by Lois Richer
“Someday you’re going to have to depend on someone else. And when you do—” he paused “—when that day comes, remember that you have people who are just waiting to be asked to help.”
“Fine.” She nodded her head. “And you understand that I want to have Michael’s baby my way, the way I’ve planned.” At his reluctant nod, Caitlin gathered her belongings. “I have to go. The next bus will be along in a minute.”
She slipped her shoes on, ignoring the pinch against her toes. Taking a deep breath, she heaved herself up from the low booth.
Caitlin wasn’t surprised to see him slide out or to feel Jordan’s strong hand beneath her elbow, taking some of her weight as he gently assisted her. He’d always been there, making his presence felt.
“Why aren’t you driving?” Concern wrinkled his forehead. “Lyn, did you have an accident?”
She grimaced. As usual, Jordan was jumping to conclusions about her. Poor little Lyn couldn’t manage. Caitlin fidgeted, as frustrated by his consideration as she was touched. It would have been nice not to have to explain this particular weakness.
Summoning all her nerve, she met his puzzled glance.
“No, not an accident. It’s just that, well, um…” She lowered her voice and spoke the truth. “The car’s not really built for pregnant women.”
He burst out laughing then, great boisterous chuckles that had the other patrons smiling benignly at them.
“It’s not that funny,” she complained.
“Yes, Caitlin, it is very funny. You continue to hang on to that decrepit heap of rusting metal regardless of its impracticality and all advice to the contrary. That dinky little two-seater has been around for ages.” He shook his head, his mouth creased in a grin.
“I’ve told you before what I think of a ragtop with our frigid winters. Now you’re stuck without wheels because you can’t fit into the thing.” His broad shoulders shook with renewed laughter, his eyes twinkling down at her. “Priceless!”
“I love Bertha!” She defended her car staunchly. “And when that baby comes, we’ll take rides in her together.”
“No doubt! At twenty below, with the top stuck down, I suppose, and just to prove you can do it.”
There was no point in telling Jordan that she kept the car because it was her one and only link with the woman who’d cared for her since her parents had been killed in a car accident when she was ten. He’d probably deride her for being too sentimental about a woman who’d never shown the least bit of affection for her.
Caitlin sighed. Maybe she was being silly. In actual fact, the car wasn’t really a gift, it was hers simply because she was next of kin. At least Aunt Lucy had admitted that much about her. And even that one familial link had been taken away.
Jordan lifted her coat from the seat and helped her into it with that special brand of care he always conferred on a woman. It was the sort of attentive thoughtfulness that made her feel special.
Caitlin supposed she should have felt flattered by his concern, but as she straightened her bulging sweater, she grimaced ruefully. She didn’t feel flattered or feminine. Actually, she felt more like a Mack truck, one that was about to burst at the seams.
“How much longer?”
The low voice was just behind her shoulder. She could feel the heat of his body radiating against her as his big frame shielded her from the jostle of other customers filling the small coffee shop.
“Not long,” she told him. “I can hardly wait.”
“How long, exactly?” he demanded, turning her to face him.
Caitlin sighed. She’d have to tell him. She wouldn’t put it past Jordan to phone the doctor himself. None of the Andrews family were exactly reticent when it came to getting exactly what they wanted.
“Six weeks from today is supposed to be my due date,” she informed him. “But babies don’t always arrive on time. I could go up to two weeks longer.”
“Or you could go into labor right now.” His voice was low and concerned as he searched her tired face. “You look beat.”
He grinned that slow, lazy smile that spread to a warm glow and mesmerized her into agreeing to whatever he said. Caitlin blinked, trying to reassert herself.
“Come on, I’ll give you a lift home. I’m not sure bus drivers know the latest in Lamaze techniques.”
Caitlin smiled, softly rubbing her aching back with one hand, hoping to ease the momentary discomfort.
“Oh, right! And I suppose you do?”
Just then her abdomen hardened with a contraction. She sucked in her breath as Jordan’s hands lifted her long hair free and spread it down her back.
Whew, this was a strong one. She concentrated on breathing through it, immersed in the sensation.
As he pulled her coat together in front, Jordan’s hand accidentally brushed against her rock-hard midsection. Shock, mixed with sheer panic washed over his tanned face, draining it of all color.
His wide eyes stared into hers and Caitlin noted the white lines of strain creasing his face. She breathed steadily, waiting for the end of the false contraction. When it came, she drew a calming breath and moved toward the door.
Within seconds Jordan had paid the bill, rushed her out the door and propelled her over to a full-size silver-gray sedan. Moments later Caitlin was sinking back gratefully, appreciating the smooth comfortable leather interior as it curved around her tired body. Junior was settling down now, thank goodness.
She breathed a sigh of relief which turned into a startled gasp as Jordan slammed all two hundred pounds of his muscular frame into his bucket seat and tore away from the curb with a squeal of tires that would do a rowdy teenager proud.
“See an old girlfriend?” she teased, glancing at him.
He returned her look with an uptilted eyebrow that reminded her she was one of Jordan’s old girlfriends. The one that had married his brother.
The deep groove beside his mouth kept his features frozen in a mask as his fingers clenched the leather wheel. Caitlin frowned at the obvious signs of stress. She pressed her hand on his muscled forearm.
“Jordan, what’s wrong?”
“Which hospital?” he growled.
“I’m not going to the hospital,” she told him in confusion. “I’m going to Wintergreen.”
“Wintergreen?”
“It’s the old Cardmore house. I bought it. I’m fixing it up. It’s going to be a new start for the baby and me.” A place where she could forget the memories and move on.
“You’re going to have the baby at home?” He squeaked the words out, risking a wide-eyed glance of horror over his shoulder.
Caitlin sighed. “Pull over, Jordan.”
When he kept going Caitlin cleared her throat. “Jordan. Pull over. Now!”
“What?” His strong tanned fingers still gripped the steering wheel.
“Jordan, I am not going to the hospital. I am not, repeat not, in labor.” She kept her lips from twitching only by using the utmost restraint.
“But…but…I…” His voice died away in embarrassment.
Caitlin took compassion on his obvious distress and explained. “That was a sort of fake contraction,” she murmured, conscious of his gaze on her stomach. “It happens more and more lately.”
His dark eyebrows rose in disbelief.
“Scout’s honor,” she promised. “Doctors call them Braxton-Hicks contractions.” She grinned at his skeptical face.
“Trust me,” she told him in an echo of his own tone. “I do know what I’m talking about. They’ve gone now.”
Jordan looked less than convinced, but when she nodded again, he seemed slightly relieved.
“It doesn’t mean I’m going to give birth in your car.” Caitlin smiled, struggling to maintain the look of solemn assurance. “Promise.”
When his eyebrows quirked and his eyes opened wide, she couldn’t hold on any longer. Her giggles finally erupted at the look of patent relief on his face.
He breathed at last, eyes closed, head
bowed. Color began to return to his chiseled profile. “Sorry,” he said as, one by one, his fingers released their death grip on the wheel. “Robyn pulled a ‘not my time’ one on me last summer.”
His high cheekbones tinged a bright pink. “She had her baby in the back seat of my car at the hospital doors. Talk about procrastination!”
Robyn, Jordan’s older sister, was famous for postponing things until the last possible moment. Apparently she’d done it once too often.
Caitlin laughed out loud at the chagrin that contorted his handsome features into a mask of dismay. It felt good to laugh again.
“It’s not funny,” he told her, his face mournful. “I loved that car, but I had to sell it. I could never drive it afterward without hearing her calling me names and carrying on. I felt totally helpless.” He huffed, obviously affronted at the indignity he’d suffered.
“She even had the nerve to say it was my fault for not getting to her house earlier! How did I know she’d decide to get things moving just before I showed up? I only went over in the first place to visit Glen. You remember her husband?” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how he stands her.”
It wasn’t easy to ignore his wounded look, but she just managed to stifle the laugh that threatened to spill out. This was something to remember, Jordan Andrews completely out of his depth.
“I promise not to do that,” Caitlin told him solemnly. “Can I go home now?”
Jordan drove her home all right, at a sedate twenty miles an hour through the streets of a town in the throes of rush hour. He wasn’t doing anything that would start labor he told her frankly, correctly interpreting her impatient glance at the speedometer.
“It sure is cold here,” he muttered finally, cranking up the heater. “I can’t seem to get warm lately.”
“Yes, well, life in the tropics will do that to you. Wasn’t Tahiti where you were heading after the funeral?”
“Yep, the sunny South Pacific.”
“Must have been nice.”
If her voice betrayed just a hint of envy at his ability to escape the mean existence of those dreadful months after Michael’s death, Jordan didn’t comment on it. He also never mentioned the reason he’d decided to leave so abruptly the day following the funeral. She’d never understood that, but she’d accepted it.
“So how long have you been back?”
“Actually—” he snorted in amusement “—I should be used to this weather. I’ve been back for a month. In the country, that is. I had a little business in New York first. I flew into Oakburn yesterday.”
Caitlin pretended to study the curving riverbank. Only a few of the brilliant red and gold leaves still hung on the trees. Hikers and joggers walked through the crisp crackling carpet underfoot. And the carefully tended pathways bulged with outdoor enthusiasts taking advantage of the sunny fall weather.
Her nose caught just a hint of wood smoke in the air as up ahead a family gathered around a fire pit A wiener roast in the park. She smiled at the memory that flickered across her mind.
“How is Robyn?” Caitlin asked.
Michael’s sister had announced her pregnancy just after Caitlin had decided she was in love with Michael. Everyone in the Andrews family had been thrilled at the thought of a new baby. Caitlin knew they’d welcome Junior with open arms simply because this was Michael’s child. Maybe they’d even try to take him away from her. Then she’d really have no one.
Caitlin shoved the ugly thought away with grim determination.
Jordan frowned, obviously organizing his thoughts.
“Robyn? Oh, you mean with the baby. She’s fine. I still can’t believe she called the kid Eudora. I called her Huey for a while. It seemed fitting—she was totally bald.”
Jordan’s strong fingers jerked the wheel suddenly, twisting out of the path of an oncoming motorist in the wrong lane. There was no lull in his conversation which seemed remarkable.
There wasn’t a lot that fazed Jordan. Apparently births outranked everything else. She grinned again, cherishing the greenish-tinged look she’d seen on his face.
“I didn’t like the other option much. Anyway, I always remember Mrs. Hatchet calling people ‘dumb Doras’ when they didn’t catch on to her algebra lesson.”
Caitlin grinned. Everyone who had been under the malevolent thumb of Agatha Hatchet had been called that at one time or another in their high school years.
“Seems too bad to saddle a kid with that kind of negative self-image label from day one.” He shrugged helplessly.
Caitlin smiled. If she remembered correctly, Jordan himself had acquired a few rather interesting tags in high school.
“There are worse things to be saddled with,” she murmured. “Wasn’t Jordan the man, who rolled the van, one of yours? And how about Heartthrob Andrews?”
“Well, if that isn’t the pot talking to the kettle!” Those glowing eyes glittered with good humor. “I seem to remember Cait the Great when it came to chemistry. And Dim Lyn in, let’s see, wasn’t it history and phys ed?” A smug little smile tilted his lips.
“You tell me, Jordan Andrews…just how many of those seventeenth-century dates can you still remember?” She flushed at the old nickname, the familiar tide of indignation surging upward with the memories of those unhappy years.
He held up a hand. “Truce.” He called out, grinning. “Let’s just admit that neither one of us has done too badly. Especially you.” He whistled at the metal name tag she’d forgotten to remove from the tip of her collar. “Doing some teaching now, huh? Do I call you Professor Lyn?”
Caitlin lifted her chin. She ignored the question and the reference to her newly acquired job. That had been her dream, hers and Michael’s. While she’d dreamed of completing her doctoral studies as a nutrition and dietetic counselor, he had finally decided to complete his own education. More dreams that had died with him.
“You can call me whatever you want.” She grinned.
There were a lot of things she preferred to forget about the old days. Her painful crush on Jordan during those high school years was only one of them. She was about to change the subject when he interrupted her thoughts.
“Well, here we are, safe at home with nary a scratch.”
Caitlin glanced around, surprised at how quickly the time had gone. She hadn’t even noticed they were near her home.
“I wasn’t actually coming here,” she muttered. “I told you I want to go to Wintergreen. I’ve got to get it ready.”
“That old barn? Ready for what?” He frowned.
Caitlin was sure he was about to offer some unwanted advice about purchasing a huge, rambling Victorian mansion to live in, so she hurried into speech.
“I’ve invited some friends to live there with me. We’re going to share the place. Do you remember Maryann MacGregor? She married Terrence Arnold, that lawyer from New York. Anyway, he died a while ago and she came back home to raise her daughter.”
“Shy, quiet little Maryann married a hotshot, eh? Who’d have thought she’d become famous. And now she’s going to live with you, the person who always has to be alone?”
Caitlin stuck her tongue out at him and then flushed in embarrassment. Why did she let him get to her like this? She was acting like a bratty kid.
“Not exactly live with. We each have our own suites. Beth Ainslow and I share the first two floors and Maryann has the top floor. Beth and her sister Veronica are already living at Wintergreen.”
“Sounds like fun. At least you’ll have help nearby if you need it. Though, I’m not sure you should be doing much. As I recall, that place needs a lot of work. Are you sure it’s safe?” Jordan fiddled with his jacket, avoiding her eyes.
“Not so much work is left now. Most of the big stuff is already done. That’s partly what’s been keeping me so busy. I’ve had walls removed and new ones put in, carpets and flooring, cabinets, the entire thing looks totally different inside.”
Caitlin ignored his skeptical look. She had been busy. On pu
rpose. It left less time to think.
“All we have to do is a little decorating. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Well, I’m not taking you there now, Lyn. It’s late and you need to put your feet up and relax.” He swung open his door, his mouth set in a determined line as he strode around the car he’d illegally parked in the No Parking zone in front of her condo.
Caitlin sighed with resignation. No one could change Jordan’s mind once he’d set it on something and there wasn’t any point trying. Besides, she did want to get these shoes off.
He opened the door and Caitlin swung her feet out tiredly, accepting his helping hand as she stood.
“Beth’s a widow, too. Her husband was killed in an accident.”
Jordan didn’t reply. Instead he escorted her into the house through the sporadically swirling autumn leaves before returning with her packages.
“I think that’s all you had.” He set the bag down inside the door and then straightened, his eyes studying her.
“Thanks, Jordan. I appreciate the lift.” She stood there, not knowing what else to say. What did one say to an old boyfriend who was also your brotherin-law?
“You’re welcome. I’ve gotta go. I have to pick up some parts for my modem at the airport. I’m working on something new.” Jordan bent over to brush his lips against her cheek.
“See ya, little mama,” he murmured. His face peered down at her. “Take it easy. If you need anything, I mean anything,” he emphasized, “just call.”
She accepted his admonition and his card, and bid him good-night without promising anything. That was Jordan, she reflected with a grin, always dashing off on the trail of a new computer gizmo. It was good to know some things never changed.
She closed the door of her condo and sighed. “Pack,” she ordered her tired brain. “Pack or you’ll never get moved.”
Hours later, after the newscast, Caitlin forced herself to bank the fire, refold her afghan and shut off the lights before awkwardly climbing the stairs to bed. Only once she was tucked up in the big four-poster with a thick comforter to shield against the north wind howling outside her window, did she allow herself to think about meeting Jordan again.