by White, Karen
Panting heavily, Linc banged on the door. “Jillian! Grace! It’s me, Linc!” He heard nothing but the storm and the wind and the sea and he banged again, bruising the side of his hand. The next roll of thunder shook his teeth as the wind pushed him against a fallen rocking chair. Another chair swayed drunkenly in the gusts that barreled in from the ocean, spraying everything with sand and water.
Linc swore silently under his breath, wondering why he was here instead of in the warm sanctuary of his bed, then turned the doorknob. It was unlocked and slipped easily in his hand. He pushed the door inward, then shut it with force against the wind that demanded entry.
Despite the raging storm outside, the house held a tomblike stillness, almost as if the air was textured to mute the sounds of the storm. “Damn,” he swore again, feeling foolish. Any minute Jillian would appear at the top of the stairs and ask him why he was in her house in the middle of the night.
He turned to leave, and touched the doorknob again. A soft sound came from upstairs, something between a moan and a sob. “Jillian?” he called again. “It’s Linc. Are you all right?”
There was no response, but he was already moving up the stairs, holding his flashlight in front of him. He paused at the threshold of Grace’s room and looked in, shining the light on the bed. The child slept with her arms around her stuffed bunny, oblivious to the world raging around her. Glowing green eyes from her cat gazed steadily at him from the foot of the bed.
With long strides, he closed the distance between the rooms and entered Jillian’s bedroom. The flashlight illuminated her empty bed in a bright circle of light, then skipped off the bed and around the room. She was in there. He felt her.
He moved forward and stumbled over something that rolled across the wooden floor. He bent down and picked up the object, realizing it was a battery. The smashed flashlight lay several feet in front of him, and beyond that he found Jillian.
She was curled in a corner, her bare feet lonely beacons of paleness under her dark gown. Her head was pressed down on her upraised knees, her hands holding down her head. Her teeth were chattering, holding back the sobs that seemed to leak out between her lips.
“Jillian?” He showed the flashlight beam against the wall near her so as not to blind her when she looked up.
“Jillian?” he said again as he moved closer to her.
Her head jerked back, and he saw that her eyes were clenched shut, closed against a blackened world that hid things that even he didn’t want to see.
“Don’t . . . leave me . . . in here.”
Oh, God. Her voice sounded like that of a child. He reached for her hand and she grasped it, her fingers cold and clammy. Her eyes flew open and focused on his face.
He kept the flashlight on, but put it on the floor before he got down and placed his arms around her. She shook in his arms but didn’t try to pull away. “I’m not going to leave you, Jillian. I’m staying.”
She curled into him and he felt her softness, her body full and ripe with motherhood. It startled him; he hadn’t expected that, despite the way she looked. He bent his head closer so she could feel him, so he could make her chattering stop. He caught her scent then—an odd mixture of rain and ocean, an intoxicating perfume that couldn’t quite hide the scent of her fear.
The wind lashed at the house, the rain tap-dancing across the roof and windows, the sky alternately dark and light as the lightning flew through the sky. She pressed her forehead into his shirt. “I . . . don’t like . . . the dark.”
He held her tighter, and he noticed with absurd detachment that he was rubbing her back, the soft cotton of her nightgown bunching under his fingers. “I know, I know. It’ll be over soon.” He stared down at her, wrapped in his arms as if she belonged there, and felt with dread the fingers of need curl inside him. Part of him wanted to push her away, to leave and run through the rain to his cold, empty shell of a house. But he knew he wouldn’t. He’d always been such a coward where she was concerned.
Her breathing slowed as she clung to him, and he moved her head so that it rested against his chest. He shifted restlessly under her, his wet clothes sticking to them both, a tight roiling of her belly feeling natural under his arm. What has she pulled me into now? He realized he had spoken aloud when she raised her head.
A bright flash illuminated the room, creating a halo of light around her. Her voice was quiet but calm. “I’m not trying to make your life miserable, Linc. Not on purpose, anyway. Besides, you seem to be doing a good enough job on your own.”
She was still trembling, so he bit back his first response. “I knew you were afraid of the dark.” He groped in the blackness for words that would somehow excuse his rudeness and also hide whatever reasons had propelled him across the dunes in such a storm. “When the lights went out, I knew I couldn’t leave you and Gracie here. I can’t even say that you spoiled a perfectly wonderful evening. I was just getting into bed.”
Her hand gently cupped his cheek. “Thank you.” She had to lean close to his ear to be heard against the storm’s newest efforts. “Did you check on Gracie?”
“Yes. She was sound asleep.”
“Good.” He felt her nod against his chest, her shivering slowly subsiding.
He must have dozed off, because he was jerked awake when she leaned toward his ear again. “Are you really going to stay?”
Linc nodded, his eyes scratchy with dried sand.
“Good.” She paused, and he felt her muscles tighten. “Because I think I’m about to have a baby.”
CHAPTER 10
LINC FELT JILLIAN’S MUSCLES TIGHTEN AGAIN BENEATH HIS FINGERS, and he closed his eyes. Maybe this was just some horrible dream he was having trouble waking from. Hadn’t she just said that she wasn’t trying to ruin his life?
She gasped, and he tightened his hold on her. She was flesh and blood and mother-to-be under his hands, and conflicting emotions coursed through in equal measure: anger at being there in the first place, and gratitude that she didn’t have to go through this alone.
He waited for the spasm to pass. “Do you have a cell phone?”
She shook her head, clumps of hair sticking to her forehead. He realized she was wet from his shirt.
“I’m going to have to go back to my house and see if my cell phone’s working and try to call for help.” He looked nervously down to her abdomen. “Can you hold off that long?”
With a crooked smile, she said, “It’s not soft-serve ice cream, Linc. It generally takes a little longer than that.” A wave of pain seemed to grip her and she gritted her teeth, her hands clutching at her nightgown. When it had passed she said, “Although these contractions seem to be coming pretty close together.”
He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. “Like, how close?”
“Well, longer than soft-serve, but much less than a turkey.”
He shifted her off his lap so that he could maneuver to lift her in his arms. “How can you joke about this? You’re about to have a baby and all you’ve got is me.”
“I’m not trying to be funny, Linc. I was just trying to put it in a man’s terms.”
Bending over, he lifted her up with a soft grunt. She placed her arms around his neck and brought her face close to his, her voice strained. “Besides, you’re here. Everything’s going to be fine now.”
Gingerly, he carried her to the bed and laid her on it. As he pulled the sheets up, he noticed his hands were shaking. “I’ll hurry.” He picked up the flashlight and left it on the nightstand, the night parting in a triangle of light around her. “I’ll leave this here.”
She gripped his hand tightly, her legs drawing up under the covers. Slowly, her grip relaxed and she looked up at him. “Sorry to ruin your evening.”
A grin twisted his lips. “I’ll go tell the exotic dancers they need to go home.” A blast of wind knocked into the house, as if reminding them of its presence. A splattering against the windows rattled and quieted in a pulsing rhythm, moving with the giant waves of o
cean-borne wind. He squeezed her hand and let it drop down on the mattress. “I’ll be right back.”
As he turned to go, something fell to the floor, hitting it with a dull thud. He looked around to see where it had come from, but saw no place from where it could have fallen. In the glow from the flashlight, he made out a dark spot on the floor and bent to pick it up. He felt the smoothness of the wood and knew what it was before he held it inside the beam of light: a small wooden star, hand-carved and warm to the touch, as if it had just been held in someone’s hand.
A sharp grunt exploded from Jillian: half scream, half whimper.
He took a step toward her, but she held up her hand. She didn’t lift her head from the pillow, as if she were conserving her strength. “Don’t. Just . . . hurry.”
Without thought, he slipped the star into his pocket and ran from the room. The rain was now being blown in horizontal sheets, cutting into Linc’s face and bare arms as he made his way in the dark across the dunes. He stumbled on sea oats and sandspurs, and sucked sand in his mouth when he fell. Each flash of light in the sky seemed to linger for several seconds, lighting his way to the house next door.
An eerie sense of calm filled him as he stumbled his way into the kitchen, searching for another flashlight. He would move as fast as he could, trying not to think of Jillian and the baby and of what might be happening right now while he stood shivering and pooling water on his kitchen floor.
He remembered one of the workmen leaving his toolbox on top of the stove, and he groped his way over to it. Digging his hands inside, he carefully felt the familiar curves and edges of a carpenter’s tools, nearly shouting with relief as his hands felt the round, cool metal of a flashlight. Flipping it on, he dashed the light around the room, searching for the cell phone he remembered putting down somewhere.
He heard the scream of the wind outside and imagined he also heard a woman’s scream, and his movements became more frantic. He slid his hands along the countertops, knocking things on the floor, then stepping on them with his bare feet.
With a conscious effort to calm down, he grabbed a plastic garbage bag, then made his way to the stairs and ran up to his room. Using deliberate movements, he threw dry clothing into the bag as he searched every available space for his cell phone. The beam from the flashlight found it lying on the floor next to the closet. He snatched it up and punched the ON button, watching the screen search for a calling area. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the phone beeped, and he knew that it would work. Dialing 911, he ran down the stairs, barking information into the phone.
Satisfied that they were aware it was a real emergency, he kept the phone on but snapped it onto the waistband of his pants, under his soaking shirt, and headed to the door. He placed his hand on the doorknob, then turned back to run into the kitchen and pick up the cradle. Throwing the plastic bag inside and bending low over the baby’s bed, Linc dashed outside in the rain, trying as best as he could to protect the cradle from the teeming rain that seemed to have no end.
Jillian heard the slam of the door downstairs and pulled the baby closer to her chest, feeling the stickiness of blood and afterbirth and the feel of the cord that was still attached to the baby. With more energy than she thought she still possessed, she reached down for the blanket and pulled it up to cover them both, but not out of modesty. She just didn’t want Linc to faint before the ambulance came.
The baby made a mewling sound and began to root for a breast. Close to exhaustion and near to passing out, she smiled at the child’s determination and helped him find what he was looking for, using a corner of the blanket to wipe his face clean. She hurt and she was tired, but the sound of Linc’s returning told her that everything was going to be all right.
He stopped in the doorway, his skin and hair glistening with rain, and stared silently at her. He was carrying something in his arms, but he put it down before walking over to the bed and looking down where she nursed her new son.
His voice cracked. “I thought you said it would be longer than soft-serve but shorter than a turkey.”
She shrugged, a weary smile crossing her face briefly. “I lied.”
He wiped a hand over his face, shaking water down on her, but he didn’t appear to notice. “An ambulance is on the way.” He glanced down nervously. “Are you all right? Is there, well . . . can I . . . I mean . . . are you done?”
If she hadn’t been so tired, she would have laughed. “Mostly—nothing that can’t wait for a doctor.”
“Good.” He sounded relieved. “Is it a boy or girl?”
The baby stopped his nursing, finding his fist to be a satisfactory substitute. She touched his cheek briefly with her knuckle. “A boy.”
He spoke softly. “Figures. Us guys don’t like to dawdle when something needs to get done.” His smile faded as he regarded her in the dim light from the dying flashlight. Rain continued to pelt at the windows, but the sky lay dark and silent. “I’m sorry. I tried to get back as quick as I could. I’m sorry.”
Her fingers strayed to his knee, where she patted him gently. “You showed up, Linc. That’s probably more than anybody has ever done for me.”
He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Are you warm enough? I could get that afghan off the blanket stand.” She could tell he wanted to help, that he wanted to somehow make it up to her for not being there when the baby came.
At her nod, he carefully settled the afghan over her and the baby, gently tucking the top sheet around her. He sat on the edge of the bed and stuck his hand out toward the baby before pulling it back.
Her eyes were getting heavy. “It’s okay, you can touch him.” Her lips turned upward in a tired grin. “I already cleaned him up.”
Linc’s long fingers gently cupped the down-covered head, a play of shadow on light, before brushing the soft cheek. “Does he have a name?”
She nodded, her eyes closed, the need for sleep pulling at her. “He didn’t. Not until just now.”
When she didn’t continue, he asked, “Do you need me to call your ex-husband?”
Her eyes popped open. “No. He should hear it from me. I’ll call in the morning.”
Linc watched her as her hands touched the baby, feeling the small, perfect fingers and the smoothness of his skin. The umbilical cord was still attached, and she didn’t want to move him. The child of her body now lay cradled in her arms, looking up at her as if he were actively pursuing becoming the child of her heart. He was tiny and perfect, and she could almost believe that their bond was real and lasting and that she could be the mother he deserved. Almost.
“Two kids, Jillian. I didn’t think . . .” He looked up at her with guilt haunting his dark eyes. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
She looked down at her son, trying not to see her own failure reflected in his eyes. She licked her dry lips. “Rick wanted children. It seemed like a small price to pay—first, to thank him for saving me, and the second time, to get him to stay.” The exhaustion fell on her like a palpable thing, and not just the exhaustion of childbearing, but the eternal defeat of being pushed aside and rendered invisible. She sighed. “Seems he got tired of giving more than he got in our marriage.”
She felt the nausea hit her, and she looked to see if she could recognize revulsion in his eyes. But all she saw was understanding. “We don’t have to repeat our parents’ mistakes, Jillian.” He even looked as if he almost believed it himself.
He was silent for a moment. “Was he a good husband?”
She looked away, then nodded her head once, not having the energy to do more. “He loved me—in the beginning, anyway. And I, well . . .” She closed her eyes, seeing the hurt on Rick’s face every time he told her he loved her and she couldn’t answer back. She opened her eyes and looked back at Linc. “My grandmother once told me that every point of refuge has its price. And she was right. I was and still am angry and humiliated, but I don’t blame him for leaving. I only wished I had had the courage to do it my
self years ago.” Tears of pain and exhaustion stung behind her eyelids. “But yes, he was a good husband.”
The faraway sound of sirens wailed in the distance. Linc looked relieved to move away from the intimacy of their words, as if he’d tasted some forbidden fruit and knew that punishment wasn’t far behind. “I’m going to go let them in.” He stood and moved toward the door, and a small smile crossed his lips. “Don’t have another baby while I’m gone, okay?”
She was too tired to respond, and he must have thought she’d fallen asleep because he turned to leave. With a last burst of energy, she called out, “Linc?”
He paused in the doorway, a frown creasing his brow. “Yes?”
“Aren’t you going to ask what I named him?”
“Yeah, sorry. What’s his name?”
“I’m naming him after you.”
He looked horrified. “Linc?”
She shook her head. “I’m calling him Ford. Ford Parrish Ryan.”
It looked like he wanted to laugh out loud. He had always hated his name and how it had come about, but she could tell he was pleased. “Thank you. I think.”
Jillian cradled the baby on her chest and turned her face toward the window. Bright streaks of pink and purple claimed the sky, the rain finally ending. Her voice held surprise. “It’s not dark anymore.”
“No, it’s not.” He leaned down and slid something heavy over against the wall. When he straightened, he looked almost embarrassed, as if he were trying to hide whatever it was that he had brought in. Then he turned and headed for the stairs, leaving her alone with her son, who slept peacefully in her arms.
The flashlight on the night table sputtered and died, as if it had been patiently waiting for dawn. Despite the sound of people downstairs, she let her eyelids drop until her eyes closed and she slept.
Linc sat across from Gracie at Jillian’s kitchen table. She stabbed her fork into a frozen waffle and frowned. “It’s still cold.”
“I’ll stick it back in the toaster.” He stood and took her plate, staring at the offending objects dripping with maple syrup. Ripping off a paper towel from the dispenser, he proceeded to wipe off the syrup before sticking it back into the toaster oven. Gracie regarded him with raised eyebrows but didn’t say anything.