Fall Into Me: Hearts of the South

by Linda Winfree

  With a jerky movement, he jabbed the original report in the box mounted on the wall then tossed his copy in his own officer mailbox. He turned to discover Calvert watching him with a speculative expression and a half-smile. Irritated, Troy Lee lifted his chin. “What?”

  Calvert made that small, amused sound in his throat. “Trying to imagine you and Ron Henderson meeting for the first time.”

  Troy Lee released a breath, a grin pulling at his own mouth. “It was uneventful. He was too focused on the football game.”

  “I can believe that. Word is that if their preacher starts getting close to twelve-thirty, Ron taps his watch, reminding him the pregame show is about to start.” Calvert dragged his hands down his face again and slumped deeper in the chair. “Sure as hell glad my meeting-the-family days are behind me. Cait’s grandfather likes me.” He grunted. “Although, apparently her brother had, or has, reservations where I’m concerned.”

  “My God, the irony,” Cookie deadpanned.

  “Shut up.” Calvert crumpled an empty report on the desk and tossed it at his partner, who deflected it back with a laugh and an open palm. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Sure it is.”

  Chris tagged Troy Lee’s chest. “Let’s leave them to duke it out. If you want to run in the morning, I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, me too.” It might be a good thing Angel had planned an early night. He tended not to get a lot of sleep when they shared a bed. A different warmth spread through his chest. He might not be sharing her bed tonight, but that was okay.

  Seeing the beginnings of trust and commitment in her eyes earlier had been satisfaction enough.

  Once the younger deputies had cleared the room, Mark studied Tick. Head tilted back, eyes closed, he appeared to be slipping into a doze, although stress and weariness still strained his face. Damn, he looked like hell.

  After several quiet moments, in which Mark wrapped up his own end-of-the-day paperwork, Tick blew out a long breath and straightened. “I need to get back over there.”

  Mark picked up his keys from the desk. “How about I give you a ride?”

  Tick rose, a hand over his lower right side. “It’s only four blocks.”

  “Yeah, I know. Come on.”

  In silence they made the short drive. Mark pulled into the main parking lot, and Tick glanced at him in surprise when he stepped from the driver’s seat. Mark shrugged. “Figured I’d walk up with you.”

  Tick nodded and didn’t demur. The lobby was quiet and deserted; the middle-aged woman working the front desk graced Tick with a warm smile of recognition and handed them passes for the nursery floor. In the elevator, Tick still didn’t speak, leaning on the wall, his eyes closed, leaving Mark with the impression he was centering himself, gathering his reserves. The door slid open with a soft hush.

  Instead of heading straight for the NICU, Tick stopped by a darkened room canted off from the nurse’s station. Even in the dim shadows, Mark could make out Falconetti on the cot there, a thin blanket covering her shoulders, her features reposed in soft sleep. Seemingly satisfied, Tick backed out and headed down the hall to the NICU.

  After a brief conference with the charge nurse, they scrubbed and gowned. Nearly a month after Lee’s early birth, the NICU atmosphere and rules were more familiar and being surrounded by tiny reminders of what he’d lost so long ago didn’t twist Mark into quite as many knots.

  No longer requiring the enclosed isolette, Lee curled into a modified fetal position on a raised table-bed with low clear sides. Even with the respirator tubing and all the various wires and IVs, he looked bigger, stronger, than the last time Mark had seen him, three or four days earlier.

  Tick laid his palm along the thin little back, long fingers nearly covering him, and leaned down so his mouth was near the baby’s ear. “Leebo, Daddy’s back again.”

  The baby didn’t respond and over his shoulder Tick slanted a glance at Mark. “They sedated him to get the ventilator tube in.”

  Mark started to hook his thumbs in his belt, remembered the sterile gown and crossed his arms over his chest instead. “He looks good, still. Bigger than the other day.”

  “Yeah, he’s up a few ounces and an inch or so.” Gaze on his son’s face, Tick feathered his fingertips across the little nape, stroking, caressing. “You were right, you know.”

  Mark lifted a brow. “About?”

  “I can’t control this. I can’t make it better for him or for Cait, and it makes me crazy. It’s damn hard, Cookie, and some days even the praying’s not enough.”

  “Yeah.” It was hell, being caught in a set of circumstances beyond control. He’d learned that the hard way, during those dark days and weeks and months following Jenny’s disappearance. “A day at a time, Tick, or an hour. Sometimes five minutes. That’s what you do—what you can do—and somehow you come out on the other side.”

  “Are you there yet?”

  “Getting there.” He didn’t mention Tori’s name, didn’t bring up how she’d become his guideline in the still-treacherous morass of getting through the lingering grief and guilt.

  “I really wasn’t prepared.” Tick’s dry laugh was little more than a huff of sound. “Weird, huh? I loved him before he was even here, and you know how much we wanted this. I just didn’t realize how much he’d change me, how much I’d love him. The way I feel about him, the way I feel deeper about Cait now…hell, Cookie, it’s so strong sometimes it’s scary.” A beat fell between them and Tick lifted dark eyes to Mark’s. “I don’t know how you stood it.”

  He didn’t have to say what “it” was. Even so far away, the loss of his wife and unborn child didn’t slam Mark in the chest quite as hard. It hurt, he suspected it always would on some level, but he was getting better, getting through.

  “I did what I could do. An hour, a night, a week.” Mark eyed the easy movement of Tick’s fingers against the baby’s skin, thin wisps of dark hair fluffing out from his nape. “It’s going to be all right, Tick. You, Falconetti, the baby. You’ll be fine, together, and it’ll be good. You just have to hang on together.”

  Tick didn’t look at him. “So you think that’s what it’ll be with you and Tori? Helping one another handle the past?”

  Surprise shivered over Mark. He hadn’t expected that, the closest thing to acceptance Tick had yet displayed toward his relationship with Tori. He swallowed hard. “Yeah, I think so. Looking to the future together. I’m telling you, Tick, it’s real.” He grinned. “So real it’s scary sometimes.”

  Tick did look up then, with a wry half-smile. “Yeah. I can get that. Looking to the future, huh?”

  “That’s right.” For once, he regarded the future with something other than resignation and desolation. Didn’t matter what it brought, really. Somehow, with Tori at his side, he could face anything life threw at him.

  Chapter Ten

  Angel woke up reaching for Troy Lee. When her seeking hand encountered only cool linen, she opened her eyes, tempted to laugh at her disappointment.

  Her cell phone, charging upon her nightstand, sang out the beginning notes of “Your Man” and she grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “I miss you.” Troy Lee’s rich voice greeted her. “I’m spoiled and I don’t like waking up without you.”

  She laughed, hugging his words close. “It’s mutual.”

  “We’re gonna have to do something about this.”

  “What do you suggest, Deputy Farr?”

  “Well, I would say something about letting me move in”—fabric rustled, his voice muffled for a moment—“but since I’m not allowed to even leave a change of clothes over there…”

  “You’re not moving in.” The idea conjured sweet images, though, of waking up with him, sharing simple household chores, hanging out in front of a movie, falling asleep in his arms every night. “Mama would have a fit. The rumors would fly, especially since we’ve only been together a couple of weeks.”

  “You worry way too much what people
think. They don’t matter, Angel. We matter.” He sighed. “But I want you to be happy and if that means keeping two households for a while, I can deal.”

  “Have I mentioned what a sweetheart you are?”

  “Once or twice. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to meet Chris in a few minutes. We’re going to run, then work the dog before our shift starts. How about if I come by the club after I get off?”

  “If you get off on time, you mean.”

  “Yeah. Exactly.” His quiet laugh rose between them, tickling across her senses. “Bye, baby.”

  The cellular link died and she lay for several long seconds, holding on to the pleasure of connection with him. She stared up at the morning light casting fingers across her wall. Keeping two households for a while? Was she to take that at face value, that at some point, he envisioned a long-term future with her? She hugged those sweet possibilities close too.

  Finally, she pushed the covers aside and swung her feet to the floor. She dedicated her Mondays to inventory and getting vendor orders done for the week, and that meant she had a long day before her. She made the bed and ambled through the kitchen and the middle room toward the bathroom. As she stepped into the tiny hallway, inescapable nausea bloomed in her throat.

  She scrambled for the toilet, kneeling on the cool tile and retching until every muscle in her abdomen ached. Her throat raw, she flushed the toilet and slumped sideways to lean on the tub. Her body shaky and weak, she blinked hard.

  Okay, that was it. She felt worse, not better, and as soon as the doctor’s office opened, she was calling for an appointment. Breathing through her nose, she swallowed against a fresh wave of queasiness and eased to her feet. A horrid taste lingered in her mouth and invaded her nostrils, and she grabbed her toothbrush, avoiding her reflection. She didn’t have to see to know she probably looked as bad as she felt.

  An hour later, after a shower and some toast, she felt more human, although the waves of sickness still attacked her at odd moments. Sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of weak iced tea—her mother’s remedy for all stomach illnesses—she dialed her doctor’s number and sat through three rings.

  “Good morning, Coney Women’s Health Center. This is Lynne, may I help you?” The pleasant voice of one of her high school classmates washed over her with comforting familiarity.

  “Hey, Lynne, this is Angel Henderson. I’m really not feeling well and I was wondering if Dr. Padgett or Marilee had an opening this morning?”

  “Oh, hon, I’m sorry you’re sick. Let me check.” The clacking of computer keys carried over the phone. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m nauseous, with some dizziness. I thought it was my sister’s crab dip, but now…I’m wondering if I don’t have the flu.”

  “Okay, Dr. Padgett is booked, but I can fit you in with Marilee if you come on now.”

  Seeing the physician’s assistant was fine with her. “I’m on my way.”

  By the time she pulled into the small parking lot behind the big, converted frame house, her stomach had settled somewhat. Pulling her jacket close against the nipping wind, she hurried to the back door, which led to the doctors’ offices. She paused at the reception desk, her gaze sweeping over the already half-full waiting room. “Hey, Lynne. Thanks for working me in.”

  “No problem.” Lynne fixed her with an assessing stare and passed over a clipboard with the standard forms on it. “You do look pale. Here, I need you to update your paperwork, but I promise we’ll get you seen as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks.” By the time she’d finished the forms, two of the women waiting had been called back. Moments later, Marilee Young appeared at the waiting room door. “Angel?”

  She followed the physician’s assistant into the familiar patient intake area. Marilee directed her to step onto the scales, talking while adjusting the slides. “Lynne says you’re dizzy and nauseous? How long?”

  “Today’s the fourth day.”

  “Getting worse?” Marilee made a notation on Angel’s file.

  “Yes. It had just been queasiness before, but I actually threw up this morning.”

  “Okay.” After taking her pulse, temperature and blood pressure and listening to her heart and lungs, Marilee made a few more notations and led her down the hall to one of the exam rooms, this one painted in soft eggshell pink and with a Monet print on the wall. At Marilee’s urging, Angel scooted onto the examination table. Marilee took the rolling stool and, frowning, flipped through the chart. “Your last period was in September?”

  “Um, yes.” Angel tucked her hair behind her ear. “But I’m on that new pill, the one that limits your periods to four a year, so I’m not due until December.”

  “And you’ve been taking them as directed?”

  “Yes.” She turned the question over in her mind. “Well, I missed two back in October, but I made them up according to the package insert by doubling the dosage.”

  Marilee looked up and studied her over reading glasses. “So you didn’t have any breakthrough bleeding?”

  “I spotted some, maybe a week or so later.” Unease kicked over in her stomach and she tried to quiet it. This was ridiculous. Not only had she made up the missed pills, but she’d made sure Jim had worn a condom that last time and with Cookie there’d been no question of his not doing so. “Marilee, I can’t be pregnant.”

  “Probably not, but let’s do a test, just in case.”

  Angel lifted her hands in surrender and let them fall against her thighs. It wasn’t like she had anything to worry about, really. “Sure, why not?”

  Marilee provided her with a specimen cup, she visited the restroom and followed the instructions, then returned to the room while Marilee unwrapped the stick and performed the test. Angel fidgeted, twisting her fingers, playing with the little amethyst birthstone ring her parents had given her for graduation.

  Minutes later, Marilee looked up from the test stick. “It’s positive.”

  “What?” Shock crashed through her, followed by a wave of pure disbelief. “It’s wrong.”

  “We can do a blood test, which is more accurate, but you’ll have to wait while I run the sample through the lab.”

  She couldn’t think, couldn’t get her scattered thoughts together. She swallowed, trying to still the frightened race of her heart. “Fine, let’s do that, but Marilee, I’m telling you. I’m not pregnant.”

  Sympathy flashed over Marilee’s delicate features. “Let me get a quick sample, then.”

  Lost in a cloud of bewildered fear, Angel barely registered the prick of the needle. Marilee patted her knee. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Hands in her lap, Angel stared at the Monet watercolor reprint on the wall. The soothing blues and greens were reminiscent of the shades in the ocean scene hanging in Troy Lee’s living room. She bit her lip, seconds trickling by. She twisted the thin ring around her finger over and over. Long, glacial minutes later, the door opened.

  Even before Marilee spoke, she knew. The quick breath Marilee sucked in, the way she straightened her shoulders…this test was positive as well. “Angel—”

  “Another positive.”

  Marilee nodded. “Yes.”

  “Oh, Lord.” She covered her mouth with a hand. What was she supposed to do now? This couldn’t be. It couldn’t because…

  Her stomach revolted and she crossed her arms over her midriff, breathing through the panic and the nerves. Marilee stepped forward, face set in concerned lines. “Angel, honey, lean forward, let’s put your head—”

  “I’m good.” She waved Marilee away. Being touched right now…she couldn’t take it. She thrust shaking fingers through her hair, one arm still folded over her belly. “How…how far along am I?”

  Marilee watched her closely then picked up the chart. “It’s hard to say because of the suppressed periods. From what you’ve told me, I’d hazard a guess at five to six weeks, maybe seven, but that’s just an estimate.”

  That meant…

 
; “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “All right, let me help you.” Marilee moved quickly, ushering her into the adjacent bathroom, where dry heaves attacked her, wringing tears and sobs from her body. Biting down on her bottom lip until coppery blood flowed against her tongue, she forced herself to calm down. Getting upset, giving in to the panic, was only going to make things worse. She rubbed her shaking hands down her thighs and let Marilee lead her back to the exam room.

  She gathered her purse and jacket and clutched them to her chest. “Thanks for seeing me, Marilee, but I need to go.”

  “Angel, wait. You’re obviously upset—”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “Let me get Dr. Padgett and—”

  “No.” The word emerged harsher than she intended and she closed her eyes a second, taking a deep breath. “No, please. I need some time to get things together, to get my head straight.”

  “At least see Lynne and make another appointment soon, so we can talk about your options and prenatal care.”

  “I will. I just…I need to go.”

  Somehow, she managed to get through talking to Lynne, managed to drive home, although later she didn’t remember the trip. She let herself in the front door, dumped her keys and purse in the floor, slid down the wall next to them. Chilly wind whipped in the open doorway, fluttering her skirt, flirting with her hair.

  She stared up at the plaster ceiling, picking out whorls and patterns. Five, six, maybe seven weeks. She set the words to a sick rhythm of eeny-meeny-miney-moe in her head. Five, six, maybe seven weeks.

  Six—no, seven—weeks ago, she’d been in bed with Jim. Twice.

  Five, almost six weeks ago…she’d been in bed with Cookie. Just once.

  Resting her arm across her knees and her other elbow on that arm, she covered her face.

  “Lord,” she whispered, “please help me.”

  In her purse, her cell phone jingled, the distinctive notes of “Your Man” rising from the jumbled interior. She cringed, pain crashing over her. Moments later, the music died away, the last of her hopes draining with it. Yes, believing second by second, trusting in them, was really going to help her now.