Mother To Be

by Cheryl Reavis

  "I think that's pretty hard to do lying down," Lillian said. "You're not going to hover, are you? I really hate hovering."

  "Well, I thought I'd make some tea – and some toast. How about that?"

  "That would be...great," Lillian decided. She made another attempt to sit up.

  "No, no," J.B. said. "I'll get it. I'm sure I can find the tea and the bread. And believe it or not, I know a toaster when I see one. I'm going to go tell Lawrence he can go now."

  Lawrence came in to make a final assessment before he left. "You can do whatever you feel like doing," he said, checking her pupils again with a small penlight. "But don't get too physical. Just take it easy, go slow. I'll check back by tomorrow – and see if I can drag J.B. away."

  "Is she always this...fixated?"

  "As long as I've known her, and particularly when it involves people she cares about. She really cares about Stuart."

  Bump on her head or not, Lillian immediately recognized the subtle reproof. J.B. Greenleigh even cared enough about Stuart Dennison to watch over his alleged mistress.

  "Stuart loves her," Lillian said, because it was a personal observation and not a lawyer-client privilege.

  "Well, he doesn't act like it. So. That's it, then. It's been a pleasure to approximate your lacerated edges. Don't be in a hurry to take the butterfly off. Try not to get it wet when you wash your hair. Come and see me if you have any signs of an infection – redness, drainage, hot to the touch. Here's my card. Feel better soon – and don't get any wild notions about lawsuits or having my cousin arrested. Her heart's in the right place. Really."

  "Thank you," Lillian said. "You know where to send the bill."

  "Oh, this visit was a courtesy call. The next one is when I stick it to you."

  Lillian waited until he'd gone before she tried sitting up again. The dizziness was much less pronounced this time. She was comfortably upright in the corner of the couch when J.B. returned with the tea and toast. She found that she was hungry in spite of the nausea, and she ate all the toast J.B. had made for her. She sipped the tea for a time before she decided she was ready to talk.

  "J.B.," she began.

  "Do you want more toast?" J.B. interrupted. "I can make some, if you do – "

  "No, I don't want any more toast. What I want is for you to tell me what Becenti said when...he left. But before you do that, I want to tell you something. I don't care what Stuart said – he and I are not back together."

  "You aren't?"

  "No."

  "I saw you go into his house."

  "Yes, you did. I'm doing some very extensive legal work for him. He insisted on talking about it tonight, and I went there to see him. Period."

  "Are you saying he lied to me?"

  "I'm saying that he and I are not lovers."

  "He wouldn't tell me something like that if it wasn't true," she insisted. "Why would he?"

  "You'll have to ask him."

  "I don't believe he lied to me."

  "You'd rather believe he was cheating on you instead?"

  "No, of course not. I just – " She sighed heavily and stared at the throw rugs. "He seems like a very nice man," she offered after a moment. "Captain Becenti," she added. “He was nice to me, anyway. When I got here, I was sort of upset."

  "Sort of?"

  J.B. sighed. "Okay. I was bawling my head off. I was acting like a fool."

  "And you told him that Stuart and I were back together."

  "No," she said.

  "No?"

  "Well, not then. I used the key to get in – I don't know why I didn't think someone would be here. The police car was right in the driveway. He...was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. He made me come in and sit down – and he found me a box of tissues."

  "And he said?"

  She sighed again. "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "No. He didn't ask me anything. He just sat there and drank his coffee while I cried – but he wasn't indifferent or anything. It was more that he was just letting me do what I needed to do right then. And later he offered me a glass of water, and he asked if there was anything he could do to help me. I told him I was going to wait here for you because I wasn't running away anymore. He said it was his experience that running away never solved anything. Then..."

  "What?" Lillian prompted when J.B. didn't go on.

  "Lillian, you're supposed to rest and not be upset. Lawrence said – "

  "I'm the best judge of what's upsetting and what isn't. I want to know this."

  J.B. gave a heavy sigh. "Then...I just said it. I said Stuart wouldn't marry me because he was back with you. I said he'd called the wedding off because of it. I said you were with him right now – I saw you go into his house by the back way. And I said if he was waiting for you for a personal reason instead of a legal one, he was an even bigger fool than I was."

  "What did Becenti say?"

  "Nothing. Well, he said if you didn't get back tonight, I was to make sure the door was locked when I left."

  "That's it? Was he upset – or angry?"

  "No, he was – "

  "What? He was what?" Lillian said, losing patience at having to pry the details out of this woman. One would have thought that it was J.B. who had been hit on the head.

  "He was sad," J.B. said finally. "Really...sad."

  They looked at each other across the room, and Lillian couldn't be kind.

  "Then you have whatever revenge you wanted," she said quietly. "The only thing is – you hurt the wrong person."

  Chapter Eleven

  Winston Tsosie called," Mary Skeets said.

  Becenti braced himself against her intrusion into his office. It was a tremendous strain – trying to seem at one with the universe so as not to make Mary Skeets suspicious. But Mary Skeets was Mary Skeets – and had been for as long as he'd known her. At this particular moment, she was full of information, and while he knew that she was going to share it eventually – at her own discretion and in her own good time – the very fact that she had brought this particular message personally instead of putting it on a While You Were Out memo, could only bode ill for somebody. Unhappily, he thought that he knew exactly who that somebody must be.

  He shuffled the papers on his desk, but he knew she was watching him closely. He also knew that she had decided at some point that there was something bothering him, something more than the loss of his wife, his health and very nearly his career. For the Navajo, the only way to happiness was to walk in beauty. The only way to beauty was to be in harmony with all things. Mary Skeets had clearly decided he was not in harmony – again – just as she'd apparently decided that it was her duty to find out the reason why.

  "What did Winston want?" he asked, because it seemed that no subsequent information would be forthcoming.

  "He didn't say."

  "I don't think it would have been out of order for you to ask him, do you?" In spite of all he could do, the remark was barely civil.

  "I did ask. He wouldn't say. He just said he wanted you to come to the men's mission house. Today."

  "It's not some trouble with Jack Begaye, is it?"

  "No, Jack's behaving. He's too busy with Meggie and the children to get into anything."

  That'll be the day, Becenti thought, because Jack Begaye had in the past managed to get into all kinds of trouble simply by being Jack Begaye – and because Becenti's cynicism had blossomed of late. Regardless of the apparent success of Jack's marriage to Meggie, Becenti no longer believed in the power of a woman to bring out the best in a man – if he ever had.

  "Then have you heard anybody say what it is Winston might want?"

  "No. He seemed worried, though. I think it's got something to do with Dolly Singer."

  He looked up from the papers. "Dolly Singer?"

  Mary shrugged. "That's what I think."

  He wanted very much to ask her why she thought that, but he didn't. It was a very short jump from Dolly Singer to her daughter Lillian, and
he did not want to be led in that direction by any pointed questions from Mary Skeets. He strongly suspected that Toomey had told her about the weekend in Santa Fe after all, because Mary managed to work Lillian's name into too many conversations for her not to have gotten a hint of something.

  He didn't say anything else, but Mary made no attempt to leave.

  He looked up at her. "What?" he asked pointedly.

  "Are you going to go now?"

  "No," he said, looking back at the papers.

  She still didn't leave. After a moment or two, she very politely cleared her throat.

  "Mary, what!" he said. And he still had to hand it to her. Unlike most of his subordinates, she didn't cower because he'd raised his voice. She didn't even blink.

  "Well, it's just that now would be a good time, sir. You've got to see the BIA people at two. And then after that, there's that tribal council thing. And who knows how long that will last. Winston Tsosie is old. It's not good for him to have to wait."

  "Thank you, Mary. I'll keep that in mind."

  "Sir – "

  "Mary, I'm busy!"

  "Well, not that busy," he thought she said on her way out – again. It was flagrant insubordination on her part, but out of the need to hide his inharmonious state, he let it go.

  He gave a heavy sigh and rubbed the point between his eyes that hurt. Mary Skeets was right, of course. Now was the best time. The only problem was that he didn't want to go out looking for new aggravation when he had quite enough in his life already. He preferred the relative seclusion of his office to deliberately accosting someone who would make him think about Lillian Singer. He was determined not to think about her – and had been for weeks now. He had been right to leave her house so abruptly, and he knew that because she'd made no attempt to contact him since. He could only assume that all was well with her and Stuart Dennison. He could only assume that she was happy. He might be happy himself, or at least more in harmony, if he could stop remembering the time with her Santa Fe. But the harder he tried, the more it caught him off guard. He could go for hours without once thinking about her, and then suddenly he was with her again. He could taste her, feel her, smell that sweet woman smell of hers, so much so that he physically ached for her. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night, wanting her. He missed her, damn it. Exasperating, maddening creature that she was, he missed her. And he was so tired of pretending that he didn't.

  He got up from his desk, leaving the pile of papers lying. He would go see Winston, because he couldn't do otherwise. He liked and respected the old man. And if Winston needed something done, then, in spite of his personal problems, Becenti would try to do it.

  He left the law-enforcement building with Mary Skeets's obvious blessing – after he'd made a point of telling her his destination. He was ashamed of how careful he'd been of late to make sure Mary knew where he could be reached, ashamed because it had nothing to do with his official capacity and everything to do with the fading hope of a telephone call from Santa Fe.

  The weather was beautiful – warm and sunny. He looked up at the sky. There was no sign of rain, but the monsoon season would begin soon, an event that always left him feeling encouraged, even during the worst times of his life. He took his time driving to the mission just to savor the day. If he didn't have much in the way of harmony, he was at least working on it. He tried not to speculate about why Winston Tsosie would be worried about Dolly Singer.

  The mission was quiet when he got there; no vehicles around except the pickup truck Jack Begaye drove. All the residents seemed to be out for the day. In fact, the only person he saw was Jack – and he was in the process of leaving.

  "Captain Becenti," Jack said, clearly surprised. "Something I can do for you?"

  "No, I'm looking for Winston," Becenti said.

  "Oh, yeah. He's at the corral – trying to decide what to do with one of Meggie's horses. It's up that way. I think he's expecting you."

  He's expecting me, Becenti thought as he walked along the path Jack had indicated. He didn't know if he liked the sound of that or not.

  The path wound through a stand of pinon pine. The air was heavy with a dusty pine scent, and the birds were singing. The walk was pleasant enough, but he didn't have to go far. He almost immediately ran into Winston standing in the shade among the trees.

  "Yah-ta-hey, my grandfather," he began respectfully, but the old man held up his hand for silence.

  "We need to stay here," Winston whispered. "We don't want to get in the way."

  "In the way of what?" Becenti asked in a normal voice, an act that clearly unsettled the old man. Becenti didn't say anything else. He looked in the direction that had Winston's rapt attention.

  The old man was looking at the corral. Someone – a woman wearing a man's shirt, jeans, and leather chaps – was seated on a kitchen chair in the middle of it, and a dappled mare stood slightly off to one side, its head held low. The woman was sitting with her legs folded up tailor-fashion, and her back was to them. She apparently held something in each fist. He could hear the woman talking, but not what she said. Every now and then the horse lifted its head enough to look in the woman's direction.

  Becenti glanced at Winston.

  "The mare lost her foal," the old man said quietly. "She is grieving too long. She ain't sick, but she won't eat nothing."

  "So what's happening?" Becenti asked. "Who is that?" The chair thing was a new one on him. He couldn't tell much about the woman from their position, except that her hair was dark and she was probably Navajo – a friend of Meggie's, he supposed.

  "She's telling the mare that there is some apple waiting

  in her hand – but she must come for it," Winston said. "Choose the apple or choose to die – whichever she needs to do."

  "How long has she been sitting there like that?"

  "All morning. See how close the mare stands? When she started, that horse was down on the ground."

  Becenti was duly impressed by the woman's patience, but not enough to follow her example. "Winston – "

  "Now is not a good time for talking, my son. If we mess this up, she's going to come over here and bust both our butts."

  Becenti frowned, but he didn't say anything else. As much as he would have liked to pretend otherwise, at the moment, he had nothing more important to do – tribal police captain or not. He stood watching with Winston. The horse gave a low rumble. The woman kept talking. The horse tossed its head and took a tentative step forward. The woman fell silent then, still holding her fist up, perfectly motionless. The horse blew and tossed its head, then stretched out its neck toward the woman's fist. The woman made no effort to move her hand closer. After a moment, the horse took another step forward, and another until it could reach the woman's fist, nudging and nibbling at it until she opened it and revealed the piece of apple in her palm.

  Winston made a soft sound of approval as the horse took it. He looked at Becenti. "She has the way with horses," he said. "Like her father."

  The woman unfolded her legs and leaned forward to press her cheek against the horse's soft nose. Becenti could see her profile now. He could recognize her now, and it hit him hard. It took all he had not to walk toward her, and then all he had not to walk away.

  Lillian.

  The sun was shining on her hair – she was so beautiful, and it occurred to him she never seemed to realize it. He should have told her when he'd had the chance. He should have told her a lot of things when he'd had the chance. He could see her smile. He could feel it. Nothing had changed for him. He still wanted her, and – God forbid – needed her. And he hated it.

  "What is she doing here?" he asked abruptly, afraid of the intensity of his response. "And don't tell me she came all this way to look after Meggie's horse."

  "She came because Dolly went and got her – brought her to stay here with Jack and Meggie and the children for a couple of days. Dolly didn't like the way she was acting up there in Santa Fe."

  "What do you mea
n?"

  "Dolly thinks Lillian has got some kind of trouble and she won't say what the trouble is – because she's Lillian and she thinks she don't want no help from nobody."

  "Maybe Dolly is wrong," Becenti said, willing Lillian to look in his direction.

  But he had no idea what he would do if she turned and saw him. It was better, he supposed, that she was so engrossed in hand-feeding the grieving horse.

  "If there wasn't some trouble, I'm thinking Dolly couldn't get her to come here," Winston said. "Not the way she likes Santa Fe."

  Becenti had nothing to say to that. He had nothing to say at all. He turned abruptly and would have walked back down the path in the direction he'd come, if Winston hadn't stood in his way.

  "I'm thinking maybe you could help her even if she don't want it," the old man said. "Like she helped you."

  Becenti stepped around him and kept walking. He couldn't help Lillian. Stuart Dennison was the only one who could do that.

  He went back to the law-enforcement building, considerably less cheerful than when he'd left it. He had the meeting with the Bureau of Indian Affairs people – who wanted more cooperation from the tribal police but didn't grasp that the cooperation had to be reciprocal. He was late and even less cheerful when he arrived for the tribal council meeting, and halfway through the proceedings, he discovered that certain detailed statistical information was required of him, which he hadn't brought along. He immediately called Mary Skeets.

  "Lucas Singer is working on that," she advised him.

  "Well, get it," he said impatiently.

  "He's on vacation, Captain, and he took it with him. You want me to go to his house?"

  Becenti gave a sharp sigh. "No. I'm closer to him than you are. I'll go to his house." He had managed to avoid Lillian this morning, and he didn't want to talk to any of her relatives. But he had little choice. The tribal council wanted what it wanted.

  There were no vehicles in the Singer driveway when he arrived, except the old decrepit truck Lucas complained was impossible to keep running. Becenti was encouraged by that – by the fact that there was no sporty little car from Santa Fe, not by the possibility that he'd made the trip for nothing. He got out and went around to the back, rapping sharply on the screen door and then inspecting some unusual wind chimes on the patio while he waited – parts from a computer hard drive, he thought. When he turned to knock again, Lillian stood on the other side of the screen door. She gave him no time to be surprised.