by Beth Andrews
BAM…BAM…BAM…
Twenty-five minutes later, Brady stood next to an examination table in the cold, sterile ultrasound room.
Bam…bam…bam…
If she didn’t stop making that racket, he was going to lose his mind.
His head pounded. Memories circled the edge of his mind, waiting to overwhelm him. Because J.C., sitting at the edge of an exam table, kept swinging her feet, her heels hitting the metal with a resounding bam. Like bombs going off.
Brady shot his hand out and grabbed her knee. “Do you mind?”
She stilled. “Sorry.”
He released her. Her skin had been warm through the soft fabric of her black pants.
“I’m nervous,” she blurted. “About…” She gestured to the ultrasound machine next to the bed. “Seeing the baby.”
“You worried something will be wrong?”
“No,” she said so quietly, he had to lean forward to catch the rest of what she said. “That it’ll make it real.” She stared down at her clasped hands. “I…I don’t know if I want this.”
He straightened. “The ultrasound? If you’re not feeling up to it—”
“The baby.”
His head snapped back. He stepped around in front of her. She stared at the floor. He gently took a hold of her chin and raised her face. “Talk to me.”
She pulled away from his touch. “How can I raise a child? I’ve never seen anything through in my life.” She rubbed her palms up and down her thighs. “God, this is so selfish but…I’m not sure if I’m ready, or even capable, of committing the next eighteen years of my life to someone else.”
“What are you thinking? Adoption?”
The thought of it left him cold. Of having a child out there, not knowing where he or she was, if the kid was safe. He shoved a hand through his hair. As if he had a right to be upset. As if he had the right to tell her what she should or shouldn’t do with their child.
A child he’d already walked away from.
“No. Maybe. It kills me to think about giving this baby away,” she said. “But I have thought about it. I’m afraid if I keep it, I’ll mess up both our lives.”
Damn. He should’ve seen this coming. All this time when she spoke about the pregnancy it was this baby. Or the baby.
Never her baby. Never their baby.
She was being torn up by the distance between her and Liz and her fears of raising a baby alone. And he’d been so focused on himself, on his own problems, he hadn’t even noticed.
“Whatever you decide,” he said, forcing out the words she needed to hear, “you have my support.”
Words that gave her permission to put their child up for adoption. Words that were unbelievably hard to say.
“But…what about our families?” she asked in a rush.
“This isn’t about them. It’s about what’s best for you and the baby.”
She brushed her hair back and gave him a shaky smile. “Thanks.”
“Could you… When you make the decision, could you let me know?”
She frowned. “If you want me to. But…aren’t you leaving town? How will I get a hold of you?”
“I’ll be here until after the first of the year.” And when he’d made that decision, he had no idea. “But when I do leave, I’ll make sure you have a way of reaching me. In case you need anything.”
In case she needed him.
Before they could respond to a knock at the door, a short blonde in black heels and a red and black dress covered by a lab coat came in.
“Hello, Jane,” she said warmly. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. You were right, the morning sickness went away.”
“Wonderful.” She offered her hand to him. “I’m Nanette Owens.”
“Brady Sheppard.”
Dr. Owens opened a small laptop, scanned the screen and shut it again. “Your blood pressure’s normal. Pulse was a bit elevated but that’s not unusual.” After using some hand sanitizer she clapped her hands. “Now let’s check out your baby.”
Brady eased back a step as the doctor had J.C. undo the bottom buttons of her white blouse and fold her shirt back.
“Okay,” Dr. Owens said, “go ahead and pull your pants down to your hips.”
He jerked his eyes up, stared sightlessly at the plain gray wall. But he could hear J.C. rustling around.
Sweat beaded on his forehead.
The doctor tucked a disposable sheet around J.C.’s pants and Brady glanced down. J.C.’s stomach protruded slightly, as if she’d swallowed a water balloon. The doctor squirted gel a few inches below J.C.’s belly button, then flipped a few switches on the ultrasound machine. After typing for a minute, she picked up a wand and placed it over the gel.
“Showtime.” Dr. Owens moved the wand. Blurry black and gray images filled the screen and Brady looked away. “And there’s baby.”
Brady went numb. He couldn’t look. He needed to keep some distance. It was his only protection.
“I don’t see it,” J.C. said.
“Here’s the head.” The doctor pressed something on the machine that made a clicking sound. “And here are the arms.” More clicking. “From what I’m seeing here, I’d say you were right on about the date of conception. Baby’s at seventeen weeks.”
J.C.’s arms were straight by her sides, her hands clenching the sheet under her. He lightly traced a finger over her knuckle. Bent close to her head. “Breathe,” he said into her ear.
She exhaled, her fingers relaxing.
And he couldn’t resist any longer. He had to see. It wasn’t the clearest image but he could make out a head. Moving arms and legs.
Damn. J.C. had been right. This made it much too real.
Dr. Owens worked the machine for another five minutes. When he looked over at J.C., he could’ve sworn she wiped the side of her face…as if she was crying. But with her head turned away from him, he couldn’t be sure.
“Everything’s fine,” the doctor said, using paper towels to wipe the gel off J.C.’s stomach. “Heartbeat is strong, growth right on track. Do either of you have any questions?”
“When’s it coming out?” Brady heard himself ask. His neck warmed. “I mean, when’s J.C.’s…what do you call it?”
Dr. Owens smiled. If she found it odd he had no clue when the baby was supposed to be born, she didn’t show it. “Her due date?”
“May fourth,” J.C. said tonelessly as she buttoned her shirt.
May. Where would he be then? What would he be doing? Used to be he knew exactly what his life would be like. Who he’d be with. What kind of man he’d be.
“Would you like to know the sex?” Dr. Owens asked.
J.C. stood and pulled her pants up and though he tried not to look, he caught a glimpse of the curve of her hip. “Isn’t it too soon to tell?” she asked.
Brady didn’t blame her for sounding incredulous. He could barely make out the baby’s head, let alone anything else.
“It’s early, but the baby was positioned right for me to tell…”
Brady bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything. Bad enough he’d seen the ultrasound. He didn’t want to know any more about their baby. Not if he wanted to walk away.
But he’d lost the right to offer an opinion.
Nibbling her lip, J.C. nodded.
The doctor grinned. “Congratulations. You’re having a son.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FRIDAY EVENING, Brady sat at his kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey at his elbow, a spotty water glass in front of him, his cell phone in his hand. He’d left the window above the sink open, hoping some fresh air would help ease the tightness in his chest. The feeling that he was suffocating.
Pressing Redial on his phone, he held it to his ear, ground his back teeth together as it rang. And rang. When J.C.’s recorded voice came on and told him to leave a message, he hung up. Turned the phone end to end a few times and then tossed it aside.
The wind picked up, blew the take
-out menu from his favorite Chinese place onto the floor. The evening air was thick with the threat of rain. A storm was coming. Several, if the local weather forecaster was to be trusted. Southern Virginia was in for a long night of violent weather.
His hand shook as he poured whiskey into the glass. As a kid, he’d loved a raging thunderstorm, especially the raw power of it. If the electricity went off, all the better. He’d stare out his bedroom window, watch the sky light up. Press his cheek against the glass to feel the vibrations shake the house from a strong rumble of thunder.
He heard thunder in the distance.
His breathing felt ripped from his lungs. The nape of his neck tingled. The edge of his vision grew dark. He inhaled for the count of five. Exhaled for the same amount. And told himself that no matter how much it sounded like an IED—improvised explosive device—it wasn’t.
Goddamn, he hated storms now.
He lifted the glass to his lips. Set it down again and ran a hand back and forth, back and forth through his hair.
He wanted a drink. Hell, he needed ten of them. The oblivion they promised. The relief. He needed something to get him through the next few hours while the storms raged. More to get him through the night.
Congratulations. You’re having a son.
He shoved away from the table and stood. The bottle tipped. Instead of catching it, he watched dispassionately as it fell, whiskey pouring onto the table. At the last second he remembered to grab his phone. Shook off a few drops of alcohol, then tried J.C.’s number again. Still no answer.
He gripped the sink and stared out at the rain. It blew through the screen and he lifted his face, letting it dot his skin. Then another muted boom of thunder. He slammed the window shut and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as he bent at the waist, rocking slightly. His head pounded. His stomach roiled. Sweat soaked through his shirt as terror beat down on him.
It was bad. Real bad.
He glanced over at the glass on the table. If he drank it, he’d stop shaking. The gnawing, endless craving would end. And maybe he’d even have a dreamless night. Instead of tossing and turning. Sleeping only in the few reprieves when his brain shut down enough to pause the nightmares. He went back to the table. Sat down. Jumped back up and paced the length of the kitchen.
Last night had been the worst. He’d spent a fitful night, not falling asleep until a few hours before dawn. When he’d finally drifted off, he’d dreamt of Liz. Of the way they used to be. The way he’d always thought they would be forever.
It was their wedding night and Liz had her back to him, her dark hair over her shoulder so he could unfasten the buttons running down her gown. He’d kissed the nape of her neck, flicked his tongue out to taste her and she’d shivered. Taking his time, he’d pushed each tiny button free, trailing his lips over each inch of skin he exposed until finally the gown had slid down her naked body. She stepped free of the silk pooled around her feet and turned to him, but she wasn’t Liz anymore.
She was J.C.
J.C. with her wild curls and sensuous curves and warm smile. And when she stepped up to him in his dream and kissed him, he didn’t back away. He didn’t wake up when, in the dream, his clothes somehow disappeared. No, he remained in that dream as J.C. pushed him back onto a large bed. As she straddled him, her breasts swaying, her eyes closed.
Then he’d woken up, hard and aching for her.
His body stirred at the memory of it.
And he looked at the spilled whiskey and realized exactly what he needed to help him get through the night.
“IN MY DAY,” Grandma Rose said, “expectant mothers took care of themselves. They rested. They certainly didn’t work all day and then spend all night on their feet.”
As the soapy water drained from the sink, J.C. rolled her eyes at the ceramic Victorian Santas lined up on her grandma’s windowsill. Funny how Grandma Rose hadn’t complained about J.C. staying on her feet when she’d offered to do the dinner dishes.
J.C. dried her hands and then folded the towel. “Didn’t everyone smoke and drink while they were pregnant, too?”
Like the drum roll punctuating a joke, thunder rumbled in the distance.
Sitting at her kitchen table as regal as a queen, Grandma Rose sniffed delicately. “I don’t understand why you’d choose to spend your Friday night making chocolates.”
“I told you, I made a commitment to the Diamond Dust.” And while the commitment part usually didn’t mean all that much to her, she was determined to see this project through. To just once, complete a task she’d set for herself.
“But you could be out—”
“I thought you wanted me to rest?” she asked with an exasperated laugh.
“If you were out with some nice young man, you could rest. You could have dinner. Or see a movie.”
“I just had dinner, I’m too busy for a movie and from my personal experience so far, nice young men don’t ask out pregnant women.”
“They might if you took some care with your hair,” she said, eyeing J.C.’s frizzy ponytail, “and didn’t wear such awful clothes. Why, that shirt needs to be thrown out. And it wouldn’t hurt you to put on some makeup.”
Used to her grandma’s nit-picking about her appearance—at least this time she hadn’t asked her why she couldn’t be more like Liz—J.C. kissed Rose’s soft, wrinkled cheek. “I’d better get going. Thanks for dinner.”
“Wait.” Rose stood and hurried to the refrigerator, where she pulled out a plastic container. “Take some pasta home. You can have it for lunch tomorrow.”
“Great.” Smiling, she took the leftover fettuccine in alfredo sauce. “Thanks.”
They walked past the living room. Her grandma’s artificial tree, complete with festively wrapped packages underneath, was done up in blues and silver. Green garlands, white lights and silver and blue candles decorated the mantel over the fireplace.
J.C. tightened her ponytail. She’d been too busy or too plain exhausted to think about putting up her own decorations but seeing as how Christmas would be here in just over two weeks, she should get a tree. And maybe start shopping for a few presents.
In the foyer, she slipped on her pink and white polka-dot flip-flops. “I’ll see you Sunday at Mom and Dad’s.”
Lightning flickered.
“Oh, dear. You’d better take an umbrella,” Rose said, hurrying over to the umbrella stand in the corner.
“I don’t need one.” J.C. raised the hood of her light blue sweatshirt and, looking back at her grandmother, opened the door. “’Night,” she called over the heavy rain and wind, then turned.
She squeaked at finding Brady standing on her grandmother’s porch. “Brady. God. Don’t scare me like that.”
“Brady?” Rose repeated sharply as she peered past J.C. “What’s he doing here?”
She shrugged. Rain dripped off his hair. Ran in rivulets down his cheek. The bottoms of his jeans were as soaked as his jacket. And as usual, he was scowling.
“My grandmother would like to know what you’re doing here,” J.C. said.
“Evening, Mrs. Montgomery.”
Grandma Rose pulled her shoulders back. “Don’t you ‘evening’ me, Brady Sheppard. I’m not some impressionable young girl. You can’t charm me.”
He shifted. “No, ma’am.”
“And don’t for one second think that I don’t know what you’re after.” Rose shook her finger at him. “Well, you’re not going to get it. Not again. You hear me?”
He glanced at J.C. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you,” she said to Jane, “need to remember what my own grandmother told me—no man buys the cow when he gets the milk for free.”
J.C. considered pointing out that she’d already given him the whole farm. Instead, she nodded somberly. “No free milk. Got it.”
And before J.C. could be taken to task for being cheeky, she slipped outside and shut the door. The strands of white Christmas lights decorating the porch swayed in the breeze. Cold, nee
dlelike rain hit J.C.’s face. She turned her head and hunched her shoulders.
“Did you need something, Brady?”
He wiped the rain off his face. Stared at a point above her head. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seemed upset. At the doctor’s office.” He met her eyes. “You’re disappointed the baby’s a boy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, then pressed her lips together. Lightning lit the sky. “Look, I appreciate you coming over here to check on me—three days after the fact—but I’m fine. And I really have a lot—”
Thunder cracked sharply. Brady shivered. “Do you think I could come up…? For a towel,” he added at her hesitation. “And maybe…a cup of coffee?”
Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. She’d bet a week’s pay her grandmother was already on the phone with J.C.’s mom. And while she could easily excuse his presence at the doctor’s office as her giving him his parental rights, and their pairing wines and being at the gift shop together as purely business, this was different.
She’d have no excuse for being with him tonight.
“It’s getting pretty late—”
“Please,” he said quietly. Gruffly. “Please invite me up, Jane.”
Slowly she nodded. Then she raced down the porch steps and into the pouring rain. Water ran down the sleeve of the hand holding her hood in place. Cutting through the front yard, she rounded the corner to the garage and climbed the stairs as quickly as possible.
At the top, her flip-flop skidded on the wet wood, her foot shooting out from under her. Her arms flailed, and the plastic container flew out of her hand as she pitched backward. Her hand hit solid wood and she latched on to the railing, the sudden change in momentum causing her to lurch forward. Her legs buckled and she twisted so she wouldn’t land on her stomach. Instead, her shin hit the sharp edge of the stair. Pain shot through her. Left her gasping.