by Sandra Paul
They both stepped outside on the sunny back porch, and Libby closed the door firmly behind them. She was considering how to phrase what she wanted to say when Dorrie Jean said shyly, “I’m so happy for you, Libby.”
“You are?” Libby bit her lip. “Uh, what exactly did Del tell you?”
“Just that he’s asked you to marry him and that you’re still trying to make up your mind. I think you should say yes.”
“Oh, Dorrie…” Libby said helplessly. “You must think I’m terrible.”
“Of course I don’t.” Dorrie picked up a burgundy maple leaf that had fallen onto the wide porch railing. She twirled it between her fingers, sending Libby a fleeting glance. “I—I’m glad that you and Del have gotten together,” she said haltingly. “He’s a nice guy. He never made fun of me, like some of the other guys did in school. Once, he even took me to a prom. Mother asked him to ask me. I know, but Del never let on. He pretended it was all his own idea.”
Dorrie met Libby’s gaze, a rare smile lighting up her solemn gray eyes. “Everyone was always doing that to Del—his mom, Christine, even the other women in the town. They all take advantage of his niceness, his sense of responsibility. I’ve often wondered if maybe that wasn’t part of the reason he stays away so much from Lone Oak.”
She shyly touched Libby’s arm. “He must really care for you, Libby, if he’s willing to take on the responsibility of another man’s child.”
An unexpected lump clogged Libby’s throat. He doesn’t care for me, she wanted to respond. I’m just a responsibility, too. Instead, she swallowed, saying softly, “It’s a bit more complicated than that. I really would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anybody what you saw.”
“Of course I won’t.”
“Thanks, Dorrie.”
Libby watched Dorrie Jean leave through the picket gate, then walked back into the kitchen with a sigh. Christine was no longer there. Del, busy cracking eggs in a big yellow bowl, glanced up to ask cheerfully, “One egg or two? I’d better make it two,” he decided before she could speak. “You didn’t eat much last night.”
“I’m not really hungry,” Libby said, but knew it would make no difference. He’d make the eggs, anyway. “Where’s Chris?”
“Probably on the phone, spreading the good news.”
“Oh, my God—” Libby started to rush out of the room.
He caught her arm lightly to stop her. “Whoa, slow down there. I was just kidding.” Although he was smiling slightly, his eyes held an intent look as he added, “Besides, would it be so horrible if I wasn’t?”
“Yes,” Libby said unequivocally. “You don’t want to be tied down—not really.” As he opened his mouth to interrupt, she added, “And I want something more in a relationship than good sex.”
His eyes narrowed, his mouth flattening into a thin line. “At least you acknowledge we have that much,” he drawled. “Don’t be so quick to knock good sex.”
“I’m not,” she answered just as lightly. “But I’m not going to base a major life decision on it, either.”
She strolled out of the room, hiding the sudden shakiness she felt inside. She found Christine upstairs unpacking her suitcases.
Christine pounced as soon as Libby entered the room. “Great!” she said, her eyes lighting up. “I was hoping you’d come up so we can talk. I don’t have much time—I’m flying out tomorrow morning.”
Always on the go. Just like her brother, Libby thought with faint weariness. Why couldn’t these Delaneys stay in one place?
“Libby.” Christine touched her gently on the shoulder. “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”
“I’m just tired,” she said automatically.
She immediately wished she could call the words back. Chris’s blue eyes gleamed. “I can understand why after seeing you and my brother in bed together.”
Libby’s face flushed. “Which is exactly what I came up here to talk to you about—”
“Go ahead! I can’t wait to hear the details,” Chris said, throwing several blouses from the case onto the floor. She picked one back up, clipping it on a metal hanger. “I had no idea you and my brother had gotten together.”
“We haven’t.” Libby sat down at Chris’s dressing table. Pushing aside the plethora of makeup littering the surface, she propped her elbows on the table to rub her temples.
Christine shot her a disbelieving look. “Oh, c’mon. I’m sorry Dorrie Jean and I embarrassed you, but you were in bed together.”
“That was just one of those spur-of-the-moment things.”
Christine’s brows drew together over her eyes in a way that was disconcertingly like her brother’s. “I don’t believe it,” she said bluntly. “I know my
brother is no saint, but he would never take advantage of you simply for a sexual relationship.”
“He didn’t. If anything, I took advantage of him—oh, please, Chris, do you mind if we don’t discuss this anymore? All I want is your promise you won’t tell anyone what you saw.”
Christine’s eyes widened in hurt surprise. “Why of course I wouldn’t tell anyone—not on purpose, anyway,” she added conscientiously. “I promise I’ll try extra hard not to let anything slip.”
But if Libby thought that would end the matter, she was very much mistaken. Until she left the next morning, Chris continued to badger her about Del every chance she had.
“He cares about you, Libby,” she claimed as they did dishes that night. “I’m sure of it. He worries about you all the time.”
“He bosses me around all the time,” Libby corrected, wiping a plate delicately detailed with soft pink roses. “Your brother is a take-charge kind of guy. It’s second nature for him to tell people what to do.”
Chris plopped more dishes into the soapy water. The old-fashioned sink was a deep one and water sloshed up past her elbows as she groped around the bottom. “We need a dishwasher,” Chris grumbled as she did every time she washed. She returned to the subject at hand. “It’s more than him just being bossy,” she insisted stubbornly. “He told me he wants to marry you—”
“Chris! I don’t think you should discuss this with him.”
“I didn’t discuss it with him,” Chris declared, washing a handful of silverware. “I just told him what I thought—and not in as much detail as I wanted to since he was busy on the phone again…”
He’s always on the phone, Libby thought. He’d have to be leaving soon.
“…but he said you’rethe only one against marriage…”
The traitor! Libby fumed.
“And if that’s because you think he doesn’t love you, Libby, you have to be wrong. He must love you if he’s willing to take on another man’s baby,” Chris added, unconsciously echoing Dorrie Jean.
A band of pain seemed to squeeze Libby’s heart. “He doesn’t love me.” She wiped a plate, put it down and picked up another. “He’s never said he loves me. And,”she added a little louder as Christine tried to interrupt, “even if he did, I still wouldn’t marry him. I want a real father for my baby—one who’s there for him all the time. I know from personal experience how hard it is to only see your dad once or twice a year.”
Chris hadn’t said any more, but Libby knew she wasn’t happy with the situation. Until she left for her plane, Chris kept sending her reproachful looks. Despite their bickering and teasing the Delaneys were close. Christine obviously couldn’t understand why anyone would pass up her brother.
It should have been easier when Christine left again. It wasn’t. Libby thought at first he might try to renew their sexual relationship. She wouldn’t let him, she decided. But when an entire week passed and he made no effort to do so, she felt oddly upset.
Brushing her teeth early one morning, she considered possible reasons for his change in attitude. Maybe he’d had second thoughts about their liaison since Christine and Dorrie Jean had caught them. Maybe he was simply sexually sated; he didn’t need her anymore. She paused in her vigorous brushing. Or mayb
e he was turned off by her altered appearance.
Mouth full of foam, she studied her reflection. Like the rest of her, her face had grown rounder. For a while—before Del’s return—her cheeks had seemed to sink in a bit, giving her rather an interesting look. Now, with all the rest she’d been getting and Del’s constant monitoring of her diet, her cheeks had plumped out. Like a chipmunk, she thought. She puffed them out to heighten the effect. Yes, definitely chipmunk material.
She spit and rinsed, and studied herself again. Her hair had changed, too; it seemed much limper than before. Maybe it would look better if she put it up. That might make her cheeks look less round. She lifted her hands, gathering her hair on top of her head—and immediately dropped her arms again. The pose had accentuated her breasts and belly to an alarming degree. Slowly, she turned to the side to study her silhouette. No getting around it; she was huge. Behemoth. Ready to join the circus as a walking bowling ball. It was a miracle her legs could even support her. Her figure had to be the reason Del had lost interest.
She plucked at her jumper in dissatisfaction. These maternity clothes didn’t help, either. She was heartily sick of wearing a tent every day, but she could no longer tolerate even stretch pants. The elastic chafed her stomach. She’d tried pushing the band beneath her stomach, but then had to worry about them sliding off completely. Maybe Del, accustomed to his styleconscious conscious sister, was simply tired of looking at such a fashion failure like herself.
She went down the stairs, unconsciously looking for him, only to discover he was holed up in the library again. She frowned. Maybe the problem was simply he was too busy, too anxious to get back to his work, to think about her. She pressed her ear against the paneled door. Solar listening post, communication upload burst, infrared tracking and other technical phrases filtered through the wood. Libby hurried away into the den, feeling absurdly guilty. It wasn’t as if she were a spy or anything, but how would she explain her actions if he suddenly came out?
Was he ever coming out?
She sat down in her favorite wingback chair with a sigh. It wasn’t as if she missed him or anything; she had plenty to do. After all, the baby would be arriving in less than a month now. Desultorily, she picked up her knitting from the basket. She’d simply gotten used to spending a lot of time with him. Knit, purl. Not only that, but he had promised to help her get that bassinet down from the loft in the garage. Knit, purl. Knit, purl. No doubt he’d forgotten. He had more important things to worry about.
She sniffed. Not like her. Knit, purl, sniff. All she was good for was having babies and knitting booties—and she wasn’t very expert at either of those things. Her ankles were swollen; she couldn’t get comfortable. Her back had been killing her since late last night. But did he care? Oh, no. Knit, knit, sniff, sniff. You’d think the least he could do would be to get off the phone. Would it kill him to pay her a little attention? He’d certainly been eager enough to when she’d first met him, when he’d wanted sex. Now that she’d grown swollen and ugly, he couldn’t be bothered. The yarn blurred. A wave of self-pity caused tears to burn in her eyes. She wallowed in the emotion, knitting blindly along until the bootie was a hopeless tangle of knots. That made her cry even harder.
By the time Del found her half an hour later, she was sitting in her chair, her eyes and nose red from crying over the mess of yarn in her lap.
He paused in the doorway a moment, silently assessing the situation. He’d noticed over the past week that her moods were becoming increasingly erratic—just like the pregnancy books had warned. He would have to proceed cautiously. “Is something wrong, Libby? Commercials getting to you again?” He cast a knowledgeable glance at the television. “Nope, TV’s off. Which means you must have forgotten to eat breakfast. You know that always makes you irritable.”
Libby stiffened in righteous indignation at the callous remark. Okay, maybe she had cried over a commercial once or twice—the one with puppies was a real tearjerker—and no, she hadn’t eaten. But how dare he accuse her of being irritable when she’d sat here with almost saintly patience, waiting for him to get down that bassinet?
She told him all this in no uncertain terms as he pulled her to the kitchen.
“I know, you’re right—I have the sensitivity of a rock,” he agreed absently, peering into the refrigerator. “We’ll get the bassinet after you eat something. Ah, ha! Here’s the milk.”
“I don’t want any,” she declared, turning up her nose.
“Have some while I make your sandwich,” Del ordered.
He waited a moment to see if she wanted to argue further, but she must have recognized he meant business. She followed him to the table, watching with a disgruntled look while he poured a tall, cold glass.
He put it into her hand. She took a sip, then another, pausing to give him a speculative look. “All of it,” he said firmly.
She wrinkled her nose and tilted the glass, downing the rest in three long gulps. Gasping slightly, she slammed the glass down and glowered at him. “Are you satisfied now?”
Del met her angry gaze. She had a faint milk mustache above her pink lips and her brown eyes were snapping. No, he wasn’t satisfied. He hadn’t been completely satisfied since that night eight months ago.
He’d been disappointed by her refusal to admit the truth to Christine and Dorrie Jean, but her stubbornness only made him more determined than ever. He’d left her alone this past week, hoping that she would miss him, would give some sign that she needed him, too. But every day she seemed to be drifting farther away. He was tired of waiting…and he was running out of time. In three short days he was due back in Seoul.
He caught her in his arms. Her brown eyes widened. She opened her mouth to protest, but his lips covered hers, stifling the sound in her throat. She tasted sweet—like milk and Libby. His tongue explored her mouth with thorough domination.
Then he let her go.
Swaying a little, she blinked dazedly up at him, her lips still moistly parted, her hands still clinging to his shoulders. Del glared down at her. Did she think she could find this with anyone else? Did she think that he would let her?
He pulled her close again, murmuring in her ear, “Let’s go to bed, Libby. You need a nap.”
It was exactly what Libby had needed to hear—an hour ago. Now the words filled her with rage. Did he think he could ignore her for a week and then just sweep her off to bed? She pushed away from him. “A nap, huh? Give me a break. Is that all I am? A convenience for you?”
Del’s anger, tightly controlled for the past week, suddenly surged to meet hers. “If you think there’s anything convenient about this arrangement, then think again. I’m staying here to help you out, and all you can do is snap at me.”
Libby wanted to cry—but darned if she’d give him the satisfaction. “Nobody asked you to stay. In fact, why don’t you just go right now.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!” He stalked back into the den.
Head held high, Libby marched out the back door. The arrogant swine! Acting as if she was the one who’d asked him to stay, when really it had been all his idea.
She didn’t need him. She didn’t need any man. Not for anything. She jerked on her padded coat and headed to the garage, her fists clenched at her sides. If that was his attitude, she’d darn well get that bassinet down by herself.
The wooden garage door was old and heavy. Libby heaved it up with one mighty tug. The ache in her back lanced around to her side but she ignored the pain, scanning the neatly arranged garage.
There it was. She could just see the bassinet up in the loft, resting under a stack of boxes. The loft itself wasn’t too high. Only about three feet higher than the hood of the truck parked neatly beneath it.
She couldn’t find a ladder, but she refused to give up. She should be able to get up there no problem at all, she decided. She’d simply climb on the truck hood, get the bassinet and climb back down again. Nothing to it.
<
br /> She put her foot up on the front fender. It was hard—much harder than she’d expected—to hoist herself up. She bounced up and down, trying to get some leverage, with no results.
She frowned. Maybe she should try tackling the problem from another direction. She turned around and backed toward the vehicle. After just three tries, she ended up sitting triumphantly on the hood.
Now to stand. She tried—and slipped. She fell back, her coat padding her fall. More surprised than hurt, Libby lay there a moment, her legs dangling over the front fender. It wasn’t until she tried to sit up again that she discovered the full extent of her problem. She couldn’t get up. Like a turtle flipped on its shell, the weight of her belly and the padded coat kept her pinned in place. She tried rolling to one side, then the other. She tried sliding forward. Finally, she resorted to wiggling and flapping, trying to inch her way down.
She was still flapping when Del found her. “Libby! Oh, my God, are you hurt?”
Embarrassment, not pain, kept her from answering for a moment. She took a deep breath. “No,” she admitted gruffly. “I’m stuck.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck. You knewI’d get that down for you.” His tone was harsh, but the arms scooping her up were gentle. He lifted her against his chest and Libby’s arm automatically encircled his strong neck. She peeked at his face and much of her embarrassment faded. He sounded angry, but his expression was positively stricken. White lines edged his mouth and his eyes were dark with worry.
He must care a little bit, Libby thought. All at once,
the thought of him leaving, of not being there for the birth of the baby, seemed too much to bear.
Her arm tightened, and he stared intently down into her face. “You’re so pale. Are you sure you’re not hurt? I think you should go to the doctor’s.”
“Of course I don’t need to see a doctor,” Libby said, slightly mollified by his concern. “I just slid
down—I didn’t fall. I’m perfectly—uh-oh!” Her eyes widened.