The Passions of Chelsea Kane

by Barbara Delinsky

  The shower went off. She made hot chocolate on the chance he would have it and returned to the living room. The fire was burning well, though its crackles echoed hauntingly. Without Leo, the house was empty. Even Chelsea, who was a relative newcomer within its walls, felt the loss.

  She was on a chair by the fireplace when Judd reappeared, wearing sweats. His hair was damp, falling in spikes on his forehead as he braced a hand on the beautiful stone mantel and stared at the flames.

  Watching him, feeling his pain, loving him—yes, loving him—Chelsea was overwhelmed with the need to soothe. Leaving the chair, she slid her arms around him, under his sweatshirt, front and back. She buried her face in the hollow beneath his ear and didn’t say a word, just willed comfort from her heart to his. It was the easiest, the most natural, thing in the world for her to do.

  At first he just stood there. Then, as though the warmth of her arms had melted something frozen, he let out a low, mournful groan. His arms went around her, and there was nothing weak about his hold this time. It was strong, determined, almost frantic. He moaned again, this time in a mutation of her name, and held her closer.

  “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

  His arms trembled. He made another pained sound and ran his hands up and down her body. Then he held her away so that he could touch her breasts and belly. “I need life,” he said in an agonized voice while he filled his hands with those swollen parts that so symbolized life. Catching her chin, he covered her mouth with his.

  Chelsea hadn’t been thinking of making love, but her arousal was as natural as holding him, grieving with him, loving him. Her heart was in the kiss she gave back, and as though he tasted it, his own deepened.

  He took her down to her knees on the rug before the fire, bringing her sweater over her head along the way, and while he worked at the buttons of her blouse he kissed her again. There was hunger in it this time—and desperation and sorrow and discovery and desire—and there was intense reward in that for Chelsea.

  What happened then was something she had neither anticipated nor would ever, in her entire life, forget. He looked at her breasts, but only until he realized her belly was there. Peeling down the placket that covered it, he put both hands on her. That was when the baby moved. Hand, foot, arm, leg—there was no identifying it, but there was life inside her, which was what Judd needed to see and feel.

  Through the pain on his face, miraculously, came reverence. The baby shifted again. Judd made a small sound. He kept his hand there until it was quiet, then looked up. With dark, passion-filled eyes and an uneven breath, he gathered her to him. Seconds later, as though he were trying physically to absorb her, his hold deepened. He had suffered a loss and was trying to fill the gap inside, and she let herself be used that way because he was Judd and because it felt good.

  Despite all he’d suffered that night, he never lost himself so in his passion that he hurt her, which wasn’t to say that he was gentle. He took her with a driving need, and took her again when he was done, but neither time did he batter her belly, and neither time did he leave her unfulfilled.

  He fell then into a fathomless sleep, and at first she thought she could watch him forever, there was so much she had missed, so much to see. But her own lids grew heavy, and, finding the warmth in his body that she usually needed layers of blankets and quilts to provide, she kissed his shoulder, whispered, “I love you,” and gave herself up to what was left of the night.

  Twenty-two

  Donna didn’t often seek out Oliver. She didn’t think of him as either a gentle man or an understanding father, but she wanted his help.

  Finding him alone was the easy part, since Margaret had meetings most every afternoon. All Donna had to do was to look out the window of the store until she saw the Plum Granite truck pull in at the large brick house at the foot of the green.

  Matthew was at the register. Two weeks after the stabbing, his wound, a six-inch-long slash into fleshy tissue at his side, had healed. The emotional repercussions not so, at least for Donna. While the rest of the family went about life as before, she was newly enlightened.

  “I’m going to see my father,” she said to Matthew, and left before he could stop her. It wasn’t that he was treating her differently—he was as abrasive and abusive as ever—just that she cared less. Something had died inside her that Thanksgiving Day. As far as she was concerned, her marriage was over.

  Oliver was in the library. It was his favorite room, a stately illusion, old and dark and smelling of volumes that hadn’t been opened in years. Oliver had a sixth-grade education. He rarely read anything other than work-related matter, but he had wanted a library. So when his father finally died, and he and Margaret had moved into the house, the old parlor had been transformed. He had built floor-to-ceiling shelves and had bought a collection of books befitting a cultured man, a finer desk than he would ever have used at work, finer chairs, a finer rug. In fact, the library was probably finer than any other room in the house. He took great pleasure in it.

  He was lounging back on the chair, with his feet crossed on the desk and a glass of Jack Daniel’s in his hand, when Donna appeared at the door. He didn’t move other than to lower his eyebrows.

  “Why aren’t you at work?” he asked.

  She came right up to the desk and braced her fingers on its edge—boldly, since the part of her that had died had to do with Oliver, too. He didn’t frighten her the way he once had. Nothing he said could possibly hurt her as much Matthew had. She was hardened, hence empowered.

  In coming to him, she was making two concessions. The first was in acknowledging that he was the head of the family by alerting him to her plans. The second was in speaking aloud, which, though he could understand sign, she knew he preferred.

  “I want to divorce Matthew,” she said. “I’d like your support.”

  With as little interest as he would have showed if she’d informed him she was making pork chops for dinner, he said,

  “You won’t get it.” He took a swallow of his drink. “You spoke vows. Plums don’t go back on vows.”

  “Farrs do. Matthew did.”

  Oliver waved a bony hand. “Men wander. It ain’t nothin’.”

  “It is to me. Did you know about Joanie and him?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to that, either. It’s just talk.”

  On reflex, her hand flew into action. “Not just talk,” she signed, then said loudly, “Monti saw. He used a knife!”

  Oliver cupped the glass in his lap. Pursing his lips, he studied the liquid inside. “Monti isn’t divorcing Joan.”

  “That’s Monti’s choice. He hasn’t been through what I have.”

  Oliver’s eyes rose to hers in a challenge. “Just how do you know that? How do you know what he feels? You don’t know, missy. You don’t know nothing.”

  “I know more than you think,” she signed, and then kept on signing because that was her preference. “I know why I’m deaf, and it wasn’t from being sick. I’m deaf because my mother boxed my ears, over and over again, because I heard something I wasn’t supposed to hear.”

  Oliver’s feet left the desk. There was a spark of something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite identify, but it made her think his voice was more subdued. “You heard nothing.”

  Her hands said, “I heard lots, and I was punished for it. I’ve been punished for it ever since.”

  Oliver set his glass on the desk. “You heard nothing.”

  She hadn’t planned to say it all. Even now her head buzzed the same way it had buzzed after Margaret hit her, the same way it buzzed each time she remembered what she wasn’t supposed to have heard. The buzzing had always been an alarm, warning her away from certain thoughts, only now she resisted. She didn’t want to be warned away. Knowledge was a tool.

  “I know all about Katie Love,” she signed, “and I know about Hunter. He’s your son. He’s your flesh and blood. He’s the boy-child your wife couldn’t give you.”

 
“Ba-loney,” Oliver said, but she saw that strange spark in his eyes again. She could have sworn it was fear.

  “He is. The whole town knows.”

  “Not my town.”

  “They know. They just don’t dare say it.”

  “And don’t you.” He rose, pointing a shaky finger her way. “Don’t you ever let your mother hear that drivel.”

  “Not drivel,” Donna said aloud. “Truth.”

  “Truth or not, it’ll kill her.” His eyes narrowed. “That what you want? You nearly killed her once, going deaf like that.”

  Donna’s jaw dropped. “She made me deaf.”

  “If you hadn’t been snooping, you wouldn’ta been hit or gone deaf, and the same goes for what’s wrong between you and Matthew. Maybe if you were a better wife to him, he wouldn’t have to run somewhere else.”

  She was outraged. “He was having an affair with her before he met me.” Since the stabbing, friends had confessed things to her. That bit of information was one.

  “Well, you sure didn’t keep his interest for long.” He threw a hand in the air. “Do what you want with your husband”—the hand came down, finger pointing again—’but do not upset your mother. She isn’t steady. All this goin’ on with the company hasn’t been easy on her. You leave her alone.”

  Donna hadn’t planned to say a word to Margaret about what she knew. Nor had she planned to tell Hunter. All she wanted was her father’s okay to end a marriage that was a disaster.

  It looked as though he wouldn’t give it. It looked as though he would side with Matthew, but that didn’t hurt the way it would have once. The difference was Nolan, who loved her, and Chelsea, who valued her, and Joshie, who deserved better than what he was getting. The difference was her own conviction that Oliver was wrong.

  Unfortunately he was right about one thing. Margaret was fragile. She could be demanding and manipulative, even devoted, but she was fragile. The change in the business had indeed upset her. She hadn’t been the same since Chelsea had come. She would be especially hard hit if Donna left Matthew.

  With Oliver’s support, Donna might have managed it. She wasn’t sure she could now. Margaret had caused her deafness, but she had paid a price, too. Donna didn’t want her falling apart again, any more than Oliver did.

  It was a no-win situation.

  “HI, DAD,” CHELSEA SAID AS BRIGHTLY AS SHE COULD WHEN Kevin himself, rather than the machine, finally answered in Baltimore. Then she waited, suffering with each second that passed. She hadn’t talked with him since Newport. She half expected him to hang up on her.

  He sounded hesitant but concerned. “Chelsea? Are you all right?”

  She wanted to laugh in relief. “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Not bad,” he said, but warily now, as though it had taken him a minute to remember all that had preceded the call.

  “I miss you,” she dared say. It was the truth, had always been so, and was even more so now. Leo’s death made her acutely aware of what she had that was going to waste. “It’s been too long.”

  Rather than saying he agreed, Kevin asked, “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes—no—actually, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling.”

  “Is the baby all right?” Again, the concern.

  She basked in his worry, though she wasn’t so crass as to prolong it. She quickly reassured him, then told him about Leo. “Maybe it’s for the best. He wasn’t getting better. But it’s been difficult for Judd.”

  It was one thing to discuss Leo, in Kevin’s mind a faceless victim of Alzheimer’s disease, quite another to discuss Judd. Judd had a face. He also had a tongue, which by his own admission had said things it shouldn’t have said the last time the two men had met. Chelsea didn’t know what those things were. She figured Kevin would tell her if he was angry enough.

  “Judd is an unusual man,” he said, which told her nothing.

  “Unusual?”

  “Bold. He wasn’t shy about speaking his mind.”

  “He regretted that. He was afraid he might have done more damage to our relationship than has already been done.”

  “Yes. Well.”

  “Did he?” Chelsea asked, because she still couldn’t tell what he was thinking or feeling.

  Without answering, Kevin said, “I think he likes you.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “Have you married him?”

  She heard a guarded hope. He was so very conventional. “Would that make things easier for you?”

  “Would you do it, if I said it would?”

  Softly she said, “No.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He grew silent. She was about to say something about the wrong reasons to marry when he asked, “How much longer?”

  She rested a hand on her stomach. “Less than two months.”

  “Are you big?”

  “Like a watermelon.”

  “Is the baby active?”

  “Very.” She smiled at that thought. Judd spent hours watching her stomach. There were times when she knew he was thinking of Leo, thinking that one life was over and a new one beginning, other times when he was totally focused on the baby. He never said much, just watched. He would slide his hand over the tautly drawn skin, chart the baby’s shifting, shadow a tiny elbow or heel with his large, callused palm, massage her muscles when they contracted into hard bands, and through it all there would be an intent look in his eye.

  “What arrangements have you made for the delivery?” Kevin asked.

  “I’ll go to the local hospital. It’s only ten minutes away. The doctor is good.”

  “The one from Johns Hopkins?”

  She smiled. Qualifications meant so much to Kevin. “The one from Johns Hopkins.”

  “That’s good.” He paused. In a lower voice he said, “Have you told Carl?”

  “No. Have you?”

  He cleared his throat. “No. You had a point about hurting his marriage. I resent that he married her rather than you, but it’s a done thing. How you’ve kept it from him is a mystery to me.”

  “I haven’t been back since the pregnancy became noticeable. I do everything by phone or by fax. Melissa knows. She’s been a big help handling things on that end for me.”

  “Are you doing much designing?”

  “Actually, I just got a go-ahead on the Hunt-Omni.” She was very excited and very, very proud. “Melissa will be the on-site person. I’ll be faxing her designs.”

  “Won’t it be too much?”

  “Oh, no. I have a studio at the farmhouse. I love the creative challenge. My body may be cumbersome, but my hands and mind are eager to work.”

  “Will the Hunt-Omni take all your time?”

  “Not all,” she said curiously. “Why do you ask?”

  “I got a call from Marvin Blecker a few weeks back. He’s putting together a new project.”

  Chelsea was instantly alert. Marvin Blecker was a real estate developer with holdings in every part of the country. “What kind of project?”

  “A series of magnet hospitals, formed by the merger of two or more smaller hospitals for the sake of consolidating services. Each magnet hospital will need a new central structure. Marv is aiming for an identifiable look. I told him you might be interested.”

  “I definitely am!” A project like that would be ongoing. If she was able to incorporate granite in the design, Plum Granite would be busy for years. “You should have called me right away!”

  He was quiet for a minute. “That . . . wasn’t easy.”

  “Then I’m glad I called you,” she said without rancor. There wasn’t time for rancor. Leo’s death had driven that point home. Life was too short, too precarious, for unnecessary estrangements. “I really miss you, Dad. Won’t you come visit?”

  In a low voice he said, “I’m not ready for that.”

  “I’m told Christmas is beautiful here. There’s a candle-lighting ceremony on the green, rum toddies at the inn—’

&n
bsp; “I’ll be in Palm Beach through New Year’s.”

  “Will you come when the baby’s born?”

  After a pause he said, “I don’t know, Chelsea. I can’t promise anything. I don’t want to go to that place.”

  “But ‘that place’ is me, and this is your grandchild.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Mom would want you to come.”

  “That’s unfair,” he said with a catch in his voice. “She’s gone, and you’re asking me to go to a place that I’ve spent my life trying to forget.”

  Chelsea had to give him points for honesty. He was making progress. “All things considered, this is the best place to have my baby, and I do love the farmhouse. The only thing wrong with it is that you haven’t seen it. You’re my father. You’re all I have left.”

  “No father up there?”

  “Just you. I want you to see the farmhouse and the quarries. I want you to meet my friends, and I want them to meet you. And I really want you to hold the baby.”

  With a gruffness that gave her renewed hope, he said, “Get it born first. Knowing you, you’ll do it in the middle of a blizzard. You never did things the easy way, Chelsea Kane.”

  CHELSEA SUPPOSED HE WAS RIGHT. WHILE ANOTHER WOMAN AT her stage of pregnancy might spend her days on a rocker with a quilt over her legs, a glass of milk in her hand, and a childbirth manual on her lap, she was at the office talking with Marvin Blecker on the phone, studying site photographs that Melissa had sent, crumbling sheet after sheet of yellow trace until she finally drew a sketch she liked.

  That wasn’t to say she drove to the office herself. Judd dropped her there in the morning, stranding her—deliberately, she was sure—until he checked back in at midday. He didn’t want her driving over roads that were icy morning and night, didn’t want an accident on his conscience, he said, and she didn’t argue. Nor did she argue when he plied with her milk. She did balk, though, when it came to the childbirth manual. Reading it made her nervous.

  “That’s no excuse,” he said.