The Black Sheep’s Baby

by Kathleen Creighton

  She thought of the mistletoe, and Mike sweeping Lucy into a classic Rhett Butler embrace. She thought of her vision of this same parlor filled with warmth and laughter and love, and of all those things embodied in a pair of arms wrapping themselves around her from behind…a whisper, sweet as music in her ear.

  I have to talk to him, she thought-and remembered she’d had the very same thought at the beginning, that morning after she’d first met Eric. She’d told herself then that she needed to learn more about the man who was her clients’ adversary-get to know him. Now-what was it?-four days later, he seemed more of a mystery to her than ever.

  She almost wished they could go back to the way things had been then-even the open hostility of those first moments. Those had been honest, straightforward emotions, at least. Then had come confusion-the confrontation in the barn, Eric’s terrible accusations, and finally, what had seemed like the beginnings of a grudging acceptance of her. And later, that first evening with his family in the parlor…Eric stringing tree lights with his father, sitting so close to Devon on the couch, challenging her, teasing, taunting her.

  So much had happened since then. So much had changed. But what did I do, Devon wondered, to make him so distant? What did I do to make him hate me?

  I have to talk to him about this, she thought. She had to. But when? Tomorrow was Christmas; there would be company-Eric’s cousin and her parents. It would almost have to be tonight.

  She lingered, nervous with both resolve and dread, helping Lucy pick up wrapping paper and ribbon and tidy up the parlor, thinking she would catch Eric after his parents had gone to bed. But he excused himself, said good-night and went upstairs while Devon was carrying the popcorn and eggnog dishes and leftovers to the kitchen.

  Later, she promised herself, dizzy and twanging with unspent tension. I’ll talk to him tonight…later.

  Eric sat on the edge of his bed and stared down at the large flat Christmas-wrapped package in his hands. It wasn’t particularly pretty paper, now he really looked at it, kind of a muddy gold with sprays of evergreens and pinecones on it. But it had been that or Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer-the only pieces of wrapping paper left that were big enough to accommodate a 16 x 20 inch picture frame. What he was wondering now was why he’d bothered.

  For the better part of two days, as he worked to put together the collage, searching through piles of photo albums, picking out scenes from his own childhood and his mother’s and copying them on his dad’s computer, he’d thought a lot about what he was doing, and why…daring to fantasize about what Devon might say when he gave it to her. These are memories…memories of childhood, he’d say to her. Since you don’t have any of your own, I wanted to give you some of mine…

  And she would say…what? What was he hoping for? Some kind of breakthrough? That Devon would take one look at the photographs and remember that her parents were monsters who’d molested and abused her and driven her sister out of their house and into a life of hell on the streets? Was he hoping for a miracle?

  What had made him think he could bring about in a few days what could take trained therapists months or even years to accomplish? Or never.

  Ah well, the collage had been a stupid idea, but he’d worked on the damn thing for two days, and if he didn’t give it to Devon now, Dad-Mom, too, since it was a safe bet there weren’t any secrets between those two-was going to wonder why. Devon was in her room now-he’d heard her door close a while ago-and his mom and dad were in theirs, and Emily asleep in there with them, in his old bassinet that his mom had hauled down from the attic. Tomorrow, Caitlyn and her folks would be here, and tomorrow night… Hell, who knew where he’d be tomorrow night?

  It looked like, if he was ever going to give the collage to Devon, it would have to be now. He took a breath and stood up. Shifted the package under one arm and strode the three long paces to the door. Opened it-and froze in his tracks.

  His heart catapulted through several layers of chest wall to lodge somewhere in his throat. “Devon-” he croaked. She was there in the doorway, almost nose-to-nose with him, one hand upraised to knock on his door.

  “Hi.” It was a whisper, hushed and hoarse. Her face was almost luminous in the dim hallway, her eyes lost in shadows. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to startle you. Were you-?” She made a vague traveling gesture with her hand.

  “No-no! In fact-” he hefted the package “-I was just-” Remembering where he was, he backed awkwardly out of the doorway and motioned her in. He closed the door as quietly as possible, then turned and looked at her and felt a strange and fleeting sense of unreality.

  It struck him how out of place she looked-ludicrously so-standing there in his boyhood room with its faded denim curtains and horse-head lamp, his battered desk and worn paperback books. Slim and tall, elegant in black slacks and a sleeveless turtleneck shell-and on her even the green snowman scarf his mother had given her tonight seemed elegant-she made him think of the world she’d come from-a world of BMW’s and valet parking, of Gucci shoes and Rolex watches and restaurants where famous people dined. A complicated woman, he thought-and as contradictory as the picture she presented now.

  Looking at him the way she did now, with her chin up and her eyes green fire, she was all self-assurance, fearless and unyielding, beautiful yet untouchable-always in control, always in command. Yet, he’d seen her fearful. He’d touched her and felt her yield, at least to him. He’d felt her tremble on the brink of losing all control.

  He knew that, if she were to turn just a bit, lower her head, just a little, he would see, below the sophisticated upswept hairdo she wore, caressed by a few errant tendrils of fiery red hair, the slender white column of a neck as fragile, as vulnerable as a child’s.

  “I was just on my way to see you,” he said, and lifted the package, not thrusting it at her, just drawing her attention. “I wanted to give you this.”

  Her eyes flinched. She raised both hands in a small gesture of dismay, then clasped them together in front of her. “I didn’t get you anything.”

  His smile dismissed that. “I never thought you would. Here-just as well open it.” He nudged the package toward her.

  “Oh, Eric…” She closed her eyes, then reluctantly took it from him. “Oh, God-” and she gave a light, unhappy laugh “-it feels like a picture frame. What did you do, blow up one of those horrible pictures you took of me floundering in the snow like a beached whale?”

  He nodded toward the present. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  Devon’s heart fluttered against her ribs. Her chest felt tight, and the laugh she tried didn’t do a thing to relieve it. She took a breath, summoned strength, then began to tear away the wrapping paper. As the pieces fluttered to the floor, she felt herself go still and cold. Her heart no longer pounded; she couldn’t feel it beating at all.

  From a distance she heard Eric say, “It’s in there-the one you’re worried about. That’s it…right…there.”

  Oh, it was there, all right-funny that she’d focused on it first, even without his finger pointing it out to her-unmistakably Devon, even in all those layers that made her look like a pregnant penguin, with her hair shining like a beacon in all that snow. But not big, not blown up-oh no. Tiny. And not alone. There were others, so many others, some large and some small, square, oblong, round and oval, and except for hers, they were all of children. A little girl on a swing, pigtails flying, a plump little boy romping with puppies, children swimming in a pond, sleek as otters, children playing in mud, blowing bubbles in a bathtub, finger painting, making snowmen, eating watermelon, blowing out birthday candles, dressed up in costumes for Halloween, mugging for the camera with crossed eyes and stuck-out tongues, children in their Sunday best, grinning to show off missing teeth. There was even one of Emily, asleep with one hand curled against her cheek like flower petals.

  “What is this?” Her voice was bumpy.

  “They’re memories,” he said. “I thought, since you don’t have any of your childhood…” He let i
t trail away.

  She stared at him for a long, silent moment. His arms were folded on his chest, and his face was set-fierce and hawklike. Defensive, she thought. Defiant.

  “Why?” she said in a tight, trembling voice. “Why did you do this? Because you wanted to give me your childhood? No-I’ll tell you why. It’s because you want me to remember mine. That’s it, isn’t it Eric? You want me to remember my childhood, but not a childhood like this-”she turned the picture frame and thrust it toward him “-all happy and sunshiny and bright. Oh, no. What you want is for me to remember a nightmare. That my parents were evil monsters-”

  “Devon-” He reached toward her.

  She jerked away from him just as his fingers were closing on her arm. Her hands lost their grip, and the picture frame, with its collage of happy childhood memories, slipped from them and fell to the floor with a cracking, tinkling crash.

  There was a gasp, a muffled oath; and for several heartbeats, deafening silence. Then Devon dropped to her knees, and her hands darted here and there in quick, jerky forays, snatching up shards of broken glass. She was saying, over and over in a horrified whisper, “Oh, God-I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean to do that-I’m sorry…”

  Eric had frozen, partly in shock, partly in dread, all senses primed, ears cocked for the first sounds from down the hall-a door opening, his mom’s voice raised in question and alarm. When that failed to come, he didn’t question the miracle, just let himself breathe again as he sank to one knee beside Devon.

  He didn’t know what to do first, reach for her, rescue the broken frame, or pull those unsteady hands away from the perils of broken glass. He didn’t know what to do, period. He’d never been in such turmoil. He’d never been more profoundly shaken, his heart pounding and his mouth dry, clammy with adrenaline.

  But at the same time his emotions had never been calmer or more certain. In his heart, in his guts, in the deepest part of himself, he knew he wanted to hold and soothe her, that somehow he had to comfort and protect her. Seeing Devon like this, with her customary self-confidence shattered, the veneer of her composure and sophistication revealed for the sham it was…the intensity of his feelings for her all but overwhelmed him. Simple compassion, even protective tenderness couldn’t account for this. This was something much more powerful, something primitive, possessive, life-changing.

  His heart knew it, his gut knew it, but his head, his logical mind, caught somewhere between the turmoil and the certainty, refused to call it by name. His head, his reason, still insisted on telling him all the reasons it was impossible.

  “Devon-” he said, reaching for her as he had before.

  And again when he touched her she jerked, but toward him this time, not away. Magnified by a film of tears, her eyes locked with his, and this time the question was a plea. “Why are you doing this?”

  His hand, instead of closing gently around her arm, dropped to his knee. He tried to smile. “Definitely not to hurt you.”

  “Oh, no?” Her voice was a thin, raspy whisper, as if she wanted to shout at him but was as conscious as he was of other ears just down the hall. “What, then?” She went back to grabbing up pieces of broken glass, her movements uncoordinated as she flung angry words at him over her shoulder. “I know what you want. You want me to tell you you’re right, that the lies Susan told you are true. That our parents-” She gasped and jerked her hand back. Clutching it with the other, she began to swear in a low and furious whimper.

  He reached for her, swearing himself; he’d caught a glimpse of telltale crimson, though she tried to shield it from him with her body. “Let me see. How bad is it?” She was on her feet, now, and so was he. “Come on, Devon-dammit-”

  She twisted out of his grasp, stubbornly determined to evade him. Just as stubbornly he caught her by the arms and turned her to him. Her eyes blazed at him, more golden now than green. “Leave me alone. It’s just a cut, for God’s sake.” She whispered it, desperate rather than angry. “I just need some tissue-” Her eyes darted past him in futile search.

  He captured her hands in both of his and held them up so he could see the damage. A thin rivulet of blood spiraled down her left index finger in a candy cane design. His head spun; his heart thundered. “You need a bandage on that,” he said thickly, surprised at how calm he sounded. “Some antiseptic. There’s some in the bathroom.”

  She tugged on her hands, trying again to pull away from him. “No-your parents-they’ll hear. Please. Just give me something to wrap it in. A handkerchief-anything.”

  There was a plastic jar of baby wipe cloths on his nightstand, just out of reach. Afraid to let go of her, afraid she’d bolt if he did, he led her closer to the bed and holding her hands in one of his, reached to pluck several of the cloths from the jar. He wadded them around her bleeding finger, then folded it in and enfolded her hands in his. Held them close to him, close to his chest, close to his rapidly beating heart.

  He didn’t know how to help her. Leave me alone, she’d begged him. He couldn’t do that, not until he’d given up all hope of ever getting from her what he so desperately needed. There was too much at stake-a little girl’s future, not to mention his own. But she knew that-most of it.

  What he hadn’t anticipated, and what was complicating his life more than he’d thought possible, was that Devon’s future had come to matter to him, too. She mattered. And he honestly didn’t know whether forcing her to remember a nightmare past was going to help or hurt her in the long run. He thought it ought to help-like opening up a wound to allow it to heal. But what did he know about it, really? Sometimes, he knew, doctors might choose to leave a bullet or piece of shrapnel in someone because removing it would cause more damage than leaving it alone.

  He didn’t want to hurt her, or leave her alone-that much he knew. He wanted what he couldn’t have. He wanted a miracle.

  “Devon,” he whispered, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “But you’re willing to,” she said, staring at their clasped hands, “to keep Emily.”

  He flinched inside but didn’t try to evade the truth. “Yes.” With eyes closed he bowed his head; his exhalation flowed like a caress over her fingers. “At first, believe me, it was just that simple. But it’s not anymore. It’s complicated. These past few days, Devon, I’ve come-dammit, I-”

  She gave a cry, and her uninjured hand jerked from his grasp to press against his lips. Breathless and distraught, shaking her head rapidly, she whimpered, “No, no, no-” like a child denying the inevitable. “Don’t you say it. You can’t have feelings for me. You can’t. I can’t have feelings for you-”

  “But you do,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

  She couldn’t deny it, any more than he could. She didn’t try. He felt her go still, still as death. Her mouth seemed to blur. The vulnerability of it tore at his heart.

  Then his mouth was soft on hers…she whimpered, and he felt her lips quiver. The kiss grew urgent, hungry, and she was sobbing, the salt-sweet taste of her tears on his tongue. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, crept up the back of his neck. Her fingers burrowed into his hair. She gasped-or did he? He folded her close and held her hard against him, fearing his pounding heart would unbalance them both.

  “I want you to make love to me,” she whispered with her lips close to his ear. And she went on before he could answer. “I know it’s insane. I know it’s wrong. But I think I’ll go crazy if we don’t, just once.”

  He nodded. “I agree with everything you said. And it terrifies me.” He gave a small, shaken laugh.

  “I know. Me, too.”

  I never thought I could feel this way, Devon thought. That nothing else matters so much, that there is nothing more important than making love with this man, here and now. No matter the consequences. No matter the cost. The rest of my life will just have to work itself out somehow.

  She drew back from him, but only a little. She held his face between her hands, and even the wad of baby wipe cloths on her finger failed t
o distract her as she said earnestly, breathless with resolve, “It’s just this once…just for tonight. It has to be…”

  “I know.”

  She felt a shock pass through his body, like a small seismic quake, and he held her harder against him. Yes, this terrifies me, too, she thought.

  “It’s all right if you don’t have a condom.” She whispered it, but her voice quivered with nervousness. “I think I can trust you. I know you can trust me. And I am on the pill.”

  He pulled back a little to look at her, his whiskey eyes warm and wry, half wary, half amused. “Will you think badly of me if I tell you I have one?”

  “Why would I think badly of you? For being prepared-”

  “I don’t know, maybe you’d think I’m some sort of playboy-”

  She laughed, and it felt warm and good deep down in her belly. “Eric, you’re the last man I’d mistake for a playboy.”

  He laughed, too, a delicious quivering against her stomach. “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or not.”

  “It is,” she said, and added dryly, “Trust me.” She lifted her face to him and he kissed her again, long and deeply this time. Exploring…inviting…promising. By the time he lifted his head again she was dizzy with longing, drunk with desire.

  “Devon,” he said in a thickened voice, “you’re not going to change your mind again, are you?”

  “No,” she whispered, “are you?”

  He lowered his mouth to hers. And that was his only answer.

  Chapter 15

  H e drew her to the bed and they sat together on its edge, hands clasped, like children about to embark on a wondrous and terrifying adventure. Her eyes were brilliant, like emeralds, like diamonds, never leaving his as she picked up the edge of her black turtleneck and slowly drew it up and off.

  As each slender inch of her body revealed itself to him, his hands touched her there, and he felt the soft skin of her belly and ribcage roughen with goose bumps. Her bra was black lace, stark against the ivory of her skin…translucent, like the insides of some shells. Reverently, he cradled the warm weight of her breasts in his hands, bent to kiss the sweet cleft between, the shadowy blush of her nipples-inhaling the citrus scent of her skin and tasting fabric and woman as he made both of them warm and wet in his mouth, then cold and shivering to hardness when he left them. He felt her gasp, and her breathing grow sharp and shallow.