She fought against gagging at the smell of the cheap cigar. "Get that thing out of my face," she ordered, her anger rising to meet his as she waved away the smoke. She planted her fists on her hips; her voice grew louder. "I told you, you aren't leaving it here. It isn't mine, and I don't know what to do with it."
His gaze dropped to her rounded stomach, barely enclosed in her robe and much more obvious than when she was properly dressed. "It looks to me like you might think of something," he said sarcastically, releasing another puff of smoke. "So where do you want it?"
"What's going on here?" said a deep voice as Jake stepped out of the door above them. His hair was wet from the shower. He wore trousers and a white shirt, but the shirt wasn't buttoned to the top and he hadn't put on his tie.
He hesitated for only the briefest second while he took in the sight of the men, the truck, the growing pile of merchandise on the sidewalk. Then he came down the steps to stand beside her, putting his broad palm reassuringly against her back. "Are you okay?" he asked tersely.
Her heart sank. She appreciated his concern, but wished he would disappear. She could deal with this. She nodded. "I'm fine. Jake—"
But he had turned the threat of his gaze on the deliveryman, who rolled the cigar to the other corner of his mouth. Jake topped him by almost a foot.
"Can I do something for you?" asked Jake pleasantly, but the threat remained in his eyes. The man at the truck had ceased his unloading and now stood watching interestedly.
"Yeah. I got a load of baby furniture for Mrs. Armstrong here."
Jake's hand fell away. She saw him breathe in and pale slightly as he glanced down at her stomach. He couldn't seem to look away. Finally he met her eyes and she recoiled from the accusation there. His gaze shifted to the items piled on the walk—a chest, a shelf, the long box.
His expression was noncommittal, though, as he turned back to the man. "Then unload it and get the hell out of here," he said in a low, dangerous voice.
The man started to say something, but he took a look at Jake and evidently thought better of it. He motioned to his partner. "Let's get movin'."
"Jake—"
Ignoring her, Jake crossed the sidewalk and headed back up the steps. Annoyed, Natalie watched him go; she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Before he went inside, he paused and spoke across the railing. "Hey, you."
The man looked up, surprised.
"Get rid of the cigar before you set a foot inside that apartment."
"Yes, sir!" The man stomped toward the truck. He balanced the stub of his stogie on its fender and climbed into the back, muttering to himself.
"Where would you like me to put this, ma'am?" said his partner politely. He had hefted the long, flat box in his widespread arms.
Natalie frowned at him. "What is that?" she demanded.
He craned his neck to see a series of numbers written on the bottom end of the box. "I think it's the pieces for a crib. It'll have to be assembled."
"Great," muttered Natalie. She stepped back from the door so he could pass. "In here."
The apartment had limited space—most of which was quickly filled with what appeared to be enough furniture for two babies. She had him put the long box, which indeed did contain parts of the crib, in the room she was using as an office. There was also a mattress for the crib, a chest of drawers, a bath and changing table, a high chair, two sets of shelves and boxes filled with exquisite imported linens.
It was a tight fit, but they managed to squeeze most of the furniture into the small room. They wedged the bassinet into an empty corner of her own bedroom. There was no space left for the last item, a lovely antique rocking chair. "Just leave it in the living room," she said at last.
After she had signed the invoice and the men had left, she went to the telephone. Jake answered on the third ring.
"I wanted you to know that I didn't order the furniture," she told him evenly.
He was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. "Yes," he said. "I figured that out."
"Jake, I regret that this happened, but I don't appreciate having the blame automatically placed on me for anything that upsets you. I wasn't the only one involved, you know."
"Sorry," he said.
Just the one word, nothing else. If he'd been in the room with her she would have shaken him. She gripped the telephone until her knuckles were white. "I am determined to be pleasant around you, even if we disagree. If something bothers me, I'm going to talk to you about it. Do you think you could manage the same courtesy?"
She paused, but when he didn't reply she went on. "If you can't, I would prefer we stop spending time together. It isn't good for my nerves."
"Nerves?" he shot back. "I didn't know you had any."
She caught her breath. "That was a rotten thing to say. Just because I don't—"
"Natalie," he interrupted, saying her name very softly. She could imagine his expression, hard, unyielding. His jaw would be clenched and he would be speaking through his teeth.
"Natalie," he repeated. "I will do what I can to make you comfortable for the duration of the pregnancy. After that, I will gladly bow out of your life."
"Fine," she said sharply. "That's exactly how I want it." She hung up.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
After Thanksgiving, the weather in Savannah turned bitterly cold. Though the winter months were not severe, autumn often delivered a damp, chilling wind off the river that was far from comfortable. Natalie began using her car to get to the shop. As a result she had to do her walking in the evenings.
Jake had worked straight through the holiday weekend. He was still pleasant, still checked on her, still walked with her when the weather allowed it, still took her to eat occasionally.
He was polite, but the warmth had melted away from his expression when he looked at her. Indeed, ever since the day he'd shown her the docks, he had avoided doing that as much as possible. And since the scene with the furniture men, things were different, more difficult between them.
Or was that when it started? Natalie thought back. She knew her appearance was at least partly to blame. With her stomach growing larger every day, the pregnancy was too obvious to ignore. But she had begun to anticipate their times together, the congenial, benevolent atmosphere between them, and she was sad for the loss.
Christmas weekend was as bleak as any holiday she'd ever known. Jake knocked at her door on Christmas Eve to say goodbye. He was spending two days with Lisa's parents in Charleston. They had included Natalie—via Jake—in the invitation, but she had declined.
The first Christmas after Lisa's death would be a sad, tense time for all of them, but if she were there, in her condition, the tension would be unbearable. Besides, she wasn't sure she could endure it, either.
"I know you'll be lonely, Natalie," Jake told her. "And I hate to leave you." To his surprise the statement was true. He did hate to leave her alone. "But the Reeds need me to be there."
"I understand, Jake. Don't worry about me."
As she watched him walk away, she patted her stomach. "Just you and me, Mischief," she said, using the nickname she'd conferred on the baby. "I guess we'd better get used to it."
Wasn't talking to yourself an indication of some kind of mental disorder? She smiled. Talking to your unborn child was surely acceptable.
* * *
Christmas Day seemed to last at least a week. Natalie tried to make it festive. She rose early to put a recording of Christmas carols on the stereo, and she dressed in a long red caftan that Joseph had given her their first Christmas together. At eleven o'clock she put a ready-to-cook turkey breast in the oven. She even prepared a packaged dressing and opened a can of cranberry sauce. But when she sat down at the table alone, her appetite vanished.
She tried to remind herself that next year would be different; she and the baby would be a family. "Next year, Mischief, we'll have a tree to decorate and presents and everything," she pro
mised the bulge, rubbing her hand comfortingly over her stomach.
The baby kicked, hard, as though in understanding. The communication, primitive as it was, heartened her. She felt better, less lonely, as she put the food away and sang along with the stereo as she washed the dishes.
Finally she stretched out on the bed and slept the afternoon away.
Unconsciously she listened throughout the evening for Jake's return. He came in sometime after eleven. When she heard his car, she went through the dark kitchen to the back door.
She wanted to say something to him, even if it was just to ask if he'd had a pleasant trip. She needed human contact, words spoken aloud, a smile; after all, it was Christmas Day.
But when she looked out the window, she decided against it. He walked slowly, head bent, a picture of desolation.
By the twenty-sixth, she was relieved to be back at work. Until she heard John's plans.
"A convention is scheduled in the riverfront hotel for the first week of the new year," he explained. "Ordinarily we close during that week to list the stock for tax purposes. But there are megabucks to be made, m'dear. This year we'll have to do the inventory after-hours."
Natalie smiled at his flamboyant gestures, but nonetheless she felt her spirits slump. She was seven months pregnant now and didn't move as easily as she had. Dr. MacGregor had suggested that she participate in the Lamaze classes given by the hospital. The first class was scheduled to begin next Sunday afternoon. She also had to finish an article about Savannah's city parks for The Georgian. She'd promised to have it ready by January 10.
Her reaction must have shown on her face. "Of course, I'll pay you time and a half for the overtime work," John added hastily.
She nodded. "All right," she told him.
* * *
On the evening of January 7, Natalie and John finally completed the inventory. It was the first night in a week she had gotten home before ten o'clock.
Just inside the door, she stepped out of her shoes. She flipped on the light and padded into the living room. She pulled off her coat, dropped it on the floor and dug her fingers into the small of her back. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace. Shocked by her appearance, she headed for the bathroom, where she turned on the overhead light and looked more closely.
There was no color in her cheeks at all, not even reflected color from the red maternity dress, which had become her favorite. She picked up a strand of her hair that had worked free from her chignon and brought it forward to examine it. Dull and lifeless—just like the shampoo ads warned. She let the strand fall over her forehead into her eyes. Extending her lower lip out from her upper, she blew the hair off her face.
She returned to the living room, noting that her coat still lay where it fell, and she collapsed on the sofa. She ached all over—her head, her feet and every bone and muscle in between. She maneuvered a pillow under her swollen ankles and lay back. As soon as she was prone the baby started kicking.
"I know, Mischief, I know," she soothed, rubbing her stomach. "We're hungry, aren't we?" She closed her eyes. In a minute she would get up and fix something to eat, she thought. Then she would have a long soak in the bathtub and go to bed.
The article for Southern Life was almost done; all week she'd worked late into the night, hauling out the reference books on Savannah history. Tomorrow was her day off, and if John Barnard knew what was good for him, he'd better not call her in. She would finish the article and get it in the mail.
Tonight she and Mischief needed rest. She had put the saltshaker away in November, so she knew that her swollen feet and ankles were a bad sign. If the swelling wasn't gone tomorrow, she would have to call Dr. MacGregor and make an appointment to have it checked. She refused to think about what she would do if the condition turned out to be something serious. Not tonight.
Instead her mind wandered to happier times.
When her stomach was flat.
On that thought, she fell asleep.
* * *
Jake's knock went unanswered. She was home. He'd seen her car come into the alley half an hour ago.
He was aware that she and John had been working late every night, taking inventory at the shop on the riverfront. He had worried about it earlier, but when he mentioned it to her she'd said it was only for a few days.
The lights were blazing from behind the kitchen curtains; she had to be up. She was careful about things like lights. He knocked again. Still no answer.
Puzzled, he backed off the step and circled around to the front of the house, let himself through the iron gate that shielded the narrow strip of side yard from the street. This door opened directly into the living room of the apartment.
The shutters over the front window were open, allowing light to spill onto the sidewalk. Not very smart, Natalie, he thought. Though this section of historic Savannah wasn't a high-crime area, break-ins weren't unheard of. He looked in.
She was sound asleep on the sofa. The rise of her belly looked as though it were too much weight for her. At least, he presumed she was asleep. She was facing away from the door. But he could see that her bare feet, propped high on a pillow, were severely swollen. One arm was crooked above her head, the other dangled off the sofa, fingers almost touching the floor.
His heart rose into his throat. The vulnerable position seemed to expose a defenselessness she was careful to hide when she was awake.
He knocked again, then returned to the window. She hadn't moved. Did the effects of pregnancy generate such heavy sleep naturally? Concerned now, he fished out his keys.
He entered the room and closed the door behind him, not attempting to mute the noise. The first thing he noticed was that the room was cold. She must have forgotten to turn up the furnace when she came in. He had on corduroy pants and a sweater and the chill was creeping in on him. She wore a light wool dress and no shoes.
He saw that logs were stacked in the fireplace, the same ones he'd stacked there a week ago. He thought about lighting the kindling beneath them to get this room warmed up. But first—
Hands planted on his hips, he stood looking down at her. Her beautiful face was pale and taut with weariness. Her eyelashes fluttered lightly, casting moving shadows on her cheeks.
Then he saw her coat on the floor. Negligence was so unlike her that his heart began to race, and he felt a moment of real panic. He hunkered down beside the sofa and brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. "Natalie," he said gently. "Natalie, wake up."
She stirred slightly, then settled back into a deep sleep.
He laid his hand against her pale cheek. Was she feverish? He couldn't tell. "Natalie," he repeated, louder this time.
She opened her eyes halfway, then closed them again. And her lips curved into a lovely, tender smile. "Hi," she said softly.
"Hi," he responded, relieved that he'd gotten a reaction. He relaxed and smiled. "I was worried when you didn't answer the door."
She moved her head, her lips brushed his palm and stayed to nestle there in an unquestionably affectionate gesture. Her skin was warm, smooth, silky. She was sweet and strong and—
Jake pulled his hand away, as though he'd been burned by her touch. What the hell was happening to him? Was he losing his mind? He stood, stumbling a bit as he regained his balance.
The abrupt movement brought Natalie fully awake. Her eyes grew wide as his stunned gaze met hers—met and held for a long breathless minute. Suddenly she raised herself on her elbows and looked around as though she didn't quite know where she was. "Oh, Jake. Sorry. I must have dozed off."
His eyes narrowed as he looked down at her. He wouldn't have thought she could have gotten any whiter, but she was. "You weren't dozing, Natalie, you were out like a light." His voice sounded strange—harsh and tough and angry. He moderated it before he spoke again. "Are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine," Natalie answered automatically. But she wasn't, and she knew it. For just a moment as she was wak
ing, she experienced a sense of happiness and contentment unlike anything she'd felt in years. Now she was simply cold. "I could use a hand getting up, though."
He bent beside her again to scoop his broad palm beneath her back. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. Suddenly her head swam and her mouth was filled with a sharp metallic taste. She tried, unsuccessfully, to cover the moan that escaped from her throat as her head fell sideways to rest on his shoulder.
"You are not fine," said Jake accusingly, tightening his arm around her. His fear returned in a rush. "Don't move. I'm calling Mac."
"Jake, please wait." She put her hand on his corduroy-clad thigh to stop him.
Jake froze at the warm contact. He glanced down at Natalie. He must have looked shocked.
"I am a little dizzy," she admitted in response to his expression.
He breathed a sigh of relief and got himself under control. Thankfully she hadn't noticed his reaction. This woman was pregnant—sick—and here he was aroused because her hand felt so good on his leg. Armstrong, you're a jerk.
"I'm sure I'm just tired," she went on. "It's late. Let me get up, wash my face and see if I feel better before you call the doctor."
He searched her features for a moment, concerned. "Have you eaten?" he asked.
Natalie snatched at the excuse, for once grateful that Jake seemed to have a fixation about food. "No, I haven't had time. That's probably what's wrong with me."
He offered his hand to give her a boost.
The moment she stood the nausea hit. She clamped her palm over her mouth, forgetting her swollen feet, forgetting her headache and dizziness and every other symptom, in her rush for the bathroom.
Jake was right behind her as she attempted to shove the door closed. "No!" she wailed. Her stomach heaved then, and she forgot him, as well.
Jake took charge without asking her permission. Poor kid, he thought as he held her.
He supported her convulsing body with one strong arm around her shoulders, while he reached for a washcloth and wet it in the sink. He squeezed the water from it and was ready when she finally raised her head, gasping for breath. He continued to hold her as he bathed her pale face, gently soothing her brows. Her breath shuddered on a last sigh and she opened her eyes.
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