Thin, purple eyelids shifting with each newborn dream. A tiny mouth that formed sweet shapes around nothing at all. Miniature fingers, like spider’s legs, crawling idly across a pink cheek. A nose that was little more than a bump with two holes at the bottom.
He was precious, Caroline thought, and he touched her deeply. She recalled the time when her niece had been born four years before. She’d been excited then and a little frightened.
Now she was touched in a different way. It was no great mystery. She was a woman, with maternal instincts, and those instincts were making themselves known. She wanted to hold, to nurture and to love a baby that was every bit as small and helpless as this one. She wanted a baby of her own—one that was hers and Brendan’s.
Caroline thought about that through what was left of the afternoon. She and Brendan took Dan out to dinner. Then, dropping him back at the hospital to be with his wife and son, they drove north into the country to the inn they’d picked from Caroline’s book.
Brendan, too, was pensive. He was thinking many of the same things Caroline was, and he knew it. He’d seen her face—how could he have helped but see her face—when she’d been looking at that infant. He’d never seen such an exquisite expression, and while he marveled at the beauty behind it, he was annoyed that it wasn’t his baby that she was looking at with such awe. She would make a magnificent mother; he’d known it even before he’d met her face-to-face, and his judgment hadn’t changed. But, damn it, before they had kids they had to get married, and before they got married they had to declare that they were in love, and before they did that, Caroline had to realize that the relationship she’d thought she wanted wasn’t enough!
Words and emotions swirled within him. Having no outlet, they coiled around themselves. By the time he and Caroline had reached their destination, a charming inn in Quakertown, he’d worked himself into a mood that was as lousy as it was uncharacteristic.
“I’m going for a run,” he told her as soon as they’d been shown to their room. He busied himself digging a pair of running shorts out of his bag.
Caroline had been aware of his mood from that moment when it had crossed the line from disturbed to angry. It was almost as though she’d felt invisible fingers tapping on her shoulder, telling her that something was brewing. But to know something was brewing was one thing; to act on that knowledge was something else. She had a vague idea what was on his mind. She just wasn’t sure she was ready to discuss it.
“It’s dark out,” she said.
“I often run at night.”
“These roads aren’t lit like the ones at home.”
He’d pushed down his jeans and was sitting on the edge of the bed trying to work them over his sneakers. When the denim didn’t budge, he gave an impatient growl. “There’s a moon,” he said as he tugged off the sneakers, then the jeans, then pulled on the running shorts and went at relacing the sneakers.
Caroline hadn’t ever seen him quite this way. She’d seen him when he’d been frustrated by something at work and had come home scowling. She’d seen him when he’d gone out one morning to find that the tires of his car had been slashed. She’d even seen him when Shelley had told him where she’d spent the night between Kansas City and Washington.
But he’d never scowled at her before—not that he was doing so now. He wasn’t looking at her at all. And that was almost worse!
At a loss, she watched him finish with the sneakers, whip his shirt over his head and toss it aside, then leave the room. Turning out the light, she went to the window in time to see his shadowed form leave the shelter of the inn and take off at a rhythmic run down the drive.
She stood there long after he’d disappeared from sight, finally settling into a plush wing chair to await his return. After a while, it occurred to her that she was envious. He wasn’t the only one in need of a little fresh air. Changing into her own shorts and sneakers, she nodded her way past the few guests who were sitting in the lobby and left the inn.
Once outside, she was faced with the dilemma of what to do and where to go. She wasn’t a runner, and even if she were, she couldn’t have known what direction Brendan had taken when he’d hit the main road.
She didn’t want to miss him. Forget the business about getting fresh air; what she’d really come out for was to be with Brendan.
10
Caroline sat against the tall white pillar that was rooted to the front steps of the inn. Her hands were clasped between her knees, while her eyes systematically swept the darkened landscape for signs of life. She wondered where Brendan had gone and when he’d be back, but more, she wondered what he’d been thinking about when he’d taken off that way.
Nervously, she jumped up from the step and wandered into the yard, but the restless pacing she did there accomplished nothing. Minutes dragged by, and he didn’t return.
The night was hot. Her skin was damp and sticky. She swatted at a bug, idly at first, then with greater determination when the bug persisted in hovering by her ear.
In a spurt of impatience, she marched down the broad walk to the drive, where she stood for several minutes, searching the night. Brendan had been gone, by her guess, for nearly an hour. She couldn’t imagine that he’d been running the whole time. The air was nearly as humid as it had been in Washington, not ideal for a prolonged jog. Taking a page from her mother’s book, she envisioned him passing out by the roadside and lying there unattended or, worse, being hit by a car. She went on to consider the possibility that he’d been accosted; violence was known to rise in the heat of the summer, and indeed, the moon was full.
All of which speculation was absurd, she scoffed silently. The man earned his livelihood tracking down terrorists. That was dangerous. There was no danger on a quiet country road on a peaceful night beneath the stars. Most likely he was in town drinking a nice, cool beer.
Retracing her steps to the front porch, she sat down again. Something was wrong. Somewhere, somehow, she and Brendan had stopped communicating. That had been one of the basic rules she’d set—that there be honesty and openness between them. But right now there wasn’t. She had the distinct feeling that Brendan was angry, and she wasn’t quite sure why.
Once again she left the front steps, this time to wander down the drive and, in sheer frustration, start along the street. She didn’t have to go far. No more than a three-minute walk from the inn was a low stone wall. Straddling that wall was her man.
She felt relief, then trepidation, but there was no way she could have turned around and left him alone. So she approached slowly. Moonlight glistened on his sweaty skin, and his hair was tousled. His breathing was regular, though; she guessed that he’d been sitting there for a time.
“Did you run?” she asked lightly.
He shrugged. “A little.”
“Too hot?”
“Yeah.”
Three feet of thick night air separated them. While Caroline found the air to be oppressive, the separation was worse. This was Brendan … her dream lover … the man to whom she could say anything and everything … the friend with whom she could carry on the most exciting of silent talks.
But neither of them was talking now, and there was nothing comfortable about the silence. She wanted to cry. Instead, she asked, “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“I’ll bet you could use a cool drink.”
He didn’t respond to that at all but looked down, breaking eye contact for the first time since she’d come along.
Caroline moved closer. “What’s wrong, Brendan?”
It was a long time before he answered. He plucked at stray blades of grass that grew in spikes between the rocks, tossing each aside after he’d mangled it. She was beginning to wonder whether he planned to answer at all when his arms fell limply to his sides and he raised his eyes to the branches overhead. His voice came slowly and sounded distant.
“That was incredible today … seeing that little baby. I haven’t ever seen a human being that small.”
Caroline was surprised. She hadn’t expected that he’d still be thinking of the baby. She watched him closely as he frowned, then lowered his head and, still frowning, concentrated on the stone wall between his thighs.
“It struck me…” he said, then hesitated. “Well, lots of things struck me, but the first thing was that that little boy is totally helpless. Without his parents or a nurse or some kind of caretaker, he dies. That’s it. He just dies. Totally helpless. Totally dependent on others for survival.”
He stopped talking. He brushed his thumb back and forth over the rock. His lower lip came out to cover its mate, sliding free at length. “And then I started thinking of survival, and it hit me that we really take having kids for granted. We don’t think of it as propagating the species, but that’s what it is. There’s something primal about it, something raw … basic.”
He paused for a brief, pensive minute. “We’re like animals in that way, and I don’t mean it in a negative sense. People regard ‘animal behavior’ as synonymous with lust, but the fact is that animals do what they have to, to keep their species from becoming extinct. The knowledge is built-in. Instinct tells them what to do and when to do it.” He gave a soft snort. “It’s ironic. We have the superior ability to reason, and because of that our timing gets screwed up. Not that there’s a risk of our becoming extinct.…”
His voice trailed off. He remained still for a bit, only his thumbs moving on the rock. Then, slowly and uncertainly, he lifted his gaze to Caroline’s. “I was terrified when I saw that baby. I was terrified thinking of the responsibility involved—not only to feed it and clothe it but to love it and educate it and raise it to be a productive individual.” He took a breath, stopped, then asked, “Do you ever think of things like that?”
She nodded.
“I’ll bet they don’t frighten you.”
“Sure they do,” she answered softly. “Raising a child is a challenge no matter how you look at it. There are some things that start me shaking.”
“Like what?”
“Like what happens if the baby’s sick and crying and I don’t know what to do and I can’t reach a doctor.”
“That’s an emergency situation. Any normal parent would be scared.”
“Some of the everyday, nonemergency things scare me, too. Like holding the baby when it’s small and fragile and squirming. And protecting the soft spot at the top of its head. And making sure that it doesn’t fall out of the crib or off the dressing table or down a flight of stairs.” She took a breath. “The responsibility is awesome.”
Brendan was studying her intently. His voice came out deeper, a little husky. “But then, in spite of those fears, you look at a baby like we were looking at Karen’s today, and you know that you want one. That you have to have one. And you start thinking that if you should be struck by lightning and killed tomorrow or next week or next year—”
“Shh!” She cut him off with a sharp sound and a hand on his shoulder. Her hand remained tight on his flesh, though her tone softened. “Don’t say that.”
“But there’s always the possibility. Life isn’t forever.”
“You’re only thirty-eight years old!”
“Which is damned close to middle age—if I’m lucky. Hell, I don’t know what the future holds—”
“Brendan!” she protested, but he went quickly on.
“It suddenly occurred to me that if I don’t have a child, I really don’t have anything to leave behind. A son or daughter is a person’s legacy to the world. It’s a little bit of him that lives on to be passed to another generation, and another. If I want to have that child and imprint it with me, I’d better get going.”
Caroline had swung a leg over the stone wall and come down close behind him. “It’s not like you to be so morbid.”
“Not morbid. Realistic.”
“Morbid,” she insisted, sliding her arms around his waist. She proceeded to punctuate each word with a squeeze. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. You’ll have those children, and they’ll do you proud.”
He half turned his head toward his shoulder and vowed, “That’s what I want, Caroline. I want to have kids, and maybe it’s arrogant of me to say this, but they’ll be great. They’ll be bright and personable and enterprising.” He dropped his gaze to the spot at his waist where her fingers were threaded and raised a hand to touch them. “When I was looking at that baby today, I could almost see my own. I could almost feel it, feel the way it would feel in my arms, the touch of its skin. That has never, never happened to me—” His voice broke and he fell silent.
“Oh, Brendan,” Caroline whispered. Her eyes were closed and she was moving her cheek on his skin. She’d felt it, too—that elemental urge when she’d been looking at Karen’s baby—and she felt the same elemental urge now. It was an ache deep in her womb, and there was nothing objective or detached about it. It was intricately connected to this man. She’d never been one to believe in predestination, but there was something so inevitable about her attraction for him that she couldn’t have fought it if she’d wanted to. But she didn’t want to fight it. She could still be honest in this. She’d always been honest in her physical need for him.
Her fingers spread over the warm, flat muscles of his stomach. She identified one rib, then another, and as her hands rose so did her excitement. Her name came as a quiet whisper on his lips, goading her on. She pressed closer to his back until her breasts were flattened. Her palms made slow, repeated crossings over his hardening nipples.
Brendan had never pretended to be immune to her touch, and he didn’t now. But the pleasure was deeper, the need greater. Something of frightening force simmered just beneath the surface. In an attempt to keep it restrained, he inhaled sharply and pressed his palms flat to his thighs. But he couldn’t keep his head from falling back in pleasure, or his back from arching, or his chest from swelling to her touch.
So many times in the past month they’d made love, yet for Caroline touching Brendan now took on new purpose. His responses were quick—the tightening of his muscles, the increasing speed of his pulse and shallowness of his breathing. They were prescribed responses, the wordless preamble to lovemaking. They were responses relevant to the biological drive not only to mate but to mate well.
Caroline understood the power of that drive. She’d already accepted the fact that if she were to have a baby, she’d want Brendan to father it. That knowledge, combined with the incredible inundation of sensation that came with the feel of his skin beneath her mouth, his taste, his scent, turned her on.
Her hands grew more active, venturing farther and more boldly. She wasn’t thinking of teasing him or even of pleasuring him. She was simply arousing him to a state where he could fulfill his function as a man. And he was fast getting there. When she lowered her hands to his nylon running shorts, she felt the strained gloving of his sex. She caressed him there; he made a low, almost primitive sound. Needing to touch his flesh, she breached the band of his shorts and cupped him with both hands. He made another sound, one that she echoed. Touching him was setting her afire.
She wanted him desperately, but words would have shattered the precious silence of the night. So she showed him her need by making slow, undulating movements against him while her fingers drew him to his limits with silken strokes.
In a swing so gentle that it might have been made in slow motion, Brendan turned and brought her down to the grass on the hidden, meadow side of the wall. There was nothing slow about his fever, though. His mouth was open and hot on hers. His body was insistent. His large hands freed her of her shorts in the same deft movements with which he stripped himself. Claiming his place between her waiting thighs, he entered her with the sureness of divine plan.
Their lovemaking, then, became something fierce and urgent. The pace was fast. Gentleness was something that neither of them could afford. Brendan’s thrusts were deep and vibrant; Caroline met each with greater demand, then cried out when he gave her what she craved. Sh
e’d wrapped her legs high around his waist, inviting the deepest possible penetration, and he was there, touching the mouth of her womb, over and over again.
The night woods were a mute witness to the futile battle they waged. Their bodies grew wet with sweat and taut with need, and when the strain of passion erupted into a pulsing climax, they cried out.
But they’d failed. There would be no baby, because they were sane, responsible individuals who left nothing to chance when it came to conception.
Caroline was protected. A strange word, protected. In the aftermath of this night’s passion, it was something to be resented. And a short while later, as Caroline and Brendan walked side by side back to the inn, they shared a sadness that compounded itself by their inability to discuss it.
* * *
They spent the night making fast, furious, demanding love. It seemed the only way they could express their feelings. There was a desperation to their coming together, an element of punishment in the fury of their coupling. And between bouts of passion, there was sadness.
By noon the next day they were back at the hospital in Philadelphia, and by five that afternoon, in Washington. They’d talked little during the trip. The silence was a knife twisting in Caroline, but she simply couldn’t break it. There was so much to say that she couldn’t say a thing, and what she had to say was of such import that she didn’t know how to begin.
Brendan didn’t have that problem. At her open door, he took her hand, whispered a soft kiss to its palm, then released it. “Go on in,” he said softly.
“You’re not coming?”
“No.”
“Maybe later?”
“I don’t think so.”
The pain in his eyes became her own as understanding dawned. “It’s not because you’re tired or because you have work to do.”
He shook his head.
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