Mother To Be
Page 17
"My son?"
"I saw it in a dream. The baby is a boy. You take an old man's advice. You might as well, because you ain't getting nowhere doing like you're doing now."
The wind began to pick up, swirling the dry sand around them. Becenti turned and walked back to the police vehicle. He was certain of at least one truth in what Winston had said. He wasn't getting anywhere doing what he was doing now. He would accept the old man's help, if not his advice, and he would make the cradle board. And as soon as it was ready, he would personally take it to Santa Fe.
Chapter Fourteen
I'm pretending, Lillian thought. The way I used to when I was a little girl.
She looked at the table. It had been set for four with her good crystal and china. She had candles ready to be lit, and a small centerpiece of daisies, eucalyptus and sweetheart roses. She had fixed pasta with garlic and tomatoes walnuts, made a green salad, bought Italian rolls and lime sponge pudding with raspberry sauce at one of the most expensive bakeries in Santa Fe. The house was filled with the aroma of hot bread and freshly brewed coffee.
Now she was waiting for her guests – Stuart and two other people he'd hired to do damage control regarding his possible indictment for the illegal land deal. Lillian herself believed that in Stuart's case, there was only one way manage the public scandal – straight on, while telling truth. But that was a foreign concept to the politician in Stuart Dennison. She was reassured somewhat by the fact that he was now doing better healthwise, but she thought that having to maintain whatever persona his handlers concocted would be too much for him, especially if he had to null it off with television cameras stuck in his face. He was having to deal with his own mortality and with having given up J.B. He was drinking too much and his emotions were far too unstable for any kind of subterfuge. She had no idea what J.B. was doing these days. Stuart never mentioned her, and it would seem that she had taken no for an answer after all.
Lillian still tired easily, because of her pregnancy and because of her constant state of worry. But she was no longer fighting the nausea, at least. She was beginning to show. She was glad that she had told the family that she was pregnant, and soon she would have to tell everyone else of any importance. Gracie. Possibly Fred.
She looked at herself now in the mirror. Black silk pants – happily with elastic instead of buttons and a zipper, a "generous" white silk blouse to hide her thickening waistline, expensive but tasteful gold jewelry. Simple but elegant.
And all a lie.
It wasn't only her clothes that didn't fit anymore. Her life didn't fit, either. Everything about this evening felt wrong – the food, the flowers, Stuart's legal woes. None of these things meant anything to her. She could pretend otherwise all she wanted, but it changed nothing. And worse, she had no idea who she really was now except in the most basic terms. An unmarried Navajo woman about to have her first child. No. An unmarried Navajo woman of “advanced maternal age" – as her doctor had so delicately put it. She was afraid. She had a whole list of things that frightened her, and the items on the list rotated in importance from minute to minute. What if she was too old to do this? What if she didn't have enough patience to raise a child and she completely ruined it?
What if she stayed in love with Johnny Becenti and she yearned for him the rest of her life?
She shamelessly kept tabs on him. Sloan came to Santa Fe every weekend to see her – a gesture that surprised her, because they had never really been that close, emotionally or geographically. But she'd always liked Lucas's second choice in white women. She and Sloan Baron-Singer were alike in that both of them preferred the direct approach. Sloan had announced immediately upon her first visit that she had come because she had no choice – she simply didn't know how to say no to Katie Becenti and Dolly Singer, or at least to come up with a no that the two matriarchs would accept. Lillian could certainly identify with that. But the thing about Sloan she appreciated the most was her concise reports regarding Becenti. Just straightforward and to the point, without making Lillian ask. Thanks to Sloan, Lillian knew that he was working long hours, and that Lucas was still angry with him for having taken advantage of his sister, and that Will and Jack and Winston minded Captain Becenti's business a lot more than he cared for.
"He also wants to ask about you," Sloan said.
"Wants to," Lillian repeated, trying to grasp the fine point she was certain lay hidden in the remark.
"Yes," Sloan assured her. "He wants to ask, but he doesn't. Just like you."
On her last visit, Sloan had brought a basket of fruit and English walnuts – a gift, she said, from Becenti, who still didn't ask anything. The gesture had brought Lillian close to tears, because he'd noticed this small thing about her, and he'd cared enough to remember.
But instead of calling him and thanking him, she'd used the walnuts tonight to make the pasta dish for Stuart and his people, because she was still denying the truth, still pretending that her other life, her Navajo life, and this Navajo man meant nothing to her.
She looked around at the sound of a car.
Time for the dog-and-pony show, she thought. She quickly checked the table and the food again before she opened the front door. Johnny Becenti stood on the porch with a large newspaper-wrapped bundle under one arm.
She forgot that she allegedly didn't want or need him. She forgot that she'd told him to stay in Window Rock where he belonged. She was so glad he was here – too glad and too taken by surprise to hide it. She had to fight hard not to fling herself at him. Her heart was pounding; her knees were weak. She looked into his eyes and she waited, hut he just stood there, implacable, saying absolutely nothing.
“Hello, Lillian," she finally suggested. "You're looking very well this evening. May I come in?"
He still didn't say anything, but she saw the faint workings of a smile at the corners of his mouth and in his sad eyes.
Her heart soared. If she could still make him smile even a little, then he didn't hate her entirely. She stood back and held the door open wide for him.
"You are looking well," he admitted as he stepped inside "Beautiful," he added with a shy awkwardness she found totally endearing in so stern a man.
"Well, I wouldn't go that far," she said.
They stood staring at each other. His eyes traveled over her face. He looked...miserable. She couldn't stand it.
"So," she said brightly. "What have you got there?" She knew better than to ask what had brought him to Santa Fe.
He abruptly looked down at the bundle as if he'd forgotten he had it with him.
"Nothing much," he said. "It's for you."
He made no attempt to give it to her. He was still looking at her, his eyes searching hers for something she was desolately afraid she didn't have.
“Do I get to – " she gave a small shrug " – hold it or anything?" she asked.
He handed it to her finally, but he'd clearly had second thoughts about coming here and about bringing her whatever this happened to be.
"Heavier than I thought," she said, struggling not to drop it.
"It's nothing much," he said again as she rested it on the back of the easy chair and began to tear the paper off.
"Oh," she said softly when she saw the cradle board She ran her fingers over the finely sanded wood and the soft leather laces that would keep the baby secure. She touched the piece of turquoise that dangled on a silver char from the bowed wood at the top of the cradle.
"You made it?" she asked, looking up at him, already knowing the answer.
"My first," he said lightly. His almost-smile faded. "Bu maybe it's not what you want – "
"No – no, it's fine. It's beautiful. I – "
"Lillian!" someone called loudly from the still-open front door, and she looked around. Stuart was coming in. "Right this way," he said to his entourage. "Smells go in here, Lily. What's cooking?"
She set the cradle board carefully down and turned to him. A faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
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"Going to rain in a little bit," Stuart said, still in his role of the cheerful and perfectly-at-home guest. She saw immediately that he'd had a glass of wine – or two or three – before he got here. "You know everybody, right?" he went on expansively. He glanced at Becenti. He was sober enough to know exactly who Johnny Becenti was Lillian thought – and he didn't like his being here.
"This is Mary Ellen," Stuart said carefully, as if the all might have difficulty following. "This is Sam. Have you met or not?"
"Only on the telephone," Lillian said. "Come in," she said to them. "This is – "
But Becenti gave her no opportunity to make introductions. "I'm going," he interrupted. "I should have called first."
"No," she said, reaching out to stop him from leaving. "You don't have to go – "
"No, indeed," Stuart said as if he had the right to do so. "If I know our Lillian, and I do, there's plenty of food for everybody and then some. Isn't that right, Lily? I'm hoping for my favorite – perciatelli with garlic!"
She didn't answer him.
"Johnny, wait – "
"Oh, what's this?" Mary Ellen said, pouncing on the cradle board. "How perfectly beautiful! Did you make it?" she asked Becenti. "Is it for sale? How much is it? If you're taking orders, I'd love to buy one for my niece. She is crazy about anything Native American."
"I'm not taking orders," he said, looking at Lillian.
"Would you be willing to part with this one?" Mary Ellen persisted. "I just love the little turquoise thing."
"The 'little turquoise thing' belonged to my father," Becenti said. "He carried it in his medicine bag all through World War II. He gave it to me when I was sixteen."
"Oh, he was a doctor? How interesting," she said, misunderstanding about the "medicine bag" completely. "That would raise the price, I guess, wouldn't it? How much without the turquoise? I just love to haggle," she said to Stuart and Sam.
"It's not for sale," Becenti said. "Or is it?" he asked Lillian.
"Johnny, please – " Lillian said.
"Never mind," he said, sidestepping her to get out. "You do whatever you want with it."
The wind blew in through the open door. There was a clap of thunder as Lillian followed him outside. The wind chimes on the porch clanged loudly.
"Johnny, wait – " she said, trying to catch his arm. "The woman didn't mean anything. She just didn't know – "
He stopped walking. The rain abruptly began to fall – huge drops pelting the dusty ground. Lillian could smell it, almost taste it, because she was desert-born no matter how much she wanted to forget that part of her life. She could sec his face plainly in a sudden flash of lightning.
"Then why didn't you tell her?" he asked.
"Tell her?"
"Yes, damn it! Tell her! You couldn't say it, could you? You'd rather let her think I was somebody peddling stuff door-to-door. Why couldn't you just say the cradle board was a gift from me? What was the harm in that?"
"I don't know – it's none of her business, Johnny! These people don't understand anything."
He gave a short, bitter laugh.
"They may not understand, but I do. Goodbye, Lillian."
"Johnny – wait – don't go!" she said, still trying to hold on to his arm. But he pulled free, and he left her standing without once looking back.
He sat in the dark, listening to country music on the radio and to another thunderstorm. He'd left the windows open, and the wind banged the matchstick shades back and forth. He should get up and close them. He could feel the rain blowing in, but he just...sat. -
There was no hope for Lillian and him. None. She lived in Santa Fe by choice. Period. He finally realized that tonight. He finally saw what her life there must be like. It must be full of candlelit dinners and "perciatelli" – whatever the hell that was – and people like Stuart Dennison and the insensitive woman who insisted on buying the cradle board. He had been such an idiot. He had a logical and methodical mind, sharpened by years of police work, and he hadn't even considered that Lillian would actually want to be around people like that. He kept misjudging her, kept thinking that if he waited long enough, she would turn into someone traditional and sensible like Mae – a complete exercise in futility, when he knew that it was Lillian's unpredictable and untamable nature that had made him love her in the first place.
He loved her, and as far as he could tell, there was no cure for it.
The telephone rang, and he fumbled in the darkness to pick up the receiver. "Becenti," he said.
"Open the door," a woman's voice said. "Open the – ?"
He dropped the receiver and went to the front door, throwing it wide and stepping outside onto the stoop. It was raining hard now, but he saw her immediately, running toward him from her parked car.
She stopped before she got to him and stood there in the yard, looking up at him, wet and shivering in the downpour.
"Lillian, what are you doing – ?" he started to ask, but she stepped forward, closing the distance between them, reaching for him and wrapping her arms around him. He could feel her trembling.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, clinging to him. "Johnny, I'm sorry!"
Her mouth found his, and his response was overwhelming. He couldn't kiss her hard enough, hold her close enough. He lifted her up and half carried her into the house, incredulous that she had actually followed him back here.
"I don't want to talk," she said, her body straining against his. "I mean it,"
He tried to hold her away from him so he could see her lace. "Lillian – "
"Don't talk," she whispered urgently, leaning into him again, her hands clutching the front of his shirt. "Kiss me, Johnny. Don't talk – don't think. Take me to bed – "
She grabbed him by the hand, and he followed her blindly into the bedroom.
Old enough to know better.
Who had said that? Lucas?
Becenti did know better. He knew perfectly well that whatever they did in the dark now would in no way cancel out the pain of her leaving in the morning. And she would leave. She would leave and go back to Santa Fe as if tonight had never happened.
He didn't care. He loved this woman. She belonged to him – for now. He began to strip away her wet clothes, his hands trembling in his urgency to have her again. When she was naked, standing before him, he abruptly turned her around. He buried his face into her neck and shoulder, his hands sliding to caress her rounding belly. He could feel it. His child growing inside her.
She turned in his arms, her mouth finding his again. She pulled him down on the bed with her.
"Is it – all right for us to do – this?" he asked, struggling to get out of his clothes.
"Yes," she said, still shivering. "I'm so cold." She rolled against him when he stretched out beside her, and he held her close, pulling the sheet around her, trying to stop her shaking.
How many times had he dreamed of lying with her like this again, skin to skin, feeling her warm body and her breasts pressed against him, breathing her sweet breath, feeling her strong hands on his back? He never expected to make love with her again, never expected to feel her rise under his touch, never expected to have her want him, need him.
"Lillian..."
He moaned when she reached down to caress him. He couldn't wait any longer. He moved over her, thrusting himself into her.
Old enough to know better, he thought, feeling her body hot and tight around him and already giving him the oblivion they both so desperately needed.
My woman. Mine...
He opened his eyes, wondering what had awakened him. Lillian still slept, curled up in his arms. He lifted his head slightly, careful not to disturb her.
Cigarette smoke.
It was coming from the outside. He got up quietly and looked out the window. The rain had stopped. Someone – he thought it was Toomey – stood on the front steps, smoking a cigarette.
What the hell is he doing? Becenti thought, and then he realized that the boy must be trying to
get up enough courage to knock. Toomey would know exactly who owned the small car parked in the drive. And he could guess what he might be interrupting.
Becenti put on his pants and walked to the front door, intercepting Toomey just when he was about to pound on the door.
"What?" Becenti said, making the boy jump.
"Oh, uh, your phone's off the hook, sir – " Toomey began. "That's why I..." He didn't finish the sentence.
"Is it?" Becenti said, realizing only then that he hadn't taken the time to hang up the receiver.
Open the door.
Lillian –
He took a deep breath to banish the rush of desire the memory caused in him.
"We found that 'desert rave' thing, Captain. It was about over, I guess, but some of those kids hung around and got caught in a wash after it rained. It's – a mess."
"Any fatalities?"
"Yeah. Three so far. The night sergeant thought you'd want to handle things. He sent me to get you." He looked over his shoulder. "I've got the last utility vehicle. You can't get up there in a car."
"Wait for me," Becenti said. "I'll be out in a minute."
He dressed quickly, not waking Lillian until he was ready to leave. He switched on a small lamp and sat down on the side of the bed, stroking her back until she opened her eyes.
"I've got to go," he said when she was awake.
"What's wrong?" she murmured.
He sighed. "Some kids got caught in a flash flood. I've got to go see how bad it is. Will you be here when I get back?"
She turned over and sat up, sliding her arms around him and resting her head on his shoulder. "I want to be," she answered.
"Not good enough," he said.
She leaned back to see his face. "What do you mean?"
"I mean – " He broke off because Toomey was knocking on the screen door. He gave another sigh and got up to go see what Toomey wanted now.
"What is it?" Becenti asked without opening the door.
"It's the, uh, car phone, sir – in Ms. Singer's car. I thought it might be important – this time of night and everything. The car wasn't locked," he finished awkwardly, holding up the trilling device so Becenti could see it. "It was ringing when I got here, too, so I thought – "