the portrait to the table. She positioned the double layers and taped them with linen tape. Then she lowered the matted canvas into the frame and secured a thin sheet of fiberboard backing with metal flanges.
“Done!” she said, straightening. “Can you put it back on the easel? I’d like to savor the finished painting for a moment before we pack it away.”
Rafe lifted and placed it on the easel then stepped back beside Lexie. She studied the portrait critically, seeing tiny things she wished she’d done differently. It was always that way. But overall she was pleased.
“It’s amazing,” Rafe said.
“Yeah, thanks,” she replied. Her back was aching and now that she’d stopped working she noticed a heavy feeling in her groin. All she wanted to do was lie down. But she had to push on. “Now to pack it.”
Rafe hoisted the crate onto the table and went back for the sheet of plywood that formed the lid. He leaned it against the wall and studied the scars of old postal stickers and address labels. “It’s like a well-traveled suitcase.”
“I’m going to sit down for a minute,” she said, suddenly feeling breathless. “In the cupboard there are sheets of high-density foam. Get them and line the crate.” She found a straight back chair and lowered herself gingerly. A cramp ripped through her abdomen. With a gasp, she bent over, her elbows on her knees.
Rafe spun around. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she said tightly, waving him away. “Just get the foam.”
Giving her a worried glance, he did as she asked. A few minutes later he said, “I’ve lined the crate. Now what?”
Lexie lifted her head with an effort. “Put the painting on top of the foam and pack more foam around the sides and over top. Then…” She broke off to gasp. “Then put the lid on and screw it down.”
He was at her side in an instant, taking her arm to help her up. “Go inside and lie down. I can finish this.”
She tugged her arm away. “I want to see it through.” She met his gaze and nodded at the painting. “That’s my baby, too.”
Rafe hesitated, then he nodded. “All right.”
He went back to the crate and fitted a screw into the preformed holes. When he’d tightened the last screw and the label was affixed to the lid, Lexie rose and walked slowly back to the house. The heaviness in her belly had increased. Something didn’t feel right.
She eased herself onto her bed with an involuntary moan and shut her eyes, feeling more tired than she’d ever felt in her life. In the living room she could hear Rafe call the freight company that specialized in artworks and arrange for the crate to be picked up and shipped overnight to Sydney.
Then he was standing in her doorway. “May I come in?”
She nodded weakly and closed her eyes. “Thank you for everything. I’ll be fine now.”
Rafe walked to the bed and sat on the edge. It sank beneath his weight. She felt him brush her hair off her forehead. “Lexie?”
She opened her eyes. “Yes, Rafe?”
“I think we should get married.”
A blossom of hope unfurled in her heart. Not just sex, but love.
And then the moment passed.
What was she thinking? That’s not why he was asking.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RAFE COULDN’T believe he’d asked her to marry him. The words had just come out. One minute he’d been thinking about asking if she wanted a cup of tea. Then without warning, he’d blurted out an offer of the next fifty years of his life.
“What did you say?” Her eyes were half-closed; a frown wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t think I heard you properly.”
He took her hand. It felt hot. He pressed the back of his other hand to her forehead. That was hot, too.
He cleared his throat. “I said, will you marry me?”
Her eyes opened wide. “Rafe, don’t be silly.”
“Why is it silly? I want to do the right thing.”
“That’s…exactly what’s wrong…with your proposal.” She spoke slowly, as if every word was an effort. “You don’t love me. You’re only asking me out of a sense of duty, of responsibility.”
“No…”
“Would you be asking me this if it wasn’t for the baby?”
“How can I answer that? There is a baby.” He rubbed her cold fingers, flaking off a bit of dried paint. “We could be good together.”
“Being sexually compatible isn’t the same as being committed partners over a lifetime.”
“Granted but…but how do you know I don’t love you?”
“You haven’t said so, for one thing. And even if you said it now,” she added, forestalling his next words, “how could I ever believe you?”
Rafe got up and paced the narrow space at the foot of the bed. “You need to be looked after. I do feel a sense of responsibility. To you and our child. I don’t have much to offer right now but…” His mouth ticked up at one corner. “We’ll never want for fresh fish.”
He’d been trying to make her laugh. She just gazed at him wearily.
Picking up a bottle of perfume from her dresser, he held the crystal stopper to his nose. The light floral scent brought the night of the barbecue flooding back. “I want to marry a woman who makes love on a trampoline.”
“And I don’t care if I get married or not.”
“Then we’ll live together. I’m not hung up on pieces of paper. At least think about it.”
She shook her head. “I have thought. Every time I get tempted I remind myself that when you’re forty, I’ll be fifty-two. Men have their midlife crises at that age. They have affairs, get divorced, run off with the nanny. All those things would be so much more likely if your wife was twelve years older.”
“I’ll buy a sports car instead, I promise.”
T
hat got a smile from her. But at the same time a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. “No.”
Rafe paced some more, pushing fist into palm as if he could force the two of them together. “Marriage requires a leap of faith, regardless of age or circumstance.” He came around the foot of the bed and sat down again. “There are no guarantees, even for people of similar age, temperament and interests.”
“Exactly. That’s why a couple has to give them selves a fighting chance for the marriage to survive.”
Rafe reached for her hand again and twined his fingers with hers. He gazed down at their interlocked hands. “I threw away my career for you. That ought to tell you something.”
“You’re an idiot?” When he frowned she squeezed his hand. “Oh, Rafe, I’m only joking. You’re young and handsome and smart and funny. Someday you’ll meet a woman your own age. When the time is right you’ll have children.” She glanced away and added quietly, “Children you want.”
That hurt him, a well-deserved shaft of pain. His motives for asking her to marry him were muddy, he knew that. But it felt like the right thing to do.
As if she’d read his mind, she glanced back to him. “People don’t get married these days just because there’s a baby on the way.”
“Some do.”
She shook her head. “Asking someone to marry you should be what you want to do, not what you should do.”
A spasm made her face twist. With another deep breath her skin smoothed again but now her features were stretched tight. “I’m all jumbled up from so many things happening to me at once. We’re different, not just in age but in everything. I’m not sure I could love you.”
Rafe blinked. Maybe it was egotistical on his part but he’d thought—he’d assumed—that given half a chance she would love him. “I—I don’t understand. Are you saying—”
“Thank you for your help today,” she whispered. “Maybe you should go.” She rolled onto her side and curled into a fetal position. Her eyes shut tightly and two creases formed between her eyebrows.
“Lexie,” he said, alarmed. “Are you all right? I’m going to call the doctor.”