Sweet Baby

by Sharon Sala

  Brett couldn’t help but stare. There was so much life in the expressions she’d captured. From the small boy with his face buried in cotton candy to the old woman astride a horse on the merry-go-round, riding side by side with a toddler. Despite the differences in their ages, the delight on their faces was identical. Brett whistled beneath his breath, then shook his head.

  “Energy. That’s what you caught. The energy.”

  Tory clapped her hands. “That’s right! You understand! You really understand!”

  He grinned wryly. “I understand a hell of a lot more than you give me credit for, Victoria.”

  Choosing to ignore what sounded like sarcasm, she continued to sift through the shots. When Brett reached across the table and picked one of them up, she didn’t bother to hide her surprise.

  “I really like this one,” he said. “Where was it taken?”

  “You know, that one is my favorite.”

  Brett sensed her surprise. The fact that he had zeroed in on something special to her was no big deal, but it never failed to amaze him that she was so obtuse about their relationship. Sometimes he thought he knew his woman better than she knew herself.

  He handed her the picture. “Tell me why.” Then he sat back, watching the changing expressions on her face as she started to explain.

  “I’m not entirely sure, but it’s such a collage of expressions. See… there. And there. And there. Look at their faces. He’s disgusted. She’s laughing. They’re kissing. And look at the child near that man wearing overalls. She’s so tiny, and she’s clutching on to that hammer loop on his pants for dear life. It makes you look at the world from her point of view. All she sees are legs and backsides, so she’s holding on to the only familiar thing within her reach, and that’s the loop on her daddy’s pants.”

  “Tory.”

  She looked up, her eyes alight with joy. “What?”

  “I love you.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  Her question startled him. “Why what?”

  She laid the photo on the table, then gave him a long, intent stare. “Why do you love me? I’m not very reliable when it comes to considering your feelings… about anything.”

  Brett pulled her into his lap, ignoring the fuss she tried to make regarding his sore hand.

  “Settle down,” he ordered, and scooted her into a firm position in his lap. “You asked me a question. I’m trying to give you an answer.”

  She quieted, but Brett could see the intensity on her face as she watched him.

  “Why do I love you? Hell, Tory, why does the sun come up every morning and go down every night? Why do babies cry and dogs howl at the moon? Because they can’t help it, that’s why, and God help me, neither can I.”

  He pulled her head down on his shoulder and cuddled her closer, unwilling to let a moment of Victoria Lancaster escape him.

  “Do you remember the first time I saw you?”

  She frowned, thinking back over the past four years. But before she could answer, he continued.

  “Let’s see, this is August, so it was four years ago last month. It was just after sundown, at that warehouse fire over on Reno. The police had roped off the area to keep bystanders at bay. Ambulance sirens were screaming, and patrol cars were parked all over the place with their lights still flashing. The fire was out of control, and the fire trucks kept coming. The heat from the day, as well as from the fire, was unbelievably intense. Instead of putting out the fire, the water they were spraying kept turning into steam.”

  Tory smiled. “It was just luck that I happened on the scene. In fact, it was those pictures that later got me my first big assignment.”

  “Yes, and they also nearly got you killed.”

  She frowned. “Oh, I wasn’t in that much—”

  “Hell, honey, don’t argue with me. You didn’t see yourself, because you had that damned camera up to your face. I’m the one who nearly had a heart attack when I saw you emerging from a cloud of mist and steam. You didn’t even know where you were or what you were doing. If I hadn’t grabbed you when I did, that fire truck would have run over you.”

  She flushed. Even now, she could remember the shock of being yanked backward and the anger she’d felt at missing the shot she’d lined up. But when she’d turned, her anger was nothing to the fury she’d seen on Brett Hooker’s face.

  “I remember you asking me if I had a death wish,” Tory said.

  Brett grinned. “Yeah, and then, about ten minutes later, I asked you out.”

  “And I turned you down,” she reminded him.

  Brett nuzzled the spot behind her ear, smiling to himself when she moaned beneath her breath. “Yes, you did,” he said. “Then and every other time I asked you for the next two months.”

  “So why didn’t you give up?” Tory asked.

  Brett caught her chin, then tilted it until she was forced to meet his gaze.

  “For the same reason that I love you. I couldn’t help myself. I knew I’d spend the rest of my life being sorry if I let you go.”

  He sighed, then lowered his mouth until their lips met. When her arms slid around his neck and he could feel her breasts pressing against his chest, he groaned, breaking their connection.

  “You may not want to hear this, but it’s time it was said. We belong, Victoria. Heart, body and soul, neither one of us is complete without the other. And if that scares you, and if you feel the need to disappear out of my life over and over again, then so be it. But face the truth of what we are. We aren’t just lovers, baby. We love.”

  For once, the panic that Tory usually felt at any gesture of permanence just wasn’t there. It was all she could do to keep from crying as she met his gaze. Her whisper was as soft as her touch as she cupped his face.

  “I don’t deserve you.”

  His grin was lopsided and his voice filled with emotion, but there was method in his madness as he stood with her still in his arms.

  “Oh, yes, you do, baby. And I’m going to spend the next couple of hours showing you why.”

  Three

  Tory slept curled beneath the shelter of Brett’s outflung arm. His breath was warm and even against her shoulder, his body a wall between her and the world. But Tory was too lost in dream-sleep to know she was safe. For now, her subconscious was commanding her thoughts, and she was deep in a nightmare that was out of control.

  The wind wailed, drowning out the small girl’s screams. Night had come and gone twice, and she was still alone. From the back of the closet in which she was hiding, she could see the first hints of daylight beginning to show through the half-open door. She drew her knees up against her chest and hid her face. She’d long ago lost count of the hours that had passed since she’d crawled into the closet. All she knew was, in here, she felt safe.

  Something scurried across the floor outside the doorway. She wrapped her arms tighter around her knees and squinched her eyelids shut, afraid to look—afraid to move. When her belly growled, she moaned and licked her lips. Hungry. She was so very hungry. She kept thinking of Mary Ellen’s party and the marshmallows they’d had. Oh, how she wished she had some of them now. Another urge overrode her hunger, the need to relieve herself. Though she wiggled uncomfortably, she was unwilling to leave the safety of the closet.

  The extent of her fear took everything she heard within the emptiness of the house and magnified it many times over: the sound of dry leaves blowing across the floor; the wind whistling through the half-open windows; even the sounds of cars going by on the road beyond made her panic. She didn’t remember giving up hope, but there was an emptiness inside her now that had nothing to do with hunger.

  Tory’s legs jerked as she curled in upon herself, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Unconsciously, she pulled away from Brett as she was pulled deeper into the child in the dream.

  There was a sound! Could it be…? And then she moaned beneath her breath and bit her lip. It wasn’t a car that she heard, it was a motorcycle, and the momen
t recognition hit, she started to shudder. She knew who that was. He’d been here before. His clothes were black and shiny, and there were chains dangling from his belt, and from his boots and wrists. He’d laughed at her then, and all she’d seen were yellow-stained teeth parting the growth of his black, bushy beard.

  When she heard him call out, she began scooting farther into the corner of the closet, all but holding her breath in an effort to hide.

  “Hey, Ollie! Is anybody home. I came for—”

  There was a pause, and she thought he’d gone until she heard him mutter.

  “Son of a bitch. That sorry bastard skipped out owing me. It figures.”

  Quiet followed his outburst. Just when she thought he would leave, she heard him moving around. A sick dread began spreading within her. His voice had been loud and angry—just as she’d remembered. Afraid to move—afraid not to—she slowly stood, pinning herself against the farthest corner of the closet wall. Her eyes widened with fear as she stared through the half-open door, listening to the sound of his footsteps coming closer—closer!

  Sweat beaded beneath her hair and began running down the back of her neck. She could see his arm, then his shoulder, now the side of his face. He turned and stared straight into the closet, as if piercing the darkness in which she was hidden.

  As he reached for the doorknob, a warm, wet stream of urine began running down the inside of her leg. When his silhouette moved between her and escape, she started to cry, and when he reached for her, he was grinning.

  She threw back her head and screamed.

  Brett awoke just as a scream ripped from Tory’s throat. She arched backward, all but ejecting herself from the bed. He grabbed her before she fell.

  “Tory, baby, wake up! Wake up! It’s me, Brett! It’s a dream—a dream! You’re having a dream.”

  She came awake within seconds of the sound of his voice, unable to stop sobbing. All she had left of the nightmare was a knot in the pit of her stomach and an overwhelming need to be held. She rolled over and into Brett’s arms, choking on words that wouldn’t come.

  He cupped the back of her head and pulled her closer, rocking her against him as he would have a child.

  “Sssh, baby, it’s okay, it’s okay. It was only a dream.”

  Clutching at his arms, she shuddered and buried her face against the wall of his chest.

  “Brett?”

  “Yes, baby, it’s me.”

  “Dream… I had a bad dream.”

  He kept stroking her hair and her face in a slow, soothing motion. “But it’s over, Tory, it’s all over now. I’m here, and you’re safe, okay?”

  Tremors racked her body as she absorbed his presence. With a shaky voice, she pleaded with him in a soft whisper.

  “Lights… Please turn on the lights.”

  He reached over her shoulder and pulled the chain on the bedside lamp, instantly bathing Tory in a soft, yellow glow. When she could see her surroundings, she began to relax, and when her sobs were down to an occasional sniffle, Brett began to relax, too.

  And all the while he held her, he couldn’t quit thinking how strange this seemed. Tory wasn’t the kind of woman who suffered nightmares. She was so self-contained that he’d believed she was impervious to just about everything, yet twice now, within days of her homecoming, she had reacted in ways that were completely out of character.

  The investigator in him was more than curious, but the man in him loved her enough to wait and let her do the talking, although he knew enough about her not to hold his breath. She kept everything to herself. If there was something she wanted him to know about her past, then he would be more than willing to listen, but it would have to come in her time, not his. And while he was thinking, Tory began to get restless. He rubbed her back in a gentle, soothing motion, then kissed the top of her head.

  “Feeling better?”

  Tory rolled out of his arms. “I want to get up. I don’t want to lie in this bed anymore tonight.”

  Brett glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to five. He cupped her cheek.

  “Honey, the night is gone. It’s almost morning. So how about if I make some coffee and you dig out that cake?”

  She almost managed a smile. “You’d find any excuse to eat some more, wouldn’t you?”

  Happy to see her focus shifting, he played along with the game and got out of bed, then turned and helped her up, as well.

  “Come on, don’t make me feel guilty. You like it, too.”

  She glanced toward the closet door as she stood. It was standing slightly ajar. A sudden chill made the flesh on the back of her neck crawl, and without thinking why, she slammed it shut. Ignoring the fact that Brett was watching her every move, she reached for her robe.

  “Could we make hot chocolate instead of coffee?”

  Brett was waiting, hoping for some sort of explanation for her odd behavior, but when once again it didn’t come, he rolled with the change in conversation.

  “I’ll make whatever you want.” And then he amended, “Short of anything that has more than two ingredients, that is.”

  Tory laughed, and he began to breathe easier.

  He slipped an arm around her waist. “Laugh all you want. Just remember how my last attempt at cooking real food ended. The garbage disposal was stopped up for a week.”

  Tory was smiling as Brett guided her toward the kitchen. By the time hot chocolate had been made and the cake cut and served, the nightmare was all but forgotten. Within an hour the sun would be up. It was the start of a brand-new day.

  ***

  Tory had pictures scattered on every flat surface in the apartment, picking through the ones she was going to use for the piece she was writing. After talking with her editor at the magazine, she had decided to take the story in two different directions, and she had the pictures to make it work. On the one hand, she had the jaded expressions on the carnival workers’ faces, as opposed to the joy and anticipation of the carnival-goers. It was going to be a powerful piece. But first she had to choose the prints that would go with the text, and that was what she was doing today.

  Every so often she would pick one up and add it to the small collage on the kitchen cabinet. When the photos began to tie into the piece in her head, she began getting excited, imagining how the accompanying story would unfold. The crowd shot she liked best was going to be the pivotal point, because it captured both angles of the story, depicting the carnival workers and the fair-goers alike.

  As always, when there was a particular picture that caught her eye, she studied it for reasons why. As she stared at the crowd shot, it dawned on her that when she first looked at it, her gaze invariably focused on one particular face.

  Curious, she carried it into the darkroom and then switched on the overhead lights. After shuffling through drawers, she found the magnifying glass she’d been looking for and held it over the picture.

  When all she could see was the face of an older, nondescript man, she frowned with disappointment. His features were grim, and he seemed to be looking at a point beyond the eye of the camera, but the image was small; it was in no way a solution to the mystery of why she was drawn to his face.

  Disgusted with herself, she went back to her work. Yet twice more she found herself returning to the shot and staring at the old man’s face. At that point, she gave up in defeat. She knew herself well enough to realize that she wouldn’t be able to work until she’d solved her dilemma. She picked the picture back up, staring intently for a few seconds longer.

  “Maybe if I enlarge it—”

  Intrigued by the idea, she put the picture down. It would mean a trip downtown to get some extra supplies, but it would be worth it. This was driving her nuts.

  A few minutes later she was on her way out the door when the phone began to ring. She stood with her hand on the knob, waiting for the machine to pick up. The voice was one she recognized, but she let the caller talk without answering, adding guilt to her frustration.

  “Hi, Brett,
it’s me—your mother. Remember me? I’m the woman who gave birth to you, the one who taught you to clean your first fish. The one you rarely call.”

  As she listened to Cynthia Hooker’s voice, something inside of her began to shut down. Cynthia was still talking as Tory walked out of the apartment, quietly closing the door behind her. But instead of leaving, she stood just outside the door, listening to the rest of the message.

  “Never mind the speech, that’s not why I called. I thought you might like to know that you’re now an uncle. Your sister Celia just gave birth to a beautiful baby girl—eight pounds, two ounces. Melissa Carol and mother are doing fine. Talk to you soon. I love you. Oh… and give Victoria our love, as well.”

  Tory’s eyes narrowed as she headed for the stairs. Love. They were always saying that. Give Victoria our love. It was kind of them to want to include her in their family life, but that wasn’t for her. She didn’t need other people to make her life complete. She’d learned years ago to be happy with less than everyone else, and she’d learned it well. If you didn’t depend on anyone but yourself, then you had only yourself to blame if life let you down.

  I don’t need anyone. And then she thought of Brett and the anchor he represented in her life. Except maybe Brett, but he doesn’t count. He’ll always be there for me.

  In spite of the confidence she had in the man and the love they shared, there was that niggling kernel of doubt that wouldn’t stay put. Why, Tory… why are you so sure about Brett?

  “Because he promised,” she told the meddling little voice. “That’s why.”

  ***

  A stray cat leaped from the ledge of a broken window as Brett pulled up to the Santa Fe Warehouse and parked. It was bad enough being down on this end of Reno Street on a good day, but an hour ago it had started to rain, and all the indigents would be looking for shelter. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to five, and for the last four hours, he’d been going from one abandoned building to another, trying to locate a material witness for his boss.