Mother To Be

by Cheryl Reavis

  "Well, I am worried about it – but not in the way you think. You make me so damn mad!" he said. He stood too quickly, and his chair toppled over backward. He left it lying and moved around the edge of table toward her. "It's all I can do not to put you over my knee and – "

  "Oh, yeah? You and who else?" she said, delivering the challenge expected of her but taking a few steps backward just in case.

  "Lillian – !" he said, because at this point he was afraid he might really do it.

  "What!" she said, still backing away.

  "Lillian – !" he said again.

  "What!''

  "Do you have to have a house fall on you?"

  "I guess so, Becenti, because I don't know what you want here!"

  "I want you, damn it!" he yelled at the precise moment someone knocked on the back door. They stood staring at each other, both of them transfixed by his revelation.

  "You what?" she asked with some difficulty.

  "You heard me."

  She started to say something else but didn't, started to move in his direction but didn't do that, either. She looked toward the door, then back at him, shaking her head and making a slight gesture with one hand.

  "I have to answer the door," she said, even though there was no more knocking forthcoming – not much of a surprise if the person outside had heard Becenti's bold announcement.

  He gave a sharp sigh and snatched the chair upright. He expected the irrepressible Stuart Dennison to be on the doorstep. Toomey stood there instead. The young officer could see Becenti as soon as Lillian opened the door, but the expression on his face indicated that he really, really wished that were not the case.

  "What is it, Toomey?" Becenti asked.

  "Well, sir, the, uh, telephone – I called, but I couldn't get through – I guess there's a line down. So I just thought I should, uh – "

  "Come in, Officer Toomey," Lillian said, taking him by the sleeve and pulling him into the room before he died there on the threshold. "Would you like some coffee?"

  "Coffee?" he said, his eyes darting around the room as if he'd expected a lot more than what he was seeing. Or a lot less.

  "There's some left," Lillian suggested so that he might grasp the reason why she was asking.

  "Oh, yes, ma'am. Thank you. It's cold out."

  "How bad are the roads?" she asked as she poured.

  "Not too bad," Toomey said, gratefully accepting the cup. "If you go slow."

  Becenti turned and went into the living room to get his jacket. This was not going as planned. At all.

  "What? You're just going to leave now?" Lillian said behind him.

  He'd hadn't realized she'd come with him. He could see Toomey through those suddenly not-so-convenient windows. Toomey – nonplused, but still curious. "Yes," Becenti said.

  "Yes?" she repeated incredulously. She gave a sharp sigh, and he realized that he should be saying more – to keep her from thinking she was right about his ulterior motives in Window Rock, if nothing else.

  But there was no time for talking. He picked up his jacket and headed for the small hallway that led into the kitchen, grabbing her by the hand in passing and dragging her along with him. The second they were out of Toomey's sight, he pulled her to him, his mouth coming down on hers, hard and hot and urgent.

  "Don't," she whispered, but she was clinging to him, and he didn't stop. His mouth covered hers again. His hand found its way up under her T-shirt.

  And Toomey stood drinking his coffee not ten feet away.

  "Don't – " she said again.

  He abruptly let go of her.

  "Go."

  "What?"

  "Don't go!" she whispered, holding on to his arm.

  "I have to. Toomey – " But he was reaching for her again, kissing her again. "Lillian, he'll know we – " he said between frantic kisses.

  "He heard you, Johnny. It's too late – now."

  Yes, Becenti thought. Much too late.

  He thrust his jacket into her hands and stepped away from her.

  "Toomey," he said, startling the rookie with his sudden appearance in the doorway. "Go spend the night with your relatives."

  "Sir?"

  "You heard me. Come back here tomorrow – around noon."

  "Noon?" Toomey said, clearly hoping for an explanation for this sudden turn of events, preferably something other than what it looked like.

  "Well, what are you waiting for!" Becenti barked.

  "Nothing – nothing, sir," he said, backing toward the door. He suddenly remembered the cup he was about to take with him wasn't his, and he rushed forward to set it on the counter. "Noon – tomorrow," he said as he hurried out.

  Becenti stood there in case Toomey needed more instruction, but after a moment he heard the police vehicle start up and back slowly down the driveway. This was going to put one hell of a strain on young Officer Toomey's discretion, he thought. Not telling the boys around the coffeepot that Captain Becenti had stayed the night with Lucas Singer's sister was going to require colossal self-restraint on his part. And Mary Skeets could get information out of a stone statue.

  But Becenti wouldn't worry about that now. He went back into the hallway. Lillian was standing where he'd left her, still holding his coat.

  "I don't want to talk this to death," he said. "I don't want to analyze it! I don't want to justify it. Whatever this is with you and me – I want to enjoy it – for as long as it lasts."

  Her eyes searched his, for what truth he couldn't imagine. "All right," she said.

  He took the jacket out of her hands and tossed it aside, reaching for her at the same time. She came to him willingly, holding on to him, burying her face in his shoulder. And she felt so good, smelled so good.

  Lillian.

  He began to kiss her in earnest, savoring the sensation and her response. She leaned into him, offering her mouth to him, returning kiss for kiss until they both were breathless.

  Who would ever believe this? he thought. No one. Even if Toomey told them.

  She stepped away from him and took him by the hand, leading him through the house to the room where she slept, both of them indifferent to the meal they hadn't quite finished or to the whereabouts of the cat – to anything except each other.

  The bedroom was large. The bed was large. He paid no attention to anything else. His focus was entirely upon her.

  She switched on a small lamp on the nightstand and turned down the bedcovers. He tried not to think about Stuart Dennison. He wouldn't think about him. He didn't care if Dennison had been in her bed, this bed, a thousand times. He reached for her again, his hands sliding over her, trying to find bare skin. His mouth brushed over hers in what could hardly be called a kiss, but her lips parted, and he tasted her deeply now. She gave a soft moan, one he could feel, one that tripled his sense of urgency.

  She kicked off her shoes. He began to unbutton his shirt, but she immediately reached to free the buttons for him herself. She looked into his eyes as she did it, playful now, and mischievous. It was no simple task getting a tribal police officer out of his uniform. Buttons and belts and a side arm.

  She lay his gun belt carefully on the dresser, then took away his shirt and pulled his undershirt over his head. Then she held her arms up so that he could pull her T-shirt off. Her bra was made of lace and some kind of silky material he could barely feel. He undid it with trembling fingers and tossed it aside. And he stood staring at her. Her breasts were perfect; not large, not small. He reached out to touch them, and she stood perfectly still to let him cup her warm softness in the palms of his hands. Her breath caught when he brought her nipples to hard, tight peaks. She was so beautiful, and she knew it. She wasn't in the least embarrassed by his unabashed attention, and he found that incredibly erotic. She didn't have to be wooed so much as conquered. Everything about her said, Here I am. Take me – if you can.

  He reached for the waist of her jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, pulling everything down as he crowded her back toward the be
d until she had to sit down on the edge. He knelt to take off her socks, the jeans, the panties, stroking her legs, her thighs as he did so. She braced herself, leaning back a bit, watching him with that half smile he always found so intriguing.

  Then he stood and reached into his left pants pocket. He had a statement of his own to make – a handful of condoms he let trickle through his fingers onto the bed, the ones he'd bought in an out-of-the-way place where no one would know him. It was a bold move on his part, both the purchase and the presentation, and one that made her laugh out loud.

  "You are very sure of yourself, Becenti," she said, making him laugh with her.

  He got rid of his pants and underwear and came to her quickly, tumbling her backward on the bed and rolling her on top of him.

  "You haven't seen anything yet," he promised her, kissing her hard, the laughter bubbling from her mouth into his.

  The kiss ended, and they lay there, staring into each other's eyes. She was smiling still, but the smile slid away.

  "Johnny," she whispered, nuzzling his cheek. "Johnny..." She pressed a kiss at the corner of his mouth, and then another.

  He gave a soft moan when her tongue darted across his lower lip, and he reached up to entwine his fingers in her hair, to keep her mouth close, to accept the invitation she offered.

  They were both deadly serious now and in a hurry. He wanted her. He ached with desire, trembled with it. It had been a long time since he –

  No. He wouldn't think about that. Mae was gone. This was Lillian. This was now. He abruptly rolled her onto her back so he could touch her, look at her. He stroked her body, his hand finding her soft inner thighs, stroking and stroking, each time reaching higher. He bent his head so that he could kiss her breasts. She made a soft "Oh" sound and her head arched back when he suckled her, her hands clutching at him, holding him tightly against her.

  His fingers touched the intimate female part of her now, gently and then more insistently when he found the place that gave her pleasure, and then gently again. She writhed under his expertise. It took everything he had to restrain himself. He wanted her. He wanted to plunge himself deep inside her now – now. He drew her hand downward, but the soft brush of her fingers was nearly too much for him. He couldn't wait any longer. He fumbled for one of the condoms scattered around him and tore open the pack, his hands shaking.

  He knelt between her thighs, ready now, his eyes holding hers. His hands slid under her hips to lift her to him. He didn't hesitate, couldn't hesitate. He thrust into her, hard and deep, the pure pleasure of it making him give a deep, guttural sound. He tried to be still for a moment to give her time to grow accustomed to him, but then he realized that she needed no time. She was clinging to him, her body rising to meet his in a rhythm as old as time. "Don't stop," she whispered. "Don't – Oh!" He couldn't have even if he'd wanted to. She was so hot and tight around him. He thought he could die from this urgent need of her, but still the sensation grew. He had never felt such desire, both for gratification and to somehow make it last. He wanted to tell her how good it felt, how good she felt.

  But then her body arched under him and she cried out his name.

  It's so good! he thought, perhaps said. He could feel her spasms of release around him, and he thrust harder and harder until his own body exploded inside her in a rush of heat and pleasure. He lost all sense of time and place. He lost himself, and, for a brief moment, his sadness. There was only Lillian and he clung to her, giving a hoarse animal cry as he collapsed against her and finally lay spent.

  Chapter Seven

  Lillian awoke slowly from a deep sleep, the kind that only came from being well loved and thoroughly sated. She stretched contentedly and turned onto her back, expecting to feel Becenti there beside her. She was alone.

  She abruptly sat up, listening hard for his whereabouts. It would be just like him to suddenly remember who and what he was – who they both were – and leave – even though he didn't have any kind of transportation. She could easily picture him walking down to the road in hip-deep snow and thumbing a ride to Toomey's relatives – or all the way back to Window Rock.

  She gave a quiet sigh, remembering his touch. She hadn't known it would be like that with him. Or perhaps she had. She had known him a long time, and she felt no pressure to be anything other than herself. They had seen each other at their worst; there was no need for pretense. She didn't have to worry about offending his white sensibilities with what little of her Navajo self remained. And all that freedom had translated into a passion she had heretofore only imagined. If he was somewhere now, guilt-ridden and filled with regret because they'd gone to bed together, she was going to –

  She heard a sound, a door closing. She wrapped herself in the top blanket and hurried through the house into the kitchen. She found Fred oblivious to everything but a chunk of cat food on a piece of waxed paper near the back door. She stepped over him to look out the window. The snow had ended. The clouds had gone, and the sun was about to come up. But she couldn't see anyone – or any footprints in the snow. She walked back through the house to look out the front windows, and she saw Becenti immediately. He was standing on the small section of porch that was bare of snow, facing the faint glow of dawn on the horizon, already engrossed in the morning chant. And, freezing cold or not, he was completely naked.

  It took a great deal of self-control on her part not to interrupt. The man hadn't been out of the hospital all that long, and standing outside with no clothes on hardly seemed a wise choice. But, she would respect his apparently pressing need to observe the Navajo Way, if not his good sense. And having decided that, she should have discreetly withdrawn, but she didn't. She stood there and brazenly admired him instead.

  For as long as she had known him, he had kept his hair cropped short in a kind of military law-enforcement-officer crew cut, but during Mae's long illness and his subsequent mourning and exile, he had given up being shorn – perhaps as a move back into Navajo traditionalism for her sake – and his hair now hung down his back. He was beautiful to look at; the consummate warrior.

  And lover.

  Her lover.

  Lillian, Lillian, what have you done? she thought. She never should have started anything with him. She was far too comfortable and settled in her life here – and far too old – for this kind of head-over-heels infatuation with a man who was so unsuitable. They were completely incompatible in personality and temperament. No one who knew them both would argue that.

  But they weren't incompatible in bed. She sighed, looking out the windows at him, still remembering last night. If she'd met him when she was twenty-one, she would never have become a lawyer. She would have had ten or twelve of his children instead.

  Fred jumped up on the table beside her to peer out the window. She smiled and stroked his fur.

  "If Toomey shows up early," she told him, holding back the curtain so he could see, "one of us had better know how to do CPR."

  Becenti suddenly dashed back inside in a rush of cold air and blowing snow, startling both Fred and her.

  "I'm freezing!" he cried, grabbing her, blanket and all, and lifting her off the floor.

  "Captain Becenti," she said calmly, trying not to let him see that he had rattled her with his boisterous – and nude – enthusiasm. "I do have neighbors, you know."

  "Not anymore, you don't," he insisted, covering her face in kisses and making her laugh. If she expected any kind of embarrassed reticence on his part this morning, that concern was quickly put to rest.

  "Captain Becenti," she said again, dodging yet another kiss.

  "Yes, Lillian, what is it?"

  "Could I interest you in some coffee?"

  "I'd have to put you down for that, wouldn't I?"

  "Yes, I believe so."

  "Then, no. There are other ways of getting warm." He began walking toward the bedroom, still holding her off the floor and trying not to step on the blanket.

  "Oh, you think so?" she said, trying not to laugh as t
hey staggered along.

  "I know so," he assured her.

  * * *

  She awoke with a start. Someone was knocking on the back door again, and Becenti scrambled for his clothes.

  "Toomey," he said. "I forgot about Toomey – "

  She looked at the clock. "Punctual to a fault," she said, stretching and reaching out to stroke his bare back. "Are you leaving?"

  He looked around at her. "I think I should."

  "Why?"

  "Because I want to go before you want me to," he said simply.

  She moved to put her arms around him and rest her head against his shoulder, her breasts pressing into his back. He reached up to stroke her hair. They stayed like that for a moment, then she sat up again.

  "I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay as long as you can," she said.

  He smiled. "Poor Toomey," he said, standing and zipping his pants. He didn't bother with his shirt or shoes.

  She got up as well, finding a robe and putting it on in case that wasn't Toomey at the door. Whoever it was knocked again as she walked into the living room, and she could hear Becenti open the back door.

  But nobody said anything.

  She moved to where she could see through the windows in the wall. The door was flung wide as she expected, and Becenti was standing there in a state of undress that obviously needed some kind of explanation – only he wasn't giving one. And it was certain that Toomey wasn't about to ask.

  After a moment, the young officer sighed. "I'm staying with the relatives again, right, sir?"

  "Right," Becenti said. Period. And he closed the door.

  She chuckled to herself when Toomey almost immediately took his life into his hands and knocked again. Becenti jerked open the door.

  "Do I plan on a particular time to be back here, sir?" Toomey asked in a rush, clearly trying to get his query in before he got yelled at.

  "No," Becenti said.

  "Oh, well – "

  But the door closed again on whatever thoughts Toomey had remaining, and Lillian laughed out loud.

  Poor Toomey, indeed, she thought. Firmly entrenched in his twenties, he clearly had had no idea that people as old as she and Becenti ever indulged in this kind of behavior. And if the truth be told, she was rather surprised herself, particularly considering the consequences. All Becenti had to worry about was Toomey telling everybody in Window Rock. She, on the other hand, had to worry about another visit from both their mothers. Lillian was certain that when Katie Becenti had come to hire her to lure her son out of his exile, this was not what she'd had in mind.